‘I still don’t see why he should have wanted to kill me.’
‘Because of India: that’s why.’
Again, she said it as though it were self-apparent; as though anyone who knew Sir Gardnor would have understood straight away.
‘He couldn’t go out to India with that hanging over him. They’d never allow a divorce in Government House. A shooting accident, beforehand, when it wasn’t his fault, would have been quite different. It would have solved everything.’
Harold was silent for a moment.
‘Did he ever talk about divorce?’
‘Not this time. He did at first when it was Miles. That’s when he made me give up seeing Timothy.’
‘What made him change his mind?’
‘I’ve told you: people started tipping Gardie for next Viceroy. That’s what altered everything.’
‘Then why did he bother to save my life the first time?’
‘Because he thought you didn’t matter. That’s when it looked as if he’d been passed over. India was all he cared about.’
She glanced again in the direction of the clock, and began smoothing down her dress.
‘Gardie wasn’t that mad,’ she explained, almost as though defending him. ‘He wouldn’t have killed you unless there’d been a reason for it. He’d rather you’d finished his book for him.’
Chapter 54
Mr. Frith could not have been more genuinely glad to have Harold back.
While he had been absent, the work had piled up quite alarmingly. On his own initiative, the native clerk had divided the files into Very Impatient, Overdue and Extremely Necessary; and what Mr. Frith most wanted to see was some of the paper work beginning to move out again. At the present moment, there was a distinctly disused air to the whole department.
The Drawbridges, too, were pleased that Harold was around again. By now, Mrs. Drawbridge had put him at the top of her stand-by invitation list: she kept reminding him, rather coyly, that though single men were so useful for dinner parties, he must think about getting married himself one day, mustn’t he?
The other person who was happy about Harold’s return was Mr. Ngono. His swimming pool, his Lido, had turned out a great disappointment. The stream that should have fed it had run dry; and, though the deep end had a good two feet of water in it, the shallow part, which was uncovered, had already cracked and splintered in the sun.
Mr. Ngono was at the moment suing the contractor. It had all been arranged: the contractor would go bankrupt and Mr. Ngono would take over the business. Once he had the lorry, there were endless Government projects for which Mr. Ngono would be able to tender; and he was hoping that Harold would be able to put in a word for him.
Even so, they all noticed that it wasn’t the same Harold who had gone away. The change was for the worse, too: he had become moody and preoccupied.
It was really communications with Nucca that were to blame. The telephone service was notoriously unreliable. Floods, landslides, uprooted trees, termites, absent-mindedly wandering elephants, even high winds, regularly brought the poles crashing down along the route; and, particularly in summer, electrical storms put isolated sections of the long circuit temporarily out of commission.
Nor was the Royal Mail any better. Admittedly, there were the two trains each way every week. But the van from the General Post Office at either end did not always manage to connect with them. The mailbags, on those occasions, simply had to be left neatly piled up at the barrier, and chickens, young children, bunches of fruit, hand luggage and other oddments would be placed carelessly on top of them. The bags themselves would be discovered only when the station staff began clearing up the mess long after the mail train had departed.
It was therefore in batches that the letters always arrived; sometimes in threes and fours, sometimes as many as half-a-dozen all in one delivery. The blue envelopes, with Lady Anne’s big, excited handwriting scrawled across them, used to overlap the brass tray on which the boy brought them to him.
The letters told him everything; and nothing. She loved him, she said. It was like being in prison when he wasn’t there. She had re-read all his own letters until she knew them by heart. Why didn’t he write longer ones? She had practically given up drinking: it was only when she hadn’t heard from him that she even thought about it nowadays. When was he coming? Why not next week-end? She had started going to the hairdressers again: some of it had been cut off, but not enough to spoil it for him. He shouldn’t have spent all that money on sending her scent, but it was heavenly and she adored it. She was trying to eat more so that she wouldn’t get too skinny-looking. Did Harold remember that each night, at eleven o’clock exactly, sjie stopped whatever she was doing and just thought about him? She could tell immediately when he had forgotten, because everything seemed to go dead inside her. Could he possibly imagine how much she was missing him? Did a man ever really understand that kind of thing?
And, back in Nucca, Harold’s own letters were arriving just as regularly. The housekeeper herself had to pick them up at the Poste Restante counter. She resented it. As soon as she reached one of the quieter streets on the way back, she would hold them out at arm’s length and spit on them. The telephone rang while Mr. Frith was still at breakfast. It was the Prison Governor. Old Moses had suddenly started giving trouble, he explained: he was demanding to see Mr. Drawbridge. Yes, Mr. Frith had heard him aright: ‘demanding’ was the word Old Moses was using. He wanted him round at the gaol for certain before six p.m. that evening; after that, it would apparently be too late.
While Mr. Frith stood there listening, he watched his coffee getting cold; it was his last cup, and he knew that there would be no more left in the coffee pot. That was why he was so rude to the Prison Governor. He reminded him that Council met at ten, that he didn’t keep a copy of Mr. Drawbridge’s engagement book beside him on the breakfast-table. He still thought that the Prison Governor was making altogether too much of it.
Mr. Drawbridge, on the other hand, was ready to take it quite seriously.
‘Does he, by Jove?’ he said, when Mr. Frith told him.
Mr. Drawbridge very deliberately took his time relighting his pipe.
‘I thought he might,’ he added. ‘Perhaps we ought to get the C.J. to go round and see him.’
‘The C.J., sir?’
‘He may want to make a statement, you know.’
‘It was you he was asking for, sir.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Just said he wanted to see you before six o’clock.’
‘I wonder what’s special about six o’clock.’
‘Nobody seems to know, sir.’
Mr. Drawbridge turned to his A.D.C.
‘Put it in the book, will you,’ he said. ‘I may be a bit late, but that can’t be helped. Say I’ll be round as near six as I can manage.’
When the Chaplain delivered the message, Old Moses was obviously displeased by it. Six o’clock, he kept repeating; six o’clock.
Carrying on a conversation with Old Moses had become difficult. That was because of some ridiculous bones that he kept playing with. Nobody quite knew where they had come from: one of his visitors had given them to him most probably. The little pieces of bone, bleached white by the sun, were now ivory-coloured in places from constant handling. When not in use, they were kept wrapped in an old newspaper in a pouch that Old Moses wore round his middle.
Most of the time, he kept tossing them up in the air, watching carefully how they fell.
The Chaplain asked if he would like to see the Prison Doctor.
There was nothing that any doctor could do for him, Old Moses replied.
Might there be any special food he fancied?
Not any longer: he had given up eating again.
Was there anything else he wanted?
Only Mr. Drawbridge.
Would Old Moses like him to come back later?
No: it was Mr. Drawbridge he was waiting for.
Did he feel like h
aving a passage from the Bible read out to him, or joining the Chaplain in a prayer?
A prayer preferably, he said. But only after he had seen Mr. Drawbridge.
Up went the bones into the air again as he was speaking, and the Chaplain got up to leave him.
When the Chaplin looked back, Old Moses was crouched forward on the floor studying the pattern into which the bones had fallen. It was evidently highly satisfactory, because he was smiling, and rubbing his hands over them.
As six o’clock approached, everyone was becoming a bit edgy. Mr. Drawbridge looked like being late, and the prison doctor and the Chaplain were there in the cell to keep Old Moses company.
He was seated, cross-legged in the centre of the floor, the remains of one of his home-made cigarettes between his lips. His bone toys were spread out on the floor in front of him again. And, as they watched, they saw Old Moses stick out a long spidery thumb, and begin poking at the furthest of the vertebrae. He twisted it round until the base was facing him. Then he sat back and waited.
It may have been a trick of the light, or the effects of a draught from the cell door which the Chaplain had left open, but it appeared that the bone turned itself round again. All by itself, it seemed to give a little wriggle in the dust so that once more it could present the narrow part to him.
Old Moses was obviously delighted. He picked the bones up and cuddled them. Holding his cupped hands up to his mouth, he appeared to be speaking to them. Then he tried again. The bones fell as before. He shifted the end one out of position, and sat back and waited. This time, the Chaplain distinctly saw the movement. The bone gave a jerk, and reversed itself. The Chaplain remained calm: there must be a hair attached to it, or something, he told himself.
The doctor dismissed the idea of a hair, because there wasn’t one: it was all done by static electricity, in his opinion. Rubbing the bones in the hand first was an essential part of it.
When the prison governor joined them, he seemed rather surprised that neither the Chaplain nor the doctor should have recognised what Old Moses was up to. He was laying a curse, he said; and, judging from the time it was taking, it must be a particularly powerful, long-range one. The up-country Mimbo were famous throughout Africa for their spells and magic: he’d known some of the spells cause their victims lasting misery and unhappiness. The bones were probably from the tail of a leopard, he added.
But, apparently, Old Moses had finished. He gathered up the bones and put them back into the pouch. Then he began to hobble over to the bed. He paused between each step like a clockwork toy with the motor beginning to run down; and, when he had crossed the room, he could not raise his leg high enough to clamber up onto the mattress. The Chaplain had to go over to help him.
Not that Old Moses seemed to notice. He had squirmed his way under the strip of prison sheeting, and was now huddled close against the wall. His face was pressed up against it. Outside, the wire of the bell-hammer tautened, and the prison clock struck the first stroke of six.
When the doctor bent over him to see if he was all right, Old Moses had already stopped breathing. Five minutes later, there were no heartbeats either. Unfolding the single blanket that had been hanging on the bedrail, the doctor spread it over him, and covered up his face.
When Mr. Drawbridge arrived, the mortuary bearers had been over. He stood in the doorway, looking at the empty bed.
‘Were you with him all the time?’ he asked.
‘I was,’ the governor told him.
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Not really, sir. It was earlier on he was asking for you.’
‘Do you know what he wanted?’
‘It was a request, sir. He asked me to put it to you. He said he would like to be buried in the Christian cemetery. That’s where his wives are all buried. He wanted to be with them.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘He didn’t expect an immediate answer, sir. Just asked if you’d consider it.’
‘Well, why not?’
The Governor was pulling at the top button of his tunic. It was a nervous habit he had; the button stuck out noticeably further than the others.
‘He was a convicted murderer, sir.’
‘But doesn’t the reprieve make any difference?’
Mr. Drawbridge let go of the button, and started reaching in his pocket for his pipe.
‘What do you say, Chaplain?’ he asked. ‘More your side of the house than mine.’
Chapter 55
‘Darling, it’s marvellous. I adore it. Simply adore it. Really, I do.’
Her voice sounded tiny and far away; and, every time one of the operators pressed his switch down for another caller, fresh bursts of crackling cut across the line. They drowned the words completely.
‘I’m wearing it now. I won’t ever take it off again. I always hated the one Gardie gave me. It’s only that you shouldn’t have…’
Somewhere, at one of the exchanges, another operator had joined in: the crackling noises became louder and more incessant. Even if she were still speaking, Harold could not hear her.
But, at least, the ring had got there; and she was actually wearing it. That was something. She had refused, at first, even to discuss it; wouldn’t put it on her finger even if he sent her one, she said. It was secret, their engagement: surely he saw how important that was, didn’t he? If she went round wearing a new ring, everybody would know about it. They might just as well announce it straightaway; and that’s what they didn’t want.
She had given in at last only because he had been so persistent; and, even then, she had teased him about it. He was behaving like a little boy, she told him: he seemed to think that the marriage wouldn’t be legal or something, if he didn’t buy her an engagement ring first. But it was sweet of him; and, if he really wanted to that much, of course she’d love it more than anything. She wouldn’t take it off for a moment, not even to wash her hands, once she had it.
The crackling began to die down.
‘Darling. Darling. Are you there? I can’t hear you.’ For a moment, at least, the line seemed to be working again. Tm glad it’s come. I want to see you wearing it. But there’s something else …’ he started to say.
‘I still can’t hear you. You’ve got to talk louder.’
‘There’s something else I want to talk about.’
‘That’s better. But you sound frightfully serious.’ She paused. ‘Has… has anything gone wrong?’
‘It’s Old Moses,’ he told her. ‘He died this evening.’
‘Oh.’ There was a pause again. ‘Could he talk?’
‘He could talk all right.’
‘And did he say anything?’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, just about anything.’
‘Not that I know of
‘Who was with him?’
‘Only the prison people.’
‘And he didn’t say anything?’
It was Lady Anne who sounded serious now.
‘He left a message for Mr. Drawbridge, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Why Mr. Drawbridge?’
The line, at least for the time being, was perfect: it might have been a local call that he was making. He could even hear the catch in her voice as she asked the question.
‘Thought he was the only one who could help him, I suppose.’
‘What was the message?’
‘About where he was to be buried.’
‘Was that all?’
‘So far as I know.’
‘Then everything was quite peaceful, was it?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’m glad.’ There was the same catch in her voice as she said it. ‘You don’t know how glad. I’ve been feeling so dreadful about him. Shut up in prison like that.’
The line began to crackle, and they were cut off from each other. When it was cleared, Lady Anne was speaking again.
‘What did he die of?’ she asked.
‘Old age, the doctor said. Just
that.’
‘Poor old thing,’ she said. ‘He must have had a terrible time of it. Ever since the trial, I mean.’
‘You’re very forgiving.’
‘Why not be? It’s all over now, isn’t it?’
Her voice sounded different as she said it.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘It’s nothing,’ she told him. ‘Really it isn’t. I can’t help crying. That’s all it is. It’s just that it’s been a bit too much for me.’
‘It’s what we’ve been waiting for.’
‘I know.’ She paused. ‘And he didn’t say anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Just kept everything to himself, and died.’
She said the words slowly and reflectively.
‘Poor, bewildered old thing,’ she added.
‘Don’t go on thinking about it,’ he told her. ‘Say you love me.’
‘You know I do.’
‘Then when are we going to get married?’
There was no answer. The line was perfectly silent. Harold was afraid that it had gone dead once more.
She was crying: he could hear it.
Then she spoke to him.
‘I don’t know. I can’t tell you. I’m too tired. I can’t think properly.’
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Don’t try to talk: just listen. I’m coming down to you. I’m coming straight away. As soon as I can get there.’
He heard a quick intake of her breath as he said it.
‘D’you mean it? Really mean it? I’d be all right if you were here. It’s only when I’m alone I…’
It had been an unusually long call already; and long calls always excited curiosity. Section by section, everyone of the operators would be listening-in by now.
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Love you, love you, love you.’
Lady Anne’s voice sounded somehow calmer when she answered.
‘Oh, I’m happy,’ she said. ‘I don’t deserve it. I just am.’
He heard her draw in her breath.
‘Will there have to be an inquest?’ she asked. ‘They won’t have to go into it all over again, will they?’
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