The rivals of Sherlock Holmes : early detective stories by Unknown Author Read Free Book Online

does one do with that?”
    “Ceremonial knife,” said Munday. “Used in puberty rites.” His gaze caught the vicar’s. He said with a half-smile, “Circumcisions.”
    The vicar squinted at it, holding it gingerly with his fingertips. He shook his head slowly.
    Munday said, “That particular one’s seen a lot of service.”
    “Absolutely fascinating,” said the vicar. He stooped and put the small knife on the floor near others that resembled it. He grinned at Emma. The vicar had a threadbare and slightly seedy aspect which made him seem somehow kindly; the seams of his black suit were worn shiny, his trouser cuffs were spattered with mud and his heavy shoes had been polished so often and were so old they were cracked, and scales of leather bristled where they flexed.
    “It was a gift from a village headman,” said Munday.
    The vicar nodded at the little knife.
    “Alfred gave him a packet of razor blades in return.”
    “Yes, I gave him my razor blades,” said Munday. “Do Africans shave?” asked the vicar. “I don’t think of them as having five-o’clock shadow.”
    “For circumcisions,” said Munday, wondering if the vicar’s innocence was a tactful way of allowing his host a chance to say that absurd thing. “He asked for them.”
    “Of course,” said the vicar.
    “A pity, really. Soon they’ll stop making those knives altogether. They’ll lose the skill. Notice how that blade fits into the handle—and those markings. They’re not random decorations. Each one has a particular social significance.”
    “That’s progress, isn’t it?” said the vicar. “Using your Gillette blades for circumcisions, drinking beer out of old soup tins and whatnot. I suppose they’re frightfully keen on evening classes as well?”
    Munday thought the vicar might be mocking him. He picked up another object, a fragment of polished wood. A fang of glass—it could have been a spiky shard from a broken bottle—protruded from one end, and this was circled by a fringe of coarse monkey hair.
    “And this,” said Munday, “this is what the Sebei people use on girls.”
    He offered it to the vicar, but the vicar put his hands behind his back and peered at the object in a pitying way.
    “Girls?” he said, and he winced. “I had no idea—” “They gash the clitoris,” said Munday.
    “Goodness.”
    “Hurts like the devil,” said Munday, “but it keeps them out of trouble. Blunts the nerve, you see. Sex isn’t much fun after that.”
    “Alfred, your tea’s going cold.”
    Munday took his cup from the bookshelf and drank with his lips shaped in a little smile; the smile altered, becoming triumphant when he swallowed.
    “Last year my wife and I went to Italy,” said the vicar. “Such an interesting place. And you get used to
    the food after a bit. They’re not fond of the English, you know—like your Africans, I expect.”
    “My Africans—”
    “The stories are so horrible,” said the vicar. “The killings, the tribal wars. It’s always in the papers, isn’t it That casual business of taking scalps. I have a friend —we were at Oxford together—he went out there, Ghana, I believe. The stories! Evidently, one of their presidents—this was a few years ago—called himself *the Redeemer.’ Now, I ask you!”
    “Kwame Nkramah,” Munday said. “But it doesn’t have quite the same meaning in the vernacular.”
    “Yes,” said the vicar. “My friend runs a mission in what sounds the most unbelievable place. He’s a delightful man, takes it all in his stride, absolutely devoted to the people. And he’s marvelous about mucking in and seeing tilings get done. Once a year we take up a collection, send him bundles of old clothes, tattered books, and bushels of used postage stamps. I can’t imagine what he does with those stamps! I suppose they like the bright colors.”
    Munday had put his tea down. He said, “My Africans didn’t take any scalps.”
    “Not white scalps,” said Emma to the