‘Well, Courtney, I do not intend to substantiate my allegations any further. All will be decided at your court-martial. Your dossier has been handed to Captain Roberts of Second Battalion. He has agreed to act as prosecuting officer.’ Eddy Roberts was one of Snell’s favourites. ‘The charges against you will be desertion, cowardice, dereliction of duty and failing to obey the orders of a superior officer. Second Lieutenant Sampson of the same battalion has agreed to defend you. I know that the two of you are friendly, so I do not expect you to object to my choice. There has been some difficulty in finding three officers to make up the court. Naturally I am unable to sit on the panel, as I will be required to give evidence during the proceedings, and most officers are in the field against the last of the rebels. Fortunately a P&O liner docked in Mombasa over the weekend carrying a group on leave from India en route for Southampton. I have arranged that a colonel and two captains will travel up from Mombasa by train to Nairobi to make up a full panel of judges. They are due to arrive at eighteen hundred hours this evening. They will have to return to Mombasa by Friday to continue their voyage, so the proceedings must commence tomorrow morning. I will send Lieutenant Sampson to your quarters immediately to consult with you and to prepare your defence. You’re in a sorry state, Courtney. I can smell you from where I sit. Go and get yourself cleaned up and be ready to appear before the court for arraignment first thing tomorrow morning. Until then you are confined to your quarters.’

‘I request an interview with Colonel Ballantyne, sir. I need an extension of time to prepare my defence.’

‘Unfortunately, Colonel Ballantyne is not in Nairobi at the moment. He is in the Nandi tribal lands with First Battalion making reprisals for the Niombi massacre and stamping out the last of the rebel resistance. It is unlikely that he will return to Nairobi for several weeks. When he does, I am certain he will take cognizance of your request.’ Snell smiled coldly. ‘That is all. Prisoner, dismiss!’

‘Guard detail, attention!’ barked Sergeant Major M’fefe. ‘About turn! Quick march! Left, right, left . . .’ Leon found himself out in the brilliant sunshine of the parade-ground, being marched at double time towards the officers’ billets. Everything was moving so swiftly that he had difficulty in ordering his thoughts.

Leon’s quarters were a rondavel, a single-roomed building with a circular mud-daub wall and a thatched roof. It stood in the centre of a row of identical huts. Each was occupied by an unmarried officer. At his door, Sergeant Major M’fefe saluted Leon smartly and said softly but awkwardly, in Kiswahili, ‘I am sorry this has happened, Lieutenant. I know you are no coward.’ M’fefe had never, in twenty-five years of service, been required to arrest and place under guard one of his own officers. He felt ashamed and humiliated.

Even though most of Leon’s company turned out to cheer his performance in any cricket or polo match, and when they saluted him it was always with a sparkling African grin, he was only superficially aware of his popularity among the other ranks so he was moved by the sergeant major’s words.

M’fefe went on hurriedly to cover his embarrassment: ‘After you left on patrol a lady came to the main gates and left a box for you, Bwana. She told me to make sure you received it. I put it in your room next to the bed.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant Major.’ Leon was equally embarrassed. He turned away and went into the sparsely furnished hut. It contained an iron bedstead with a mosquito net suspended over it from a rafter, a single shelf and a wardrobe made from an old packing case. It was scrupulously clean and tidy. The walls had been recently lime-washed and the floor gleamed with a coating of beeswax. His scant possessions were arranged with geometrical precision on the shelf above his bed. During his absence Ishmael, his manservant, had been as meticulous as ever. The only item out of place was the long leather case that was propped against the wall.

Leon crossed to the bed and sat down. He felt close to despair. So many disasters had struck him at once. Almost without conscious volition he reached out for the leather case M’fefe had left for him, and laid it across his lap. It was made of travel-scarred but expensive leather, covered with steamship labels, and fitted with three solid brass locks, whose keys were attached by a thong to the handle. He unlocked it, lifted the lid and stared in astonishment at the contents. Nestled in the fitted green baize compartments were the components of a heavy rifle with, in their own tailored slots, the ramrod, oil can and other accessories. On the underside of the lid a large label bore the name of the gunmaker printed in ornate script:

With a sense of reverence Leon reassembled the rifle, fitting the barrels into the action and clamping them in position with the forestock. He stroked the oil-finished wood of the butt, the polished walnut silky smooth under his fingertips. He lifted the rifle and aimed it at a small gecko that hung upside-down on the far wall. The butt fitted perfectly into his shoulder and the barrels aligned themselves under his eye. He held the bead of the foresight in the wide V of the rear express sight rock-steady on the lizard’s head.

‘Bang, bang, you’re dead,’ he told it, and laughed for the first time since he had returned to barracks. He lowered the weapon and read the engraving on the barrels.H&H Royal .470 Nitro Express. Then the pure gold oval inlay let into the walnut of the butt caught his eye. It was engraved with the initials of the original owner: PO’H.

‘Patrick O’Hearne,’ he murmured. The magnificent weapon had belonged to Verity’s dead husband. An envelope was pinned to the green baize of the lid beside the maker’s label. He set down the rifle carefully on the pillow at the head of his bed and reached for it. He split the seal with his thumbnail and pulled out two folded sheets of paper. The first was a receipt dated 29 August 1906:

With this document Verity had transferred the rifle legally into his name so that nobody could contest his ownership. He folded the receipt and returned it to the envelope. Then he opened the other sheet of paper. It was undated and the handwriting was scrawled and uneven, unlike that on the receipt. Her pen had twice left splashes of ink on the page. It was obvious that she had been in a state of upheaval when she had written it.

It was signed ‘V’. His vision blurred and his breathing was uneven as he reread the letter.

Before he reached the last line there was a polite knock on the door of his rondavel. ‘Who is it?’ he called.