Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

Sandys and the judge had finished looking at Hilary Hall’s chart.

Hall stood up and addressed Natalie again. “Would you agree that the camp was—is—shaped, broadly, like a large T, in which the refectory area occupies the top left-hand branch of the T, your tent is at the foot of the central branch, and Richard Sutton’s tent was halfway along the top right-hand branch?”

“Yes, broadly speaking that’s correct.”

“And the acacia fence hugs the right-hand side of the whole camp?”

“Yes.”

“Meaning that, from your tent, you could not see Richard Sutton’s tent directly.”

“No, I couldn’t. That’s correct.”

These questions were straightforward. She answered in full voice and with confidence.

Hilary Hall had put the chart to one side and reassembled his papers in front of him. He put on his spectacles, read the paper before him, took off his spectacles, and looked up at Natalie.

“And when you saw the man who you say was Mutevu Ndekei that night, he was walking from the refectory area to the top right arm of the T?”

“Correct.”

“How many tents are there on the right arm of the T?”

“Four, I think.”

“There are five, I have had them counted.” Hall paused. “Who were the other tents occupied by?”

“I think … Jack Deacon, who wasn’t there, Arnold Pryce, and Kees van Schelde. One was a guest tent, empty that night.”

Hall nodded. He paused. “Five tents, four occupied … How do you know, then, that the figure you say was Ndekei was headed for Richard Sutton’s tent?”

“I didn’t, not at first. We inferred it later, in view of what happened.”

Another pause. “You inferred it later. I see.” He laid down some papers, picked them up again. “It was dark that night, you say, there were no hurricane lamps alight, the figure you saw was one hundred and forty yards away. At that distance, in that light—or, rather, darkness—could you see Mutevu Ndekei’s features clearly?”

“There wasn’t much light, no. The stars were bright, and the campfire was still alight, just. So I couldn’t see Mutevu’s features at all. I knew it was him because of his build, what he was wearing, and how he moved.”

“She likes black flesh, that one,” someone shouted from the public gallery. “Sexy lady!”

Tudor reached for his gavel and banged it. “Usher!” he growled. “Did you see who made that remark? Who was it?”

The usher in the public gallery was pushing past some people and grabbed a young man, forcing him to stand up.

“This is the man, Your Honor,” he said.

“Eject him,” growled Tudor. “And make sure he doesn’t come back for the duration of the trial.”

He motioned Hilary Hall to sit down.

Tudor put down his pen, and the gavel, and rubbed his hand over his chin. He lifted his head up. “You people in the public gallery. This is your last warning. If there are any more interruptions, the individual making the interruption will be charged with contempt of court—an offense which carries a prison sentence, I may say—and the gallery will be cleared and closed for the entire trial.” He paused but held his gaze on the gallery. “Do you understand? I am not bluffing! Now,” he breathed, “all of you: be quiet!”

He nodded to Hall and Hall stood up.

He gathered his gown around him.

“Dr. Nelson, we were talking about the lack of light in the camp …”

Natalie nodded.

“We’ll come to Mutevu’s clothes and movement in a moment, but let me go back over what you just said. You said you couldn’t see Mutevu’s features at all —is that so?”

“Yes.”

“So, you did not identify Mutevu from what you knew of his eyes, his nose, the shape of his mouth?”

“No, I—” Natalie was beginning to sweat. Above her, two large, carved wooden fans turned noiselessly.

“If you couldn’t identify his features, how did you know it was Ndekei?”

“As I told you—”

“From his clothes and his movement, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“So again, you inferred it was Mutevu?”

“Yes, but—”

“Let’s examine his clothes and his movement. First his clothes—what was it about them that made you think it was him?”

“His white T-shirt. Mutevu’s a big man, a strapping man, with a fine physique.” She paused, half expecting another interruption from the public gallery, but this time no one said anything. She went on, “Mutevu always wore a white T-shirt, tight over his chest. That’s what he had on that night.”

Hall was nodding but his features were quizzical. He frowned. “But you have already told us that you couldn’t make out his features. Strictly speaking, therefore, all you can say is that you saw a figure wearing a white T-shirt.”

“Yes, but one stretched tight over his chest.”

“And his movement? What was special about that?”

“He was shuffling. Mutevu has—or had—these Wellington boots that he was very proud of, but they were slightly too big for him and he shuffled in them. The figure I saw that night was shuffling just like Mutevu.”

“But, again, you inferred it was Mutevu, from the way he moved, because he shuffled. It was an inference.”

“If you insist, yes.”

Hall put down his papers, put away his spectacles, took out some others, picked up his papers.

Pure theater.

Natalie knew that. She remembered what Sandys had said, that Hall thought Ndekei was guilty, like Sandys himself did.

“Is it not true, Dr. Nelson, is it not true that Ndekei’s Wellingtons went missing some time before?”

She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Let me refresh your memory. Did you not yourself find one of Ndekei’s Wellingtons after it had gone missing?”

“Yes, but only one went missing—it was stolen by monkeys and I found it outside the camp a day or two later.”

“Quite so. Thank you.”

“I don’t see what—”

“Thank you, Dr. Nelson. Let’s leave it there, please! For now.”

Natalie took a deep breath, and said nothing.

Hall paused, tapping his lips with his folded spectacles. He opened a notebook, found a particular page, read a few lines, closed the book, and looked up again.

Natalie was getting used to his technique now.

“Did you see this figure, this shuffling figure in a white T-shirt, carrying a weapon?”

“No.”

“This figure wasn’t carrying a machete, the machete that killed Professor Sutton?”

“I didn’t see one, no.”

“And when you observed this set of events, did you raise the alarm?”

“No, I—I went to bed.”

“You went to bed?”

“Yes.”

“It never occurred to you that you had just seen someone on his way to commit a crime?”

“No, I thought he was maybe visiting a woman. The very last tent in that part of the camp is a guest tent and, as I said, it was empty that night. It might have been being used for a … well, for a meeting, a rendezvous, an affair.”

“I see.” Hall nodded. Another rigmarole with his spectacles. This time he polished them with his gown. He adjusted his wig, took out his handkerchief, and wiped his lips. He put away the handkerchief.

“And how about you, Dr. Nelson, were you having an affair in the camp, with Dr. Russell North maybe?”

“No, no I wasn’t.” She was sweating slightly again. Her father was in court. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Is it?”

There was a commotion in the public gallery, but the voices were muted.

Tudor raised his gavel but the noises subsided before he could bring it down.

Hall lowered his voice, so that his tone was almost confiding. “Is it not true that you used to sit with Dr. North, late at night, drinking whiskey, smoking cigarettes, and talking?”