by M. M. Kaye
The felucca edged in as close as it dared and dropped a clumsy iron anchor over the side, and the small boat that had been towed behind it was pressed into service to convey the ladies and their picnic baskets ashore. Aunt Abby selected a sheltered spot where the palms laid a carpet of shade on the sand and an outcrop of coral rock screened the party from the men on the felucca, and despite some anxiety on the score of octopuses, sting-rays or jelly-fish, Cressy, Hero, Olivia and Millicent Kealey bathed in one of the deep pools left by the tide.
The afternoon heat had been tempered by the breeze, but it was still too hot to make anyone feel energetic, and luncheon having been eaten a pleasant torpor descended upon the assembled party. Olivia, who dabbled in art, took out her paints, while Cressy retired to a seat on a fallen palm tree with a book and her own troubled thoughts. The four older ladies settled down to a pleasant nap, and Hero, who had made up her mind a full two hours ago as to what she intended to do, went for a short stroll along the shore.
“You won’t go too far, will you honey?” murmured Aunt Abby, already half asleep: “It might not be safe. Are you quite sure you would not like someone to accompany you?”
“Quite sure,” said Hero with sincerity. “I don’t intend to go far, and if I see anything alarming I shall come back at once.”
“That’s right, honey,” approved Aunt Abby drowsily. She shut her eyes, and Hero, retying the wide straw hat firmly over her curls, set off down the beach in the direction of The House of Shade.
It had not taken her long to reach it, for though the felucca had kept on its way for half a mile beyond the bay where the house stood, the boat had landed the picnic party some distance back in order that they might bathe out of sight of the felucca’s crew, and the wind-worn rocks that marked the northern end of the bay were barely a quarter of a mile from the spot that Aunt Abby had finally selected.
Hero rounded them cautiously, and scanning the fortress-like outer wall and the blank, shuttered windows of the house, decided that the whole place was empty. Empty and quiet and deserted. Behind her the soft crash and drag of waves falling on a shelving beach provided a pleasant accompaniment to the whisper and rustle of leaves and palm fronds, but both seemed only to accentuate the warm, sleepy, scented silence of the hot afternoon, and nothing moved on the curve of the bay except the surf and the little white sandcrabs.
She had never intended to do more than take a closer look at the house from the shelter of the coral rocks, and while keeping out of sight herself, examine the approaches to see if there was anything that would lend support to her suspicions. If there were newly landed slaves imprisoned behind that wall there would surely be some sign of them. Voices, muffled cries and wailing; the stench of dirty, terrified, sweating black bodies penned up in some locked cellar. But there was no sign or sound to indicate the presence of any occupants in the silent house: no thread of smoke or smell of cooking. Nor, strangely enough, was there anything sinister in that silence. If there had been. Hero might have behaved very differently; but even the blind, shuttered windows merely gave the house a curious impression of peace. A drowsy, withdrawn look; as though it had retreated behind its trees and its guardian wall and settled down to dream and wait, and listen absently to the voice of the Trade Wind crooning through the quiet rooms and under the empty archways.
Kivulimi…the syllables held a lilting charm that caught Hero’s fancy, and she repeated them under her breath. They had, she thought, something of the same singing quality as the surf and the swaying palm fronds, and she was surprised and a little ashamed of herself for entertaining such an absurdly fanciful idea. Yet there was something about the silent house that was intriguing as its name, and which drew her out of the safe shadow of the rocks and across the open sand, to stand at the foot of a path that led up over the rocks to a small, iron-studded door that was set deep in a recess of the outer wall.
It was the fact that the door stood ajar that decided her. Had it been closed she would probably (though by no means certainly) have turned back. But looking at it she could catch a glimpse of sun-dappled shade and the crimson fire of hibiscus beyond it, and suddenly she was no longer Hero Hollis, but Eve or Pandora or Bluebeard’s wife. She stood quite still for several minutes, not in doubt, but to listen, and hearing no sound but the surf and the sea wind, ran lightly up the steps.
The heat of sun-baked stone burned through the thin soles of her slippers, and as she pushed open the door the iron hinges creaked plaintively in the silence. But though the sound startled her it did not stop her, and she stepped over the threshold out of the glare of the beach and into cool greenness, and found herself standing in a garden full of narrow winding paths, overgrown flowerbeds and innumerable trees.
It seemed she had been right in thinking that the wall that bounded it was part of an old fortress, for she saw now that it was a great deal older than the house, and was, on this side, overhung with flowering creepers and honeycombed with archways and cells that mast once have been guardrooms and granaries and stables for horses. The sight of those dark, stone cells revived all her momentarily forgotten suspicions, and she tiptoed along a path that ran parallel to the wall and peered cautiously into several of them. But it was soon plain that they were unoccupied except for spiders and bats, and that no one could have entered them for some considerable time, for the weeds that grew up to the doorless arches were tall and undisturbed, while the heavy veils of bougainvillæa, jasmine and trumpet-flower that overhung them had not been cut back or broken.
Hero turned away from them, and lured by a gleam of water, followed another path that brought her to the edge of a shallow pool flanked by stone birds and full of fallen petals, where gorgeous scarlet dragon-flies sunned themselves on the lily pads. On the far side of the pool lay a tangled wilderness of flowers: hibiscus, zinnias, roses and coral plant, a blue mist of plumbago and a white fountain of jasmine that filled the shade with heavy sweetness; and glimpsed between tree-trunks and a lace of leaves, a short flight of steps leading up to a long, stone-built terrace that fronted the house.
The wind whispered in the branches of peepul and jacaranda, orange, tamarind and rain tree, but it could not disturb the tranquillity of the warm, flower-filled greenness below, and it seemed to Hero that garden, terrace and house alike might have belonged to that Princess of fairy-tale, Aurora, who pricked her finger on a spindle and fell asleep for a hundred years while the briars grew up about her.
The thought was not a particularly pleasing one, since it recalled the fact that her ebullient cousin, Hartley Crayne, had nicknamed her “The Sleeping Beauty’: kindly explaining that he “reckoned she was sound asleep behind her hedge of prickles, and that any Prince who had the idea of waking her up was going to have to take a goddamned hatchet to hack his way through ‘em!”
“Might even try it myself, “Hartley had added, “if I weren’t so doggone idle. I’m all for the waking up with a kiss, but chopping down thorn trees ain’t in my line.”
Hero had not considered it in the least amusing, and she grimaced at the recollection; and then smiled, thinking how absurd it was to be brooding on Hartley’s impertinences in a garden in Zanzibar! It must be all these roses…
A spray of them, yellow and sweet-smelling, caught at her skirts as she turned from the pool, and she bent to disentangle them And was suddenly still; her hand rigid on the hem of her black poplin dress and the smile frozen on her face: staring incredulously at a pair of booted feet whose owner stood motionless among the tree shadows on the far side of the rose bush.
For a dreadful, dragging moment it seemed as though the sight had deprived her of all power of thought or movement, and she could only crouch there, staring, while her heart raced and her breath caught in her throat. Then she straightened up swiftly, hearing the lace of her petticoat rip, and met the level gaze of a pair of pale and disconcertingly cold eyes.
22
“Good afternoon, Miss Hollis,” said Rory Frost politely. “This is an unexpect
ed pleasure.”
“So I was right!” Hero’s voice was barely more than a gasp and these were not the words she had meant to say: “This is the house—I knew it must be!”
The incoherent sentence appeared to be perfectly clear to Captain Frost, for he said without surprise:
“I imagined you would recognize it if ever you saw it again. It was a clear night. How did you get here?”
“We were picnicking. We came by boat and I saw it as we passed.”
“And dropped in to call? How very friendly of you,” said Captain Frost urbanely.
Hero flushed and realized that once again, and instantly, this obnoxious man had made her lose her temper. Well, this time she would not show it Outwardly at least she would remain perfectly calm, and in full control of herself and the situation. She saw a corner of Rory’s mouth twitch and received a swift and disconcerting impression that he had read her thought unerringly and was amused by it. But putting the suspicion firmly aside she said in an admirably composed voice: “Nothing of the kind. I was merely interested to know who it belonged to; and as no one seemed to know, I walked along the beach to see if there was anyone here.”
“And walked in when you decided there was not. Don’t you think that was a little foolhardy of you, Miss Hollis? It might so easily have been misunderstood.”
“I didn’t mean to. But the door was open and—” Hero checked, annoyed to find herself on the defensive.
“And you couldn’t resist it. I quite understand. But if you make a habit of walking into any house whose owner is careless enough to leave the door ajar, you could find yourself in a deal of trouble in this part of the world. You might, for instance, find yourself being added to some impressionable gentleman’s harem. Or even kidnapped and held for ransom!”
Hero did not miss the gibe implicit in that last remark, but she held to her resolution, and refusing the bait said with unimpaired calm: “Do you think so? I am disappointed, for I had always heard that Arabs had charming manners.”
“So they have, as a general rule. But they also have strong appetites and hot tempers, and are inclined to resent the presence of anyone whom they might suspect of spying.”
“I was not ‘spying’!” flared Hero indignantly.
“No? You must forgive me. It was probably the extreme caution with which you peered into those old guardrooms under the wall that gave me the idea. What did you expect to find in them, by the way?”
“Nothing,” said Hero, considerably put out “I mean, I was merely interested. The place looked so—so old.”
“It is old. If you mean the outer wall. I believe it was once a fort in the days when Portugal was a great colonial power. But the house itself was only built about twenty or thirty years ago; and by an Arab whose manners were anything but charming.”
“Oh? Who was that?” enquired Hero with deceptive carelessness.
“A gentleman called Ali-bin-Hamed; if it is of any interest to you.”
It was of considerable interest to Hero, but she did not say so. She carefully committed the name to memory and reflected with some satisfaction that she had not only got what she had come for, but received, by inference, additional proof that Captain Frost was on excellent terms with the owner of the house. If Lieutenant Larrimore and Colonel Edwards could not put two and two together when they heard of this, she would be very much surprised. And so, she hoped, would Emory Frost, who obviously knew a great deal about the house and had rashly admitted as much.
She discovered that he was observing her with a speculative look on his narrow, sunburned face, and he said pensively: “I wonder what you are thinking of now? ‘Nothing’ again, I suppose?”
“Not at all. I was merely wondering what you were doing here.”
“Did you think I was landing some questionable cargo in broad daylight? Surely you know me better than that!”
“I do indeed,” agreed Hero cordially.
Captain Frost laughed.
“That’s one thing I like about you. Miss Hollis. You have no ladylike qualms about hitting from the shoulder. Or, for that matter, below the belt. If you must know, I was engaged in nothing more sinister than enjoying a quiet siesta in a spot that I have always found to be pleasantly peaceful and, until this afternoon, private.”
Hero ignored the insulting implication of the last word, and enquired coolly if he made a habit of coming here even when the house was obviously empty and his Arab friend not in residence.
“What Arab friend?”
“Ali-bin-Hamed.”
“You mean the late unlamented Ali-bin-Hamed. I am afraid he went to his reward a good fifteen years ago, as the result of setting a booby-trap for an unsuspecting guest and carelessly walking into it himself. And I imagine his reward is keeping him uncomfortably warm.”
Hero frowned and said impatiently: “His son then. Or whoever owns this house now.”
“I do,” said Rory Frost.
“You?”
“Do you really mean to say you didn’t know?” Rory’s eyes were amused. “No, I can see you didn’t. And I should be interested to know why the information is such a disappointment to you. It is, isn’t it?”
“No. Yes! I mean…When did you?” she stopped again and bit her lip.
“When did I acquire? Oh, about five or six years ago.”
Five or six years ago! Then there could be no secret about it and people like Colonel Edwards and Dan Larrimore must not only know of it, but given the slightest excuse, would undoubtedly have had the house searched from top to bottom: which meant that this could not be where he hid the slaves. And yet he had landed muskets here, and by night—she had seen that herself. She had only to tell…But that was no good either, for there was no law against it, and this was his own house and his own beach.
It was an effort to conceal her discomfiture, but she did so and said stiffly that it seemed to be a charming property and she was sure he must find its position most useful to him. She was sorry to have disturbed his siesta and would certainly not have trespassed had she known that she would find him here.
“I am well aware of that,” said Captain Frost grimly. “And I won’t ask you what you were doing here, because I think I can make a fairly accurate guess. I imagine you came here to find out who this place belonged to, because you once saw a certain cargo being landed here by night and suspected that other cargoes might be concealed here. That it might, in fact, be a barracoon, and you strongly disapprove of slave traders. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“I seem to remember you asking me that question before,” said Hero, choosing to misunderstand him. “And I also remember telling you that I do not ‘disapprove.’ I abominate slave trading—and all who engage in it—”
“So you gave me to understand. Why?”
“Why? You surely cannot mean that! The reason must be obvious to any thinking person, and how you can ask such a pointless and—and abysmally stupid question I cannot conceive. Good day, sir.”
She gave him a curt nod and would have turned and left him, but she had forgotten the spray of briar that was still entangled in the lace of her petticoat. And as she paused to free herself, Captain Frost stepped lightly over the intervening roses, and catching her wrist in a grip that felt as unyielding as a steel trap, said equably and in a voice that was strangely at variance with that inflexible grasp: “If you knew me better you would realize that I never ask pointless questions. I happen to have a particular reason for being interested in your views.”
Hero looked from his hard fingers to his equally hard face, and managed with considerable difficulty to control a terrified impulse to scratch and kick. But since it was obvious that any such action would only end in humiliating defeat, she forced herself to stand still and say calmly: “You are hurting my wrist.”
A flicker of something very like admiration showed briefly in Captain Frost’s face, and he smiled faintly and released her. Hero snatched her hand away and rubbed the angry marks his fingers had made, bu
t she did not again make the mistake of attempting to leave, and Rory looked at her reflectively for a moment or two; thinking illogically and with a curious sense of surprise that he had not remembered that her eyes were grey or that they had small green flecks in them, and that he would not forget it again.
He said meditatively: “Leaving aside the larger issues, why, specifically, do you abominate slave traders? Because they make money out of it?”
“No.’ Hero’s voice was ice. “I told you once before and I am quite certain that you have not forgotten it But if you really wish to hear me repeat it I shall be happy to oblige you. I abominate them because they are personally responsible for the death and agony and degradation of thousands of people. Of innocent human beings who have done them no harm and with whom they have no quarrel. Because they callously condemn to appalling suffering and misery—”
“Yes, that’s what I thought. I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t got it wrong. Then perhaps. Miss Hollis, you can tell me how it is that, while holding such views, you have recently been doing your damnedest to make yourself personally responsible for the death or mutilation of several hundred human beings who cannot have done you any harm, and with whom—as far as I know—you can hardly have quarrelled? And furthermore, why you should have thought fit to assist in the extension of a trade you profess to abhor? I will absolve you from the charge of doing either of these things for the sake of personal profit; though that at least would have been a more understandable motive than a mere love of meddling. But I confess I find it interesting.”
Hero said blankly:‘I think you must be mad! I have not the least idea what you are talking about, and I cannot believe that you have either. May I go now? It is getting late.”
Captain Frost ignored the request and said unpleasantly: “I advised you once before against meddling in matters that you do not understand, but it seems that you are a young woman who will not take advice. So you can oblige me now by explaining how this tender conscience of yours permits you to assist in smuggling a considerable quantity of arms into the hands of an irresponsible mob of conspirators, while at the same time absolving you from any feeling of responsibility for the deaths that were a direct result of that action?”