Death in Zanzibar (30 page)

Eduardo said: ‘You ought to write a guide book, you clever little thing, you. Me, I never read them.'

‘You, you never read anything if you can help it!' said Nigel crossly.

‘Now that is really
very
unjust of you, Mr Ponting,' put in Gussie, wagging an admonitory finger at him. ‘And the Marchese was only joking. Why, he was reading all about the house on the very first afternoon we were here. My grandfather's book:
The House of Shade.
Weren't you, now?'

‘Was I?' said Eduardo with a shrug of his bronzed shoulders. ‘I do not remember. Perhaps I may have picked it up to glance at it. If I did I am quite sure I must have put it down again very, very quickly!'

‘Not at all! You are too modest. You were so absorbed in it that you did not even hear me come into the library; and I assure you that there is
nothing
to be ashamed of in being a bookworm. I love a good book myself.'

‘The point,' said Nigel, ‘is that
The House of Shade
is probably the worst book ever written, and certainly the dullest, and one doubts if any book-lover, worm or otherwise, could bore their way past page two.'

‘Then why,' demanded Amalfi petulantly, ‘are we boring on about it now? Are you by any chance conducting this shopping and sight-seeing tour this afternoon, Nigel?'

‘I am happy to be able to answer promptly,' said Nigel. ‘
No!
Why? Were you intending to join it?'

‘I think so. As long as we don't start until half-past three or fourish. There was a shop in Portuguese Street that had the most divine Indian jewellery, and the man said he'd get in some more to show us today. So Eddie and I rather thought that we'd go along and take another look.'

‘Not forgetting Eddie's cheque book,' said Nigel waspishly.

‘Nigel darling, you
are
being cross and catty this morning!' complained Lorraine plaintively. ‘What's the matter? It's such a lovely day, yet everyone seems to be jumpy and on edge instead of just relaxing peacefully.'

‘We are relaxing peacefully,' said Lash, with his eyes shut. ‘Just take a look at us.'

‘No, you're not. You may look as though you are, but I can feel the atmosphere simply buzzing with jangled nerve ends. I suppose it's all this business of Honeywood and Jembe. And then poor Millicent
____
'

Gussie Bingham rose abruptly, and snatching up towel, sun-tan oil and sunshade, walked quickly away across the beach and up the short rocky path that led to the door into the garden.

Amalfi sat up, and removing her sun-glasses, said: ‘Now you've upset your dear sister-in-law. Too bad. Lorrie darling, be a sweetie and
don't
let's get back onto that subject again.'

‘But why be ostriches,' demanded Lorraine, aggrieved.

‘Why not? I've nothing against ostriches. In fact I'm all for them if they prefer burying their heads in the sand to poking their beaks into drearily depressing subjects. Are you really taking us in to Zanzibar this afternoon?'

‘Yes, if you like. It's Gussie really. She seems to want to keep doing something: so as not to have to think about Millicent, I suppose. Gussie hates being upset. As we're going in, you can all go and sign your names in the visitors' book at the Palace and the Residency. It's rather the done thing.'

‘You have my permission to forge mine,' said Lash.

‘I shall do no such thing. You'll do it yourself — and like it!'

‘O.K., O.K.,' said Lash pacifically. ‘Anything you say. I'll go.'

They had all gone. With the exception of Nigel who insisted that he had work to do, and Dany, who had unexpectedly fallen asleep in a hammock in the garden.

‘Let her sleep,' said Lorraine, restraining Lash who would have woken her. ‘It will do her more good than trailing her around Zanzibar city in this heat, and she doesn't look as though she's had much sleep of late. Nigel can keep an eye on her. She'll be all right. No, Lash! — I won't have her wakened.'

She had spoken with unexpected decision, and taking Lash firmly by the arm, had gone out to the car.

Lorraine had had few opportunities to see her daughter in private after the day of her arrival, for Tyson had warned her against treating Dany with more intimacy than would be due to the secretary of one of her guests. But she had seen her alone in the earlier part of the afternoon, and in the garden: Dany having gone out after luncheon to sit in the hammock, and Lorraine happening to catch sight of her on her way to pick some roses as a peace-offering for Gussie.

‘Darling how nice to get you by yourself for a bit,' said Lorraine, abandoning the roses and joining her daughter on the hammock. ‘It's so tiresome, never being able to talk to you without looking over my shoulder. I'm afraid all this is being simply horrid for you, baby, but Tyson says it will only be for a day or two, and then the police will sort it all out and we needn't go on pretending that you are the Kitchell woman. Thank goodness!'

She sighed and swung the hammock with one foot, and after a silent interval began a little diffidently: ‘Darling … about Lash
____
' And then did not seem to know how to go on.

Dany said, startled: ‘What about him?'

‘You rather like him, don't you, darling?'

Dany blushed to the roots of that distressing dyed hair, and Lorraine, observing the unfortunate colour effect, said abstractedly: ‘No — quite the wrong shade for you. It
is
a pity.'

‘Mother, what are you talking about?' demanded Dany.

Lorraine threw a hunted look over her shoulder. ‘Darling,
don't!
Suppose anyone were to hear you?'

‘There isn't anyone anywhere near,' said Dany. ‘What were you saying about Lash?'

‘Well — I felt perhaps I ought to say something, because it did rather occur to me that you perhaps liked him more than — let's say, than a secretary should. And after all, he is rather an attractive creature, and…'

She made a slight helpless gesture with one hand, and once again did not finish the sentence.

‘And what?' said Dany defensively.

‘Well, darling, I happened to go out on to the terrace last night to fetch a magazine I'd left there, and I saw you two coming back to the house. You looked very — friendly.'

Dany said nothing, and Lorraine gave a small unhappy sigh. ‘I'm afraid I'm a useless parent,' she said. ‘The trouble is, I don't seem to know how to behave like one. But I do feel that as a parent I ought to say something. About Lash, I mean. You do know that he was to have married Elf — Mrs Gordon — don't you?'

‘Yes. You told me in your letter. And so did he.'

‘Oh, well; that's something.' Lorraine sounded relieved. ‘But darling, you will be a little careful, won't you? You see, you've met so few men so far. That's been my fault, I suppose: I've been horribly selfish and not really remembered how quickly time goes. I was always going to be a good mother one day, but you always seemed such a baby. And now suddenly you've grown up. But you don't want to go losing your heart to the first attractive man you meet. In fact it's the greatest possible mistake! It's not that I've got anything against Lash, but…'

‘Which means that you have,' said Dany coldly.

‘No, I haven't, baby. Really. It's just that Tyson says he's had a lot of girls, and — well, he simply
adored
Elf, and men do do such silly things on the rebound: snatch at admiration from the nearest person who offers it, to bolster up their wounded egos. It doesn't mean anything. I like Lash, but he's as wild as a hawk and I'm not sure I'd trust him as far as I could throw a grand piano. Elf can manage that type; but when one is young and romantic and naïve, one is apt to take things — and people — at their face value. So — so you will just think a bit, won't you, darling? I mean, you don't have to believe everything he says, just because he's gay and good looking and has a fair share of charm. Take it all
____
'

‘With a pinch of salt?' interrupted Dany bitterly. ‘I know!'

‘I was going to say “in your stride”,' said Lorraine reproachfully. ‘But salt will do. After all, it improves so many things, doesn't it darling? Oh — here comes Larry. He's rather a charmer, isn't he. I'm glad we asked him to stay — though Tyson's being a bit sour about him. He says we ought to watch out, because Larry's the type that all women trust on sight and end up falling for, and that all the best bigamists and confidence tricksters have been that kind of man. You know, it's astonishing how catty men can be about each other when — Hullo, Larry. Are you looking for anyone?'

‘No,' said Larry, smiling. ‘Just looking around. This is a fascinating old place you've got here, Mrs Frost. That wall at the end of the garden is a good ten feet thick if it's an inch. There must have been guard rooms or stables in it once. Were they bricked up?'

‘I expect so,' said Lorraine vaguely. ‘If you're interested, I'm sure you'll find all about it in old Barclay's book. Are you going to the city with us later on?'

‘Certainly; if you'll take me. Is there any chance of your husband joining us?'

‘He's meeting us at the hotel for tea,' said Lorraine, rising. She turned and smiled at Dany. ‘I'll leave you in possession of the hammock, Miss Kitchell. You ought to put your feet up and have a rest. We shan't be leaving for at least an hour.'

She took Larry Dowling away with her down the winding path between the orange trees and the roses, and Dany watched them go and thought of Lash; and of what he had said only last night about Amalfi Gordon. He had not sounded as though he were still in love with her. But had it just been bitterness and sour grapes?

You don't have to believe everything he says …

Was she just ‘young and romantic and naïve'? An inexperienced school-girl, taking things and people at their face value? How was one to know? How did one ever learn? The hard way? Had Lash only made love to her because he was snatching at the nearest bit of admiration to soothe his sore ego? Trying to show Amalfi that he did not care?

For the better part of an hour Dany lay in the hammock, staring up at the blue chips of sky through the thick scented canopy of leaves and flowers over her head, her mind so fully occupied with personal problems that she never once thought of Mr Honeywood, or of Jembe, or of Millicent Bates — or of murder. And then, without warning, sleep reached out a light finger and touched her eyes, and she did not even hear Lorraine and Lash when they came in search of her.

It was close on five o'clock when she awoke, and the shadows had lengthened in the garden and the heat had gone from the day. The house was very quiet, but she found Nigel in the drawing-room, sipping China tea and reading a week-old London newspaper.

He dropped the paper on the floor and came to his feet when he saw her, but Dany, glancing down, found her eye caught by familiar words: ‘Man Murdered in Market-Lydon.'

Nigel, following the direction of her gaze, laughed and said: ‘You have caught me red-handed, Miss Kitchell — soaking myself in crime on the sly. I blush for it.
Too
fish-and-chip. But to tell you the honest truth, after all that sordid chit-chat the other night I felt quite intrigued. That Bates woman went on and
on
about it, until one couldn't help wondering what she was getting at: if
anything,
of course! But one felt, somehow, that there
was
something … Do sit down and have some tea. Indian or China? The China is divine. Tyson has it sent direct from some aromatic old Mandarin friend in Canton.'

Dany accepted a cup of pale yellowish-green liquid that smelt of dried flowers, and listened a little abstractedly to Nigel's light, melodious voice lilting on and on in a nonstop monologue. It was, she discovered, quite easy to listen to Nigel and think of something else. And then, with shocking suddenness, she was jerked out of her detachment.

‘Now
do
tell me,' said Nigel, ‘who you
really
are? I won't tell a
soul.
Of course one can
guess.
But it
has
been intriguing me so. Deliciously mystifying!'

Dany gaped at him and dropped her cup.

‘Tiens! Tiens!'
said Mr Ponting, leaping gracefully to his feet and repairing the damage. ‘I
am
sorry. Entirely my fault. But honestly,
dear
Miss Whoeveritis, you simply
couldn't
be Ada Kitchell — not by any stretch of the most
elastic
imagination. And you have no
idea
how flexible mine is!'

Dany said stonily: ‘Why couldn't I be?'

‘Well darling – your
voice!
Utterly Nancy Mitford. Not a whisper of the New World in it. And what woman
ever
wore spectacles if she didn't need them? Why, those are just plain glass! And — well, not to labour the point, a little blonde bird told me that
actually
there is a rumour flying about to the effect that poor Ada is at this moment incarcerated in the Islington Isolation Hospital with mumps.'

‘Mrs Gordon!' said Dany involuntarily. ‘I might have known it!'

‘Well, frankly, darling, I
do
think that you might. However, don't let it worry you. It probably isn't true, and anyway I won't breathe a syllable. Now do tell me: I'm
dying
to know.
Why?
And of course,
Who?
 … though of course one can make a very accurate little guess at
that
one, can't one?'

‘I don't know. Can one?'

‘But of course! There is really nothing subtle about our sweet Lorraine, and when she hurries about the house removing every single photograph of her darling daughter, one
does
tend to ask oneself a few shy little questions. Not that there were
many
photographs. Lorraine is not what one would term
madly
maternal. But there were just one or two. And where are they now? “Gone with the wind that blew through Georgia?” But she forgot that there is a liberally illustrated volume lying around, all about explorations in Central somewhere, which includes a handsome photograph of her first husband; and I fear I was inquisitive enough to take a tiny peek. You really are very like your father, you know. The resemblance was quite remarkable as
soon
as one saw you without those spectacles and that distressing fringe. You forgot them the other night.'