We marked him into a patch of bush, and the bearers beat up the gulley until he came out, and then Gordon got him with a peach of a shot. He dropped like a stone and never moved.”
The noise of the celebration attracted Lord
Baradale, who emerged from his tent looking hot and red-faced, with developer stains on his
fingers. They all had another round of gimlets and heard the story over again, in more detail and with dramatic embellishments, from Catchpole. Lord Baradale only grunted and muttered something
under his breath. It was clear that his temper was on edge. He even spoke sharply to Geydi when the young Somali, moving as though the very earth he trod on was beneath contempt, rattled the trays of the refrigerator when extracting ice cubes in readiness for the white wine at luncheon.
“It’s past one,” he said peevishly, after a third round of gimlets had been consumed. “Time for lunch. Where’s Lucy?”
“I haven’t seen her since our triumphant
return.” Catchpole said. “She must be brooding enviously in her tent.” Lord Baradale heaved
62
himself out of his chair and went off to fetch her.
He strutted along on his short legs like a bantam in a hurry, too round to look impressive;
A few minutes later he returned to the table by himself. “She must have gone off somewhere,” he said. “I’ve been in my tent all the morning
developing, and I haven’t seen her. It’s damned inconsiderate. She knows I don’t like a late lunch.
Well, we won’t wait.”
It was not until they had finished the cold
guineafowl and canned Bradenham ham at two
o’clock that any one started to worry. Then de Mare slipped away from his seat and disappeared behind the tents. He came back looking perturbed and anxious. Chris Davis jumped to her feet the moment she saw his face.
“Rutley says he took her out in the car this
morning and dropped her at the drift about
eleven,” he announced. “She told him that she wanted to walk home along the river, and no one seems to have seen her since.”
“By herself?” Lord Baradale asked sharply.
“I was out with Gordon, and Vachell had gone
off in the plane with Chris. She shouldn’t have done it. She knows that no one’s allowed out of camp without one of the hunters.”
“Rutley had no business to let her go off alone!”
Chris exclaimed.
“No. He’s behaved like a fool. Vachell, take a car and a gun-bearer, go down to the drift and work back along the river. I’ll start from this end.
63
You’d better go with him, Chris.”
“I’m coming with you, de Mare,” Lord
Baradale said. “This isn’t your fault. At last I’ll be able to get that bloody chauffeur sacked!”
At half past two de Mare, Lord Baradale, and
three natives, moving in open formation down the river, were halted by a shout from the hunter’s gun-bearer, a sturdy native by the name of Japhet.
“Look at the birds, bwana,” he said.
>, l╗ vv aiia,
A cloud of vultures was hovering and wheeling in the sky, black against a brilliant blue. De Mare squinted up at them in the strong light.
“Yes,” he said impatiently. “They are eating the lion which bwana Catchpole shot this morning.”
“There is another kill beyond,” Japhet said.
De Mare pulled out his glasses and focused on the hovering birds. He could see then that there were two separate points of attraction in the bush beneath. Sometimes the vultures settled in one spot, sometimes in another. He sprinted towards them up the gulley, dodging like a duiker through the bush.
A few minutes later he found all that remained of Lucy, Lady Baradale — a skeleton half covered with shreds of torn flesh and tattered strips of clothing, lying in a bloody trampled circle in the bush. Vultures wheeled overhead, angry at the sudden interruption. Lord Baradale panted up, and checked his impetus abruptly. He stared
down at the gruesome remnants, his chest heaving, the sun shining hotly on to his bare and
64
polished head.
The noise of the celebration attracted Lord
Baradale, who emerged from his tent looking hot and red-faced, with developer stains on his
fingers. They all had another round of gimlets and heard the story over again, in more detail and with dramatic embellishments, from Catchpole. Lord Baradale only grunted and muttered something
under his breath. It was clear that his temper was on edge. He even spoke sharply to Geydi when the young Somali, moving as though the very earth he trod on was beneath contempt, rattled the trays of the refrigerator when extracting ice cubes in readiness for the white wine at luncheon.
“It’s past one,” he said peevishly, after a third round of gimlets had been consumed. “Time for lunch. Where’s Lucy?”
“I haven’t seen her since our triumphant
return.” Catchpole said. “She must be brooding enviously in her tent.” Lord Baradale heaved
62
himself out of his chair and went off to fetch her.
He strutted along on his short legs like a bantam in a hurry, too round to look impressive;
A few minutes later he returned to the table by himself. “She must have gone off somewhere,” he said. “I’ve been in my tent all the morning
developing, and I haven’t seen her. It’s damned inconsiderate. She knows I don’t like a late lunch.
Well, we won’t wait.”
It was not until they had finished the cold
guineafowl and canned Bradenham ham at two
o’clock that any one started to worry. Then de Mare slipped away from his seat and disappeared behind the tents. He came back looking perturbed and anxious. Chris Davis jumped to her feet the moment she saw his face.
“Rutley says he took her out in the car this
morning and dropped her at the drift about
eleven,” he announced. “She told him that she wanted to walk home along the river, and no one seems to have seen her since.”
“By herself?” Lord Baradale asked sharply.
“I was out with Gordon, and Vachell had gone
off in the plane with Chris. She shouldn’t have done it. She knows that no one’s allowed out of camp without one of the hunters.”
“Rutley had no business to let her go off alone!”
Chris exclaimed.
“No. He’s behaved like a fool. Vachell, take a car and a gun-bearer, go down to the drift and work back along the river. I’ll start from this end.
63
You’d better go with him, Chris.”
“I’m coming with you, de Mare,” Lord
Baradale said. “This isn’t your fault. At last I’ll be able to get that bloody chauffeur sacked!”
At half past two de Mare, Lord Baradale, and
three natives, moving in open formation down the river, were halted by a shout from the hunter’s gun-bearer, a sturdy native by the name of Japhet.
“Look at the birds, bwana,” he said.
>, l╗ vv aiia,
A cloud of vultures was hovering and wheeling in the sky, black against a brilliant blue. De Mare squinted up at them in the strong light.
“Yes,” he said impatiently. “They are eating the lion which bwana Catchpole shot this morning.”
“There is another kill beyond,” Japhet said.
De Mare pulled out his glasses and focused on the hovering birds. He could see then that there were two separate points of attraction in the bush beneath. Sometimes the vultures settled in one spot, sometimes in another. He sprinted towards them up the gulley, dodging like a duiker through the bush.
A few minutes later he found all that remained of Lucy, Lady Baradale — a skeleton half covered with shreds of torn flesh and tattered strips of clothing, lying in a bloody trampled circle in the bush. Vultures wheeled overhead, angry at the sudden interruption. Lord Baradale panted up, and checked his impetus abruptly. He stared
down at the gruesome remnants, his chest heaving, the sun shining hotly on to his bare and
64
polished head.
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