Then he lifted his rifle and emptied the magazine into a cluster of vultures perched like obscene black fruit in the branches of a nearby tree. Three birds thudded heavily to the ground, and lay still.
65
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Half an hour after de Mare’s gun-bearer reached them, panting, with the news, Vachell and Chris Davis were back in camp. There was a tense air of expectation everywhere. Crowds of natives seemed to have sprung out of the ground. They stood
about in little clusters, chattering excitedly, and turning their heads at intervals to gaze towards the messtent where the Europeans had assembled.
They were all there except Lord Baradale. He
had retreated into his tent, and no one liked to disturb him. De Mare was pacing up and down
with nervous, jerky strides, looking white and unhappy. He was responsible for the safety of the party; the death of one of them might mean the end of his career. Gordon Catchpole sat limply in a chair, drinking neat gin. Rutley lounged by the opening, impassively smoking cigarettes. His
ruddy-cheeked, handsome face betrayed no
expression. Occasionally he raised his eyes and glanced at Paula, who sat rigidly with her hands 66
clasped on her crossed knees, pale and nervous.
Vachell looked at her quickly as he stooped to enter through the open flap . Her face was heartshaped; high, wide cheekbones, a pointed chin,
and dark wavy hair with a widow’s peak. Her skin was chalkwhite and she had long eyes with
heavily mascaraed lashes. She was small-boned, and wore a tight cream-coloured linen skirt, a navy open-necked linen shirt, and sandals.
De Mare halted abruptly in his stride as Chris and Vachell entered. He nodded towards the table and chairs in the centre of the tent.
“Sit down,” he said. His voice was low and incisive.
“We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. It
won’t be pleasant, but we’ve got to face it. We’ve got to find out how Lady Baradale died.”
“Can’t we send to Malabeya for the D.C.?” Catchpole asked. His voice was edgy and plaintive.
Surely it’s his job to deal with legal things like this.”
De Mare turned and stared down at him. “Yes,
it is. But the D.C. isn’t at Malabeya. Vachell and I called at his office yesterday and he’s gone out on a camel safari. No one knows when he’ll be back.”
“What a god-forsaken country,” Catchpole said.
He reached for the gin bottle and poured another drink.
“Lady Baradale must have been dead for at least two hours when we found the — her,” de Mare
went on. “Probably more. That would mean she
died some time between eleven and twelve-thirty 67
this morning. I don’t think we can put it any closer than that.”
“How about the vultures?” Vachell asked.
“Couldn’t we fix the time of the … accident, if any of the boys noticed when they started to, well, come around?”
“We could have,” de Mare answered, “if it
hadn’t been for Gordon’s lion. Lady Baradale’s remains were found about a hundred yards from where we killed the lion this morning. The
vultures started to gather at once, of course, and they were all round the place while the boys were skinning it. From a distance you wouldn’t be able to tell that they’d found a second kill;”
Paula gave a convulsive shudder and buried her face in her hands.
“My God, it’s awful,” Gordon moaned. “I can
see it all now! Poor dear Lucy came walking along after we’d shot the lion, not a thought of danger in her head, and met his infuriated mate! The lioness charged, intent on vengeance; she sprang on poor unsuspecting Lucy; she buried her claws in …
oh, I can’t bear it!” He rocked to and fro in his chair.
De Mare stared at him grimly, and with some
disgust. “That theory had already occurred to me,” he said, “in a rather less dramatic form.
Unfortunately the vultures got too long a start. I couldn’t see any traces of lion-mauling, but there’s very little left to show traces of
65
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Half an hour after de Mare’s gun-bearer reached them, panting, with the news, Vachell and Chris Davis were back in camp. There was a tense air of expectation everywhere. Crowds of natives seemed to have sprung out of the ground. They stood
about in little clusters, chattering excitedly, and turning their heads at intervals to gaze towards the messtent where the Europeans had assembled.
They were all there except Lord Baradale. He
had retreated into his tent, and no one liked to disturb him. De Mare was pacing up and down
with nervous, jerky strides, looking white and unhappy. He was responsible for the safety of the party; the death of one of them might mean the end of his career. Gordon Catchpole sat limply in a chair, drinking neat gin. Rutley lounged by the opening, impassively smoking cigarettes. His
ruddy-cheeked, handsome face betrayed no
expression. Occasionally he raised his eyes and glanced at Paula, who sat rigidly with her hands 66
clasped on her crossed knees, pale and nervous.
Vachell looked at her quickly as he stooped to enter through the open flap . Her face was heartshaped; high, wide cheekbones, a pointed chin,
and dark wavy hair with a widow’s peak. Her skin was chalkwhite and she had long eyes with
heavily mascaraed lashes. She was small-boned, and wore a tight cream-coloured linen skirt, a navy open-necked linen shirt, and sandals.
De Mare halted abruptly in his stride as Chris and Vachell entered. He nodded towards the table and chairs in the centre of the tent.
“Sit down,” he said. His voice was low and incisive.
“We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. It
won’t be pleasant, but we’ve got to face it. We’ve got to find out how Lady Baradale died.”
“Can’t we send to Malabeya for the D.C.?” Catchpole asked. His voice was edgy and plaintive.
Surely it’s his job to deal with legal things like this.”
De Mare turned and stared down at him. “Yes,
it is. But the D.C. isn’t at Malabeya. Vachell and I called at his office yesterday and he’s gone out on a camel safari. No one knows when he’ll be back.”
“What a god-forsaken country,” Catchpole said.
He reached for the gin bottle and poured another drink.
“Lady Baradale must have been dead for at least two hours when we found the — her,” de Mare
went on. “Probably more. That would mean she
died some time between eleven and twelve-thirty 67
this morning. I don’t think we can put it any closer than that.”
“How about the vultures?” Vachell asked.
“Couldn’t we fix the time of the … accident, if any of the boys noticed when they started to, well, come around?”
“We could have,” de Mare answered, “if it
hadn’t been for Gordon’s lion. Lady Baradale’s remains were found about a hundred yards from where we killed the lion this morning. The
vultures started to gather at once, of course, and they were all round the place while the boys were skinning it. From a distance you wouldn’t be able to tell that they’d found a second kill;”
Paula gave a convulsive shudder and buried her face in her hands.
“My God, it’s awful,” Gordon moaned. “I can
see it all now! Poor dear Lucy came walking along after we’d shot the lion, not a thought of danger in her head, and met his infuriated mate! The lioness charged, intent on vengeance; she sprang on poor unsuspecting Lucy; she buried her claws in …
oh, I can’t bear it!” He rocked to and fro in his chair.
De Mare stared at him grimly, and with some
disgust. “That theory had already occurred to me,” he said, “in a rather less dramatic form.
Unfortunately the vultures got too long a start. I couldn’t see any traces of lion-mauling, but there’s very little left to show traces of
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