He kissed her cheek. "Thank you, Maggs. For everything."
She waved his words away with her bound hands. "Don't forget the gag," she said. "Use my handkerchief. It's in my pocket."
He had ridden out of Nairobi on the backstreets and only fifteen minutes later he was streaking north toward the plains. He'd reached Thika by nightfall and quickly skirted around it, not stopping to camp until he was well past it, for his face was too well known there.
When he arrived at the Wiltons' house, he was prepared to find himself in danger. He was prepared for vicious rows and threats, for the possibility that Freddie might try to have the servants overpower him or even shoot him.
He was not, however, prepared for what he did find--nothing. No India, no Freddie, no Charlotte, just half a dozen worried servants clamoring around him, anxious for news of the family.
The most senior of them, a man named Joseph, told him he'd found a note on the kitchen table early that morning. It had been written by the Bwana and it said that they would ride out early because the missy wished to see lions. They would picnic in the hills and return home in time for tea. But they hadn't. The Bwana liked his tea at four sharp, Joseph said. It was half past seven now and there was no sign of him. It was most irregular. Something had happened, he was certain. He felt it.
Sid felt it, too. His sixth sense, the one he'd relied on during his London days to tell him when a job felt right and when it didn't, was talking to him again. It was shouting at him.
"Which way did they head?" he'd asked Joseph, his eyes already scanning the horizon.
"The note says they went to the hills. That means north. But the cook was up early--her baby would not sleep--and she saw them from her house. She saw them leave and says they rode west, toward the plains. She says the child was riding with her father. On his horse."
"Why?" Sid asked, thinking it strange. "Didn't she have her own horse?"
Joseph shrugged. "I do not know. The pony is gone, but she was not on it. Had I seen them I would have stopped them. Where they've gone is no place for a woman and child. The lions in the hills are bad. But on the plains they are thick as ticks on a dog."
"What time did they leave?"
Joseph turned to the cook and spoke to her in Swahili. "She says half past three."
Sid swore. It was now nearly eight in the evening. The trail was nearly sixteen hours old.
"Can you get me a fresh horse?" he said. "I'm going to start after them," he said.
"No, Bwana. Not at this hour. It is too dangerous. Go in the morning."
"I'll be fine. They may not be."
Joseph had a horse brought. He also had two canteens filled and some food prepared. Sid put the provisions in his saddlebag and thanked him. And then he was off, riding hard down the drive, his keen eyes fastening on a trail of flattened grass he saw up ahead. It veered in a westerly direction, just as the cook had said.
"What have you done, Freddie?" he said aloud. "What the hell have you done?"
Chapter 125
India held Charlotte tightly against her. Between them, they had managed to untie themselves. She could feel her little body trembling. Above them, three lionesses circled the edge of the pit. One dipped a paw into the void, overbalanced, and skittered backward. Another growled constantly, angry at being so close to prey yet unable to get at it. A third, the most fearsome, crouched still as a statue, bright eyes glinting, a silver thread of saliva suspended from her lips.
"Will they jump down, Mummy?" Charlotte whispered.
"No, darling. They're too afraid. They know they can't get out again if they do."
India hoped to God she was right. She had no idea what lions could or couldn't do. What if they did jump down? She and Charlotte would be defenseless against them. She knew it would be a horrible death, and yet she'd started to think it would be a merciful one. They'd been in the pit for nine hours now. Hunger and thirst had set in.
India had been a doctor once. In what seemed like another lifetime to her now. She knew what death from starvation looked like. The body lost fat and muscle tissue as it began to consume itself. The skin became pale and dry. Lethargy set in, followed by swelling of the limbs, and then heart failure. She knew, too, that it wouldn't be starvation that killed them, but dehydration. As a student, she'd read about cases where victims had lasted five, even six, days without water, but a period of three days was more typical. Two in hot weather.
It was a hard death, dehydration. The mouth and lips dried out. The tongue swelled and cracked. The eyes became sunken, the cheekbones sharp beneath the skin. The urine dried up and the bladder burned. The heart raced. Breathing became rapid. Victims suffered pounding headaches, nausea, grogginess, and delirium. But worst of all was the thirst. It tortured people, drove them mad.
India wanted only one thing now--the strength to outlast Charlotte. She wanted Charlotte to die first, so that she did not have to witness her mother die and then spend her final hours alone. India wanted to live long enough to comfort her at the end, to hold her in her arms as she died.
And she would die. India accepted that now.
During their first few hours in the pit she had wanted to rage and scream at the sky, to crawl insanely at the walls of their deep grave. She had tried everything she could think of to get out. She'd stood Charlotte on her shoulders, hoping that she could reach the edge and pull herself out, but they fell several feet short. She tried to stretch herself horizontally across the pit and climb up and out, but it was too wide. When the realization had sunk in that they could not get out, that they had no food and no water, that there was no one--no human being--for miles and miles, she had nearly come apart. It had taken everything she had, every ounce of courage and self-control, not to.
One of the lionesses roared again. India scrabbled at the bottom of the pit until she had a clumpy handful of red dirt. She threw it at her. It missed and the animal snarled. "Go away," India shouted at it. She threw more dirt. Handful after handful, not bothering to squeeze it into clumps anymore. "Go away," she sobbed. She threw until she was panting. Until Charlotte wrapped her arms around her waist and buried her head in her skirts and said, "Stop, Mummy, stop. They're gone."
She sat back down then, leaned her back against the wall, and pulled Charlotte to her.
"It will be all right, Mummy," Charlotte said.
"Will it, my love?" India murmured, kissing the top of her head.
"Yes, Mummy. Look." She plunged her small hands into her skirt pockets and pulled out a treasure trove of diamonds, gemstones, and gold.
"It's the jewelry," she said, spreading the pieces out over her skirts.
"My goodness. How did you get it?"
"I took it from the box while I was in Father's study," Charlotte said, turning the dragonfly comb over in her hands. "Before you noticed me. I took it so we can give it to the police in Nairobi. Just like you said. Once we get out of here we'll give it to them and tell them what a bad man he is." Charlotte went quiet for a bit, then said, "He'll come, Mummy."
"Who will?" India asked tiredly.
"Mr. Baxter. He'll come for us. He found me when no one else could. He'll find me again. He will."
"Yes, darling, he will," India lied, knowing that the end might be easier for her if she had something, some small shred of hope, to hold on to.
She thought of Sid now. He would be on his way to London. She took comfort in knowing that she'd never told him the truth about Charlotte. At least he'd never have to know it was his child who'd died on the plains of Kenya. If he even lived long enough to hear about it.
India was just closing her eyes when she heard a low growl. It was one of the lionesses. She was back. India could see her head silhouetted against the night sky. Her fangs gleamed whitely in the moonlight.
"Go!" Charlotte shouted at the animal, just as India had moments ago. "Go away!"
She stood up, still clutching the dragonfly comb, and threw it at her. By some miracle, she hit her. The teeth mus
t have dug into a sensitive place on the animal's face, for she snarled and ran away.
"Good shot, darling," India said, trying her best to smile.
Charlotte sat down again, nestling back into her. It was cold in the ground. And damp.
India closed her eyes for a few seconds, intending only to rest. Instead she fell into an exhausted sleep. She didn't see Charlotte staring up at the distant stars. She didn't hear her whispering fiercely to the night.
"He'll come, Mummy, you'll see. He will," she said. "He'll come."
Chapter 126
Seamie had wanted flowers, but there was no florist in Nairobi. He'd thought about chocolates, but he couldn't find those, either. Nairobi's Victoria Street was not London's Bond Street. Far from it. He'd finally been able to find a shop that provisioned safaris, and there he bought a new clasp knife and a canteen. He left the shop pleased with his choices. He knew that Willa would like them better than flowers and sweets.
He was walking down Victoria Street with his gifts now, on his way to the surgery. He was going to see if Dr. Ribeiro would let him take Willa to the Norfolk for lunch. He knew her; knew she'd be bored out of her mind in the hospital. He would see if he could hire a donkey cart and show her something of the town. Take her mind off herself and what had happened to her. He was looking forward to a leisurely meal himself. He desperately needed to rest, to go slow for a bit, to recover from the shocks of the last week.
It had been several days since he'd last visited Willa. And for a while it had looked like it might be a damn sight longer. Everyone--from George the prison guard, to Ewart Grogan the judge, to the governor himself--had been highly suspicious of his and Maggie's story. They'd been accused of helping Sid to escape, and had been jailed for a night themselves. Seamie's resemblance to Sid Baxter was noticed, and he was grilled about it. He insisted that he was no relation to Sid, produced his papers to confirm his name was Finnegan, and told them he and Sid had been friends in London. He said he'd read of Sid's arrest in the papers and had been distressed to hear of a friend's troubles. He went to visit him, to try to help him keep his spirits up, and treachery was what he'd received for his troubles.
The police had tried to shake his story--and Maggie's--but they'd both stuck to their statements. With no proof to confirm their suspicions, the officers who'd questioned them were finally forced to release them. That had been late yesterday evening. He'd wanted to see Willa then, but the surgery was closed and he hadn't been able to scare up the doctor. Instead he'd gone with Maggie to the Norfolk--not to the dining room, but straight to the bar. He'd never in his life been so in need of a whisky. The need had grown even stronger when Maggie told him where Sid had gone.
"He'll get himself thrown right back in the nick," Seamie had said.
"If he does, he can bloody well get himself out," Maggie had replied. "I'm too old for any more prison breaks."
They'd emptied a bottle between them, then stumbled off to their rooms, utterly exhausted. He'd said goodbye to Maggie over breakfast that morning. She had to get back to her farm, she said. She had her coffee to worry about. She invited him to come and visit her at Thika. He said he would. He thought that Willa would like her. Perhaps, when she was a bit stronger, they could make the trip out to Thika.
He bounded up the surgery's steps now. When he opened the door he got a surprise: Willa's bed was empty. He walked over to it, confused. The small table next to it was bare. Every time he had come to see her it had been covered with books, newspapers, a packet of biscuits, a water glass. Her boots were gone, so was the clothing he'd bought her. Had she been moved somewhere else?
"Mr. Finnegan?"
He turned around. It was Dr. Ribeiro.
"Miss Alden's checked herself out," he said. "Over my strenuous objections, I might add."
"Checked out? Where is she? Is she at the Norfolk?" he asked. How could he have missed her?
"I don't believe so. She had my assistant help her to the station."
"But that can't be," he said. "I don't understand."
"Perhaps this will explain," the doctor said, handing him an envelope. "She left this for you. If you'll excuse me, I need to attend to another patient."
Seamie sat down on Willa's empty bed, placed his parcel next to him, and opened the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper inside. It had yesterday's date on it.
Dearest Seamie,
By the time you get this, I will be gone. I'm taking a train to Mombasa today and getting on the first ship out. I'm sorry to say goodbye this way, but I don't know what else to do. I can't see you again. It hurts too much.
You saved my life and nearly lost your own into the bargain, and I know I should be grateful to you, but I'm not. I'm angry and heartbroken. I wake up every morning in despair and go to sleep the same way. I don't know what to do. Where to go. How to live. I don't know how to make it through the next ten minutes, never mind the rest of my life. There are no more hills to climb for me, no more mountains, no more dreams. It would have been better for me to have died on Kilimanjaro than to live like this.
I'm leaving Africa. I don't know where I'll go. Somewhere where I can work out how to live a leftover life.
I love you, Seamie, and I hate you. I'm torn apart. Please don't try to find me. Forget me. Forget what happened between us on Mawenzi. Find someone else and be happy.
I'm sorry.
Willa
Seamie put the letter down. He wanted to run after her. To take the train to Mombasa and find her. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe she was still there. Maybe he could find her. Talk to her.
But then lines from her letter came back to him--I can't see you again. It hurts too much ...I love you ... and I hate you... and he knew that she could never look at him again without anger, without sorrow. He would be a living, breathing reminder, every minute of every day, of what she'd had and what she'd lost. He didn't want to be that. Not to her.
He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Finnegan, are you all right?" It was the doctor again.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Thank you." He handed him his parcel. "Maybe one of your patients can use these."
Then he walked out of the hospital into the sunny streets of Nairobi, his heart shattered. All around him, horses and carts trundled to and fro. Men shouted. Children played. Women hurried in and out of shops.
Seamie didn't see them, didn't hear them. He saw only Willa. He saw her as she had looked, exhausted and triumphant, on top of Mawenzi. He felt her lips on his. Heard her tell him that she loved him.
"I'm sorry, too, Wills," he said silently to her. "Sorrier than you'll ever know. But what could I have done? Tell me, what? Was I supposed to stand there and watch you die? I love you, for God's sake. I love you."
Chapter 127
It was night on the African plains, the darkness hung heavily, and yet Freddie Lytton felt that his future had never looked brighter. It was as bright as the stars twinkling in the sky. As bright as the bold orange flames of his campfire.
He lifted a flask to his lips, closed his eyes, and drank. He was dizzy with exhaustion, a little bit drunk on whisky. He'd ridden too far for one day. Stayed out in the sun too long. His skin was red, even blistering in some places. He'd let himself burn on purpose. He thought it would help his story. Make him look so crazed with fear for his family that he'd completely forgotten about his own welfare.
He pressed a finger to the livid skin on his forearm and winced. Well, it would all be worth it soon enough. Already he was free. Free of India. Free of her bastard. Soon he would be rich as well. Wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Everything India's father and mother had left to her--the houses, the money, even Charlotte's money--would come directly to him now. It had taken him years to achieve this, but he'd finally succeeded.
When he returned to London--after the inquest, the funerals, the whole bloody charade was behind him--he would be free to remarry. To choose any woman he liked. He would wait, of course, until the prescribed period of mo
urning had elapsed. And then he would marry a beauty, a sparkling social butterfly with an unimpeachable pedigree. Someone who would look lovely on his arm as they came and went from dinners and parties. And he would father sons with her. Heirs. His heirs. Nothing would stop him now. Nothing. His new wealth, a new wife, and the laurels he would soon earn from his masterful handling of the African question, would take him where he'd always longed to be--Downing Street.
"At last," he said aloud, his voice ragged from both his exertions and the whisky. "At last."
As if in response to his voice, another voice called from out of the night. It wasn't speaking, though, this voice. It was keening.
Freddie's head snapped up. He sat still and rigid, certain, for just a second, that it was India or Charlotte he was hearing. Still screaming. Still sobbing. Just as they'd done when he'd rode away from them. Leaving them in the pit. Leaving them to die.
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