War Cry. Wilbur Smith
a million? Cash?’ Amelia gasped.
‘Absolutely. I once plucked up the courage to ask Leon where his money came from it, but he was very coy. First he described it as “war reparations” and then he said it was payment for various patents that had belonged to Eva’s father.’
‘Perhaps he’s a gangster and it’s all the proceeds of his evil crimes!’ said Amelia, excitedly. ‘I rather like the idea of being – what’s the phrase? – a gangster’s moll.’
‘I’m sure you do, duckie, but whatever else he might be, Leon Courtney’s not a criminal. My guess is that it’s something to do with the war.’ Idina’s eyes suddenly sparkled with mischief. ‘I tell you what, darling, I shall set you a challenge. I’m going to change the placement I’d planned for the dinner table tonight and put you next to Leon. If you can find out where he got his gold by the time we retire to leave the men to their brandy and cigars I shall be very impressed indeed.’
‘Done!’ said the Hon. Amelia. ‘And I’ll seduce him, too, just you watch me, wife or no wife.’
Idina arched an eyebrow and concluded their little chat: ‘Now, now, darling, let’s not be greedy.’
Thanks to the combined efforts of Idina Hay and her formidable housekeeper Marie, the kitchen staff at Slains had been trained to produce French cuisine that would not have shamed the dinner table of a château on the Loire. The wine, notoriously difficult to keep in good condition in the tropics, was of equally high standard. Leon had long ago learned to pace himself when drinking at altitude, but the woman sitting next to him, who introduced herself as Amelia Cory-Porter, seemed determined to force as much Premier Cru claret as possible down his throat. She was attractive enough, in an obvious, uninteresting way, and covered in far too much make-up for his taste. She was also very clearly determined to get something from him, but Leon was not yet sure quite what that might be.
At first he’d thought she was flirting, for everything he knew about women told him that if he made a pass at her she would very happily oblige. But as the starter of confit duck breasts served with a salad of vegetables from Slains’ own gardens gave way to superb entrecôte steaks served in a pepper sauce, he realized that Amelia was not after his body – or not at this precise moment anyway – but was instead angling for information. It was, of course, good manners to show interest in one’s dining companions and any woman with half a brain knew how to make a man feel as though he was the wisest, most fascinating and witty fellow she had ever met. But Amelia was not flattering, so much as cross-examining him, working her way through his life and becoming more intense in her questioning as she went on. His war service seemed to be of particular interest to her. Leon had done his best to fob her off by saying he never talked about the war, adding that in his experience any man who did was a bounder who was almost certainly lying. ‘Unless, of course, he’s a poet,’ he’d added, hoping she might, like many an idealistic young woman, be distracted by thoughts of Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and the other bards of war.
Amelia, however, wasn’t distracted for a second. She was like a terrier with the scent of a particularly juicy rabbit in its nostrils. ‘I heard the most extraordinary story about how you’d shot down a giant Zeppelin, single-handed. Do tell, that sounds so brave, is it actually true?’
‘That sounds pretty improbable to me,’ Leon said. ‘Damned hard thing to shoot down, a Zeppelin, just ask any pilot. Now, I’ve talked far too much. You must tell me everything that’s happening in London, what’s new and interesting and so forth. Eva will be thrilled if I can pass on any news of home.’
Leon had been telling the truth, up to a point. It really was extremely hard to down a Zeppelin with machine-gun fire, which was one reason why he had never done any such thing. And Eva would indeed be keen to hear about the latest clothes, plays, novels and music that were captivating London society.
Amelia, however, was having none of it. ‘Oh, who cares about silly dresses and even sillier books? I want to hear about that Zeppelin.’
Leon sighed. This was not a subject he had any intention of discussing, but how could he evade this woman’s steely clutches without being unforgivably rude? He was just pondering his next move when he heard a man’s voice, clearly somewhat the worse for wine, braying across the table.
‘I say Courtney, is it true you have a Masai blood brother?’
The voice belonged to a newcomer to Kenya, who called himself Quentin de Lancey and affected the mannerisms of the upper class, though his appearance was far from noble. He was overweight and prone to become both red-faced and very sweaty in the heat, which caused his thin, reddish-brown hair to lie in damp strings across his pale, flabby skin.
‘Something of that sort,’ Leon replied, noncommittally.
When he was a nineteen-year-old Second Lieutenant in the Third Battalion of the King’s African Rifles his platoon sergeant had been a Masai called Manyoro. Leon had saved Manyoro’s life in battle, and when Leon had then been court-martialled on trumped-up charges of cowardice and desertion it had been Manyoro’s evidence that had saved his neck. There was no man on earth whose friendship he valued more highly.
‘And a coon name? Bongo-something, was what I’d heard.’ A few people smiled at that, one of the women tittered. ‘Bongo from Bongo-bongo-land, what?’ de Lancey added, looking delighted by his own rapier wit.
‘The name I received was M’Bogo,’ said Leon, and a wiser, or more sober man than de Lancey might have heard the note of suppressed anger in his voice.
‘I say, what kind of name is that?’ de Lancey persisted.
‘It is the name of the great buffalo bull. It represents strength and fighting spirit. I count myself honoured to have been given it.’
Again, it took a fool not to heed the warning contained in the phrase ‘strength and fighting spirit’, and again de Lancey was deaf to it. ‘Oh, come-come, Courtney,’ he said, as if he were the voice of reason and Leon the common fool. ‘It’s all very well getting on with these people, I suppose, but let’s not pretend that they are anything but a lesser race. A chap I know was up-country a few months ago, looking for a good spot to start farming. He hung a paraffin lamp by his tent when he stopped for the night. The next thing he knew there were half-a-dozen nig-nogs coming up out of the bush, absolutely stark bollock naked apart from those red cloak things they wear.’
‘It’s called a shuka,’ said Leon.
Beside him, Amelia Cory-Porter’s eyes had widened and she was breathing just a little more heavily as she sensed that the man beside her was readying himself to impose his authority, possibly by force.
‘Yes, well, whatever it’s called, the poor chap was absolutely terrified, real brown-trouser time,’ de Lancey said. ‘Turned out the niggers just wanted to sit by his tent, cocks swinging gently in the breeze, gawping at the light – my chum didn’t know where to look! They’d never seen anything like it, thought it was a star trapped in a bottle.’
Leon realized that he had clenched his napkin in his right fist and recognized the signs of an imminent explosion. Control yourself, he thought. Count to ten. No point making an exhibition of yourself over one blithering idiot.
He consciously relaxed his body, much to Amelia’s disappointment as she felt her own gathering anticipation subside.
‘It’s true that the first sight of a white man and his possessions comes as a surprise,’ Leon said, as dully as possible, hoping to close the subject and move on.
‘Of course it does,’ said de Lancey, who was equally keen to prolong the thrilling sensation of being the centre of everyone’s attention. ‘These people haven’t developed anything that remotely passes for a civilization.’
Leon gave an impatient sigh. Damn! I’m just going to have to put this buffoon in his place.
‘The Masai have no skyscrapers, or aeroplanes, or telephones in their world, that is true. But they know things that we cannot