Buried in the Country Page 6

  “Would you like to follow in Heath’s and Wilson’s footsteps? Become prime minister?”

  “Of my own country, who knows?”

  “Which country—”

  Payne coughed meaningfully, but Tariro said, “Zimbabwe. Southern Rhodesia.”

  Megan racked her brains for what she knew about Southern Rhodesia.

  The road forked, the A30 continuing southward, the A395 branching off towards the North Coast. The van was still behind them when they reached the highest point on the way to the coast and the wind slammed the car. She was thankful to be driving an 1100, not a Mini.

  Despite the heavier car, she had to grip the steering wheel tightly to counter the buffeting. It took all her concentration to keep the vehicle on the road; she could barely make it out through the swishing windscreen wipers. The headlights illuminated little but diagonal shafts of water. The hammering of rain on the roof made talk impossible.

  She couldn’t have seen the van unless it had been bumper-to-bumper on her tail. Nevertheless, once they crossed the A39, she drove on down the narrowest and most tortuous side lanes. She knew them well, but any stranger was sure to get lost in the maze. Besides, they had the advantage of high hedge-banks that gave some protection against the wind’s violence.

  They reached the hotel at last. Lights shone in front of and under the portico. A few lit windows showed as dim squares. Megan’s orders said to deliver her passengers to the northwest corner of the building. She drove round the massive structure.

  Peering upward, Tariro said uneasily, “It looks like a prison.”

  “Does rather, doesn’t it?”

  “My dear chap, nothing of the sort,” Payne chipped in hastily. “An excellent hotel, I’m told.”

  The door at the back had a light over it but no portico. “Hang on half a tick,” said Megan, “while I make sure we can get in this way.”

  “Let me.” Tariro reached for the door handle.

  “No.” Megan put her hand on his arm. “You’re guests; I’m staff. If anyone has to appear drenched and tousled, it’s me.”

  The wind whipped the car door from her hand. She managed to shut it behind her. Blown forward, she lurched to the door and tried the handle.

  It was locked. Hotels did not commonly lock their entrances in the middle of the evening. Someone was taking security very seriously. She found a bell button and pushed twice.

  After waiting what seemed like forever but was no more than a minute by Megan’s count, she was about to ring again, when the door opened a crack, spilling light, then slammed back a few inches against the chain. Rather than try to make herself heard above the storm, Megan held out her warrant card through the gap. It was plucked from her fingers and, after a moment, returned to her.

  She leaned forward and shouted, “Two passengers, Payne and Tariro.”

  “Please bring your passengers and their baggage to the doorstep, Sergeant.” The voice didn’t seem to Megan to be raised; rather, perfectly modulated, as though to cut through the babble of a drawing room to announce dinner without shouting. “I shall now shut the door and wait here. Ring again when they are ready to enter immediately. I shall await your return. Your car can be parked just across the drive, opposite this door.” Which he closed.

  “Oh, wonderful!” Megan muttered. She had hoped to attain shelter along with her passengers.

  She turned back to the car. A pale face observed her anxiously through the back window; in the front, only the yellow hat was visible. She fought her way to the boot and took out the duffel bag and suitcase. The extra weight anchored her a bit as she carried them to the doorstep, but opening the driver’s door without letting it escape her grasp again was another battle. She got in and managed to yank it closed.

  “Someone’s waiting to let you in. The butler, I think. Ring the bell. I’ve got to park the car.”

  She waited to see them enter before she moved the car. Then, her own holdall in hand, tacking like a yacht sailing against the wind, she made it back to the door.

  Without much hope, she tried it before ringing the bell. The butler—compassionate or careless—had left it unlocked. Megan got herself inside and slumped for a moment against the wall before snibbing the lock. Of all the crazy places to build a hotel, the top of a cliff overlooking the North Atlantic just about took the biscuit.

  Wondering how to find Sir Edward, to whom she was supposed to report, she glanced round the hall. It was more of a corridor than a hotel lobby, with a staircase and four doors besides the one by which she had entered.

  She decided she ought to know her way about. She tapped on the nearest door, listened for a moment, then looked in. It was a dining room, the oval table set for six, with curtained windows at one end and all along the far side. Presumably it overlooked the cove and the castle ruins to the southwest and the sea to the northwest. Perhaps, to a hotelier, the views made up for the exposed location.

  On the opposite side of the passage, one door opened to a small kitchen, where a harried woman stirring a pan on the stove barely glanced up when Megan said, “Police. Just checking.” The other was labelled as a cloakroom.

  The door at the far end also bore a legend: TO MAIN LOBBY. It was locked. Megan assumed hopefully that she would be provided with a key. She and her Scotland Yard counterpart couldn’t be expected to battle their way round the building to reach the main hotel, where they were to be put up.

  “Sergeant?”

  Megan whirled round. The butler had come with silent tread down the stairs. She ought to have been more alert. “Yes?”

  “I beg your pardon for startling you.” His bland face showed neither amusement nor apology. Megan hadn’t had much to do with butlers, but they were supposed to be imperturbable, and this one passed with flying colours. “Here is the key to the door you have just examined. It will be snibbed shut between eleven and seven. This one is for the tower entrance door.”

  “I locked it when I came in.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. You might as well leave your bag here. Sir Edward wishes to speak to you upstairs, if you’d be kind enough to follow me.”

  Assuming consent, he started back up the stairs, a trifle wearily, Megan thought. Perhaps he was human after all.

  She went after him. He opened a door on the first floor corresponding to that of the dining room below, stood aside to let her enter, followed her, and announced, “Detective Sergeant—”

  “Yip!” A small white dog scampered across the floor, yipping all the way.

  “—Pencarrow, sir.”

  “Teazle?” Megan bent down and picked her up. “Aunt Nell?”

  SEVEN

  “Megan, dear, what a lovely surprise.” Eleanor jumped up from her seat by the fireplace and went to meet her niece.

  “You can’t possibly be half as surprised as I am. I was looking for you this morning and no one knew where you were. Not even Mrs. Stearns.”

  Though realising that Megan was here in an official capacity, Eleanor had no idea how much she knew, or was permitted to know. She cast a questioning look at Sir Edward as he joined them, very natty in a dark blue blazer and striped tie which Eleanor was sure had some significance that escaped her.

  There had been a bit of a scene earlier, when Gina told Eleanor they wouldn’t dress for dinner. Not having packed her one and only, rarely worn, evening dress, Eleanor was relieved. It was quite smart enough for the occasional local dinner party—Jocelyn, who had impeccable taste in clothes, had chosen it for her from a particularly fruitful donation to the shop—but not for the Bellowes. Eleanor had decided she’d rather be gauche in her good wool than shabby in her secondhand silk.

  Sir Edward always dressed for dinner, he had spluttered. Gina reminded him that their guests were students and exiles, unlikely to possess dinner jackets. In his day, he had retorted, undergrads at Oxford all had dinner jackets, though for all he knew, LSE students might have worn boiler suits.

  Gina had put her foot down.

  No
w Sir Edward once again exuded annoyance, though he smiled. “So, Detective Sergeant Pencarrow is your niece, Mrs. Trewynn? What a coincidence. I wasn’t aware that you had a relative on the local force.”

  Eleanor failed to see any reason for his irritation. However, she had suffered through enough clashes with civil servants to know they were sometimes touchy over the most unexpected trifles. Often it was best to pretend one hadn’t noticed. “Megan transferred from the Metropolitan Police several years ago,” she explained. “Sir Edward Bellowe, dear.”

  Gina came up beside him, beaming. “How delightful, Eleanor! You’ll dine with us, of course, Miss Pencarrow.”

  “Gina, really!”

  “That’s very kind of you, Lady Bellowe,” said Megan, “but I’m afraid I’m on duty. My orders are to report to you, Sir Edward.”

  “Exactly.” He gave his wife a repressive look. She wasn’t going to win this bout.

  “Another time.” She had a twinkle in her eye. “Eleanor, we must arrange something, but for now, we’d better leave them to their business.”

  “I’ll see you later, Megan.” Eleanor retrieved Teazle from Megan’s arms and she and Gina retreated to the sofa and their drinks.

  Megan left a couple of minutes later. Teazle, who was just settling down, jumped up and went to sniff and whine at the door, then gave up. Sir Edward returned to stand with his back to the fire.

  “Sorry if I was a bit abrupt, Eleanor. I was disconcerted, first by the police officer’s being a woman—”

  “You are an old fuddy-duddy,” Gina said fondly.

  “And then by her being your niece.”

  “I was surprised to see her. What’s she doing here, or is it a secret?”

  “Not from you, I suppose. Not to be spoken of in public. DS Pencarrow has accomplished the first part of her job: bringing my secretary, Payne, and the Oxford student from the nearest station. You must have heard Norton tell me that they went up to their rooms and will be down shortly. The sergeant and her counterpart from Scotland Yard, who should arrive any moment…” He frowned at his watch. “They’re staying in the main hotel, to watch for anyone showing undue interest in us.”

  “What happens if someone does?”

  Sir Edward frowned again. “We can’t do much, to tell the truth, but at least we’ll be forewarned. If we know about them, we can do our best to thwart them, whatever their designs. With luck, the officers will be able to discover how much they know, and what their intentions are. That’s why I asked for two men who wouldn’t appear to be police.”

  “No doubt that’s why one of them is a woman,” Gina proposed. “Protective colouring.”

  “Yes, I daresay. Good point, my dear.”

  “Darling, give me a bit more gin and It. I’m used to entertaining grave diplomats of all shapes, sizes, and colours, but I find I’m quite nervous about these young people.”

  “Nonsense,” said Eleanor. “I’m sure they’ll be charming. On the whole, I’ve found young Africans to be far more respectful of their elders than the youth of Britain.”

  Sir Edward laughed. “She’s got you there, Gina.”

  “The young people,” Eleanor added anxiously, “the students, they won’t be in danger, will they? If Ian Smith finds out you’re talking to them?”

  “I hardly think so. He’s a blind fool to imagine he can hold back the tide of history, but he’s not— Yes, Norton?”

  “The second party has arrived, sir. As you instructed, I directed the officer to the front entrance, to receive your orders from Sergeant Pencarrow—”

  “Not another policewoman?”

  “No, sir.” The butler came as near to a smirk as a good butler would allow himself. “The student he conveyed here, Miss … er … Nontando, went up to her room to tidy herself.”

  “Miss! Miss? Are you sure, Norton?”

  The butler’s lips twitched. “Positive, sir.”

  Sir Edward sank his head in his hands with a groan.

  “This is a great opportunity, Sir Edward,” Eleanor pointed out. “One thing Africa needs badly is more educated women, more women involved in governance.”

  Gina consulted her watch. “Only if they don’t spend too much time doing their hair. Norton, once they’re both down, and Mr. Payne, of course, we’ll give them ten minutes for a drink and then you can serve dinner.”

  “Certainly, madam. I will inform Cook.” With a slight bow, Norton turned to the door. It opened as he reached for the handle. He stood aside to let a young African enter. “Mr. Tariro, my lady. I hope I have pronounced your name correctly, sir.”

  Tariro smiled. “Spot on, old boy.”

  Gina and Sir Edward converged on him. Eleanor sipped her Scotch and soda and observed. Tariro’s clothes were very similar to Sir Edward’s, though his trousers had an up-to-date flare. Only his Afro mop of hair—a style Eleanor had rarely seen in Africa—suggested revolutionary tendencies. His manners were excellent. His speech, though influenced by the clipped accent of Southern African colonial English, was mostly Oxford, like Sir Edward’s. It was odd, she mused, that Oxford University had somehow, sometime, developed its own distinctive brand of the Queen’s English.

  Sir Edward asked what he’d like to drink and went to pour him a sherry, while Gina brought him over to be introduced to Eleanor.

  “A dear friend of mine,” Gina explained to him, “who has spent a good deal of time in Africa, including your country.”

  They shook hands and Eleanor asked, “Did you have a good journey down?”

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Trewynn. The trains were more or less on time.” The young man grinned. “And I don’t get a police chauffeur picking me up every day.”

  “What a treat!”

  “Your chauffeur was Mrs. Trewynn’s niece,” Gina told him.

  “She’s a whizz of a driver. Conditions were horrible.”

  “It wasn’t too bad when I arrived,” Eleanor said, “but I was quite glad not to be driving. My car broke down just as I was about to leave. I had to beg a friend for a lift.”

  “What kind of car have you got?”

  Eleanor found herself involved in a discussion of the faults and merits of the Morris Minor. It was not a subject she would ever have guessed would come up at a meeting of this sort.

  While they were chatting, another man came in, a white man, unannounced by the butler. He looked every inch a junior civil servant in mufti—a discreet grey tweed instead of pinstripes. Sir Edward brought him over to say hello to Gina, whom he knew, and introduced him to Eleanor as his secretary, Payne, then drew him over to the window, where they talked in low voices.

  The door opened and Norton, holding an ice bucket, announced, “Miss Nontando, my lady.”

  “Nontando!” Tariro exclaimed softly as Gina surged to her feet and went with Sir Edward to welcome the latest arrival.

  A striking figure in a sleeveless scarlet trouser suit over a sunshine yellow blouse, she was almost as tall as her fellow countryman, even with her short-clipped hair contending with his bushy head. Fashionable platform shoes accounted for several inches of her height, Eleanor realised. Despite this impediment, she bore herself with the queenly carriage that enabled African women to walk with astounding loads balanced on their heads. The effect was elegant and self-confident.

  Tariro was watching, too, frowning. When Gina turned and, a hand on Nontando’s arm, started to bring her over to meet Eleanor, he drifted away without a word. Eleanor wondered whether they had met upstairs and developed an instant mutual antipathy … No, her entrance had taken him by surprise. They had met previously, and either disliked each other or had crossed swords over politics. Or both.

  The number of Zimbabwean exiles in Britain was probably not large. Large enough to keep their factionalism alive, though; otherwise Sir Edward would not propose to exercise his diplomatic skills on this pair.

  Eleanor decided she’d better start earning her keep by trying to find out what exactly was amiss between the two Zimbabweans.
She invited Nontando to sit beside her. “I hope you don’t mind my dog.”

  Nontando hesitated a moment. “No, of course not.”

  Teazle, dozing at Eleanor’s feet, opened her eyes to study the newcomer but did not move.

  Gina went after Tariro. Sir Edward brought Nontando a glass of lager and waved the whisky decanter. “A drop more, Eleanor?”

  “No, thanks. This will do me nicely.” She still had half her drink left.

  He took the decanter back to the tray and stopped to talk to Tariro and Gina, who had parted the curtains to look out at the storm. Meanwhile, Norton popped in again to beg for a word with her ladyship. Payne started towards Eleanor and Nontando, but Eleanor gave him a look that he correctly interpreted as “Stay away.”

  “Have you met Tariro before, Miss Nontando?” she asked. “Something gave me that impression.”

  “Something like his walking away before we could be introduced?” Nontando said drily. “Yes, we met in Oxford. We both did our A-levels at Oxford Tech, so we could hardly help getting to know each other.”

  “I imagine it was a relief, in a strange country, to know someone from home.”

  “It was. In fact, we … went out together.”

  Lived together? Eleanor wondered. “Then he stayed in Oxford and you went to London.”

  “He was offered places at both Oxford and LSE. He could have chosen London,” Nontando said resentfully. “He wanted me to give up my education, marry him, and get a job. To support him. Typical Shona. Though, to be fair, Ndebele men are just as bad. If you know Zimbabwe, you know women count for nothing.”

  So much for Sir Edward’s peace conference!

  Gina returned. With a sigh, she flumped into a chair.

  “Just a little domestic contretemps. Cook really does not have adequate facilities for a dinner party.”

  Nontando laughed. “Remember I’m a starving student, Lady Bellowe. I, at least, won’t be a critical audience.”

  “How kind of you to say so, my dear.”

  “Though I daresay they have higher standards at Brasenose College,” Nontando added snidely.