A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,110
could, then presented myself and Gideon at the reception desk and asked for Mr. Fraser. His secretary, the same rabbity-looking Bates who had escorted me there on my arrival, bolted from his seat to scurry into the inner office. After an unconscionably long period of time we were invited in. Mr. Fraser extended me the barest courtesy of a handshake. His necktie was askew and his hair was wild as if he’d been pulling at it. His desk was piled high with papers and maps and telegrams, and he didn’t quite manage to repress a sigh as I sat. Gideon stood behind me.
“Miss Drummond, as you can see, I am quite busy. Quite busy. Can we make this very quick?”
“Of course,” I said, smiling sweetly. “I wish to report an attempted murder.”
His eyebrows jerked up and he gave a soundless whistle. “Yours?”
“Of course not! What makes you think someone would want to murder me?”
“It was the obvious answer,” he muttered. He drew a notebook towards him and opened it, licking the tip of his pencil. “Very well. Who was the intended victim?”
“Moses, the cow herder who tends my cattle at Fairlight.”
“A cow herder?” He paused, his pencil stilled. “You mean a native?”
“Masai,” I replied, nodding towards Gideon. “This is Moses’ brother, Gideon. He will serve as my witness to the events I will describe for you.”
Fraser slammed the notebook shut. “No, he won’t, because I won’t be hearing them. Native disputes have nothing to do with us and should have nothing to do with you. I told you to stay out of these things.”
I took a deep breath and tried again. “Mr. Fraser, this was not a native dispute. The guilty party is a man named Gates, a white man I dismissed from employment at Fairlight.”
His brow furrowed and he rummaged on his desk through the papers until he found what he was looking for. “Are you aware he lodged a complaint with the police here in Nairobi against you? Said you fired a rifle at him. Twice.”
“He was defrauding my stepfather and beating my cow herder,” I replied calmly.
“Neither of which is sufficient justification for shooting a man with a rifle.”
“I didn’t shoot him. I shot at him,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”
He skimmed the rest of the report. “With a Rigby .416? You could have blown a hole in his chest the size of a dog if you’d missed.”
“I didn’t.” I was indignant at the slur against my marksmanship.
He threw the paper onto his desk. “That is of no consequence. You recklessly discharged a firearm directly at this man with the intention of intimidating him. You might have killed him. If he chooses to prefer charges, there’s little I can do.”
“You must be joking. He trespassed onto my property, killed all of my chickens and cows, and attempted to kill my cow herder. And you intend to do nothing?”
“If I instruct the police to start an investigation, they will turn over everything, including your firing a rifle at Gates. They will determine that you started the entire matter, and you will be made to look ridiculous.”
I rose. “I assure you, Mr. Fraser, I am not the one who looks ridiculous here. I know what justice is, and I thank you for showing me precisely what it costs in Kenya.”
I turned smartly on my heel and he jumped to his feet. “Miss Drummond, do not do anything reckless. Leave this alone. Post guards at Fairlight if you feel threatened, and leave Gates strictly alone. These things almost always blow over.”
“And when they don’t?”
He shrugged. “Someone usually dies.”
“It isn’t going to be me,” I told him before sweeping out.
In the truck, Gideon and I ate our sandwiches and drank cold tea. He had relaxed his rule about taking food from me, but he insisted upon sitting in the back. It felt absurd conversing with him through the small window, but he wouldn’t hear of sitting alone with me in the truck. He was very conscious of appearances, and I realised then that Gideon operated under two different sets of rules, one for the bush where he knew his way and one for the city where he was of no more importance than the occasional warthog that crossed the road.
I fussed and fumed as we ate, dreaming up a dozen different petty vengeances for Gates, but none of them suited me. Gideon said nothing, chewing complacently at his food until I hit the window with the flat of my hand.