The Constant Gardener

A power drill was whining from the floor above. Woodrow dispatched Mildren to silence it while he ostentatiously busied himself with papers on his desk. The whining stopped. Taking his time, Woodrow looked up again to find everybody gathered before him, including a breathless Mildren. Exceptionally, Tim Donohue and his assistant Sheila had been asked to put in an appearance. With no High Commissioner's meetings to rally the full complement of diplomatic staff, Woodrow was insisting on a full turnout. Hence also the Defense and Service Attaches and Barney Long from Commercial Section. And poor Sally Aitken, complete with stammer and blushes, on secondment from the Min of Ag and Fish. Ghita, he noticed, was in her usual corner where, since Tessa's death, she had done her best to make herself invisible. To his irritation she still sported the black silk scarf round her neck that recalled the soiled bandage around Tessa's. were her oblique glances flirtatious or disdainful? With Eurasian beauties, how did you tell?

"Bit of a sad story, I'm afraid, guys," he began breezily. "Barney, would you mind getting the door, as we say in America? Don't bring it to me, just locking it will do."

Laughter — but of the apprehensive sort.

He went straight into it, exactly as he had planned. Bull-by-the-horns stuff — we're all professionals — necessary surgery. But also something tacitly courageous in your acting High Commissioner's bearing as he first scans his notes, then taps the blunt end of his pencil on them and braces his shoulders before addressing the parade.

"There are two things I have to tell you this morning. The first is embargoed till you hear it on the news, British or Kenyan, whoever breaks it first. At twelve hundred hours today the Kenyan police will issue a warrant for the arrest of Dr. Arnold Bluhm for the willful murder of Tessa Quayle and the driver Noah. The Kenyans have been in touch with the Belgian government and Bluhm's employers will be informed in advance. We're ahead of the game because of the involvement of Scotland Yard, who will be passing their file to Interpol."

Scarcely a chair creaks after the explosion. No protest, no gasp of astonishment. Just Ghita's enigmatic eyes fixed on him at last, admiring or hating him.

"I know this'll be a hell of a shock to you all, particularly those of you who knew Arnold and liked him. If you want to tip off your partners, you have my permission to do so at your discretion." Quick flash of Gloria, who until Tessa's death had dismissed Bluhm as a jumped-up gigolo but was now mysteriously concerned for his well-being. "I can't pretend I'm delighted myself," Woodrow confessed, becoming the tight-lipped master of understatement. "There'll be the usual facile press explanations of motive, of course. The Tessa-Bluhm relationship will be raked over ad infinitum. And if they ever catch him, there'll be a noisy trial. So from the point of view of this Mission the news could hardly be worse. I've no information at this stage regarding the strength of the evidence. I'm told it's cast iron, but they would say that, wouldn't they?" The same hint of grit inside the humor. "Questions?"

None apparently. The news seemed to have taken the wind out of everybody's sails. Even Mildren, who had had it since last night, could find nothing better to do than scratch an itch on the tip of his nose.

"My second piece of news is not unrelated to the first, but it's a damn sight more delicate. Partners will not be informed without my prior consent. Junior staff will be selectively informed where necessary, on a strictly controlled basis. By myself or by the High Commissioner as and when he returns. Not by you, please. Am I clear so far?"

He was. There were nods of expectation this time, not just cow-like stares. All eyes were on him and Ghita's had never left him. My God, suppose she's fallen for me: how will I ever get out of it? He followed the thought through. Of course! That's why she's making up to Gloria! First it was Justin she was after, now it's me! She's a couple cruiser, never safe unless she's got the wife aboard as well! He squared himself and resumed his manly newscast.

"I am extremely sorry to have to tell you that our erstwhile colleague Justin Quayle has gone walkabout. You probably know he refused all reception facilities when he arrived in London, saying he'd prefer to paddle his own canoe, et cetera. He did manage a meeting with Personnel on his arrival, he did manage a luncheon appointment with the Pellegrin the same day. Both describe him as overwrought, sullen and hostile, poor chap. He was offered sanctuary and counseling and declined them. Meanwhile he's jumped ship."