Death in the Greenhouse

by JRL Anderson

  ‘All travellers are entitled to hospitality. Have you come far?’

  ‘Today only from Ilginaro.’

  ‘It is far enough for the need of refreshment. May I ask where you heard of us in England?’

  ‘From an old acquaintance, who is, alas, now dead – one Eustace Quenenden.’

  ‘Quenenden of The Flora of Africa?’

  ‘Yes. I am myself a botanist, though not of his distinction.’

  ‘Quenenden was an old friend of mine, too, a very old friend . . . How extraordinarily interesting! I am more than ever pleased to see you, since botany is my chief lay interest. What is your own particular field?’

  ‘Tropical grains, especially wild grasses which can be crossed with existing food-crops to give either better yields or increased resistance to disease. Do you know my friend Professor Huntingford, of Oxford?’

  ‘I have never met him, but of course I know of his work. Come to the house for a wash and a drink before we have our meal.’

  He led me from the harbour to a well-made drive, lined with flowering trees. The drive fronted several houses, all bungalows. ‘These are the homes of some of our people – our doctor’s house, and the houses of various members of our school staffs,’ he said. ‘We have three schools, an elementary school, a secondary school for academic subjects, and a school for technical training.’ Finally we came to a bungalow next door to a wooden church. ‘This is my own home, we call it the Chaplaincy,’ he said. ‘I built the original house with my own hands, also our original church, the church first. They have been greatly extended since.’

  The cool verandah of the bungalow was also the main sitting room. A woman got up politely as we walked in. ‘To make coincidence more extraordinary still, let me introduce you to my other guest,’ Father Simpson said. ‘She is yet another old friend of Eustace Quenenden’s – Miss Hilda Sutherland, who taught in our first secondary school, many years ago. We were sad to lose her, but she has since done much important work in England.’ He gave a sudden, embarrassed little laugh. ‘My dear sir, I have been most remiss! I have been so busy gossiping that I have omitted to ask your name!’

  ‘I should have introduced myself. I’m Ramsden, Alexander Ramsden – Professor Alexander Ramsden, if you like, of the London School of Agricultural Research.’

  ‘How well did you know Eustace Quenenden?’ Miss Sutherland asked. It seemed an odd question.

  ‘Some years ago, quite intimately,’ I replied. ‘He was a horticulturist whereas my field is primarily concerned with food-grains, but he gave me invaluable help in research into some problems of pollination among wild grasses. He lectured twice at the London School, and on both occasions he stayed with me. Recently, I have not seen much of him, and the last I heard of him before his tragic death was a card at Christmas. It was from him that I heard about Father Simpson’s Mission here, and so it is directly due to him that I have the pleasure of meeting you both now.’

  ‘What brought you to Africa?’ asked Miss Sutherland.

  ‘Partly the Mpugan Government, partly our own Ministry of Agriculture. The Ministry acts in concert with the Food and Agricultural Organisation of the United Nations on a world programme of research, and the Mpugan Government is anxious to introduce new cash crops to raise the income of its people, particularly in the remoter areas. I was invited to make a preliminary report on the practical possibility of introducing a Five Year Plan for the improvement of Mpugan grains – I mean, a plan that really would bring some major improvements.’

  ‘It is vital work, and I wish you all success in it,’ Father Simpson said. ‘Now for more immediate plans. I do not touch alcohol myself, but I hope I am not a prig about it, and I keep some whisky for my guests. The alternative is fresh pineapple juice, pressed this morning. Hilda, what may I offer you?’

  ‘I’ll join you in the pineapple juice.’

  ‘And you, professor?’

  ‘If I may take up your offer of whisky, I’d enjoy that.’

  ‘Certainly.’ He bustled off, and came back with a tray carrying a big glass jug of pineapple juice, a bottle of whisky and some glasses. He poured drinks for us, and I must say his whisky went down well. ‘Can you break your journey here and spend the night?’ he asked me. ‘We can accommodate all your canoe-men, too, of course.’

  ‘It’s a tempting invitation and I’d like to accept,’ I said. ‘Unhappily, the Government has arranged an itinerary for me, and I’m due to spend the night at a village some fifteen or twenty miles downstream. The headman will have made all the arrangements, and I feel committed to them.’

  ‘I understand that. Perhaps you could call again on your way back. Now, let us have our meal.’

  *

  It was not a meal that I enjoyed. This was no fault of the food, which was fresh and well-cooked, but I was frantically puzzled by Miss Sutherland, and exceedingly worried about what should be my own next move. What was she doing here? Why had she apparently left home at a moment’s notice to come to Africa? She had spoken to me on the telephone in England – could she conceivably have recognised my voice? I doubted if I need have much real fear of this, for telephone voices from strangers do not convey much idea of personality. Still, it was a possibility, and for whatever reasons she seemed on edge, and suspicious of me. Father Simpson was a good host, doing his best to provide interesting conversation about the river and its peoples, and his particular love for its wild flowers. We both tried to respond, but I found it heavy going, and I sensed that she did, also.

  ‘Do you have many visitors?’ I asked.

  ‘Sometimes – people from all over the world are interested in our work. We have a guest house that can accommodate up to twelve. At the moment Hilda is the only guest, but she is an old friend rather than a visitor, and has her meals here. I’m a little surprised that the Government did not include our Mission in your own itinerary.’

  ‘I’m both surprised and disappointed. It was probably because the arrangements were mainly made in London, and our officials would probably ask for visits to villages and local settlements rather than to Missions led by Europeans. You probably know five hundred times as much about the needs – and failings – of the local population than a village headman does, but the official mind is often blinkered about these things.’

  ‘I fear so, yes. But we are on excellent terms with the Mpugan Government, which really does appreciate, I think, the work we try to do.’

  Father Simpson had not actually said that there had been no other recent visitors, but he had implied it, and I felt that he would have mentioned Robert Purbeck had he been at the Mission within the past few weeks. It seemed probable that he had not. That, at least, was one scrap of factual information. But what was Miss Sutherland up to?

  *

  Somehow that meal came to an end. ‘It is wise in this climate to take a rest in the afternoons,’ Father Simpson said. ‘Hilda, I know, is going to, and I certainly am – indeed, without my rest I could not get through my day. You are welcome to one of the guest rooms if you would like a rest yourself.’

  ‘That’s another generous offer, but I feel that I ought to be getting on downstream. I have stayed in several villages in different parts of the country already on this tour. There will certainly be some local government officials present, and all of them will want to talk to me. So I must be sure of getting there in good time. It would be nice, though, to see your guest house on my way back to the river. I hope very much that I shall be able to be your guest there on my return, in five or six days’ time.’

  ‘I hope so, too. I’ll walk down with you and Hilda before I go for my own rest. A stroll after a meal is good for the constitution.’

  *

  The guest house was about five minutes’ walk from the Chaplaincy, standing a little apart from the other buildings of the community. Like most of the larger bungalows it was built round four sides of a square, the rooms opening, through a wide verandah, to the inner courtyard formed by the square. Doubtless
this made them cooler in the heat of the day. The courtyard here was a charming garden, shaded by flowering trees and with beds bright with lilies. I complimented Father Simpson on the beauty of the place, and he said ‘Yes, our gardeners do well. They are all trained by us. But you will notice one sad omission – there is no lawn. For years I have tried to develop a good lawn grass, but it always grows rank.’

  ‘There are grasses that would not do too badly. There has been quite a lot of research for greens on golf courses. It is not quite my own field, but when I get back I’ll send you some suggestions.’

  ‘They would be most welcome. In the nature of things I cannot have much longer here, and I should dearly like to make a lawn before I go.’

  *

  I said goodbye to Miss Sutherland and she went off to her room. I parted from Father Simpson at the gate to the guest house, declining his offer to accompany me back to the riverside. ‘I can scarcely get lost, and you must go for your rest,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your wonderful hospitality today. I look forward greatly to our next meeting.’

  I watched him walk back towards the Chaplaincy, which was in the opposite direction from my way to the river. As soon as he was safely out of sight I slipped back towards the guest house. About fifty yards from the gate was a huge forest tree, behind which I could watch without being seen. Some ten minutes after we had left Miss Sutherland came out of the house. She made neither for the Chaplaincy nor the river, but seemed to be walking towards the forest-clad hills at the back of the Mission station.

  It was a problem to decide what to do. The one thing I couldn’t afford was to do nothing – in most human situations action, even if it turns out later to have been not the best action, is better than inaction. I blessed Sergeant Taskalu for his decision to remain with the canoe. Miss Sutherland seemed to be following a path that led into the hills. As quickly as I could I went back to the river. The sergeant saw me coming, I beckoned to him, and he was out of the canoe before I got to the bank. ‘We have got to follow somebody into the bush. And it’s got to be done at once,’ I said. He wasted no time in asking questions. He went back to the canoe for a moment, told the captain to wait for orders, and rummaged in the big rucksack that he had brought with him. He came back with two sharp pangas, or bush knives, and with a revolver strappped to his belt. He gave me one of the knives. ‘You will need this, sir,’ he said. ‘I know this bush country, and I brought it for you.’ Without any further discussion we walked back to the guest house.

  By the time we got there Miss Sutherland was out of sight, but there was only the one path, so we followed that. Hurriedly I explained to the sergeant that while there was not yet any sign of the man we were looking for, a woman who was in some way involved was staying at the Mission. She had never seen me, but she had seemed suspicious of me. She had gone to the guest house for an afternoon rest, but as soon as Father Simpson and I were out of the way she had left the place and set off towards the bush-covered hills. I was extremely worried that we could no longer see her.

  ‘That does not matter much,’ the sergeant said. ‘I have been trained in tracking – see, in the dust, there is a clear footprint of a European woman’s shoe. We are probably faster than she is, and can catch her up. Even if we don’t, I think we can follow her.’

  I count myself a good walker, but it was all I could do to keep up with the sergeant’s loping stride, not quite a run, but making almost a running pace although we were going uphill. He was not in the least out of breath. ‘What do you wish to do when we see the woman, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Keep out of sight and follow her,’ I said. I had to conserve my breath. It was scarcely necessary to explain that a European woman must have some urgent reason for setting off alone into the African bush.

  The range we were climbing was quite low, forming foothills to a further range that we should have to climb, after a long descent, before returning to the Ga valley. The river makes an enormous bend to get round the hills, and we were going more or less straight, covering a shorter, though much more arduous, line than the river. I had the map fairly well in my head, and I reckoned that we were making towards the border of Meredith Boscombe’s old estate, the part that he had described as being on high ground and not much use. It took only about twenty minutes before the Mission clearing fell behind and the bush enclosed us. It was more scrub than forest here, but scrub ten or twelve feet high, interspersed with forest trees. There was still a cleared path, and the sergeant was satisfied that the woman ahead of us had followed it.

  In another twenty minutes we reached the summit of the foothill range, and began to descend. Almost at once we met trouble, for the path divided. We had been going generally south: now one path continued south while another led off to the south-east. The southgoing path seemed the more used, but after hunting around for a moment the sergeant concluded that Miss Sutherland had gone off to the south-east. It was rough going, for the path we were now on was much more overgrown than the one we had been following. However, somebody had done a bit of clearing recently, for most of the tougher vines had been cut back – some of the cuts still oozing sap. The cut bits had been left lying in the path forming tiresome snags to stumble over, and so ferocious is the forest growth that already tendrils of new shoots were sprouting out to catch your ankles, or to flick your face. Our pace slowed, but we were going downhill now, and since walking would be no easier for Miss Sutherland I doubted if she could be gaining on us. The path was so narrow that we had to walk in single file, and sometimes the pressing undergrowth could be passed only by turning sideways. We could have cut our way through with our pangas, but not knowing how close we might be to Miss Sutherland we moved as quietly as we could. Sergeant Taskalu went in front, sensing as much as seeing tiny traces of our quarry – a hair caught in a branch shoulder-high for us but about head-high for her, a shred of white cotton where she must have caught her skirt.

  Before we had finished the descent we saw her. The sergeant put out his arm to stop me, turned his head with a finger to his lips, turned again and pointed. We were at the top of a straight section of the path, which fell steeply to the floor of the narrow valley, through which flowed some small tributary of the Ga. We saw Miss Sutherland on the bank of the stream, taking off her shoes and rolling up her skirt to cross it. She was too absorbed to look behind and notice us, though we were not more than a couple of hundred yards from her. We watched her climb down into the stream and cross it, the water about knee deep. On the far side, with one hand holding her shoes, she had some difficulty in scrambling up the bank. In the end she tied the laces of her shoes together and hung them round her neck so that she had both hands free to grip an overhanging branch and haul herself out of the water. Having negotiated the bank she sat at the top for a rest. She did not give herself long, for in barely five minutes she was up and had begun the climb out of the valley to the higher range of hills. Beyond the stream the path bore away to the left and she was soon round a bend and out of sight.

  We slid rather than walked the rest of the descent and made use of Miss Sutherland’s branch to cross the stream. We took the opportunity to have a drink from the water, using our cupped hands. Unhappily, we had no bottle or anything to carry water in. Well, it couldn’t be helped.

  The ascent was steep, and we were careful not to go too fast for fear of catching her up. There was another problem as we climbed. In this part of the range the bush became markedly less dense as we gained height, and so there was much less cover for us. We caught several glimpses of the woman ahead, and stopped each time to let her get on a bit. But as the bush got less dense the path became less important. Gradually the landscape changed from forest to rocky hillside. The path now was no more than a faint track, perhaps an animal trail for getting down to the water. It skirted the bigger outcrops of rock and so was convenient to use, but it was quite practicable to go off in some other direction altogether. It was necessary to keep Miss Sutherland in sight. We had a hurried conference behin
d a big rock and agreed that the sergeant, who was better at moving silently over such ground than I was, should go ahead. I would follow at a discreet distance.

  Miss Sutherland kept on gamely, but she must have been tiring. We had come something like six miles, much of it hard going. The summit of the range was now about a quarter of a mile ahead. She climbed to it, and on the ridge turned more or less due south. I saw the sergeant, slipping from rock to rock and taking every scrap of cover there was, reach the ridge and turn after her.

  With as good a mental picture of the map as I could make, I calculated that we were approaching the high land of Boscombe’s old plantation. Remembering the river’s great curve, we were probably not more than four or five miles from meeting it again, presumably at the canoe-crossing near the old plantation house. Boscombe had described the Mission as about half a day’s journey from him, and said that they normally went by river. I could understand why. The river trip, though it meant paddling upstream and was much longer, would also be much easier than travelling over the country we had covered. A donkey or mule could have managed the ridge-country all right, but would have found the narrow forest path, particularly if it had not recently been cut back, virtually impassable.

  The woman kept to the ridge for about another quarter of a mile, and then disappeared. More accurately, she disappeared from me, for the sergeant saw her enter a steep narrow chine that led off to the right, and signalled with his arm where I was to go. I met him about a hundred yards into the chine, where he had stopped. He was crouching behind a rock on the lip of a crater-like hollow, perhaps twenty feet deep, though the sides were not sheer, and it shallowed out to the south where the ground fell away from the ridge. Miss Sutherland had climbed down into the crater, and there was a man with her. He was about her own age, late forties or early fifties, and stood well over six feet. He also looked immensely strong. He had been digging a trench in a blueish clay, and held a pointed spade. A pickaxe was on the ground beside him. A few yards away, continuing the line of the trench, a clump of the flowers I could now recognise as adamantifera was growing. By some trick of acoustics in the place we could hear every sound that came from it.