The Governor's Lady (35 page)

It was not until the Attorney-General got round to telling them all exactly what had happened that Mr. Ngono could tell why they had chosen him. Then it was immediately apparent. He put it all so simply. And he was such a good story-teller, too. From the way he described things, Mr. Ngono might have been there on safari with Sir Gardnor and the others, right up to that last fatal moment in the big marquee.

He could picture it all just as the Attorney-General had described. There was Sir Gardnor bent over his papers, working late into the night on urgent Government business. Beyond him, in the tent that was really an annexe of the same marquee, lay Lady Anne, exhausted by the day's travelling; and beside her, on a truckle-bed in the same tent Miss Prosser, stretched out unconscious. A good deal older than Lady Anne —‘of more mature years' as the Attorney-General had referred to her— and drugged with Dr. Webber's pills—Miss Prosser would naturally have been the heavier sleeper of the two: she would have heard nothing.

There was no one else, except for the A.D.C. and Old Moses. It was a pity, of course, that the A.D.C.—at that of all times—should have had to step outside for personal reasons. But, as the Attorney-General had explained to them, the A.D.C.'s absence didn't really complicate matters at all: if anything, it made them even clearer. No one, he said,— and Mr. Ngono agreed with him—would conceivably tie up the tent-flap on the
outside
if he had just gone
inside;
and, still less, would a murderer, fleeing from the scene of his crime, have hung about long enough to tie up anything. It was, Mr. Ngono reflected, so clever to think of putting it that way; and, once put, it was so convincing.

In fact, beyond the peradventure of a doubt—Mr. Ngono's estimation of the Attorney-General was increasing every moment with phrases like that coming out—the murderer must have been there inside the marquee before the A.D.C. had gone out. And the only person that could have been was Old Moses. Mr. Ngono did not see how even the ingenious Mr. Das could possibly hope to get round that one.

By now, the Attorney-General had called on Captain Webber. He was asking him to describe the exact nature of Sir Gardnor's wounds. There was a hush hanging over the whole court as Captain Webber began the medical evidence.

To Mr. Ngono's surprise, Captain Webber was nervous. Even though he stood rock-still and bolt upright, military-fashion, his Adam's apple kept rising and falling as if he were trying to swallow something.

‘You have just told us that the space in which a weapon could enter is quite small,' the Attorney-General was saying. ‘Would you now tell us exactly how small?'

Captain Webber spread out his thumb and forefinger.

“It is a triangular cavity,' he replied. ‘The sides of the cavity are some four inches long.'

‘In other words, you couldn't simply stab anywhere in that part of the body, up by the shoulder remember, and expect to reach the heart?'

‘No. A few inches either way and the blade would be deflected. It would encounter bone—the sternum, for instance.'

‘Then a knowledge of anatomy would be necessary?'

‘That is so.'

‘Even quite elementary anatomy?'

‘It would help.'

‘The kind of anatomy that a butcher might pick up by working in an abattoir?'

Captain Webber hesitated. All his training had been in hard medical facts: he didn't know where he was when it came to speculation.

‘I suppose so,' he said cautiously.

The Attorney-General leant forward a little.

‘But come, Captain Webber,' he asked, ‘isn't that cavity that you have been describing the very place where every bull fighter thrusts in his sword? That is surely very elementary anatomy. A butcher would be bound to know at least that much, wouldn't he?'

‘Yes.'

‘Thank you, Captain Webber.'

As the Attorney-General sat down, Mr. Ngono gave a little gasp. He had only just realised what the Attorney-General had been up to. All this talk hadn't been about anatomy at all, really: it had been about Old Moses. Because, quite early on, the Attorney-General had made a great point of reminding the jury that Old Moses had begun life as a kitchen-boy The fact seemed so telling that Mr. Ngono wondered why the Chief Justice didn't close the trial then and there.

But there was no time for wondering. Mr. Das was already up on his feet; and, from the way he tilted his wig forward over his forehead, Mr. Ngono could tell that they were in for something. It was evident that Captain Webber could tell, too. He was very close and guarded in his answers.

‘You're are a docter, Captain Webber?'

‘Correct.'

‘And a soldier?'

‘Correct.'

‘Have you ever seen active service, Captain Webber?'

‘No.'

‘Then you have had no experience of wounds actually received in the field?'

‘Correct.'

‘But I take it that, in the course of your duties, you have dressed wounds?'

‘Correct.'

‘Knife wounds.'

‘Not specifically knife wounds.'

‘But wounds deliberately inflicted?'

‘Correct.'

‘Were any of the wounds serious?'

‘One or two.'

‘Was there an instrument used in any of them?'

‘It was fists mostly.'

‘I wasn't asking what was mostly used, Captain Webber. I asked if an instrument was used in any of them?'

‘There was a rifle butt.'

‘And what did this rifle butt do?'

‘It nearly killed a man.'

‘How did it nearly kill him?'

‘It ruptured his spleen.'

‘Was the assailant an expert anatomist?'

‘No.'

‘Did he have any knowledge of elementary anatomy—butcher's anatomy as my learned friend chooses to call it?'

‘Not so far as I am aware.'

‘But he nearly killed someone, didn't he?'

‘Correct.'

‘And is the spleen difficult to locate?'

‘Not by a doctor.'

‘But the assailant wasn't a doctor, was he? You have just said he had no knowledge of anatomy.'

Captain Webber did not reply.

‘In other words, it was by pure chance that the spleen was ruptured?'

‘It may have been.'

‘But don't you think so yourself? A few inches either way and the spleen would have been saved, would it not Captain Webber?'

‘Correct.'

‘And this wound up by the collar bone—if someone had been stabbing downwards, it could have been pure chance could it not that the blade hit that particular spot?'

‘It could have been.'

‘Thank you.'

Captain Webber had already turned, and was preparing to leave the box, when Mr. Das raised his finger.

‘One moment, Captain Webber. There was another wound, was there not? Would you describe it please?'

‘There was a vertical incision from a sharp knife. It was approximately three inches long, running from the left cheekbone to the jaw.'

‘And did it require any degree whatsoever of anatomical knowledge to slice the cheek open in this manner?'

‘None whatsoever.'

‘And would the point of the blade have been deflected by such a wound?'

‘To some extent.'

‘You are satisfied that both wounds were caused by the same blow?'

‘I am.'

‘Then the second wound, the fatal wound, must have been inflicted where the point just happened to land, not where it was aimed, if it was aimed at all, must it not?'

Captain Webber was silent, and Mr. Das left him standing there. He waited so long, in fact, that the Chief Justice turned, first towards him and then to Mr. Das. As soon as Mr. Das caught the Chief Justice's eye, he bowed.

‘Thank you, m'lud,' he said. ‘That is all. I am quite satisfied.'

That had been the first day of the trial. Day two was now beginning.

It was Major Mills's turn. Or rather, it had been Major Mills's turn while the Attorney-General was taking him quietly and patiently through his evidence, showing what a thorough, highly-trained and conscientious sort of soldier he was.

The Attorney-General kept coming back to the impressive security measures—the twenty-four hour sentry watch, Major Mills's own surprise patrols, the trip wires, everything. And all with one object: to show the jury that no intruder could possibly have entered the camp; and that, once Sir Gardnor's marquee had closed down for the night, the murderer had already been
inside
.

Mr. Das rose slowly and smilingly. He coughed politely into his hand before speaking.

‘You were in charge of all arrangements for the safety of the party, Major?'

‘I was.'

‘And you took extraordinary precautions, did you not?'

‘Just what was necessary.'

‘Were they greater or less than was usual on safari?'

‘Greater. Much greater.'

‘Why?'

‘Because of the recent outbreaks of violence—the L.M.s, you know.'

Mr. Das leant forward.

‘I know nothing, Major,' he said. ‘You are telling me. What are L.M.s?'

‘Leopard Men. Native terrorist groups. Organise their own murder parties. Army slang. Always call ‘em L.M.s for short.'

‘Did you particularly fear these L.M.s?'

‘I did.'

‘And were you in any way troubled by terrorist groups while on this safari?'

Major Mills gave the quick sideways jerk of his head which was always an indication that he was sure of something.

‘No trouble at all.'

‘Then if you had no trouble, have you any evidence that these terrorist groups even existed?'

Major Mills was having none of that. He gave the same head jerk, and faced Mr. Das more squarely.

‘They were there all right,' he said. ‘Under cover. All round us.'

Mr. Das ignored Major Mills for a moment. He was glancing down at his papers.

‘On the night of the crime, Major, what was the weather like?' he asked.

‘Fine clear night. Always is, this time of year. Nothing wrong with the weather.'

‘And visibility?'

‘Perfect.'

‘Was there a moon?'

‘A full moon. Almost like day.'

‘So if anyone had approached the camp your sentries would have seen him?'

‘Bound to. Spotted him at once. Clear arc of vision. Three-sixty degrees. No cover of any kind.'

Mr. Das kept Major Mills waiting while he consulted his papers again.

‘Including Sir Gardnor and his lady,' he asked, ‘what was the total strength of your party when you set out?'

‘Total strength? Forty-four persons.'

‘And with Sir Gardnor dead, that made forty-three?'

‘Naturally.'

‘And what was the total strength of your party when you returned?'

‘Forty-two.'

‘So someone was missing?'

‘That is so.'

‘Who was it please?'

‘One of the kitchen boys.'

‘Where did he go?'

‘Slipped out into the jungle. Still hiding there most probably.'

‘And how did he get there?'

Major Mills's chin came back.

‘On his own two legs, I suppose. Skedaddled.'

‘Which of your sentries reported it?'

‘Nothing to do with the sentries. Made a special roll-call myself. After the murder, that is. Wasn't there, so I posted him.'

‘But did none of the sentries see him go?'

The note of surprise in Mr. Das's voice floated round the courtroom like a soap-bubble.

Major Mills's chin was drawn back further than ever now.

‘Just slipped past them in the confusion.'

‘What confusion?'

‘Screams. That kind of thing. General turn out. Everyone moving around. Bound to have distracted them.'

‘When was the previous roll-call?'

‘Sundown. Nineteen hundred hours.'

‘And at what time was Sir Gardnor killed?'

‘O O thirty hours. Approx.'

‘And had you kept the kitchen boy under constant observation since the last roll-call?'

‘Under observation? Course not. No reason to.'

‘But he escaped, didn't he?'

‘I've just said so.'

‘Under the very noses of your sentries?'

‘He got past them,' Major Mills replied.

‘And you don't know
when
, do you? No one saw him go, so you can't say. It could have been before the murder, couldn't it, Major?'

Major Mills did not reply, and Mr. Das went on without him.

‘Or
after
the murder, but
before
the alarm?'

Major Mills was still silent.

‘In other words,' Mr. Das continued, ‘you haven't the slightest idea of when he ran away. All that you know is that he went. And you haven't the slightest idea because your sentries weren't looking. That is so, isn't it, Major?'

Major Mills kept his chin down, and said nothing.

It was the pause for which Mr. Das had been waiting. And he made the most of it.

‘I put it to you,' he said at last, ‘that your sentries were idle. On duty, but completely idle. It was a clear, starlit night—almost like daylight: you have just said so—with the entire circumference of the camp open to inspection—no cover, remember—and this man simply walked past them.'

‘Ran more likely.'

‘Walked or ran, it makes no difference, Major. Not one of the sentries even so much as caught a glimpse of him. That is so, isn't it?'

‘Do you want me to go on telling you?'

‘No, Major. I want you to tell me something else. If this man could get out so easily—not invisible, but still totally unobserved—anyone else could have got in just as easily, could he not?'

‘No he couldn't. The sentries would have spotted him.'