Green City in the Sun

by Wood, Barbara

  "Is it possible," James said, "that she did it?"

  Grace shook her head. "I don't think Rose is capable of murder. Especially in that way—a knife so expertly used."

  "There was a time when we wouldn't have thought my mother capable of harboring an escaped prisoner of war and having a secret love affair with him!"

  Grace looked at her niece. "Don't be so hard on your mother, Mona. Think how she must be suffering."

  "She certainly didn't think how we might suffer because of her selfishness! All those horrid people in the courtroom, their ears wagging as that wretched prosecutor parades our family business in public! And you!" She turned to Barrows, her mother's lawyer. "Why did you bring up that awful Miranda West business?"

  "I had to, Miss Treverton," he said quietly in his South African drawl. "The Crown is trying to build its case on your mother's moral turpitude. He's convincing the jury that your father was a saint, that he had practically done the world a favor by killing the Italian, and that his own death was the greatest loss Kenya has ever known. By bringing up his affair with Mrs. West, I reminded the jury that Valentine Treverton was a man with weaknesses and flaws and pointed out that long before your mother embarked upon her one adulterous affair, your father had already engaged in several."

  Tears rose in Mona's eyes. She wished with all her heart that Geoffrey were home. He was due to arrive any day.

  "What do you suppose they're building in the glade?" Tim Hopkins asked, to change the subject and ease the tension around the table. "It looks like some sort of pagan temple."

  Because she could not be away from her mission for long, Grace made frequent trips back up north and, while there, checked on the progress of the mysterious concrete structure Rose had commissioned to be built among her eucalyptus trees. It was quite large—a good deal of the forest had had to be cleared for it—and decidedly churchlike. The teams worked night and day, as if racing against time. Grace had ventured a look inside and had found it curiously empty. Marble columns supported a vaulted ceiling; the walls and floor were bare. But last week something had been installed inside, and the building was no longer a mystery.

  The workers had placed an alabaster sarcophagus in it.

  And now stonecutters were etching words into the lintel over the doorway: SACRARIO DE DUCA D'ALESSANDRO.

  "It is Carlo Nobili's final resting place," she said quietly.

  "A crypt?" said Mona. "She's burying him in her glade behind my house? That's monstrous!"

  "Mona—"

  "I'm going out for some air, Aunt Grace. And then I think I'll have supper alone in my room."

  Grace tried to stop her, but Mona was already crossing the spacious lobby of the club, causing heads to turn and whispers to follow her.

  Out on the street in front of the club Mona stopped and leaned against a sycamore tree, her hands in the pockets of her slacks. People in passing cars stared at her; a group of women on the veranda murmured while casting glances her way. An old newspaper fluttered in the street. It was not a Kenya paper but a piece of the New York Times, with its front-page story of the continuing trial of the scandalous Treverton murder. Mona fought back her tears and anger, her feeling of humiliation and of having been betrayed.

  Across the street, gathered in the brief, smoky twilight, a group of Africans in military uniforms talked quietly while passing around a single cigarette. When a white couple came along, the soldiers stepped off the sidewalk and tipped their hats as required, and Mona realized that one of them was David Mathenge.

  He had sat in the gallery every single day since the beginning of the trial. He and his mother watched the proceedings like vultures, Mona thought, like two big blackbirds waiting for their prey to breathe its last. She hated them, just as she hated the white people who came to listen and to gloat and to watch the ignoble downfall of the family they had once worshiped.

  David happened to look her way. Their eyes met.

  "Mona!" called a voice from behind.

  She turned. Grace was at the entrance of the club, waving to her niece to come inside.

  "What is it?" Mona said as she came up the steps.

  "I've a surprise for you! Come along!"

  Puzzled, Mona followed her aunt into the lobby and found a knot of people standing beside the enormous flagstone fireplace. When she saw who was at the center of the group, Mona cried, "Geoffrey!" and ran to him.

  He caught her in his arms and hugged the breath out of her. "Geoffrey!" she cried again. "How wonderful to see you!"

  "Mona, you're as beautiful as ever. I had hoped to get home sooner, but you know military red tape!" He drew back and gazed solemnly at her. "I'm so sorry about Uncle Val and Aunt Rose."

  She looked up at Geoffrey and thought he had gotten taller and more handsome in his five years in Palestine. He looked so much older, too, as though the hot wind and sands of the Middle East had weathered him. Although only thirty-three, Geoffrey Donald was graying at the temples; his mustache, too, was silvering. Mona saw the lines of war and hardship etched around his eyes and recalled how close he had come, on more than one occasion, to being killed by a terrorist bomb.

  They hadn't spoken of marriage since just before the war, when she told him she needed time. He hadn't brought it up in his letters, no doubt waiting for her to make the next move, as she definitely was going to do, now that he was home. I shall be able to see my way through this nightmare, she thought, now that you're here....

  "And this is Ilse," he said, stepping aside and holding his hand out to a young blond woman.

  "Ilse?" said Mona.

  "My wife. Ilse, this is Mona, the dear old friend I've told you so much about."

  Mrs. Donald extended her hand, but Mona could only stare at the blond hair, the blue eyes, and shy smile.

  "I'm afraid Ilse doesn't speak much English."

  Mona looked at Geoffrey. "Your wife? I didn't know you had gotten married."

  "None of us did," said James, resting a hand on his son's shoulder. "Apparently Geoff has arrived before his letters!"

  "I'm so happy for you," Grace said. "And welcome to Kenya, Ilse."

  "Thank you," the bride said in a soft voice.

  "Ilse's a German refugee," Geoffrey explained, unaware of the profound effect his news was having upon Mona. She had to back away, had to lean against the sofa for support. "Her family were all taken to Hitler's camps," Geoffrey went on. "She was gotten out by sympathizers and smuggled into Palestine. We had the devil of a time getting papers for her. And they damn near wouldn't let us marry."

  "How dreadful," murmured Grace. The one Nairobi movie house was showing the news films that were now arriving in Kenya—American films of places called Dachau, Auschwitz. . . . "We shall certainly do our best to make Ilse welcome here, Geoffrey. How unfortunate that you should come home to this terrible trial."

  "It's been written up in the Jerusalem papers for months. I couldn't believe it! I shall go and visit Aunt Rose if I may. And if there's anything I can do to help—"

  "Mr. Barrows is an excellent attorney."

  "I've heard of him."

  "You'll meet him at supper."

  "I should think," James said, "considering Geoff's return and the new bride, that champagne isn't out of place. I'll reserve the table nearest the aviary; the service is always best there."

  "Pardon me," said a discreet voice. "Might I have a word with you for a moment, Captain Donald?"

  Everyone turned to see Angus McCloud, one of the club's officers, standing a few feet away.

  "Yes?" said Geoffrey. "What is it?"

  The man looked nervous. "Could we, ah, speak in private, Captain?" Geoffrey bristled, as though he already knew what McCloud wanted to discuss.

  "What's the problem?" said James. "There is a table available for dinner, isn't there?"

  The Scot reddened. "If we could just step over here—"

  "Say it right here, Mr. McCloud," Geoffrey said, "in front of my wife and friends."

&nb
sp; Grace turned a puzzled look to James. "What is going on?"

  "I'm afraid it's club policy, Captain Donald," Angus McCloud said. "I didn't make up the rules; I am simply enforcing them. If it were up to me, you understand . . ." He spread out his hands. "But there's the matter of all the other members."

  "Good God," said James suddenly, "you're not saying what I think you're saying!"

  McCloud's embarrassment deepened.

  "Geoffrey," said Grace, "tell me what this is about."

  His jaw was tight as he said, "It's about use. She's a Jew."

  "And?"

  "And there's a club rule barring Jews from the dining room."

  Grace looked at Angus. He avoided her eyes.

  James said, "To the devil with the rules. We shall be dining here tonight and at the aviary table."

  "I'm afraid I cannot permit it, Sir James, if Mrs. Donald is among you.

  "You can't possibly mean that you would—"

  "Never mind, Father," Geoffrey said as he reached for Ilse, who looked at him questioningly. "I don't care to eat in this bloody club. I don't care to be a member, thank you. My wife and I will go where we are welcome. And if we are welcome nowhere in Kenya, then we shall go somewhere in the world where we are!"

  "Geoffrey!" James called after him as he strode out.

  Mona, shaken and still sitting on the back of the sofa, stared after the couple, at the dashing figure in uniform and the pretty woman with him. Then she turned abruptly and ran from the lobby, down the garden path to her bungalow, where she locked the door behind her.

  ROSE WAS QUIETLY stitching when Grace came in. Outside a smoky night stretched from the barred window out to a horizon that met crystalline stars.

  Grace paused to look around the humble cell that had become Rose's home. Then she sat and said, "Rose, will you talk to me tonight?"

  "Is Carlo's resting place nearly finished?"

  "Yes, it is, Rose."

  Sighing, she anchored her needle, pushed the tapestry away from her, and, for the first time in months, looked her sister-in-law straight in the eye. "When it is complete, please give the mortician instructions to place Carlo there. And then ask Father Vittorio to say a mass for him."

  "I will."

  "You know, Grace," Rose said quietly, "Valentine was not an evil man. He was simply incapable of love. Carlo was a sweet and gentle man who wished no one harm. He had been tortured in the prison camp. I saw the scars on his poor body. Valentine had no right to kill him the way he did, like an animal, tied up and helpless. I hope Valentine burns in hell forever."

  41

  T

  HE TRIAL WENT STEADILY FROM BAD TO WORSE FOR ROSE, until even Barrows was starting to give up hope. All testimony, it seemed, pointed accusingly right at the countess.

  Superintendent Lewis, of the Criminal Investigations Division, was put on the stand. "Superintendent," said the counsel for the Crown, a rotund man who filled out his black robe and whose white wig sat atop a bald head, "did you ask Lady Rose how she came by the bruise on her face?"

  "I did."

  "And what was her reply?"

  "She said she fell and hit the edge of the dresser."

  "And yet she told her family that her husband had struck her! In other words, Lady Rose told two different stories, one of which is therefore a lie. Or maybe even both are lies. Would you agree, Superintendent, that it is possible Lady Rose could have sustained that bruise while riding a bicycle, the tire of which blew, sending her down to the ground?"

  Inspector Mitchell, of the Nyeri police, was put on the stand several times.

  "You said, Inspector, that Dr. Treverton had been under the impression that Lady Rose had left for a trip that morning?"

  "Yes. But there was Her Ladyship in a dressing gown. It hardly looked to me like she was planning on going anywhere."

  "What was Dr. Treverton's and Sir James's reaction when they saw Lady Rose in the doorway?"

  "They were quite surprised. They were under the impression she'd already left."

  "Left for where?"

  "Well, she had planned to run off her with Italian boyfriend."

  And later: "Inspector Mitchell, will you tell us please what Lady Rose's reaction was to the news of her husband's death?"

  "She said, 'I hadn't meant for that to happen.' "

  "And what did she mean by 'that'?"

  Counsel for the defense rose to his feet. "My Lord, this is an improper question."

  "Yes, Mr. Barrows."

  "Did Lady Rose say anything else?"

  "Yes, she said one word."

  "What was that word?"

  "Well, it was a name actually. She said, 'Carlo.' "

  Grace watched her sister-in-law throughout the proceedings, studied the masked expression, the face that seemed to be growing paler and thinner. What on earth, Grace wondered, was going on behind those staring blue eyes?

  Finally the counsel for the crown called Dr. Treverton to the stand. She looked out over the ogling white faces, the packed courtroom, the greedy eyes up in the galleries.

  "Dr. Treverton, did you examine the bruise on Lady Rose's face?"

  "I did."

  "And in your professional opinion, would such a blow have rendered her incapable of riding a bicycle on the night of April the fifteenth?" "She told me she was knocked unconscious."

  "Please answer the question, Doctor. Does such a blow to the face always render a person unconscious?"

  "Not always, but—"

  "Have you any medical way of proving whether or not Lady Rose was, in fact, knocked unconscious?"

  "No."

  "Dr. Treverton, please tell us what your sister-in-law said to you after Inspector Mitchell had delivered the news of His Lordship's death." "Rose said that she hadn't meant for him to die."

  An easel with a floor plan of Bellatu pinned to it was brought out. "Dr. Treverton, is this a plan of the upper story of Bellatu?"

  "Yes."

  "Please point out the room where you were sleeping. The one marked with the red X? Thank you, Doctor. Now then, we can see by this floor plan that your room was second to the last in that wing. Can you tell us, please, whose bedroom that last one was?"

  "Lady Rose's."

  "You mean Lady Rose and Lord Valentine's."

  "No. My brother's bedroom was across from mine."

  "I take it, then, that the earl and the countess did not sleep together?"

  Grace glared at the pompous barrister. "They had separate bedrooms. I don't know whether or not they slept together."

  "Very well then. The last bedroom belonged to Lady Rose. And she shared it with no one else?"

  "That's correct."

  "Therefore, when you heard footsteps going past your door in the middle of the night, they can have come only from Lady Rose's bedroom?"

  "Or going to it—"

  "Now then, Doctor, you've told us that you looked at your clock. What time did you hear the car motor?"

  "As I told the police, it was either five past four or one-twenty. I didn't have my glasses on."

  "Since the time of the earl's death has been established as being approximately three in the morning, then we must assume you heard the car motor at one-twenty and that the footsteps you heard were coming from Lady Rose's room and going out of the house."

  "It could have been anyone out there in the hall! There is a bathroom—"

  "Dr. Treverton, were you alone in your bedroom that night?"

  She stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Where you alone in your bedroom that night, Doctor?"

  "I don't see that that has any bearing on this case."

  "But it does. We are endeavoring to establish the whereabouts of everyone on the night of the earl's murder. Please answer the question. Were you alone?"

  Grace looked over to where James was sitting with Geoffrey and Mona. He smiled.

  "No, I was not alone."

  "Who else was there with you?"

  "Sir J
ames was with me."

  "I see. And was he sleeping on the floor or perhaps on a chaise?" "No."

  "Then tell us, please, where Sir James was."

  "He was in bed, with me."

  A rumble went through the crowd, and Sir Hugh had to call the court to order.

  Barrows's assistant scribbled a note on a pad and slid it along the table. It read, "They're out to hang the whole bloody family."

  Finally the counsel for the Crown began his closing remarks. "Gentlemen of the jury." His voice boomed over the congested courtroom. "We have shown you what happened on the morning of April sixteenth of this year, on the Kiganjo Road, a mile beyond the Nyeri turnoff. You have heard expert testimony proving beyond a doubt that the weapon found in Lady Rose's handkerchief and burning in her rubbish pit was the one that killed the earl of Treverton and that the knife belonged to Lady Rose. You have seen the results of laboratory analysis that has linked conclusively the mud on the passenger seat and on the running board of the earl's car to that of the mud found along that particular stretch of the Kiganjo Road. You have heard witnesses testify to a car leaving Bellatu in the middle of the night and footsteps coming down the hall from the direction of Lady Rose's bedroom soon after. And we have found the bicycle that was abandoned in flight, a bicycle traced to the Treverton Estate.

  "Now then, gentlemen of the jury," the barrister said, "taking all of this and adding to it the motives which compelled Lady Rose to commit the act, we can reconstruct what happened that night."

  He described it all for them again, in such vivid prose and compelling oratory that not a single person in the courtroom did not see the lonely road, the earl pulling over, the bicycle rider getting in, the knife plunging, the gunshot to the head, and the panicked flight of the murderer.

  "It is inconceivable," the counselor went on, "that carrying a body in the trunk of his car, Lord Treverton would stop on a dark and deserted road for a stranger. Therefore, we can conclude that the person who followed him on the bicycle was well known to the earl and that he admitted that person freely into his car!

  "I put it to you, gentlemen, that that person was Lady Rose, the earl's adulterous wife, who, fearing for her lover's life and having been struck across the face by a deservedly angry husband, followed him out of fear and revenge in the hope of stopping him from bringing harm to Carlo Nobili, an enemy of the Crown!