The Man at Mulera

CHAPTER ONE

E
xcept f
or one overnight stop and several shorter ones, Lou Prentice had been travelling for about sixty hours and she had covered six thousand miles, but she still had that breathless feeling which had started in London, four days ago. And now that her third plane was nearing Chekwe there was uncertainty as well. Surely she ought to have advised someone she was coming? But whom? The solicitor had written from Zomba, but her destination had to be Chekwe; where Keith was staying with the Gilmores. And Lou didn
’
t know the Gilmores
’
address; she only knew there was a plantation and that Dick Weston had managed it.

Poor Dick ... and poor darling Dorothy. It was just unbelievable that they could have gone for a ride into the mountains and crashed so tragically. Lou
’
s heart seemed permanently constricted, but the one most to be pitied now, of course, was little Keith, who had lost both parents that misty afternoon. Thank heaven he wasn
’
t old enough to grieve.

Lou smiled tenderly and shook her head. She would make up for his loss in every way she knew. In England he would have a Grandpa—albeit a fierce old man—and he would always have Lou to love and care for him, just as Dorothy had loved and cared for Lou. It was going to take some arranging, of course, but thank heaven she had a couple of months in which to do it Fortunately, when she had had to make her decision it had needed only a fortnight to the summer holidays, and Miss Buckland, who was the principal of the kindergarten where Lou taught, had been very good about her leaving at once for Central Africa.

Lou drew a deep breath, blinked her clear grey eyes at the vast dimensions of Lake Nyasa whose shore was visible through her window, and thought back over the past two weeks rather more coherently than she had imagined possible a few days ago. First, there had been the letter from the solicitor, informing her about the accident to her cousin Dorothy and her husband. With professional detachment the man had mentioned that the child was being cared for and that Miss Prentice would be given more details in due course.

After the first shock of grief at losing the person she loved best in the world, Lou had been furious. Keith was only five and he hadn
’
t a soul he could t
urn
to in Nyasa-land; he had apparently been taken temporarily into someone
’
s house to await disposal. Lou had recalled Dorothy
’
s last visit to England, when she had brought Keith over to see her father, her rather touching appeal;
“
Lou, dear, it
’
s sometimes a bit frightening to be out in Africa without a relative nearby. If I needed you, you
’
d come, wouldn
’
t you?
”

Lou had answered warmly,
“
There
’
s nothing I wouldn
’
t do for you, Dorothy—you know that
.
One good thing about being a kindergarten teacher is the long holidays!
”

They hadn
’
t discussed it—there had been no need. Lou had merely reflected that when you grow up in the care of someone as she had grown up in Dorothy
’
s, it takes more than a few thousand miles to separate you. Since Dorothy had married Dick and gone out to Africa with him, Lou had naturally corresponded with her regularly, and it had been marvellous to have her come home with the baby. Almost, she had been persuaded to give up her t
raining
and go back with Dorothy to Chekwe.

Well, her fury at the solicitor
’
s letter had crystallized into a long cablegram, which had been answered by another four days ago.
“
Louise Prentice,
”
i
t
read,
“
is appointed legal guardian of Keith Weston by the will of his parents. Please advise whether convenient for you to visit Nyasaland.
”
Cool as you like. Not a word about what was happening to the child!

That afternoon, Lou had rushed straight from the little
s
chool in Kensington to the office of a travel agent
.
She had come away almost penniless but assured of an air ticket, and gone down to see her brother at Richmond. He had been against the sudden trip, but his wife had talked him round; in fact, she had even made him promise that he would see that unlikeable old hermit Dorothy
’
s father.

Lou hadn
’
t thought of telegraphing the solicitor in Zomba. Even if it had occurred to her she might not have
done so. A man who considered it possible that the legal guardian of a child might not find it convenient to travel out to collect him, was altogether too casual. Lou intended to go right to the heart of the matter, and act.

The plane met an air pocket and dropped. The other passengers, Lou noticed, were unperturbed, and she conceded that it was a sensation to which one might become accustomed in this country where distances were so great that the plane was the only sensible way to travel. However, she was glad when the steward came along to tell her that they would be touching down at Chekwe in ten minutes. She looked anxiously into her pocket mirror, saw parts of a clear young face, streaky brown and gold hair and grey eyes that looked as if they were trying sleepily to harden against whatever might be in store. Actually, she was wondering what she would do if there were no hotel in Chekwe. Oh, well, she thought philosophically, in time every query would be answered.

But she had to confess to a queer sensation as the plane came down to land on a concrete strip which seemed to be set in the midst of hundreds of miles of bush savannah. True, there was a small official hut with a flag waving from the staff beside it, but the airfield seemed to be quite unconnected with civilization.

Lou was the only passenger for Chekwe, and her two suitcases had been conveniently placed for unloading. She had hardly reached the hut on singularly rubbery legs when the twin engines revved, ready for take-off. But Lou didn
’
t watch the plane. For the present she was thankful to have done with air travel.

The heat was palpable, but lessening. The sun had gone and a strangely gentle dusk was creeping up from the east. Inside, the hut was dim but it had white-painted walls and was very neat An African official was standing behind a cedar-wood counter, his khaki bush shirt and shorts impec
c
able, his dark fez very straight on his woolly head. From his startled expression he had never before dealt with a lone white woman passenger.

Lou gave
him
her ticket.
“
How far is this from town?
”
she asked.

He was slow but had good English.
“
Only two miles from white people,
”
he said.
“
Wish for transport, madam?
”

“
Yes, please—to the hotel.
”

This gave him pause.
“
No hotel,
”
he stated.
“
Only some stores.
”

“
But I have to stay in Chekwe for a while. Is there someone who can advise me?
”

“
Perhaps the District Commissioner, the Bwana D.C.,
”
the official said hopefully,
“
but he is away for some days.
”

Lou meditated.
“
I
’
ve always had to write to my friends care of the Chekwe post office,
”
she said.
“
Perhaps you
’
ve heard of Mr. Gilmore?
”

The African gave a relieved and gleaming smile.
“
Yes, madam. He has the Mulera plantation. The Bwana Gilmore will arrange everything for madam. I will bring your luggage to the car myself.
”

“
You mean I should go to the plantation? Isn
’
t it a long way?
”

“
Only eight miles. I will drive you.
”

“
Don
’
t you have to remain here on duty?
”

He gave her the white smile.
“
I am of the Bwana D.C.
’
s staff, madam. I come here only when a plane is to land. There will be no more for three-four days, perhaps a week.
”

Lou went out with him into the sudden darkness. The plane was gone, and with it every sound of civilization. Night insects whirred eerily, the breeze rippled through the shoulder-high grasses and the
s
ky pressed down, warmly purple and star-sown. The African locked the hut and indicated with a deep bow that she was to go ahead. He picked up her cases and followed her round to where a shabby station wagon stood under a lone cedar. She got into the seat, felt heat pulsing all over her
bo
dy and fought a sudden drowsiness. She
’
d hardly slept since leaving England.

The African drove with ponderous care. Once, Lou came wide awake and looked at him, told herself that she was here in the savage heart of Africa with a native who could give points in politeness to many a white man she had known. Then she went sleepy again, and watched the passing trees. Cedars again; if the air weren
’
t so hot and slumbrous this could be a gravel road through an English estate.

They came to a clearing where a couple of ill-lit dingy stores, closing for the night, had become a meeting-place for idle Africans. The driver lifted his nose and accelerated slightly; apparently he was of better stuff than the local laborers.

There were a few tidy bungalows in gardens, then more forest, before they turned off the road on to a well-kept private lane between dark young trees. It seemed a long while after that that Lou saw a rambling white house of modern design set among bushes whose flowers were plainly visible in the starlight The station wagon crunched round to the front of the house and stopped. The driver got out and came round to Lou
’
s door.

As she stepped on to the path he said,
“
I will go to the back and tell Mr. Gilmore
’
s servant to take care of your luggage. Will madam please go up the steps to the front door?
”

Lou did. She looked along the paved veranda, saw french windows and a darkened room beyond them, a tangle of climbing flowers at the end. There was no bell but possibly that was normal in such a place. She tapped at the door, received no immediate reply and tried the handle of the door. At the same moment it was opened by a long-limbed servant in white. He stood bade so that she could enter, switched on wall lights which ill
uminating a
spacious living-room that was furnished in light wood and blue and white tweed. Most of the stuff looked fairly new, and it was so unlike anything Lou had expected that she walked to the centre of the room and looked about her. No flowers anywhere, but there were two or three good ornaments.

She turned to the servant
“
Will you please tell Mrs. Gilmore that Miss Prentice is here?
”

Obviously, he hadn
’
t a notion what she was
talking
about
.
He looked vacant
,
atoned with a big
smile
and walked out Lou took off her small navy hat and held it
,
loosened her linen jacket and fluffed the ruffle at the neck of the white blouse. She saw a scarlet plastic gun on a chair and it occurred to her, suddenly, that Keith was here under this roof; a swift elation ran through her veins. He
’
d be asleep, of course, but she was actually
within
feet of him!

She heard the station wagon depart, and afterwards she listened for other noises. The stillness was uncanny, but the coolness of the house was balm. She went to the desk and studied a photograph which stood on it, the likeness of a middle-aged woman who looked kind and intelligent Mrs. Gilmore, probably; she must definitely be a nice type to have taken in Keith without question. Lou was sure she could depend on such a woman to give her a bed for the night
.
She sank into a chair and relaxed, decided that the house was quiet because the Gilmores had gone out for the evening, and allowed her lids to fall. It was good to be in the house of friends, wonderful to know that Keith was sleeping with childish abandon in a room nearby. Had she been sure she could have found him in a strange house without making sounds to rouse him she would have forced herself to her feet
.
But in the darkness he might awaken frightened, and it was possible he already felt insecure without his parents. She had reached him, anyway; nothing else mattered very much. Upon which thought Lou first drowsed and then went to sleep.