Something Wicked (6 page)

‘Yes, you’re right. I’ve only been in England for a few months and I confess I’m bored. I think I’ll have one summer here and then sell up and go back to Africa. Get myself eaten by a lion or something. Mind you, since the slump, it’s not been the same in Kenya. The glory days are over. There’s no money to be made out of agriculture – flax, coffee and all the rest of it aren’t worth the effort. You remember Algy Robertson? When the crops failed three years on the trot – it was locusts the last time – he shot himself.’

‘No! I’m so sorry, but surely there’s still money to be made out of the visitors? Don’t you still take tourists out on safari?’ Edward heard himself sounding almost contemptuous but Harry didn’t seem to mind.

‘I’ve more or less given that up. To tell the truth, I got a bad mauling some months back. All my own fault. I was sleeping off too good a lunch and woke to find this mangy old lion breathing down my neck. In fact, it was his stinking breath which woke me up. Talk about a hangover, that old beast needed his teeth seeing to, that’s for sure.’

‘You didn’t have your gun?’

‘No, idiot that I was.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘We looked each other in the eye for a rather long minute, then I got up and made a run for it shouting for help. Fortunately, I was only just outside the camp or I wouldn’t be around to tell you the story. Jake Gore – do you remember him or was he after your time . . .?’

‘After my time.’

‘Well, he heard me shouting and came with his gun and shot him dead. Though not before . . .’ Harry rolled up his sleeve and Edward saw the scars of three long claw marks running from elbow to wrist. ‘I was lucky not to lose my arm. I suppose that was the moment I began to wonder if I wasn’t a bit too old for the game.’

His rakish grin – the same one with which he had described every prank at school – sent Edward back to the days when they had been as David and Jonathan. He found himself smiling in response.

‘Then you heard you had inherited a title?’

‘Yes, it means nothing really but I was curious to see the place I’d been lumbered with, so here I am.’

He gestured with his good arm. Edward idly picked up a book from a pile lying on the table beside Harry’s armchair.

‘Walt Whitman? I didn’t know you liked poetry?’

‘I’ve rather taken to it. The old man seems to express my philosophy of life as well as anyone. “Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.”’

Edward saw that the other books by the armchair were also poetry and plays – Ben Jonson, John Webster, Shakespeare. He was impressed. ‘It’s a long time since I read Whitman. I can see why he appeals to you.’

‘It’s a funny thing. I wasn’t much of a reader at school but there’s so damn little to do in Kenya that I began to find – after you left – I was eating up books – poetry in particular. Less hard work than women . . .’ he laughed, sounding rather shy, ‘and in many ways more satisfying.’

The coolness which had been between them seemed to vanish, re-establishing the intimacy they had shared at school. Edward had no wish to spoil the atmosphere but felt he had to ask. ‘Lady Redfern – did that . . .?’

‘I had a sticky few weeks but, in the end, they couldn’t pin anything on me. It was just an accident. You scurried off as quick as your feet would take you.’

‘I made a statement to the police,’ Edward said defensively.

‘I don’t blame you for getting out of it, old man.’

‘I didn’t “get out of it”. It was nothing to do with me. It was your accident – not mine.’

Harry visibly restrained himself, shrugging his shoulders. ‘No hard feelings, old boy. Just one of those things, eh? Anyway, it’s good to have you here. I’m going to put together a bit of a party for the regatta. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Not at all. I’m hoping Verity may be fit enough to enjoy a little gentle boating. It’s still a week or two off, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. It begins on the twenty-ninth and ends on the second of July. You rowed at Eton, didn’t you?’

‘Not seriously. I was a dry-bob. I rowed a bit at Cambridge but I’ve always been more of a cricket man. I remember you rowed.’

‘Yes. It’s one of the attractions of this place – being able to get on the river. In fact, I’ve been asked to make up an Old Etonian four during the regatta but I don’t think I’ll risk it. My puff isn’t what it used to be. Getting old, I suppose.’ He changed the subject. ‘Your young woman – how is she getting on with Bladon? By the way, isn’t he a Cambridge man?’

Edward winced at the thought of how Verity would hate this description. ‘That’s right. He was up at Trinity with me.’

‘Is he a good doctor? I don’t hold with them myself. Kill as soon as cure, I’ve always said.’

‘I think so. He’s very clever and strong enough to stop Verity exhausting herself. She hates not doing anything. That’s why I’m so keen to get her working on this business of my dentist.’

‘Oh yes, you mentioned it on the telephone. It sounds most macabre but can’t the police deal with it? Why are you getting involved?’

‘I’ve drifted into doing a bit of sleuthing,’ Edward said, rather embarrassed. Here was one person who had not read about anything he had done and he should have been glad of it. Instead, he thought he ought to explain himself a little.

‘You remember when poor Molly was murdered?’ Molly Harkness was a woman they had both known in Nairobi. ‘Well, I managed to help . . . you know, get to the bottom of the affair.’

‘Oh, I say! You’re not a private eye, are you? I thought they were only in America.’

‘Don’t rib me, Harry. I’m not in the mood,’ Edward responded, irritably. ‘I’m not a private detective. I mean I don’t do it for money but I have solved one or two problems that the police . . .’

‘You
are
a private eye! Of course, I’m sure you are very good at it. Now, you must let me help you. It sounds like good clean fun.’

‘Not for Eric Silver, it wasn’t,’ Edward said roughly. ‘I’ll tell you all about it later. In the meantime, would it be possible for me to have a wash before dinner?’

‘I’m so sorry!’ Harry said quickly, getting up from his chair ‘I didn’t mean to josh you. Come, I’ll show you your room. Your man arrived a couple of hours ago. Everything should be ready for you. Take a bath. There’s plenty of hot water. I thought we’d dine at eight – just the two of us. Don’t dress. I wear an old smoking jacket when I’m alone, like I did in the bush.’

‘That suits me.’

‘Funny about the dentist though.’

‘Funny?’

‘Well, old man, you remember what Emerson said about being dead?’

‘You read Ralph Waldo Emerson?’ Edward was amused. ‘What did Emerson have to say about death and dentists?’

‘He said that when you’re dead, “at least you’re done with the dentist.” Of course, in this case, it’s death which did for the dentist.’

The smile faded from Edward’s lips. He was no longer amused.

3

Turton House was a big, ramshackle place of no particular architectural period or interest but with a splendid view of the river, and before dinner Edward strolled down to the river bank to think about Verity. He always loved gardens like this where the lawns sloped gently down to the water. It was soothing to his troubled spirit and, in the gathering dusk, the river looked serene and infinitely gentle although he knew that even the Thames could be dangerous if taken for granted. He peered into a large boathouse containing several small craft including rowing boats and two fast-looking ‘riggers’ which reminded him of his schooldays. A young man wearing grey flannels, vest and cap sculled by, his long, elegant strokes hardly ruffling the water. He thought it would do Verity good – weather permitting – to lie in a punt and watch athletic young men row up and down.

It wasn’t quite as it had been before the war when Henley Royal Regatta was one of the great social events of the season but it was still an important date in the sporting and social calendar. As he had reminded his host, Edward had been a dry-bob at school but, although cricket was his game, he had rowed a bit and had many friends at school and university who virtually lived on the river. He had been to the regatta once before as a guest of his friend Tommie Fox – an accomplished sportsman who had rowed for Eton and Cambridge and won a blue for boxing – who was now a hard-working, underpaid vicar in North London.

He had an idea that, if she were well enough, Verity might find the jollities diverting. A great deal of beer, champagne and Pimm’s was drunk during Henley week and it would have been a good moment to introduce her to the world at large as his future wife. Nothing had yet been said between them about delaying the official announcement of their engagement but Edward was aware that, until Verity felt she had beaten her illness, she would not want to think about marriage.

He sighed deeply. What would he not give to have her on his arm as they paraded among men wearing striped blazers and straw boaters or coloured caps, and women in frocks more suited to an Edwardian garden party than a sporting event.

Lost in thought, he did not hear his host crossing the grass with a gin and tonic in each hand.

‘Still your tipple?’ Harry asked. ‘The gnats are beginning to bite,’ he added amiably, slapping his cheek.

‘Sorry, yes, it’s still my tipple. It’s good to be here, Harry. You’re sure you don’t mind me using you as an hotel? I’ll have to go to London on business at some point but it’s wonderful not to have to drive up and down the Great West Road every day to see Verity.’

‘You really love her?’ Harry sounded amused and faintly envious.

‘Yes, I do. Did you ever love any of your girls?’

‘That one who died – I loved her.’

‘But she was . . .’

‘I know, another man’s wife. Still, we loved each other in our own way. I suppose it wouldn’t have lasted but . . . well, you never know and now I never will.’

‘You really loved her?’ Edward asked in amazement.

‘Don’t sound so surprised, old man. I am capable of love – at least I thought so then. I had the feeling that if only we had managed by some miracle to get away from that place – the Club, the bores, the stupid empty days of idleness – she might have made something out of me.’

‘It’s not too late. I always admired your gifts. You could charm the birds off the branches.’

Harry grimaced. ‘Charm! Things came too easily for me. God, I was bored! So bored.’

‘And will you be bored here?’

‘Probably,’ Harry said with his crooked grin. ‘Unless I can make it more interesting.’

Edward was conscious of an unease stealing over him. This tranquil place soothed him but Harry . . . It would be just like him to make life interesting by killing a few bores and leaving a cheap challenge on the corpses to tease the police. Ah! What was he thinking? Whatever else he might be, his friend was not a murderer. Although he possessed the necessary ruthless streak – Edward knew that for a fact.

‘Did you know any of the people I mentioned?’ he asked abruptly.

‘The murder victims?’ Harry looked at him with grim enjoyment. ‘You think I might have killed those two old boys and that old woman? No, I didn’t know them so why would I kill them?’

‘I didn’t say I thought you might have killed anyone . . .’

‘Oh, I’ve killed people before now. You remember my “boy” – Gustav, I called him, though I think his name was Koondo? I killed him. I came back unexpectedly from safari and found him smoking one of my best cigars and drinking my brandy.’

‘And you killed him?’ Edward was shocked.

‘I threw him down the steps and he broke his neck. Oh, and one of the Germans . . . one of those fat, porcine ones. He found me with his wife. We were up country and no one knew. I shot him and fed him to the lions. Said it was a terrible accident.’

‘But surely there were witnesses . . . his wife?’

‘She was glad to be rid of him. Fat bastard liked to tie her to a tree and beat her. No witnesses, just our secret.’

‘Are you serious, Harry?’

‘Of course I’m bloody serious. By the way, I lied to you. I did know one of the people you were talking about.’

‘One of the murder victims?’

‘The mountaineer – what was his name?’

‘James Herold.’

‘That’s the chap. He came on safari with me once and I climbed in the Drakensberg with him. Good man, I thought. Sorry to hear he had that illness. Glad to be released from it, I expect. I know I would be.’

Edward shivered and Harry said, ‘It’s turning a bit chilly. In any case, it’s time for dinner. Let’s go back to the house.’

‘Tell me you were joking,’ Edward said as they turned to go inside.

‘About killing? I wasn’t joking. Why should you be shocked? We can all kill if we need to – kill or be killed,’ he amended. ‘That’s why I’ll have to go back to that great dark continent as Conrad calls it. Have you ever read
Lord Jim
? No? You ought to. He tells the truth about the journey we all have to make.’ He put his arm round Edward’s shoulders. ‘Hey, don’t look so glum. I’d like to meet that woman of yours. From what I hear, she’s my kind of girl.’

Over dinner – an excellent sole followed by cheese and an admirable vintage port – they jawed about Africa: blue velvet nights on the veldt tracking impala, kongoni antelope or the musky scent of waterbuck through grass which flayed their ankles drawing blood through the toughest trousers. They recalled a night of high drama under a smoky-red moon when they had been faced with a pride of six lions attracted by the scent of the gazelle chops they were roasting over the campfire. Or had it been the Mozart? Harry took his gramophone on safari with him and, predictably perhaps,
Don Giovanni
was his favourite.

They laughed over the memory of a hippo which had almost done for Edward beside a crocodile-infested river and remembered the delectable taste of tinned peaches after a long day tracking leopard. Edward relived a magical flight in Harry’s Tiger Moth. Creeping across the vast African sky, they had seen far beneath them over a thousand elephant covering the Mara like a grey blanket. Later they had cracked open a bottle of warm champagne and toasted their youth and the great adventure that was Africa.