by Wilbur Smith
She didn’t notice the black saloon that pulled out into the road, about fifty yards behind her and followed her all the way to the club.
When she got back to Lusima the following day, Saffron asked her father for the name of the Government House official he had met at the Wanjohi Country Club cricket match.
‘Stannard,’ Leon replied. ‘Ronald Stannard . . . He was an interesting young man. Looks like a total wet blanket, and he let himself down badly in the eyes of the Wanjo mob by being filthy sick at the sight of a club servant getting whipped for stealing.’
‘I don’t blame him. It’s a hateful punishment.’
‘Then you two will get on splendidly. There’s more to young Stannard than meets the eye. He’s a damn fine cricketer, and a brave one, too. It takes real guts to hold one’s nerve when a fast bowler’s chucking it down, but Stannard stood his ground then and he did it again when we talked about the political situation. He’s got a sight more sense than some of his masters at Government House.’
‘In that case I shall write to him at once.’
Gerhard had left for Germany on business, tying up the sales of the Meerbach family’s various assets, so Saffron was staying at Lusima for a week or so. Leon and Harriet loved having the grandchildren to stay, and it was more sociable for Saffron than rattling around her own house without anyone to talk to.
She wrote her letter to Stannard and drove into Nakuru, the nearest town of any size, to be sure of getting it in the afternoon mail to Nairobi. Two days later, she was in her father’s study, talking over the latest accounts for Courtney Trading, the Cairo-based company founded by her grandfather Ryder Courtney, when two visitors arrived at the house.
The first was a middle-aged man in a stone-coloured suit, with a crisp white shirt, a regimental tie and a steel-grey moustache to match his short, neat hair. He carried a black leather briefcase with the royal crest stamped in gold below the handle. Beside him stood an unprepossessing young man, with prematurely thinning hair and the kind of milky white skin that burns at the first glimpse of the sun.
‘Hello, Henderson,’ Leon said, shaking the older man’s hand. He turned to address Saffron. ‘Mr Henderson and I met at the very cricket match where Stannard here distinguished himself, my dear.’
‘I was Stannard’s captain,’ Henderson explained, while his companion gave an embarrassed nod of greeting.
‘I must say, I hadn’t expected to see you so soon, Mr Stannard,’ Saffron said, shaking his hand. ‘I only posted the letter the other day.’
‘What letter’s that?’ Henderson asked.
‘I wrote to Mr Stannard on the subject of the treatment of Kikuyu men and women at the screening centres.’
‘I, ah . . . Well, I don’t think . . . No, I’m certain I haven’t received that letter,’ Stannard said.
‘So why are you here?’
Henderson ignored Saffron. He addressed Leon.
‘I’m sorry to say that we are here to speak to your daughter, Mrs Courtney Meerbach. It’s an extremely serious matter that might have grave consequences for her.’
‘In that case, Henderson, why don’t you address your remarks to her. My daughter is a grown woman. She’s perfectly capable of looking after herself.’
‘This is your house, Courtney,’ Henderson said. ‘You have a right to know why we’re here. Now I must ask you, is there anywhere that Stannard and I can interview Mrs Courtney Meerbach in peace?’
‘My study will do.’ Leon looked at Saffron and quietly added, ‘I suggest you sit behind the desk. Remind them who’s boss, eh?’
‘Follow me,’ Saffron said.
It was clear to her that, the Kenyan situation being what it was, the words ‘extremely serious matter’ were bound to have something to do with the Mau Mau. But what had she done that could have grave consequences?
Saffron had no intention of waiting for them to get to the point. She wanted to take back the initiative.
‘Tell me exactly what this is all about,’ she said, as soon as Henderson and Stannard had taken their places opposite the desk. Stannard had produced a notebook and pen, ready to make a record of the conversation.
‘It’s about your association with Jomo Kenyatta, the leader of the Mau Mau movement. Specifically we are investigating your meeting with him at the home of two known terrorist sympathisers, the Reverend Jasper Plaister and his wife, Mrs Agatha Plaister, at their property, Morningside, last Wednesday night. Do you deny that you attended that meeting?’
Saffron saw Stannard tense slightly in his seat, suddenly sharp-eyed and alert, giving a glimpse of his sporting self as he waited to discover how she would respond.
‘I do not deny that I was at a meeting with Mr Kenyatta at the Plaisters’ home,’ she said. ‘But I certainly don’t believe that Mr Kenyatta is a leader of the Mau Mau, or that the Plaisters have any sympathy for terrorists.’
Stannard gave a barely perceptible nod. Saffron spotted it, but Henderson was too busy forcing home his attack to notice.
‘With the greatest respects, Mrs Courtney Meerbach, a wealthy housewife, not even one with your reputation for gallantry, cannot possibly be in possession of the kind of intelligence available to Government House, nor possess the specialist knowledge required to make that kind of assessment.’
Saffron burst out laughing. Stannard looked up from his notebook in surprise. Henderson was furious.
‘I’m sorry, but I do not see anything remotely amusing about any of this. You are in very serious trouble, ma’am, and—’
‘No, Mr Henderson, you are the one in trouble,’ Saffron interrupted as Stannard scribbled down his verbatim notes. ‘You’re slandering me and making an enormous fool of yourself. You must know that I have considerable experience in intelligence work, and I can assure you that I am very well equipped to spot a terrorist.’
‘I was referring to specialist knowledge of the situation in Kenya.’
‘Were you born here, Mr Henderson?’
‘No, but I don’t see what—’
‘Do you speak Swahili or Kikuyu?’
‘A fair amount of Swahili, but none of the tribal dialects.’
‘Have you ever met Jomo Kenyatta?’
‘Good Lord, no, why would I want to sit down with a terrorist?’
‘Well, I was born here. I speak fluent Swahili and a smattering of Kikuyu.’ She shrugged. ‘Maasai is more my language. But in any event, I have met Jomo Kenyatta. And I can tell you categorically that he is not a terrorist and wants nothing to do with the Mau Mau.’
Ronald Stannard looked like he wanted to jump up off his chair and applaud, but he clearly recognised the gravity of the situation.
‘Then why did two known Mau Mau operatives also attend that meeting?’ Henderson asked.
Saffron looked at him coldly. ‘So Morningside was being watched, that night?’
Henderson said nothing. Saffron went back over the evening in her head. She took herself through the sequence of events: arriving, the meeting, the intrusion of the Mau Mau, the five of them standing out on the lawn, driving away . . .
Damn! she cursed herself. How could I have missed it? The headlights in my rear-view mirror, on the drive to the Muthaiga Club. They must have followed me from the house.
‘Right,’ Saffron said. ‘I’m going to assume you are aware of what went on. A group of people meet at a house owned by known liberals. They are joined by two terrorists. Therefore they and the terrorists are on the same side. You put two and two together and think you’ve got four. But you haven’t.’
‘Why should we doubt our evidence?’
‘Because you’ve failed to analyse it correctly. They key question is – why did the Plaisters leave their own home, in the middle of the meeting, along with three other people, of whom I was one?’
‘But that’s obvious,’ Henderson said. ‘In order to allow Kenyatta and his men to hatch their plans in secret.’
‘It’s obvious if you’ve alread
y decided that Kenyatta is a terrorist. In actual fact, the two men arrived uninvited. They verbally insulted Kenyatta, precisely because he opposes their violent methods. They threatened the rest of us with death if we did not leave the house. And I imagine they used their time alone with Mr Kenyatta to put the fear of God into him too, though he did not strike me as a man who scares easily. Tell me, where did the other two men go after they left Morningside?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ Henderson replied.
‘We don’t know,’ Stannard added, getting a furious glare from his boss.
‘You lost them. Well, I’m not surprised. The men you are looking for, whom I will happily describe, if you like, struck me as knowing their business. I assumed they were army veterans. Is that right?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Well, I am at liberty, so I will say this. If you persist in treating Kenyatta as the Mau Mau leader, you will be making an enormous, amateurish mistake. The wrong man will be arrested, the right man will go scot-free. If you take any action against me, or the Plaisters, or Benjamin and Wangari Ndiri, you will be fighting a lost cause. And you’ll be doubting not only my word but those of a qualified doctor and the holder of a master’s degree in law, who are both the children of tribal chieftains. It won’t go down well.’
‘Mrs Ndiri is known to be estranged from her father. Her actions are clearly intended to repudiate and shock him.’
‘She had a row with him because she married a Maasai boy. Her actions are that she and her husband run a charitable centre – funded by my family, I might add – that provides medical care and legal advice to the poor. Who on earth would find that shocking?’
‘It would be shocking in the extreme if that centre was a front for terrorist activities.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be ridiculous. They are kind, decent, highly intelligent young people who want to help those less fortunate than themselves – as the eminent London barrister whom I will personally hire, should any accusations be made against them, will certainly observe.’
‘There’s no need to make threats, Mrs Courtney Meerbach.’
‘Then why did you come here with the express intention of threatening me? But if it’s threats you want, I’ll make a proper one. I have heard the first-hand testimony of a woman who was brutally maltreated by her interrogators at one of your screening centres. It would be very easy to gather further evidence of a kind so shocking that it would, if published in the global press, make the British government’s conduct in Kenya a topic of worldwide condemnation.’
‘How dare you drag our nation’s reputation through the dirt!’
‘How dare I what?’ Saffron fixed Henderson with a stare that Brigadier Gubbins himself would have envied. ‘Did you fight in the war?’
‘I served my country in an official capacity.’
She gave a snort of amusement. ‘Behind a desk, in other words. Well, as you may have heard, I risked my neck for my country and I did it gladly, because I believed in our cause. We were fighting against dictatorship, and that’s why it breaks my bloody heart to see us behaving in such a shamefully dictatorial way now. The only reason I have not already made my views public is that, contrary to your accusations, I do not want to help the Mau Mau in any way, but . . .’
Saffron left the word hanging before she added, ‘If you should even think of pressing trumped-up charges against me, or my friends, or my hosts at Morningside, I will make sure that the world hears the truth about Britain’s campaign against the Kikuyu people of Kenya. And before you suggest that I’m being a traitor, look in the mirror and ask yourself who’s really betraying their nation. I love Britain and the values for which we stand, and I cannot bear to see those values trampled in the dirt by grubby, time-serving, paper-chasing little bureaucrats like you.’
Stannard was gazing at Saffron with something that seemed like worship, but Henderson had adopted a mask of glacial indifference to her insults.
‘I notice you left Mr Kenyatta off your list of the people you were planning to defend.’
‘I would not presume to protect him,’ Saffron said. ‘He can look after himself.’
‘Well, he’ll need to. He was arrested this morning and will be kept in custody somewhere even you can’t reach him, until his trial. He will then be charged with masterminding the Mau Mau, which is a proscribed, illegal group. And he will, I assure you, be found guilty.’
‘So was Gandhi,’ Saffron replied. ‘Repeatedly. And look what happened to him. Now, shall I see you out?’
When she returned to the office, she saw that Stannard had left his notebook and pen on the chair. Clever boy, she thought.
Sure enough, he appeared a few seconds later.
‘I think you’re looking for these,’ Saffron said, handing them to him.
‘I just wanted to say, Mrs Courtney Meerbach, I agreed with every word you said. What we’re doing is a disgrace, and the way we’re going after Kenyatta is completely wrong and stupid. It will all blow up in our faces, I’m sure of it.’
‘Me too,’ Saffron agreed. ‘Look, could I ask you a favour?’
‘Anything.’
‘I have the name of the man who tortured the woman I mentioned at the screening centre. I’m pretty sure he may have killed her husband too, though I can’t prove it.’
‘What’s he called?’ Stannard asked, opening up his notebook.
‘Quentin De Lancey.’
Stannard grimaced. ‘I know him. He’s a vile man.’
‘Yes, he is, but as long as there are people at Government House willing to turn a blind eye to what he’s doing, he’s going to get away with it. But if there was anything you could do . . .’
‘I quite understand,’ said Stannard. ‘There’s a few at Government House who share the same views as you and I. We can’t bring Mr De Lancey to justice. But we may be able to make his life a bit more miserable. You know, let him know that some of us don’t feel he has any place in civilised society.’
‘Good man,’ said Saffron. ‘Now, you’d better run before Henderson blows his top.’
‘How was your meeting?’ Leon asked, when Saffron emerged from the office and joined him in the garden room.
‘It was rather fun, in an odd sort of way.’
‘Really? It didn’t seem like a social visit.’
‘It wasn’t. That fool Henderson wanted to make out that I’d been consorting with the Mau Mau.’
‘Never nice to be falsely accused,’ said Leon. ‘I speak from personal experience.’
‘Absolutely not. But always a pleasure to fight back.’
Leon Courtney had dropped into the Muthaiga Club for a quiet drink with a couple of old friends, only to find Quentin De Lancey leaning against the bar and, as was his habit, letting the men around him have the benefit of his opinion on the issues of the day.
‘Of course the governor’s garden party should go ahead,’ he declared.
Leon’s friends had not arrived, so he took a seat at a table behind De Lancey, where he would not have to make eye contact with the man. It was impossible not to hear what he was saying, so Leon decided he would pay attention. He thought of it as a form of intelligence gathering. De Lancey epitomised the kind of white settler that Leon had always cordially loathed. So if one wanted to know what those people were thinking, his opinions were as good a guide as any.
‘Of course, I can’t abide that kind of affair – nothing stronger than tea to drink, stale cucumber sandwiches, endless boring conversations with people one has never met before,’ De Lancey went on, causing Leon to laugh so hard he almost sprayed a mouthful of whisky across the room. He’d bet the entire Lusima estate against a single shilling that De Lancey had never been near a garden party in his life.
‘Of course, the memsahib loves the whole show. Well, they do, don’t they, the little darlings? Nothing they like more than putting on a new dress and a smart hat and spending the afternoon gossiping away to their em
pty-headed friends. But that’s not the point . . .’
‘So what is, old boy?’ piped up another drinker, a little further down the bar from De Lancey, an old boy called Major Percy Nicholson, who, it was said, had attended the Muthaiga’s opening party on New Year’s Eve, taken a seat at the bar and sat in the exact same place, virtually every evening ever since.
‘The point, Major, is that whether one likes these events or not, it is the governor’s duty to have a garden party, and our duty, as Englishmen, to attend. Just because there’s a war on, that doesn’t mean that we should start cancelling our social events. Quite the contrary. This year, of all years, there’s all the more reason to show that we are not going to be deterred or cowed by a bunch of monkeys dressed up as terrorists.’
‘Fair point,’ murmured Major Nicholson, nodding his head in agreement.
‘And if I am invited – or perhaps I should say when –’ De Lancey gave a knowing smirk – ‘I will make a point of attending.’
Oh Lord, I hope not, Leon said to himself, even though he had to admit that he was no great lover of the governor’s overgrown tea-party himself. He was just considering the unwelcome discovery that he and De Lancey might share an opinion when his friends arrived.
‘Why don’t we take a table on the verandah,’ he said. ‘It’s getting a bit loud in here.’
The governor’s ‘stiffies’, as the English upper-class called formal invitation cards, arrived at both the Lusima Estate House and Cresta Lodge.
‘I see that my marriage to you has made me an honorary Englishman,’ Gerhard remarked, as he saw his name on the cream-coloured envelope, embossed with the royal seal of the United Kingdom.
‘You don’t have to come, darling,’ Saffron said, as she pulled out the governor’s invitation. ‘I’m sure it will be the most frightful bore. Huh . . . It says, “Gentlemen may wear medals.” Nothing about ladies wearing theirs. Still, mine wouldn’t go with the dress I’m planning to wear.’