She would need to discuss this with Jack. He was bringing her dinner later.
How did this bloody illness change things? Did it change them? Was she giving evidence or was she not? How long could she put off her decision?
Again, despite herself, she dropped off to sleep.
• • •
Jack placed the dinner tray at the foot of Natalie’s bed and kissed her head. “Chicken,” he breathed. “Your favorite.”
She swung her feet off the bed and sat up. She’d been ill now for more than a week and the antibiotics were beginning to kick in. Her temperature was more under control, the chills were fewer, the sweats less intense. But the rash on her hands was still pronounced and she continued to be hit by the occasional biting headache. She wasn’t out of the wood yet and Jonas insisted she remain in bed.
She picked up the chicken leg and chewed it. “My appetite hasn’t fully returned yet.” She replaced the leg on the plate. “How is Christopher doing?”
“About the same as you. But he has a rash on the soles of his feet and has difficulty walking. No difficulty eating, though.”
She nibbled a potato. “How’s his mood?”
“Well, I’m sorry to say this but he’s not too enamored of you, just now. He wishes you had never spotted the damned lion, he says.”
“Why?”
“Because of being ill, he’s missed his test as a pilot, and because he will have been grounded for more than two weeks by the time he has fully recovered, he will have lost the number of required hours of flying time, and have to start all over again. He won’t now be able to get his license for at least another month.”
She groaned. “I couldn’t know the damned lion had the wrong kind of tick.”
“I know that and, deep down, he knows that too. He’s just irritated with you, that’s all.”
Natalie weighed this. Then she said, “I suppose everyone sees you bringing me dinner every evening?”
“Yes, I suppose they do.”
“So everyone knows … you know, about us?”
He crossed one leg over the other. “They don’t know everything, Natalie. They know I bring you dinner. They can read between—or beyond—the lines if they wish. But you’re not the topic or focus of gossip, if that’s what you’re worried about. The fact that I don’t visit you late at night now probably means that they think less is happening than really is—or was.”
He let a silence go by as she ate more potato.
“I miss our late nights.”
She nodded. “Me too. Christopher is not the only one who wishes I hadn’t spotted the bloody lion.”
Another pause, then she raised her conversation with Mgina.
“It could be her,” said Jack. “But then it could be anyone. The damage has been done, you will be well enough in time to give evidence. There’s no point in worrying yourself silly over Mgina.”
She nodded. “Maybe so. Any news from Nairobi?”
He didn’t reply straight away, but then said, “No.”
“You’re lying!”
Yet another pause. “Get well before you face what they’re saying in Nairobi.”
She stopped eating. “I’m not a child, Jack, and I’m on the mend. Tell me.”
He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, to buy time. “There have been demonstrations outside the prison where Ndekei is being held. There’s going to be a concert in support of Ndekei on the night before the trial starts. Ndekei’s wife, Atape, and his children will be paraded onstage. They will be in court.”
“So it really will be a circus?”
He nodded. “I’m afraid so. The politicians have got hold of the trial. They won’t let go.” He paused, then said, “Hold on” and went out.
He soon came back. He had two newspaper cuttings with him. “This is a long editorial in the East African Gazette, a couple of days ago. It’s quite interesting, thoughtful, and concludes that Kenya shouldn’t go back to tribal law but that in this case—the Ndekei case—the evidence is only circumstantial and, in the wider interests of Kenya, the trial should be abandoned.”
“What?”
He nodded. “Read it. We’re lucky to have a copy because the other cutting, as you will see, is a short news report which says that the editorial in the Gazette was in contempt of court and the paper has been closed down.”
She looked up. “Can they do that?”
“They can and they do. One of the censors just wanted the offending article ripped out but that was judged impracticable, with so many copies being printed, so all the papers were pulped and the editorial offices closed down for a week.”
“Which makes the trial even more newsworthy.”
He nodded.
“But you are still not trying to dissuade me?”
“I know better. We all do.”
If they knew what she suspected, about Richard and Ndekei, and if it were true, what would everyone say then? she wondered. Her illness had prevented her from contacting Maxwell Sandys. How much did that matter? Would she ever know?
“Is Tudor still the judge?”
“Yes. He’s coming in for some stick too.”
She lay back down on the bed and put her arm behind her head. “What would happen if I were too ill to give evidence?”
“I’m not sure. It would probably be up to the judge. He could either postpone the trial or insist the proceedings go ahead, without you. Which would mean, I suppose, that the prosecution’s case would collapse.” He bit his lip. “You’re not thinking of being too ill to give evidence, are you?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be true any more to say that I haven’t wavered. This illness, this rash, has played havoc with my system. When you’re sweating and scratching it’s not easy to know your own mind.” She sighed. “If Mgina is the—” She looked at Jack. “I’m just exhausted the whole time.”
He nodded. “I’m not too sure any of it matters anymore anyway.”
She rolled onto her side. “What do you mean?”
“Atape and Ndekei’s children are not the only people going onstage at the concert. Marongo is going to speak. I strongly suspect he may use the opportunity to announce a deal with Russell—that avenue seems to have acquired a momentum all its own.” He took out his cigarettes. “We have to make the most of this season, because it will probably be our last in the gorge.”
He lit a cigarette. “But … when you are ready, if you decide you want to marry me, the offer still stands.”
• • •
Eleanor tapped her water glass with her knife. The buzz of conversation over the dinner table died.
“First, I think we should all welcome back Natalie.” She turned in her seat. “We have all missed you, my dear—how long has it been now? Two weeks? You look pale but how do you feel?”
Natalie sipped some water. “I feel a little weak, my hands still itch now and then, but I’m hungry for the first time in days.” She smiled.
“Good,” said Eleanor, turning to watch as Naiva brought in the food. She turned back. “This is the last time we shall all be together for a while. Arnold and Jonas are staying here, during the trial, carrying on with the digging, showing the Maasai we haven’t abandoned the gorge. Jack, Natalie, and I will be in Nairobi. Christopher should be up and about tomorrow and will come with us. The papers for Nature are all written—Natalie, thank you for working while you have been rather less than one hundred percent these past few days. I will post the papers from Nairobi, as one package. They should be in London in about a week. I have spoken again to Harold Heath and if he likes what we have written as much as he anticipates, and because of the controversial background, there will be a special edition of Nature, devoted to the gorge.” The food had reached her and she helped herself. “That may come late in the day for Marongo but a special edition of Nature is not nothing in scientific terms, and Russell may find himself further out in the cold than he would like.”
She turned towards Natalie again. “Before I forget, to
morrow night, the night before the trial starts, Jack, Christopher, and I are having a family dinner—it’s something we do every year at this time, to sort out family matters. So I have arranged for you to have dinner with Maxwell Sandys … I hope I did the right thing. We don’t want you to be alone the night before the trial.”
“Oh yes,” said Natalie. “Of course. Thank you.”
“Good. We’ll all fly up together in the morning, early, with Jack. Max wants to see you in the afternoon, anyway, for a final briefing. We could all meet after dinner, to see how the land lies.”
“Oh?” said Jack. “What do you mean by that?”
Eleanor looked at Mutumbu. “Daniel’s going to the concert, to be our eyes and ears. He’ll come back and tell us what Marongo had to say.”
“Hmm,” growled Jack. “Aren’t you overreacting? Whatever he says, nothing is going to happen immediately. Our license doesn’t run out until May, a special edition of Nature is a real event in scientific terms … We could still get the better of Russell and Richard Sutton Senior.”
“Maybe,” said Eleanor. “Maybe so. But there are a couple of things you may not know, Jack. A Russian Jeep-type vehicle was spotted in Olinkawa the day before yesterday. I suspect there’s been more gun smuggling across the border, and that some of them are destined for the Maasai—”
“But where are they getting the money?” Jack shook his head skeptically.
“That’s the second thing you don’t know,” growled Eleanor gloomily. “That was the main reason Maxwell Sandys was in touch on the radio-telephone. Richard Sutton Senior arrived three days ago, and the day before yesterday he was seen meeting with Russell and Marongo. Something’s going on, Jack, something political, something we don’t have any control over. I’m not at all sure Sutton knows what his money is being used for, but he has more than enough to buy guns.”
• • •
Natalie sat, just inside her tent, and looked out at and listened to the rain. The short rains, as they were called, lasted anywhere from ten minutes to an hour and a half. Nothing at all by Lincolnshire standards. The raindrops flashed and glistened and sparkled in the shine of the hurricane lamp and beat down on the roof of her tent. The smell of the acacia thorns was intensified. She found it all, for some reason, comforting.
She was still not ready to risk a whiskey, but she had lit a cigarette.
How many more nights in the gorge were left to her? If she flew to Nairobi tomorrow, and gave evidence as planned, and if Ndekei were convicted and then hanged, would Marongo really follow through with his threat? If the gorge were destroyed, or occupied, or a change of team were imposed, she—like the others—would become known throughout her chosen profession for this humiliating transformation of fortune, for throwing away the best season’s digging ever.
If she didn’t give evidence, what then? Would she be prosecuted for contempt of court, or wasting police time? Would it make any difference now? Hadn’t things gone too far? Despite the support of some newspapers, would Marongo take any notice? Richard Sutton Senior’s money spoke louder than editorials, especially editorials that didn’t see the light of day. If she could somehow face Marongo and the Maasai with Ndekei’s homosexuality, would that make a difference? Was Ndekei homosexual? If she didn’t give evidence, what would she think of herself a week from now, a month away, in the years ahead? Would Richard Sutton pursue her as he said he would? Either way, her career was almost on the rocks.
And if she was not giving evidence, when was she going to make up her mind? She was no nearer a decision than when she had first wavered all those weeks ago.
It struck her that there were similarities between her own position and Kees van Schelde’s when he had strayed into the bush, exposing himself to risks that might—or might not—kill him. The risks she faced were not mortal but they were not negligible either, not negligible professionally speaking. But, in not taking a firm decision yet, one way or the other, she was letting things ride, letting events carry on around her, in the hope that her problem would be resolved without her actually having to do anything herself.
Was that morally clean?
But the trial was the day after tomorrow. She would have to give evidence then, or the day after at the latest.
Or not.
She was nowhere nearer a decision.
She had come to the end of her cigarette. For once, it hadn’t settled her. She didn’t feel tired, and she was still on edge. Jack wouldn’t come tonight; her body was still not fully recovered. The palms of her hands still tingled.
The rain intensified.
She put out the hurricane lamp, and for a few moments listened to the downpour. She loved the sound of rain.
She shifted in her seat. Her skin still felt as though it was covered in a rash, though all the spots had gone.
Quietly, she undressed and, in total darkness, stepped out of her tent into the weather, completely naked. The warm raindrops pelted her skin, almost taking her breath away. Her mind wasn’t settled and she was still on edge. Water ran down her cheeks, down her chest between her breasts, down her thighs, it dripped off her nose and chin and nipples. Her body was cool and clean, her skin felt free of the rash at last.
And, in the deep blackness, in the total absence of any form of light, she could see her way forward.
12
THE TRIAL
“There she is! There she is!” About a dozen people, some with placards, were standing outside the court building as Natalie got out of Maxwell Sandys’s car. They came towards her, jogging their placards up and down. One had a photograph of Natalie, taken from one of the newspaper articles about her, with the press headline blown up: WIDOW MAKER. Another showed a photograph of Ndekei with a rope crudely drawn around his neck, and the words: WHITE JUSTICE—GO HANG.
“Widow maker,” they chanted, “widow maker … widow maker.”
Sandys bundled her past them and on into the courthouse. They both ran up the main stairs to the first floor, and turned left into his office.
Natalie was shaking.
Sandys took her hand. “I’m sorry about that but I thought it might help you get acclimatized, to show you what was outside the courthouse, what to expect. I’m afraid it will be even worse tomorrow.”
He handed her a glass of water.
“How are you holding up?” he said. “I gather from Eleanor that you went down with tick typhus—it never rains but it pours, eh?” He smiled grimly.
“I’m fine. I don’t recommend tick typhus, but I’m fine. I gather we are having dinner together tonight and could have talked about the case then. But I’m grateful that you showed me the crowds, as mental preparation.”
He stared at her. “Dinner? But I’m—” He stopped. “Yes, of course, that’s right. I’ll come to the hotel, seven-thirtyish. I may be a little late.”
She passed a hand through her hair and nodded. “Just talk me through what will happen and let’s go from there. I’m tougher inside than I look on the outside.”
Was that true? she wondered. It had once been true but after all that had happened …
Sandys was behind his desk. He had taken off his jacket but wore a waistcoat and tie. He played with a paper knife.
“The trial starts at 10:30, as I think you know. The first morning will be taken up with the prosecution setting out our case, then the defense will do the same. Nothing too specific, no nitty-gritty, but the principles of the arguments that will be used on both sides. After lunch on the first day, we—as the prosecution—will begin presenting our evidence. We have four main matters to introduce. First, the sliver of Ndekei’s apron that was caught up on the thorn fence near Richard Sutton’s tent. Second, the print of his Wellington boot found outside the tent; and third, the boot itself, recovered by African ancillary staff at Kihara from the monkeys who were playing with it. The first two will be presented by the police who were summoned to Kihara on the morning after the murder—Frank Metcalfe and Dennis Burton—I think you m
et them.”
Natalie nodded. “I remember.”
Sandys leaned forward. “The bloody boot will just be presented as evidence. We don’t have a witness to say when and where it was found, because none of the locals who did find it will come to court. They are Maasai, so we never expected they would testify. For that reason, we don’t know whether the judge will allow this as evidence, or whether Hilary Hall will object, since we can’t prove when and where it was found. But we shall argue that it doesn’t really matter where it was found, the crucial point being that it is Ndekei’s boot and the blood is the same type as Richard’s.” He took a breath. “But I’ve decided not to introduce the watch. That’s a problem, too. No Maasai will come forward to give evidence and although Eleanor could say who gave it to her, she can’t say what she was told about it, why the Maasai had it in the first place, because that would be hearsay.”
Sandys leaned forward. “That will all take up the first afternoon and maybe some of the second morning. Then we come to you. I shall lead you through your story, slowly, deliberately, allowing you to say exactly what you saw that night. I shall ask my questions in such a way that you will say what you saw several times over, so it is rubbed in. Then, when I have finished, Hilary Hall will cross-examine you. You have some idea of the line he will follow from your earlier encounter.
“He will probably begin in a friendly manner but at some point turn aggressive, trying to sow doubts in your mind, and therefore in the mind of the judge, as to what, exactly, you saw that night. He will ask how good is your eyesight and, I am afraid, whether you had been drinking, whether you were having an affair with Russell North—and/or Richard Sutton—and if either of them was with you when you saw Ndekei. All you have to do, my dear, is tell the truth, as simply as possible, and try not to get angry or riled by his questions. Remember, Hilary will be putting on an act. He will not really be angry with you, he doesn’t really think you had an affair with Russell North, and of course he knows you weren’t drunk. But it’s his job to go through these hoops. He’s just as convinced that Ndekei is guilty as we are. But that’s the way the law works. If you get riled at any point, just tell yourself Hilary is acting, playing a game.”
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