Death in Kenya by M. M. Kaye Page B

‘Expected you yesterday.’
    He embraced his wife and was introduced to Victoria. ‘Bless my soul!’ said Mr Brocas-Gill. ‘Jack Caryll’s girl. I remember your father when— Why, dammit, I remember you! Skinny little thing in plaits. Used to ride a zebra. Glad to see you back.’
    He relieved his wife of a dressing-case and an overnight bag and trotted beside them into the comparative coolness of the Airport building:
    â€˜Who are you stayin’ with? Oh, Em. Hmm. Isn’t here, is she? Can’t understand it! Bad business. Just shows that it doesn’t do to get too complacent. Who’s meetin’ you?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ confessed Victoria uncertainly.
    â€˜Oh well, they’re sure to send someone. We’ll keep an eye on you for the moment. Hi! Pet——!’ He plunged off in pursuit of his wife who had departed to greet a friend.
    Left alone Victoria looked about her a little desperately, searching for a familiar face, until her attention was arrested by a man who had just entered the hall and was standing scanning the newly arrived passengers as though he were looking for someone.
    He was a tall, slim, sunburnt man in the early thirties, who carried his inches with a peculiar lounging grace that somehow suggested the popular conception of a cowboy. An effect that was heightened by the fact that he, like Oswin Brocas-Gill, wore a belt that supported a revolver. But there the cowboy resemblance ended, for the cut of the carelessly careful coat, in contrast to Oswin’s crumpled attire, spoke almost offensively of Savile Row, while his shoes were undoubtedly handmade – though not in Kenya.
    It was not, however, his personal appearance that had caught Victoria’s attention, but the fact that he was now observing her with interest and a distinct suggestion of distaste. Men were apt to look at Victoria with interest. They had been doing so in increasing numbers since somewhere around her sixteenth birthday, so there was nothing new in that. What was new was the distaste. No man had ever previously regarded her with the coldly critical lack of approval that was in the blue gaze of the gentleman by the doorway, and Victoria involuntarily glanced down to assure herself that she was not showing six inches of petticoat or wearing odd stockings. She was engaged in this apprehensive survey when he crossed the hall and spoke to her:
    â€˜Are you Miss Caryll?’
    It was an agreeable voice – or would have been agreeable if it had not been for her conviction that for some reason its owner disapproved of her.
    â€˜Y-yes,’ said Victoria, disconcerted by that disapproval and annoyed to find herself stammering.
    The man reached out and calmly possessed himself of the small suitcase she held. ‘My name’s Stratton. Lady Emily asked me to meet you. You’d better give me your passport and entry permit and all the rest of it, and I’ll get someone to deal with it. Got any money on you?’
    â€˜A little,’ said Victoria.
    â€˜You’ll have to get it changed into local currency.’
    He held out his hand and Victoria found herself meekly surrendering her bag.
    â€˜Stay here. You’d better sit on that sofa,’ said Mr Stratton, and left her.
    Victoria took his advice and sat staring after his retreating back with a mixture of indignation and relief. She could not imagine why Aunt Emily should have sent this disapproving stranger to meet her, but at least it was not Eden.
    She had not realized that she could feel like this. So shaken and unsure of herself and so afraid of being hurt. Well, it was entirely her own fault. She had refused to face facts while there was still time, and now it was too late. She leaned back on the sofa and rested her head against the wall behind it, unaware that she was looking exceedingly pale and shaken.
    A stout figure bore down upon her, exuding an overpowering wave of