Shilo's Secret

by Stephan, Judith

  By one o’ clock the results were on his desk. It was an exact match. It was definitely Charles Lambert-Carr. They had their killer! Now they could get a search warrant, without a hitch, for his luxury Kensington apartment and get more proof.

  The land lady let him in without a fight. She did not like the man either. So arrogant, so aloof, she had said. Always spoke down to her in his hoity-toity accent. The apartment was fitted out in highly modern functional bachelor furniture. Mostly in black and chrome and glass. The search was unsuccessful at first, just the usual stuff a wealthy bachelor might have. Lots of hi-tech electronics, an expensive collection of DVDs, thousands of Pounds worth of imported spirits, crystal glasses - and then there were girly magazines on the coffee table, but nothing suspicious or pornographic. Then he entered the study. There on a pinboard were newspaper reports about the murders, and a giant map of Great Britain heralded drawing pins in every town he had found his unfortunate victims and more: Perhaps places of undiscovered murders or future sites. There was also a scrap book in the drawer with newspaper reports on all the murders and the speculation that had followed, including a picture of Corbett with a bright red cross drawn across his face in a permanent marker. A similar cross was scrawled across the face of Bernice smiling from her hospital bed. They had him. There was no doubt at all in his heart. Who was this mystery lady though, who had wanted this man put away so badly?

  *

  It was three o’ clock on Christmas Eve when the Lufthansa aeroplane touched down at a dark and dismal Heathrow. Stratt had caught a South African Airways flight to Frankfurt and then a connecting flight to London. Robert had really gone out of his way to organise a ticket for him, as all flights were packed to capacity in this peak time as people flew home for Christmas or to be with family over the festive season.

  Armed only with a small rolling suitcase and a haversack, Stratt stood in a flurry of snowflakes hailing a cab.

  “Where to mate?” a congenial taxi driver asked, as he swung into the curb in his black, antiquated black cab.

  “Cairnsway in Somerset,” Stratt answered.

  The cab driver placed his suitcase in the trunk, while Stratt climbed into the rear seat, rubbing his hands together briskly to get them warm. God it was frigid!

  The drive towards central London on the freeway was magical. The city itself was like something from another world. Scenes from a thousand Christmas cards flashed through his mind, as the snow rested on buildings and trees. Christmas lights and decorated windows glimmered in the semi-darkness. Huge neon billboards flashed Christmas messages and the high streets were bustling with last minute shoppers, huddled up against the cold in warm coats, mufflers, woolen hats and scarves, and entering and exiting beautifully decorated stores from the gleaming, wet sidewalks. The Thames lay grey and bleak, and a single tugboat carved its way through the icy waters, leaving behind it a streak of grubby, white foam. It was like something out of a Dickensian novel.

  Christmas in Africa was very different. In the height of summer, people had to force themselves to eat the hot turkey and all the trimmings; the flaming plum pudding with homemade vanilla custard; and they lolled around in bathing suits by the pool side and paradoxically imitated a European Christmas with artificial fir trees and canned snow and ornaments of sleighs, and snowmen. Christmas cards with snowy landscapes were sent to each other and Father Christmas sweltered in red fur-lined suits in the shopping malls when it was thirty-eight degrees in the shade. Christmas was different and very lovely in a cold climate, with gently falling snowflakes fluttering at the windows of cosy parlours in which people sipped sherries, eggnog or hot toddies around roaring log fires, kissed under the mistletoe and unwrapped presents to the sounds of groups of revelers who braved the inclement weather singing traditional carols door to door.

  Cairnsway was an impressive abode set at the end of a long, sweeping driveway. Built in the late 1800’s, the stone edifice was a stately manor and reeked of old money. Stratt felt a flutter of excitement as the cab swept to a halt in front of the steps leading to the glass-paned front door.

  A huge but tasteful wreath of twisted sticks and holly and finished off with a large tartan bow, decorated the door. A butler answered his urgent knocking.

  “Is Shilo here?” he asked, forgetting formalities.

  The butler seemed indignant at his unexpected intrusion.

  “No, Lady Delucci has accompanied her parents to a Christmas ball.”

  Stratt’s heart sank – he had not considered that she might be out. But, after all, it was Christmas Eve, and she did not know he was here.

  “Where is this ball?” Stratt asked.

  “Who wants to know?” the butler retorted.

  “Doctor Stratford Ogilvy,” Stratt answered, mocking the butler’s formality, and then he added: “I am a very close friend of Lady Delucci from South Africa.”

  “It is at the Castle Hall in Kensington, sir,” the butler answered.

  “Can someone take me there?” Stratt asked, “I can assure you Madame Shilo will want to see me.”

  “Forgive me, sir, for being so bold, but you cannot attend a ball dressed like that.”

  He indicated to Stratt’s jeans, heavy boots and snow-flecked duffel coat.

  “Is there somewhere I could change, my good man?” Stratt asked, “or do I have to stand out here until hell freezes over?”

  The butler smiled at this handsome man with a strange accent, and knew they were going to get along famously. He was a great improvement on that stuck up Lambert-Carr chap who never greeted the servants, just ordered them around, thrust his coat at them or found fault in their every action.

  Forbes led him up the sweeping marble staircase decorated with seasonal greenery and intermittent red bows, and along a network of grand passages to the guest suite. The tastefully wall-papered walls were adorned with heavy gilt-framed oil paintings of what appeared to be ancient relatives; hunting parties and pastoral scenes. Antique furniture, thick Persians and valuable vases, urns and ornaments were everywhere, and Stratt felt a little out of his depth.

  “Will you be staying, sir?”

  “I certainly hope so,” Stratt replied. “If she’ll let me.”

  “Come down when you’re finished sir, and I will have the car ready.”

  Stratt unzipped his suitcase and withdrew a black tuxedo, dress shirt and bow tie. He took the liberty of taking a quick shower and then dressed hastily. He was glad he had let Rebecca cut his hair for him before he left the Malebane Lodge, and rubbed his hands over his closely cropped head. He splashed on the cologne that Shilo had been so mad about, then he made his way into the passage.

  A few doors down he spotted two letters on a small silver tray on the floor in front of a closed door. They were both addressed to Shilo, and he presumed that it was her bedroom. Not being able to resist the temptation, he pushed open the door. A bedside light was burning, shedding a rosy glow in the room, and the duvet and comforter on her mahogany four-posted bed had been turned back ready for her return. It was tastefully decorated with antique style furniture and muted colours. He picked up a jersey that had been discarded on an armchair and held it to his nose to try and grasp some remnant of her smell. His eyes swept over all the designer perfume bottles, silver plated hairbrushes and knick-knacks on her dressing table. Under the glass on the dressing table top, he saw two photographs. A vacation snapshot… Stratt and Shilo, on their last day together. She had insisted Regan take a picture of them. Stratt was bare-chested and had an arm around Shilo, whose head was leaning against him. Stratt was smiling, Shilo was not. The second was the one that Shilo had taken of Stratt herself. Stratt was in a pair of khaki shorts and no shirt leaning in a casual pose against his Jeep. He recalled her playfully taking pictures of animals, and then pushing him lightly against the vehicle. “Take your hat off,” she had said, “And smile.”

  He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked quite dapper in his tuxedo with his neat haircut, he had to ad
mit. He let himself out of the room and back down the sweeping staircase to the hall.

  “Your car awaits, sir,” the butler announced.

  Stratt trotted down the front steps and climbed into the silver jaguar.

  *

  Shilo was having an awful time. Charles was all over her, clinging like a wet tee shirt. The paparazzi were snapping shots of the two of them at annoying intervals. It was almost as if he had briefed them about the two of them. She recalled the conversation of the night before. She had been sitting in the solarium, and Charles had entered with her father.

  “We have something to discuss with you,” Henri had said.

  Shilo had looked up from her book, irritated by the disturbance.

  “Yes,” said Charles, “I have asked your father if we can get engaged, and he has agreed.”

  Shilo’s jaw had dropped. And before she had a chance to respond, her father added:

  “Congratulations, Shilo.”

  Then she had let rip.

  “I am not getting engaged to Charles, Dad. He hasn’t even discussed it with me. I do not love him and I’m certainly not going to get myself into a situation where I am not happy. I hate how this decision has been made without my consent,” she had said, glaring at Charles, “this is not the eighteenth century!”

  “She doesn’t know about this?” Henri asked.

  “I mentioned it to her the other day,” Charles lied.

  “Over my dead body am I getting engaged, Charles. So you’ll have to kill me first.”

  “This puts us in quite a difficult position, Shilo. I have already alerted Thomas Handley at The Telegraph that there might be an announcement at the ball tomorrow night.”

  “Well, unalert him, Dad, because it is simply not happening.”

  “We’ll have to announce something …” interrupted Charles, who was stony faced.

  “Announce that I won’t be marrying you, Charles. Because that’s the truth. Then they can stop speculating.”

  “Charles, can you leave my daughter and I alone for a while. I need to talk to her?” Henri said.

  Charles left the room, huffing as if it were the greatest humiliation to be excluded from the conversation, but feeling a little hopeful that Henri might be able to talk some sense into his hot-headed daughter.

  “What’s going on here? Ever since you returned from South Africa, you have been so different to everyone, dear,” Henri finally asked.

  “Dad, I do not love Charles and I never have. He was convenient, and we were always thrust together at functions so we ended up being friends. But I am in love with someone else … and I will not be getting engaged to Charles. That’s final.”

  “Who are you in love with, Shilo?”

  “You don’t know him. He is far away in Africa … and I will probably never see him again – but …”

  “Fine. I will give you more time to sort your feelings out. I will give you two months. Not a day more. Then we need to sort out this Charles story once and for all. Will you at least be civil to him tomorrow at the ball, and I will find something else to announce?” her father said.

  “I promise,” she said. “Thanks, Dad,” she said, hugging him warmly.

  Now here she was at the ball being as civil as she could, but Charles was really overdoing it for the press with his pawing, and kissing her cheek and constant touching. She sat at the table with her aunt and Michaela and some other aristocratic families. The women were all dripping with diamonds, and were dressed to the nines in designer ball gowns, talking in affected monotones about the latest gossip, the newest scandals about the royal family, what they had just purchased at Harrods and who was sleeping with whom. The men just sat sipping twelve-year old scotch on the rocks and puffing on their fat Cuban cigars. Shilo’s parents were on the dance floor – they made a handsome couple. Charles was chatting to some of his Oxford friends, and with three highballs under his belt, he was being his normal obstreperous self – loud and pompous. He was bragging in his verbose manner about his recent skiing trip to Klosters while Shilo was in Africa, his fox-hunting trip to Yorkshire and his new motor car. Shilo sat sedately in her chair sipping mineral water, with the sounds of the band thudding in her head. This is the last place she had wanted to be: Amongst all these high-society, shallow people; with all this noise and bustling and airs and graces. She though of Stratt, and his face in her mind kept her sane.

  Stratt arrived at the address just before nine o’ clock. It was a huge castle that had been revamped, and had the air of a medieval banqueting hall. The driveway outside was lined with flaming torches, and valets in period dress bustled around. He walked confidently and purposefully into the foyer, and therefore no one at the door asked him for the two hundred and fifty-pound ticket. He spotted Michaela almost immediately in a haze of blue organza, and tapped her on the shoulder. Her eyes widened, and her faced beamed with joy.

  “You came!” she said.

  “I love her, Michaela,” he answered, “I wanted to come. I would probably have come eventually anyway.”

  “She’s not doing too well. She had an altercation with father last night about marrying Charles. She just flatly refused and he’s given her a two month deadline to get her act together.”

  “Well, that gives me plenty of time,” he smiled.

  She pointed to the table where Shilo was sitting forlornly quietly sipping her drink.

  “Do me a huge favour, Michaela,” Stratt said, “please ask the band to play ‘Lady in Red’, I have to do this correctly.”

  As Michaela scuttled off towards the stage, Stratt looked around the huge chamber. A massive Christmas tree glittered in the middle of the dance floor, with a myriad twinkling lights and glass balls in silver and red. All the tables around the perimeter of the hall were decked in red and white with sprigs of holly entwined with silver ribbon… then his eyes rested on Shilo. She looked heavenly in a deep scarlet, tight fitting dress. It was fashioned from stretch velvet and clung to her slender form right to the floor; a huge split revealed a flash of leg. Her hair was gathered in an aura of curls on top of her head – his heart gave a flutter. He remembered the dance in which he had held her captive back at the Malebane Lodge. The song faded out, and he walked towards her. She looked up just as he reached her side, and for a moment he thought she was going to pass out. Her face went through a myriad of emotions as she realised who it was.

  “Shilo,” he said smiling broadly, “may I have the honour and the pleasure of this dance? I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Shilo was completely flabbergasted at his unannounced arrival. He looked dashing in his tuxedo, with his new shorter hairstyle – quite unlike the hulking man of the wild that she had grown used to.

  “Stratt,” she gasped, “It’s you ….” and she stood up slowly. “You came.” And she burst into tears.

  He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. The band struck up and the song he had requested began to emanate from the giant speakers. He gathered her in his arms, and they began to sway gently to the romantic ballad. Her tiny form was pressed tightly against his body. Shilo remained speechless, as there was nothing to say. The way they held and touched each other spoke volumes. And as the paparazzi clicked their cameras on the edges of the floor, many questions were being asked about this dapper gentleman who obviously had stolen Lady Delucci’s heart. She savoured the moment: She could feel his warm breath on her scalp, she could smell that familiar smell of his cologne and could feel his strong arms around her. Stratt had come to her at last.

  Suddenly he spoke: his voice was soothing and gentle.

  “Shilo, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I have been miserable since you left, and I had to come and see you. We need to talk.”

  She squeezed him affectionately – and she lifted her head from his chest and looked into his earnest face.

  “I love you, Shilo,” he said, surprising himself at what his heart was compelling him to say.

  “Oh, Stratt, everyth
ing has just become so complicated.”

  He held her close and the memories of their magical moments in Africa came flooding back. He was just about to tell her that he knew about the baby, when Charles Lambert-Carr wrenched them apart roughly and unexpectedly, and Shilo stumbled back and landed on the floor.

  “What the hell do you think you are doing?” he shouted at Stratt, while two of his friends helped Shilo to her feet. “You leave her alone! Get your filthy hands off her!”

  Stratt stuck his hand out: “I’m Dr. Stratt Ogilvy,” he said, “from Africa.”

  “I don’t care who the hell you are! You just leave her alone. She’s my girlfriend!”

  Shilo came between them and glared at Charles.