Mackenzie Ford Read online

  At first uncomprehending, and then disbelieving, they had approached Richard’s tent together, warily, until they had seen yet another monkey gambol out between the tent flaps, carrying a photo frame, which it dropped when it saw them and hurried off toward the acacia fence. Then Christopher had lost no time in entering Richard’s tent, with Russell following him.

  Natalie had watched from a distance. Now that her ordeal was over, for the time being at least, shock had set in. She had begun shaking. The only dead body she had seen before this was her mother’s and that, she was now convinced, had been a mistake. She couldn’t remember her mother as she had been in life, standing behind her father at the piano as they sang together the songs of Hugo Wolf, now and then reaching across for her beloved Gitanes. Instead, the image Natalie couldn’t rid herself of was Violette Nelson’s charred limbs, the blackened crust of her skin, the faint smell of singed hair.

  It was the same now with Richard Sutton. As she swallowed her coffee in great, greedy gulps, the buzzing of those flies, that seething black cloud, the sound of an electric drill feeding on the red-black chasm that was Richard’s throat, kept rising in her mind, the flies crawling in and out of his nostrils, picking at his eyelids.

  A fly had entered the refectory tent and its buzzing brought her out in a sweat all over again.

  The coffee helped, but not much.

  Eleanor had appeared not long after Christopher and Russell. She had taken in the scene and, as Natalie was interested to observe, when the other woman came out of Richard’s tent, she looked as angry as she was shocked. She had asked Christopher and Russell to cordon off the area around Richard’s quarters and mount a guard to stop any more interference by monkeys, and then retreated to the radio-telephone to contact the police and the coroner in Nairobi.

  By then the ancillary staff had begun to gather in small groups and Jonas had appeared. After he inspected the body and saw there was nothing he could do, his first thought had been for Natalie. She had refused a sedative but the coffee was more than welcome.

  From where she sat she watched as Jonas took a sheet from the laundry area and carried it to Richard’s tent, no doubt to cover the body and shield it from yet more flies. Then all three men converged back on the refectory tent. Eleanor did the same.

  There was by now a large jug of steaming coffee on the main table. One by one, they helped themselves, then swallowed in silence, until Eleanor murmured, “The police are on their way, plus Dr. Ndome, the coroner. It’s an hour and a half’s flight from Nairobi, as you know, so they should be here inside three.” She turned to Jonas. “You’ve covered the body?”

  He nodded. “That wound … it looks like a machete was used.”

  Eleanor nodded over her coffee.

  Kees and Arnold Pryce appeared and were told what had happened.

  Silence as they all reflected on Richard’s final moments.

  Natalie finished her coffee and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “I … I may have seen the killer.”

  All eyes turned to her.

  “I was sitting smoking last night, like I always do. But I’d switched off the lamp, because the moon was so bright. I was winding down, listening to the animals, when I suddenly saw someone. It was Mutevu Ndekei.”

  “You’re sure?” Eleanor looked fierce. She was wearing a green khaki shirt this morning, and sand-colored chinos.

  “Oh yes, I think so. He was wearing those rubber boots he always wears. I could tell it was him by the way he shuffled.”

  “And he was headed towards Richard’s tent?”

  Natalie thought for a moment. “He was going that way, yes. I saw him move past the campfire.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  “Not that I could see. I thought he was maybe visiting a woman, or coming back from a … a meeting.”

  “You’ll have to tell this to the police.” Eleanor threw the dregs of her coffee into the remains of the fire. “What with your evidence, and the fact that Mutevu’s missing, there’s no mystery about the culprit.”

  “Or the motive,” breathed Christopher.

  “No,” sighed Eleanor, very quietly.

  “You think … you think this is a revenge attack?” said Russell quietly. His face was flushed, his freckles seeming to stand out more today.

  “I do,” said Eleanor, setting down her mug on the table. “I wish it weren’t true but I fear that it is. Mutevu is a Maasai. He was around the table when Richard and you let slip what you had been doing in the burial ground. He may have overheard—and told the elders, who authorized him to … to do what he’s done.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Russell said, still whispering. “If you’re right, it’s crazy, mad, sick. All we did was steal a few bones. You don’t slit someone’s throat for that.”

  “Not in California perhaps,” replied Eleanor tartly. “Though there have been some pretty sick murders there, as I seem to recall.” She thrust her chin forward. “But let’s not run ahead of ourselves too much. The police will be here this morning, I must let the next of kin know, and the foundation that is sponsoring the dig. And I’ll call Jack; he’ll have some thoughts about this. There’ll be no work today, of course, but We’ll meet later, when it’s quieter, and the shock has worn off, to decide what to do.”

  She looked at her watch. “Natalie, Christopher and Russell can cope here, I should say. I think you should go back to your tent and write an account of what you saw last night. Sign it and date it and I will then witness it. A fast, contemporary account will be much more impressive as evidence. Do you understand?”

  Natalie nodded. She had been up for barely an hour and already she felt exhausted.

  “Good.” Eleanor looked from Natalie to Christopher, her gaze lingering on Russell. “There’s a lot more I could say, but now is not the time.”

  • • •

  Eleanor, Natalie, Christopher, and Russell North stood halfway down the Kihara airstrip and waved as the Piper picked up speed, lurched forward, and began to raise a cloud of red-yellow dust behind it. The noise grew, the plane’s tail lifted, and just as it drew level with the waiting group, its wheels left the ground. A few eland grazing near the strip ran away from the noise.

  Eleanor led the waving as Dr. Ndome, the coroner, in the pilot’s seat, waved back. The plane gained height, banked, and turned off, away from the sun, on a bearing for Nairobi. The foursome on the ground climbed into the Land Rover for the drive back to camp.

  “Three planes in one day,” said Christopher. “I can’t remember the strip being so busy.”

  It was true enough. The plane carrying the police and the coroner had been followed by another small plane carrying three journalists. Aggressive, skeptical men who had smoked too much, brought their own beer, and poked around for a few hours, then flown back to Nairobi to file their stories. No one had bothered to see them off. And, shortly after lunch, the air ambulance had arrived. The ambulance men had remained on the ground barely an hour before they had flown back to Nairobi with the body.

  During the day everybody in the camp had been interviewed by the police, exact measurements had been made of the scene, a plaster cast made of a footprint of a Wellington boot found outside Richard Sutton’s tent, and endless photographs taken. The police had taken away Natalie’s written statement, though she had also been questioned closely by the most senior of the three police officers who had accompanied the coroner, and he had made a careful record of her answers. To cap it all, one of the other police officers had found a small piece of cloth snagged on one of the dead thorn bushes that formed the fence of the camp near Richard Sutton’s tent. It was part of Mutevu Ndekei’s apron.

  For most of the way back to camp they drove in silence, each alone with his or her thoughts. But then Eleanor said, “I’ve informed the next of kin.” She rubbed her eyes. “That’s not something I’ve ever had to do before or want to do again. And I’ve told the foundation. I expect we’ll get reactions over the next few
days. Maybe a visit.”

  “It’s a pity we can’t release the news about the discoveries,” said Russell. “I mean, it’s something positive.”

  Christopher, in the front passenger seat, next to his mother, turned swiftly to him in the backseat. “How can you say that? What have you got in your veins, Russell—ice?” He lowered his voice. “Someone’s just died, horribly. Choked on his own blood. It’s not a question of one press release or another.”

  Natalie stared at him. She had never known Christopher to display so much emotion over anything.

  “I’m sorry,” breathed Russell to the others after a pause. “I didn’t mean it in that way. Come on. I’m as upset as anyone. After all, I’m at risk too.”

  “Yes,” said Eleanor, hissing the word. “I’ve been thinking about that. How do you feel, Russell? I mean, if this crime was committed for the reason we think it was, there is no question but that your life is also in danger. How do you want to manage the sleeping arrangements tonight?”

  Russell craned forward. “What do you mean?”

  They had almost reached the fence of acacia and sisal thorns that surrounded the camp.

  “You have a handgun, I believe. But I think I should give you a better weapon for tonight. I’m not sure who else on the staff is Maasai. Also, I’ll make a show of handing over the gun at dinner, so everyone will know you’ve got it. That might make it safer. Do you know how to use a shotgun?”

  He smiled nervously. “I guess. It’s a while since I used one.”

  “Hmmm.” Eleanor cast her eye over the fencing as she drove into the camp through the gate. She was responsible for everything. “Here’s what We’ll do,” she said, reversing the Land Rover into its space. “I’ll show you how to fire it, and you can loose off a couple of rounds. The noise will be a warning too.” She switched off the engine and opened the door. “Natalie, you’d better sleep with me.”

  “What? Why? What on earth for?” Natalie’s heart sank. What would happen to her late-night winding-down sessions?

  “Security. Mutevu is still at large, so far as we know, and you are the only witness. I suppose you could be at risk, too.”

  “No! Eleanor, you’re overreacting, surely?”

  “It’s your first time here, Natalie. Trust my judgment. I know this part of the world and with independence not far off these are unsettled times. There’s been trouble even at a nurses’ training college, where they require their nurses to become nuns. Local Kenyans say that’s inappropriate now. Independence is affecting everything. No, you’d better sleep with me. For tonight anyway, until I work something out.”

  Natalie looked across to Christopher for help but he just shrugged and banged shut his door. His mother was boss.

  A woman ran forward. She was dressed in the same white overall that all the kitchen staff wore.

  “Yes, Naiva, what is it?” said Eleanor, putting the keys of the vehicle in the glove compartment where the monkeys wouldn’t find them. “Has Mutevu been arrested?”

  “No ma’am. But one of his rubber boots has been found. Masera was in Elephant Korongo this afternoon and he saw some baboons playing with it.” She paused, looking frightened. “It’s covered with blood.”

  • • •

  “Do you mind if we have a second nip?” Russell North lifted the whiskey flask off the small table in front of him. “What a day! I don’t want to live through a day like that again, not anytime soon.”

  Natalie sat across the small table, as usual. The usual noises came from the jungle, quarrels and moans; the usual stars flickered silently overhead.

  “No, go ahead. We broke our one-nip-a-night rule last night. Today certainly counts as a two-nip day.” She flashed a brief smile at Russell.

  Dinner tonight had been a stilted affair. Eleanor, as Natalie could see only too well, was angry inside—a swamp of swirling, searing, curdling emotions. In decades of digging, nothing like this had ever happened to Eleanor Deacon, or her excavations, and despite the shock, despite the overreaction of Mutevu, and/or the Maasai, despite the horrors of blood and coroners and air ambulances and cynical, prying journalists, Eleanor’s main feeling was regret, regret that the killing had happened, rather than sympathy with Richard Sutton, who had done something very foolish in her view. That much was plain.

  Natalie found Eleanor’s reaction understandable, but she did not agree with it. Richard and Russell had behaved badly—yes, very badly. They had been willful, crass, egocentric beyond—well, beyond all understanding. But theirs was not a capital offense, not in her book, not by a long chalk. Grossly insensitive—yes; insulting—yes; disrespectful—yes. All that. Their behavior made her breathless just thinking about it. But the crime, surely, did not merit the punishment, which was also beyond understanding, and barbaric. Those flies on Richard’s throat, in his nostrils, the pungent, acrid smell of urine … she shuddered all over again.

  Russell poured a second cup of whiskey. The cup seemed so tiny in his hands, Natalie thought. He handed it across to her. She shook her head. “You first.”

  He gulped the liquid and his Adam’s apple rocked in his throat. “What a mess.”

  “Not what I imagined for my first real dig.” She took the cup. She hadn’t changed all day. No one had bothered with showers. She felt dirty and wretched.

  “Is that the first dead person you’ve seen, Russell?”

  He shook his head. “No. But don’t ask any more. I grew up in the outback, remember. I don’t want to talk about it, not tonight. Okay?”

  “I’ll change the subject, then. Since I’m going to be spending the night with her, tell me what you know about Eleanor.”

  He took back the whiskey cup and drank from it, smacking his lips as he did so. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. He hadn’t shaved and the stubble on his chin was longer than ever. He looked a bit wretched too.

  “A difficult woman, but then she’s had a difficult time. She was old Jock Deacon’s second wife. Jock, born in South Africa, was a dedicated paleontologist—also very good—but he had one flaw, and it was a big one.” Russell stroked the crease on his cheek. “Women, younger women, a succession of them. He divorced his first wife—a bad career move in those days, which denied him a full professorship in your very own university, Cambridge, which was very straitlaced in the years before the war. Denied that avenue, he allowed himself to expand in other directions.” Russell rubbed the stubble on his jaw, passing his fingers back and forth, seeming to notice it for the first time. “Jock ran the first and the finest digs in Kihara Gorge, and although he married Eleanor two years after his divorce from his first wife, he was soon philandering. One young researcher after another turned up here; he gave them projects, and took them to bed.”

  “Didn’t she mind? And how do you know all this?”

  Monkey screams came from the gorge. Natalie and Russell grinned at each other.

  “I’ll answer the second question first.” He wet his lips with more whiskey. “I know all this because everyone in paleontology knows it, but also because one of the women—Lizbet Kondal, a Swede—worked in my department at Berkeley, and she told me firsthand.” Russell played with what was left of the chocolate packet that Natalie had placed on the table. “Did Eleanor mind? If she did, she never showed it. Jock was a bit of a showman on the side. He knew he had to be, had to make paleontology sexy to the foundations, in order to get them to part with their money. Therefore it didn’t hurt if he was a little larger than life—and the press lapped it up. But Eleanor was always more interested in the science—and she was the better scientist in any case. She let Jock go round the world lecturing, raising funds, charming foundations and young women in more or less equal measure. Meanwhile, she got on with the hard slog of recording all the finds, putting them in order, writing them up.”

  Natalie lit a cigarette.

  “They must have loved each other in the early days; after that the arrangement suited both of them; then, finally, it got very compe
titive and that was not so nice to watch. Towards the end of Jock’s life, he realized that Eleanor had overtaken him. She knew more, had published far more—and far better—papers.”

  He sighed, passing his fingers through his hair. “Finally, she was offered the Cambridge professorship he had always been denied, that and a fellowship of the Royal Society, the first and only paleontologist to be honored in such a way. Some say his envy at her success killed him, but in fact Eleanor is always generous about Jock. She could never have done what she did without the funds he raised, that’s what she always says.”

  “Did she never … you know, break out?” Natalie was longing for a shower and, above all, a clean bra.

  He shook his head. “I’ve never seen it. Lizbet told me Eleanor did once have an affair, with some government lawyer from Nairobi, but if she did she was far more discreet than Jock. Few details leaked out.”

  He fell silent and for a moment neither spoke. There were more clouds tonight and the moonlight was much less. The yellow glow from the hurricane lamp made the shadows deep. Russell’s eyes were bluer than ever.

  He leaned over, and reached for her hand.

  She took it away, as she had done before.

  He shook his head. “You still can’t loosen up then?”

  “Russell! Think what’s happened today. I’m still in shock at what I saw, what I discovered. Your life might be at risk, you’ve got a gun—two guns—to keep away … to keep away who knows what. Now isn’t the time—”

  “But that’s not why … that’s not why you did what you did, is it?”

  She didn’t reply immediately. She wanted to slow down. Pauses, silences, could mean as much as words. “I told you … I’m not ready.”

  He looked at her, holding the whiskey cup to his lips. “If you say so.”

  If he didn’t believe her, she thought, well, that couldn’t be helped, and it was perhaps better that way. It shouldn’t always be necessary to spell things out. Russell wasn’t … damn Dominic.

  The silence lengthened. Strong animal smells wafted in from somewhere.