The rivals of Sherlock Holmes : early detective stories (2 page)

He intended his book to redeem those people. Redeem was not too big a word: they were in every sense lost. He had once described the Bwamba in a paper as “witch-ridden semi-pygmies,” and privately as “tricky little bastards,” but they were his, he had been the only person to study them—and by accident, for he had thought in London that they lived in the mountains, and it was only when he got there that he discovered that they were a lowland people who preferred the concealment of swamps and the isolated copse in the savannah. So he had stayed at the Yellow Fever Camp from the first and had the Bwamba to himself. Once, an American anthropologist had come to the district with plans for a study and many boxes of supplies. Munday ridiculed the man’s electric typewriter and tore up the letter of introduction, written by a classmate who had gone to California—“I know you will give him the advantage of your wide experience,” the letter said.

“You’re poaching,” said Munday to the stunned researcher. “Do you know how the Bwamba deal with people like you? Poachers? They ambush them and flay them alive. You’d better leave while it’s still light It’s a long drive back.”

It was partly this obstinacy that had earlier earned him the respect of many people in his profession, several of them eminent; he was said to be cantankerous but incorruptible, but, never giving in, he developed what was almost a grudge against his own honesty, and he was thin-skinned to criticism, responding to the mildest doubt of his methods with merciless personal attacks. Nearly everyone agreed that he had stayed away, among those people, for far too long; it had affected him, and when his name was mentioned in the Common Room of an English university, men who had praised his work would say, “I like her well enough—” But he had come home. That was his regret. He had planned to write the book in Africa, to note on the last page the name of the African Village, the Yellow Fever Camp, and the date of the book’s completion, as proof of the authenticity of his remoteness, the severe distance from any library; the bush tombstone of the missionary, saying simply that he had died in that place, proved sincerity. It would be different now, a village name, perhaps his full address, but an English village in Dorset. If anyone asked why, he could say, “Doctor’s orders.”

“I hope he’s wrong about our sea freight,” said Emma.

Munday was filling a bureau drawer with his underwear and socks. He said, “Flack? He’s making that up. Like his malaria, and that business about having his teeth pulled. Did you ever hear of such a thing!” “Part of the cure,” said Emma, using Flack’s clinical tone of voice.

“I saw you smiling,” said Munday. He shook his head. “I was afraid I was going to burst out laughing. He’s incredible.”

“He seems very sweet all the same.” She stopped speaking and smiled at the wall, and shortly she saw her face, the mirror frame, her husband’s head behind her shoulder. She tried a new expression and patted her hair. “I’m glad we’re here.”

“The Yew Tree,” said Munday, continuing his unpacking.

“England,” said Emma. She spoke it with a passion Munday doubted, enunciating it like a word in an old hymn, with a sob of relief in her throat. It was the way people said it in plays staged by amateur drama groups in Uganda, and it made Munday uncomfortable.

He went over to his wife. He was going to touch her shoulder, but thought better of it. He faced her. “You’re glad the doctor sent me home.”

“Don’t put it like that. You make it sound like failure.”

“It was, for me,” he said. He had never thought he would return home except to lecture at one of the institutes on the progress of his research. His return he saw as a defeat, a partial failure of which not panic but annoyance was one symptom. He would still lecture at an institute but it would not be the same as flying to London for a conference, reading his paper, and then returning to the African village.

“You know how much I hated it,” said Emma, and added her correction softly, “Them.”

“We could have discussed it.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she said, trying not to smile. Then, “I didn’t want to sound pathetic—I thought it would bore you.”

“You had your painting.”

“I had my painting,” Emma said, and now she did smile; she saw the water colors she had forced herself to make, Native Hut, Tulip Tree in Blossom, Rhino Camp—the perfect reflection of the promontory in Lake Albert that had been hung upside-down at the British Council Library in Fort Portal, Humped Cattle, and that mess, Sunset over the Congo. She looked up at Munday, “And you had your people.”

“You’re ridiculing me.”

“Because sometimes,” said Emma, “you are ridiculous.”

“Don’t start again,” said Munday, remembering that sudden voice against the wall, and Flack at the door.

“Your people. That’s what you called them.”

“That’s what they were.”

“ ‘Lapses,’ ” said Emma. “That’s what savagery is when you call savages people.”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” said Munday.

“So we have,” she said, her tone going from hostility to gentleness as she turned her head.

“Savages, savagery. I daresay the people around here will agree with you,” said Munday. “As if any of you know the first thing about it!” He went on emptying the suitcase with angry vigor, and slapping a stack of clean shirts said, “I’ve got a surprise for them.”

“What’s that?”

“You remember Silvano, the Bwamba chap who’s at the London School of Economics? I’m planning to have him down here one weekend, as soon as we’ve moved into the house. Introduce him to all the locals, show him around.” Munday’s face became amused. “Should be interesting,” he said with satisfaction. “They don’t see many Africans around here.”

“So you’re going to inflict Silvano on them, is that it?” Emma saw a cheetah, teardrop markings down its jowls, the wild thing on a leash, being taken to tea at a grand house, causing awe-struck stares and

nervous conversation, then curled and panting loudly by the feet of a scared guest.

Munday smiled, and snorted with pleasure.

“Like some strange pet,” Emma said. She saw the cheetah pawing the air, frightening strangers with its teeth and claws and bright fur.

“Let’s not argue about it,” said Munday. “Look, it’s almost dark.”

The husband and wife looked at the window and saw their reflections staring in at them, though it was not yet four. The insubstantial gloom of the afternoon which had made the view such a deep African green, had become night during their short talk, giving them a reason for ending it and further emphasizing the familiarity Munday felt about the landscape, for that velvet dark, the liquid windows and the overbright yellow bulbs of the room circled by one dusty moth —all of it, with the smell of floorwax, reminded him of African night and African seclusion. He wondered: Have I carried Africa here?

“We should finish this unpacking,” he finally said. He turned his back on the window and walked over to the bureau where a drawer sagged open.

“Your letter to The Times,” Emma said. “Do you really believe all that?”

“Emma,” he said, warning her with her name. “Because / don’t. I want you to know that. I’m glad we’re here—home.”

“This isn’t home.”

“It’s England,” said Emma.

“A comer of it.”

“We’re English,” she said.

“We’re strangers here,” he said; his voice was gruff. “What were we in Africa?”

“English,” he said.

Emma said, “You know nothing.”

Munday was annoyed; he couldn’t reply to that. But he remembered something else. He said, “What do you mean by saying I’m ridiculous?”

Emma resumed her unpacking. She did not say anything immediately. She took a wool dress out of her suitcase and sniffed it, then found a hanger for it and put it in the wardrobe. Then she said, “That little charade at Waterloo.”

The incident had upset him; it was something he had tried to forget, but Emma’s words made a picture of the furry white erasure on his mind, and he saw the obliterated portion and finally the mistake.

They had been late, it was raining. He had lugged the heavy suitcases into the station—cursing the taxi driver who had made no move to help, the huddle of porters who were unloading a coach—and past the newsstand he spotted a porter wheeling an empty baggage carrier. Munday dropped his suitcases and waved to him; the porter did not see him. Munday moved closer in a spurt, jerking the cases, calling out, and when the porter hesitated, Munday ordered him sharply to hurry up. The porter, squinting, stood his ground, for both times Munday had spoken in Swahili.

Munday was berating the porter in Swahili, furious at the man’s hesitation, when Emma cut him off— “Don’t be a jackass, Alfred,” she said—and walked away. The porter, sensing that he was being mocked, wheeled his baggage carrier in the opposite direction. Alone and fearing for his heart, Munday dragged the suitcases onto the platform.

“I was confused,” said Munday. “He was black.” “That explains it, of course,” said Emma, looking at her wrist watch with an indifference Munday believed she was pretending simply to anger him.

At half-past six, leaving Emma resting, Munday went down for a drink. He pushed open the door of the bar and set a bell jangling. It startled him, he touched his heart; and it jangled again as he closed the door. He carried his pain across the room.

“Good evening,” said Mr. Flack. He was at the bar, still in his overcoat, rubbing his hands. Behind him were shelves and shelves of bright candies in large jars, wine gums, mint humbugs, mint imperials, boiled sweets, wrapped toffees. Behind that nodding aged head a sign reading New Tooty Aniseed Chewsl “How are you getting on?”

“Just about finished,” said Munday, and he turned to take in the whole room, the bar billiards table, the hunting prints, the color print of the old brewery, Cobnut Sliced, the dusty blue sign Briggs Empire Shag, the high yellow walls, a trestle table with the ring marks of glasses, a dart board set in a scarred rubber hoop that had been filleted from a tire, the brass bell above the door, and three old men, motionless as sticks of furniture.

Two of them sat on stools by the fireplace where a low fire glowed under a smoky heaping of coal, a whitehaired one in a threadbare jacket, another in a thick dark coat which reached to his ankles. The third, in a suit jacket and clean bib-overalls, and wearing a too-small crushed felt hat, sat on a bench by the front window. Munday smiled at them, but only the third reacted: he tugged his hat brim in a negligent gesture of recognition. He might have been straighten-

mg the hat. The other two shifted on their stools, but continued to study the fire, the smoke curling from between the lumps of coal.

“What will it be?” asked Mr. Flack.

“Is that cider?” Munday pointed to a plump white barrel resting on a rack. Lettered on the barrel was the name of a brewery and Cyder.

“That’s your dry.”

“I’ll take a half of that.”

Mr. Flack bent to the barrel, twisted the wooden spigot, and drew off a plopping glassful. He placed the cloudy liquid before Munday and said, “Four-pence.”

“Very reasonable,” said Munday. An arrogance in Mr. Flack’s manner, different from the civility he had shown upstairs, urged Munday to say curtly, “Have one yourself, Flack.”

“Cheers, sir, I’ll have a tickle of this.” He took a bottle of Glenfiddich from under the bar and poured himself an expensive measure. “To your very good health.”

The two men by the fire had begun to talk between themselves. Their mutters filled the room; Munday heard “buggers.” He addressed the nearest one, the man swaddled in the long coat, “Will you have one with me?”

“Thank *ee,” said the man, and placing his glass of beer on the floor next to the hearthstone, said to Mr. Flack, “I’ll have a short.”

“And you?”

The white-haired man, who had been looking abstractedly into the fire, turned to Munday. “A Guinness, thanks,” he said gently, and brought his glass to the bar.

Munday nodded at the man with the felt hat.

“A large light,” said the man. He showed Munday his empty pint glass.

“That looks interesting,” Munday said to Mr. Flack. He had poured a tot of rum into a schooner and was now uncorking a green bottle with an engraved label.

“A short,” said Mr. Flack. “Rum and ginger wine.”

Munday passed it to the man who had been drinking beer; the others collected their drinks, and they all drank to Munday’s health.

“That’s ninety-four pence,” said Mr. Flack. He had put on a pair of loosely-hinged spectacles to search out the figure on a dog-eared Decimal Conversion Chart.

“I don’t think this is going to cover it,” said Munday showing Flack the coins in his palm. “It’ll have to be one of these.” He unfolded a pound note and handed it to Flack. Receiving his sixpence change he could not hide his disappointment.

“How do you like your cider?” asked Mr. Flack.

“Drinkable,” said Munday. He was still frowning at the sixpence.

“Careful, mister,” said the man in the felt hat

“You needn’t worry,” Munday joked. “I know my limit.”

“You don’t know that scrumpy,” said the man, turning grave.

“Poison,” said the old man in the long coat, sipping at his rum and ginger wine.

“Rots your insides,” said the man with the Guinness. He spoke as the others had, out of the comer of his mouth.

“I was under the impression,” said Munday, “that the local people drank a lot of this muck.”

The men were silent. After a few moments the white-haired man sipped his Guinness loudly and spoke up. “The local people,” he said, “sells it.”

“Some folks drink it by the gallon,” said Mr. Flack. “Tourists and summer people, that is. Don’t have much taste for it myself.”

Munday finished his cider, a bitter mouthful, and toyed with his glass. He waited and hummed, but convention was not observed, he was not offered a drink. He turned his back on the three drinkers and ordered a gin and lime.

“You’ll have to meet Mr. Awdry,” said Mr. Flack. “He was in Africa, too. Your part.” For the others Mr. Flack said, “Doctor Munday’s lived abroad for quite a few years.”

The man in the felt hat said, “I thought he looked a bit stunned.”