Love and Death Among the Cheetahs

by Rhys Bowen

  “He has an American wife, so we’re told?”

  “He does. Angel Trapp. Father owns steel mills. Rich as Croesus. You’d think all that money would make Bwana toe the line, wouldn’t you? But he’s quite open about his mistresses.”

  “More than one mistress?” I asked.

  “Not usually at the same time. This time there has been a slight overlap, one hears.” Cyril gave a malicious little smile. “For the longest time it was Pansy Ragg. In fact we thought they might divorce their respective spouses and make it permanent, but then Tusker Eggerton brings home this hot little piece from Birmingham—the aptly named Babe.” Another wicked grin. “And now we hear that Pansy is no more. Silly woman should not have gone home to England for so long. And silly Tusker should not have left his new wife behind.”

  “He was one of the men we saw on the plane, wasn’t he?” I asked. “Looks like an ex-military type.”

  “That’s Tusker all right,” Diddy said. “Was a major in the war. Never lets anyone forget it. He came out in the soldier-settlement scheme right after the war and has done rather well for himself. He grows pyrethrum for insecticide. It’s much in demand these days.”

  An African houseboy arrived offering a tray of sausage rolls. They were warm and delicious.

  “These are marvelous,” Darcy said. “So you raise pigs in Kenya?”

  “This sausage is actually kudu,” Diddy said. “Cyril shot it for me as a present, but it makes good eating, doesn’t it? I have a really good Somali chef. Bwana is always trying to snag him from me.”

  I was trying to resist my second gin and tonic when Freddie joined us, looking uncomfortable in his bush jacket when we were all in evening dress. “I should have thrown a formal outfit into the back of the car, just in case,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it, dear boy. It’s only us,” Diddy said. “And Cyril here won’t dare to mention it in his wicked little column, will you, Cyril.”

  “Not if the claret is good enough,” Cyril said. He turned to Darcy. “So what sort of business are you in, O’Mara? Do you have a profession? I take it you’re not a spoiled aristocrat like so many of them around here.”

  “I’m an aristocrat but in no way spoiled,” Darcy said. “My father has just about managed to cling onto a drafty castle in Ireland and now trains racehorses for a Polish princess. So I’ve always had to make my own way in the world—although I can’t say I have an actual profession.”

  “A man after my own heart,” Cyril said. “Surviving on his wits alone. With only a meager castle in Ireland for security.” He grinned. “So what do you do to bring in a crust? Or have you married a rich wife like Bwana?”

  “Really, Cyril.” Diddy slapped his hand. “That is too nasty, even for you.”

  “I’m afraid I’m as penniless as my husband,” I said. “But Darcy accepts occasional assignments—”

  “To locate people overseas—that kind of thing,” Darcy said, cutting me off and making me realize that he did not want his profession known. As if I really knew the full extent of it myself!

  “And you help your father buy racehorses, don’t you?” I chimed in rapidly, not wanting him to be angry with me that I might have given away anything I shouldn’t.

  “Then you’ve pulled out all the stops for this honeymoon, haven’t you?” Cyril went on smoothly, a little grin curling his lips. “Or is some friendly benefactor springing for it?”

  “I think who is paying for my honeymoon is my own business,” Darcy said. “I was brought up not to discuss money.”

  “Touchy,” Cyril said, still smiling.

  “You should learn early on that Cyril’s main sport is to needle people,” Diddy said. “He means no real harm by it. Just slap his hand and ignore him. I always do.”

  Luckily at that moment we were summoned through to dinner. The dining room was also paneled in dark wood and had some impressive trophy heads on the walls—a buffalo with magnificent horns, an antelope with long curly horns. Not unlike Castle Rannoch where I had grown up with stags’ heads around our walls. I supposed I had to face the fact that shooting was the norm among my kind of people! I was wondering what sort of game would be on the plate for supper when a plate was put in front of me with a fish on it. Darcy reacted with surprise. “This is trout.”

  “So it is.” Diddy grinned. “Caught this morning. When the first settlers came to this area they stocked the rivers with trout. Trout fishing is a major sport here, when we are not shooting things or rolling in the hay with someone else’s wife. I, on the other hand, have sensibly constructed a trout pond so I can have trout whenever I feel like it.”

  “The streams coming down from the mountains are a godsend here,” Cyril said, already tucking in hungrily to his food. “You must let Diddy show you her dams that give us electricity. And constant fresh water for the house, and the fountain.”

  “And Bwana next door has the most impressive waterfall at the top of his estate,” Freddie added.

  “Naturally,” Cyril said. “Everything Bwana has is the most impressive. The biggest and best, so they tell me.” And he gave me a naughty wink.

  “So what brought you out to Africa, Mr. Prendergast?” Darcy asked.

  “My dears, I came out to be a writer,” Cyril said. “I was going to write wonderful books about life in the bush, but somehow the books never materialized. I became a gossip columnist for the Nairobi Times instead. And when that didn’t pay enough to take care of the bills, I took up leading safaris. I’m rather good at it, actually. I spin a good tale of the dangers. My clients are frightfully thrilled and we usually manage to shoot something. I’m a surprisingly good shot.”

  “He is.” Diddy nodded. “You wouldn’t think it from looking at him, but nerves of steel.”

  Cyril smiled modestly this time. “People always underestimate me,” he said.

  * * *

  “IT’S A PITY Cyril wasn’t on the plane with us,” I said to Darcy as we went back to our room. “I’d say he’d be the ideal cat burglar. Too harmless and innocent looking but apparently a crack shot and a big-game hunter.”

  “And a gossip columnist.” Darcy laughed. “What a dangerous combination!”

  I had a sudden brilliant thought. “Darcy, remember what Cyril said about flying with Beryl? The thief could have come out here by private plane. Zou Zou offered to fly us herself, so it would be possible for a good pilot.”

  “So we should have Freddie check for us on aeroplanes that might have flown in from Europe this week,” Darcy said. “Good thinking.”

  I grinned to myself. I was not just the little wife who had been brought along. I was jolly well going to be useful in this investigation!

  Chapter 12

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 10

  AT HASTINGS, DIDDY RUOCCO’S ESTATE, THE HAPPY VALLEY, KENYA

  I think I’m going to enjoy myself after all. On the trail of a jewel thief! Doesn’t that sound romantic and exciting? Darcy will see that I am a huge asset to his work and maybe he’ll include me in the future. Wouldn’t that be fun?

  I woke at first light and lay there, listening to unfamiliar birdsong. Darcy was still blissfully asleep, looking so young and adorable. I resisted the desire to kiss him, slipped out of bed and stood looking down at him for a moment, thinking how jolly lucky I was. Then I was curious to see what kind of birds might be making those various sounds. I pulled on trousers and a jacket over my pajamas, put on my shoes and crept out. It was freezing cold and I almost retreated to the warmth of the bedroom again. There was a delicious smell of wood smoke in the air, mingled with the scents of eucalyptus, jasmine and honeysuckle. Nobody was about. The dew lay thick on the lawns and white mist crept down from the mountains above us so that we were in a hazy world. Then through the haze I saw flashes of bright gold. Brilliant little birds with iridescent heads and golden wings flitted around the rosebushes, hover
ing to drink nectar from the flowers, chirping in tiny voices to each other. I followed them across the lawn, entranced. Behind the house the land rose in a series of terraces. I saw the mountain stream that provided the electricity, and the trout pond. Then a loud honking made me jump. I couldn’t identify what might make such a noise—an ancient lorry?—until two ungainly birds with giant bills flapped from tree to tree ahead of me. Were they hornbills? I followed them, as the ground rose steeply.

  I found I was out of breath and had to pause, feeling my heart racing. Was this the result of a long flight? I wondered. As I stood there, gasping for breath, I examined my surroundings. This part of the grounds was more like the sort of parkland of grass dotted with trees and bushes that you’d find in the wilder parts of English estates—not unlike my own Eynsleigh. Then suddenly I realized that I was at the edge of the forest. Ahead of me tall trees rose, their tops lost in the morning mist. Creepers trailed from their branches, some flowering with bright splashes of color, and among them fluttered brilliant butterflies, larger and more colorful than I had ever seen in England. I stood there watching them, not daring to go into that forbidden realm, until suddenly there was a movement among the trees. I froze, realizing I was now far from the safety of the lawns. But it’s still Diddy’s estate, I told myself, even if it is a wilder part. And as I stood quite still two small antelope crossed the path ahead of me. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. They picked their way daintily, pausing to browse occasionally on a leaf.

  I wasn’t going to go up into deeper forest but these two were moving across the parkland, not up it. I followed them, until I stepped on a twig, it snapped and they bounded away. I glanced around and realized I had come farther than I intended. I could only just catch a glimpse of the house through the trees.

  I should go back, I thought to myself.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin when a deep voice right behind me said, “Don’t move. Don’t take another step.”

  I wanted to turn and see who was speaking, but I did as I was told and remained frozen.

  “Now slowly step backward,” said the voice, “and slightly to your left.”

  I took one step backward, then another, until a pair of hands landed on my shoulders, making me jump again. This time I turned around and saw a large middle-aged man with a weathered face and a strong jawline looking down at me. In his youth he would have been extremely handsome. He was quite good-looking still, a powerful man with deeply tanned skin and bright blue eyes. His sun-streaked hair he wore rather long so that it curled over his collar. In spite of the cold he was wearing an open-necked shirt.

  “You should look where you are walking and not take the forest lightly,” he said. “All sort of things live here that would love to kill you.”

  “Was I in danger?” I asked. I scanned the trees, trying to spot a lurking lion or elephant, but could see nothing.

  “You really were,” he said. “One of the most deadly encounters you could have is right at your feet.”

  He pointed to the forest floor. A foot or so ahead of me was a wide black ribbon and it was alive and moving.

  “Siafus,” he said.

  I peered at them. “Ants?”

  “Driver ants. They can kill anything that is weak or can’t move. If you tripped and fell down they’d swarm all over you in seconds and even if you managed to run away their bite is extremely painful. In fact the soldier ants at the outside of the column bite and won’t let go. The Maasai use them for sutures when they are gashed in the bush.”

  I was still staring in fascination at the black moving ribbon of ants. Then I remembered my manners and turned to my rescuer. “Thank you so much. You obviously saved me from a nasty fate.”

  “Glad to be of service,” he said. “Even though I should shoot you as a trespasser on my land.”

  “Your land? Golly, I thought I was in Diddy’s back garden,” I said.

  “Up here at the edge of the forest our estates merge,” he said. “We don’t put up fences. No point. The elephants would just knock them down. You’re also lucky you didn’t meet an elephant, by the way.” He held out a large hand. “I’m Lord Cheriton. They call me Bwana around here. And you are?”

  “Lady Georgiana Rannoch—I mean O’Mara,” I said. “I’m sorry, this has quite unnerved me. I’ve just got married. I keep forgetting.”

  He laughed then. “Lady Georgiana. Of course. How delightful to meet you. My daughter mentioned you were on the same flight as they were. Come and have some breakfast.”

  “I should get back,” I said. “My husband will be worrying where I’ve got to.”

  “Then let me escort you back,” he said. “You never know what other dangers might be lurking. Here, take my arm.”

  I could hardly refuse although to be honest I wasn’t quite happy with the way he was looking at me. Rather like the big bad wolf when Little Red Riding Hood stepped into the cottage. I half expected him to lick his lips. Before I could take his arm he had slipped a hand around my waist. “What a delectable little creature you are,” he said. “I shall enjoy getting to know you better. Most of the women out here are tough as old boots and look at your lily-white flesh. Mm-mm.” And he nuzzled at my shoulder. Crikey. I had an urge to slap his face but one can hardly turn on the person who has saved one’s life, can one?

  Instead of taking me back the way I had come, through the fringe of the forest, he steered me down toward his own estate. Again I didn’t see how I could break away from him without seeming awfully rude. We came to a flight of steps leading down to gardens even more impressive than Diddy’s—lawns and ornamental pools with water lilies in them, rows of Italian cypress standing like sentinels and two giant magnolia trees in full blossom. Bougainvillea spilled over walls and shrubs, making the gardens blaze with a riot of reds, pinks and oranges. It really was quite remarkable. And I would have enjoyed exploring the garden, except as we went down the steps, Bwana’s grip tightened. I felt the hand around my waist move upward until it was distinctly touching the underside of my breast. I could sense him giving me an inquiring look as to whether I was enjoying this or not. Now I was completely embarrassed and not sure what to do. This might even have been considered normal, friendly behavior in the colony, but I certainly didn’t intend for the hand to do any more wandering. I was about to channel my great-grandmother and let him know that I was not amused when we heard fast-moving footsteps heading our way. We both looked up to see a slim young African man running toward us. One might have described him as beautiful. His face was finely sculpted with high cheekbones and flashing dark eyes. He moved with the grace of a gazelle.

  “Bwana,” he called. “So there you are. I didn’t realize you were going to rise so early this morning. I have been looking everywhere.”

  His English was perfect, almost as if he had been schooled in England.

  “Sleeping in again, eh, Joe?” Bwana said, releasing his grip on my person, and he chuckled. But it wasn’t a kind sort of chuckle.

  “Not really. I’m not to know you are going to rise at six unless you tell me in advance,” the young man said. I was interested that his tone was not completely deferential.

  “Well, no matter. You can make yourself useful and escort this young lady back to Diddy’s. Go by the shortcut. Her loving bridegroom may be looking for her.”

  “Yes, Bwana, of course.” The young man turned and gave me a dazzling smile. “If you will please come with me, memsahib.”

  “This is Joe, my right-hand man,” Bwana said. “He’ll take good care of you. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about this estate.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I look forward to continuing where we left off, Lady Georgiana.” And he gave me a wink.

  I was glad to fall into step beside the young Kenyan.

  “Your name is Joe?” I asked as we crossed a grassy area together.

  “Joseph is my Christian name, memsahi
b,” he said. “I also have a Maasai name, but you could not pronounce that.”

  “So you’re a Maasai? That’s different from a Kikuyu, is it?”

  “Very different,” he said. “We are the first owners of this land. Before Kikuyu. Before white people. We are warriors. To be a Maasai warrior a boy must prove himself by fighting and killing a lion with his spear.”

  “Goodness,” I said. “Have you done this?”

  “Oh yes, memsahib. I did this,” he said. “I killed the lion and may wear his skin as a cape.”

  “But you don’t wish to be with your people now? You prefer to live with Bwana?”

  “There is not enough land for my people and their herds of cows. And I need to provide for my mother. I help Bwana to run this big estate. My people have shown him our ways with cattle. He has listened and now has a fine herd.”

  I nodded, feeling a little awkward about what he had just said.

  We came to the edge of the grassy area. A row of native gardeners were now hard at work, clipping the lawns, pruning the shrubs, although everything already looked immaculate to my eyes. Ahead of us were several outbuildings behind a long whitewashed bungalow with a steep shingled roof that had to be the main house. As we came close a white-clad servant came running out of one of the buildings carrying a silver serving dish.

  “Is that the kitchen?” I asked.

  “Yes, memsahib,” Joseph said. “In Kenya we build the kitchen far enough away from the big house so that a fire cannot spread and burn it down.”

  “Are there often fires?”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted.

  “And are the rest of these buildings where the servants live?”

  “Oh no, memsahib,” he said. “Only the Somali houseboys live behind the kitchen. The Kikuyu workers live in their own village, on the estate, far from the main house. They like their own ways. The rest of these buildings are sheds and a place for Bwana to store his motorcar and tractor.”