by Rhys Bowen
“Goodness,” I said. “That’s a turnabout.”
“No man can resist me for too long,” she said with a self-satisfied smile.
“But what about Sir Hubert?” I asked later when we were alone. “I thought the wind might be blowing in that direction again.”
“I was tempted,” she said. “He’s a lovely man and I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for him. But Max—well, he is so frightfully rich and the sex is so divine.”
“But living in Germany, Mummy,” I said. “Please think this through carefully. Darcy’s worried about the way things are going. He thinks they are planning for war again. This Hitler chap wants to take over the world. Do you really want to be part of that?”
She hesitated. “You know I’m not good at seeing into the future. Hubert wants to head off to somewhere remote and dangerous again. Max wants me to go to our villa and I’m sure you’d rather your old mother wasn’t breathing down your neck here at Eynsleigh. I’ll just have to see how things turn out, won’t I? Of course, if you make me a grandmother soon, I shall return to be adoring.”
And she smiled.
“It’s good to be home, isn’t it?” I said to Darcy as we changed for dinner that evening. “At least one doesn’t have to worry about ants or snakes or elephants every time we go out here.”
* * *
“BACK TO REAL life.” Darcy gave a sigh and I saw the worried frown. I went over to him and took his hand. “Darcy, I don’t want you to take that desk job. I know what you do is dangerous, but you love it. I know I’ll be left alone at times and I can’t ask you too much about where you are going, but that is you. I don’t want you to become old and bored and depressed.”
He swept me into his arms. “If you’re really sure?”
“I want you to be happy. And I don’t think you would be, filing papers at a desk.”
He sighed again, this time with relief.
Back to real life. The thought echoed through my head. Starting my new life as Mrs. Darcy O’Mara in a lovely house in the country with an exciting future ahead of us: it was certainly nothing to be sighed about.
* * *
WE SETTLED BACK into this new real life with ease. Zou Zou came to stay. I received an invitation from the queen to come to tea and recount our adventures. The invitation was written by her secretary but underneath in her own hand she had written:
The king is not at all well. I am quite concerned. I hope David has learned a thing or two about the obligations of the monarchy on his tour and will come home prepared to step into his father’s shoes.
I hoped so too.
Mummy didn’t seem in an awful hurry to leave and I wondered if she was reconsidering what I had told her about the current situation in Germany. But at least Lugano was in Switzerland. It might be a good compromise for her—visits from Max but no Nazis present. After a few days Darcy collected our holiday snaps from the chemist’s shop in the village. We showed them to Mummy, from the animals on the savanna to the polo match. She was interested to see Idina.
“Doesn’t she look old?” was her first comment.
Then she peered at the snap more closely. “I know that face,” she said.
She was pointing at Jocelyn Prettibone. “You know him?”
“Yes, that’s a fellow called Roderick something. He was in a play produced by a friend of mine. He was rather good, playing a Swedish count. He had the accent down pat and he looked frightfully Scandinavian—and very evil. What was he doing in Kenya?”
“Playing another part,” Darcy said.
He went up to London instantly with the snapshot of Jocelyn and my mother’s information and at last the truth came out. Jocelyn was no third son of a peer. He was no jewel thief either. He was a drug runner. He supplied cocaine, adopting different personas that no one would suspect, to a community and then giving a plausible reason for leaving again. Mummy was right. He certainly was a good actor.
The last we heard from Freddie was that Joseph still hadn’t been caught. It seemed he must have made it across the border into Tanganyika. I was glad.
* * *
AND A LAST postscript on this whole story: it turned out that the diamond necklace had never been stolen in the first place. The maharani had set the whole thing up to claim the insurance. She had run up debts she didn’t want her husband to know about and needed the money. Her maid cracked under the pressure of questioning and revealed the truth. It’s interesting how often the truth finally comes out. Personally I’m glad that I don’t have to live a lie. I’d find it horribly tiring, wouldn’t you?
Historical Note
You might think that this is a work of wild fiction, but I can assure you that it is firmly based on historical fact.
Lady Idina Sackville was the leading hostess in the Wanjohi Valley, known as the Happy Valley, where a group of English aristocrats led lives of drink, drugs and partner swapping in the 1920s and ’30s. My other characters have fictional names but are in part based on the real inhabitants of that time.
The inspiration for the murder of Lord Cheriton is the real-life unsolved murder of Lord Erroll, the charismatic leader of the valley set. He was found slumped over the steering wheel of his car on a lonely road. There were many suspects, including husbands of wives seduced by him, and hints of his Nazi affiliation, but the case was never satisfactorily solved.
And a word of apology to the purists among you. I have shortened the time of the journey from London to Kenya. In reality it would have taken longer, with overnights in Cairo and in Juba. But in the interests of getting on with the story I have made the ground crew handling more efficient! And as for the accuracy of the flight and the aircraft . . . I have firsthand knowledge. My father-in-law was one of the founders and heads of Imperial Airways and was on the first flight from London to Cape Town. We have his letters home from stops along the route and snaps that he took!
Bibliography
These books helped me re-create the time and place accurately.
The Bolter: The Story of Idina Sackville. Frances Osborne. Vintage.
The Ghosts of Happy Valley: Searching for the Lost World of Africa’s Infamous Aristocrats. Juliet Barnes. Aurum Press.
Lion in the Morning. Henry Seaton. John Murray.
West with the Night. Beryl Markham. North Point.
Out of Africa and Shadows on the Grass. Isak Dinesen. Vintage.
White Mischief. James Fox. Vintage.
The Flame Trees of Thika. Elspeth Huxley. Weidenfeld and Nicholson.
Britain’s Imperial Air Routes, 1918 to 1939. Robin Higham. Foulis.
Pictorial History of BOAC and Imperial Airways. Kenneth Munson. Ian Allan.
The Seven Skies: A Study of B.O.A.C. and Its Forerunners since 1919. John Pudney. Putnam.
And various novels, including M. M. Kaye’s Death in Kenya.
Plus the study guide to wildlife in East Africa, with extensive notes from his trip by Dr. E. Hook.
And thanks to Google Earth for keeping me accurate!
About the Author
Rhys Bowen, a New York Times bestselling author, has been nominated for every major award in mystery writing, including the Edgar®, and has won many, including both the Agatha and Anthony awards. She is also the author of the Molly Murphy Mysteries, set in turn-of-the-century New York, and the Constable Evans Mysteries, set in Wales as well as two internationally bestselling stand alone novels. She was born in England and now divides her time between Northern California and Arizona.
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