The African Poison Murders by Elspeth Huxley Read Free Book Online Page A

probably they had taken cover in their huts, to speculate over maize-meal porridge and cups of black syrup-like tea. Vachell made straight for the livingroom. At first he thought it was empty, but then he saw two white-faced, wide-eyed children sitting side by side on the sofa, their looks fastened on his face. The bigger was a boy of about ten, with freckled face and tousled hair; the other was a girl perhaps two years younger, a scrawny creature with cropped hair and a thin angular body.
    “Hello there,” Vachell said. “Seen your mother anywhere around?”
    The boy got to his feet and answered nervously, in a voice so low that Vachell could scarcely hear.
    “She’s in her bedroom, sir. I’ll show you, if you like.”
    He led the way across the rough half-grassed space that did duty as lawn and yard to a long mud building with four doors in it that Vachell would have taken for a stable. The roof was of corrugated 49
    iron, and big rainwater tanks stood at each corner.
    The boy knocked timidly on the end door on the left. In a moment the top half opened — the doors were in two sections, like those of horse-boxes —
    and Miss Adams looked out. Her face was paler than ever, and her eyes so faded that they looked almost white. Her hair was untidy and uncombed.
    When she saw Vachell she managed a smile and said:
    “Thank God you’ve come. Mrs Munson has had some sort of attack. She seems all right now —
    you’d better come in. Roy, run along back to your sister, I’ll be over in a few minutes.” The boy turned obediently and Vachell slid back the wooden slat that fastened the door, and walked in.
    He was in a sort of sitting-room, with leopardskin rugs on the floor and many faded photographs on the wall. A mahogany desk of mammoth proportions squatted under the window to his left; it was entirely snowed under beneath a drift of papers.
    Against the wall to the right was a low couch and on it, covered by some dirty and dog-chewed rugs, lay Mrs Munson. She was propped up against some cushions, and her black keen eyes were fixed with an undeviating stare on his face.
    He drew up a chair, sat on the edge of it and offered his condolences. She inclined her head a little, never relaxing her stare. Then she said so sharply that he almost jumped: “Go back to the children, Anita. They must do their lessons as usual, don’t forget that. You want me to tell you how my 50
    husband met his death. Why were you here yesterday with that conceited young whippersnapper, pretending to be interested in labour-sheets?” Her voice was sharp-edged with suspicion.
    “I just happened to be passing through.”
    “You were here very quickly today.” She put a bright check handkerchief to her lips and her eyes left his face and rolled up to the ceiling. Alarmed, he jumped up to hand her a glass of water from a table in the middle of the room; but she recovered, lowered her handkerchief, and nodded towards the chair.
    “I can look after myself, thank you. I can tell you very little about Mr Munson’s death. One of the boys found him before breakfast, lying on the floor of the pyrethrum shed. He fetched our assistant, Edward Corcoran, but it was too late. He was dead before they found him in the shed.”
    “With no marks of violence?”
    “Certainly not. There was no question of his being attacked. Edward thinks that he was overcome by fumes from the brazier in the shed. They are certainly strong, especially in the mornings when the doors have not been opened for fourteen hours at least. Personally, I have no doubt how my husband met his death.”
    Vachell looked his question, watching her face.
    “He was poisoned.” She was going to say more, but a fit of choking interrupted her. Vachell held the glass for her while she sipped a little water. It 51
    looked as though there was something wrong with her heart.
    “You’ve made a serious allegation,” he said.
    “Whom do you suspect?”
    “That is for you to find out.” She