The formal elevation en poste — contrary to established practice — of Mr. Alexander Woodrow to the estate of British High Commissioner, Nairobi, sent ripples of quiet satisfaction through white Nairobi, and was welcomed by the indigenous African press. "A Quiet Force for Understanding" ran the sub-headline on page three of the Nairobi Standard, and Gloria was "a breath of fresh air who would blow away the last cobwebs of British colonialism."
Of Porter Coleridge's abrupt disappearance into the catacombs of official Whitehall, little was said but much implied. Woodrow's predecessor had been "out of touch with modern Kenya." He had "antagonized hardworking ministers with his sermons on corruption." There was even a suggestion, cleverly not enlarged upon, that he might have fallen foul of the vice he so condemned.
Rumors that Coleridge had been "hauled before a Whitehall disciplinary committee" and invited to explain "certain embarrassing matters that had arisen during his stewardship" were dismissed as idle speculation but not denied by the High Commission spokesman who had initiated them. "Porter was a fine scholar and a man of the highest principle. It would be unjust to deny his many virtues," Mildren informed reliable journalists in an off-the-record obituary, and they duly read between the lines.
"FO Africa Tsar Sir Bernard Pellegrin," an uninterested public learned, had "sought early retirement in order to take up a senior managerial post with the multinational pharmaceutical giant Karel Vita Hudson of Basel, Vancouver, Seattle and now of London" where, thanks to Pellegrin's "fabled skills at networking," he would be at his most effective. A farewell banquet in the Pellegrins' honor was attended by a glittering assembly of Africa's High Commissioners to the Court of St. James and their wives. A witty speech by the South African delegate observed that Sir Bernard and his Lady might not have won Wimbledon, but they had surely won the hearts of many Africans.
A spectacular rise from the ashes by "that latter-day Houdini of the City" Sir Kenneth Curtiss was welcomed by friend and foe alike. Only a minority of Cassandras insisted that Kenny's rise was purely optical and the breakup of House of ThreeBees nothing less than an act of daylight sandbagging. These carping voices did not impede the great populist's elevation to the House of Lords where he insisted upon the title of Lord Curtiss of Nairobi and Spennymoor, the latter being his humble place of birth. Even his many critics in Fleet Street had to concede, if wryly, that ermine became the old devil.
The Evening Standard's "Londoner's Diary" made amusing weather of the long-awaited retirement of that incorruptible old crime stopper Superintendent Frank Gridley of Scotland Yard, "known affectionately to the London underworld as Old Gridiron." In reality, retirement was the last thing that lay in store for him. One of Britain's leading security companies was poised to snap him up just as soon as he had taken his wife on a long-promised holiday on the island of Majorca.
The departure of Rob and Lesley from the police service received by contrast no publicity at all, though insiders noted that one of Gridley's last acts before leaving the Yard had been to press for the removal of what he termed "a new breed of unscrupulous careerists" who were giving the force a bad name.
Ghita Pearson, another would-be careerist, was not successful in her application for acceptance as an established British foreign servant. Although her examination results were good to excellent, confidential reports from the Nairobi High Commission gave cause for concern. Ruling that she was "too easily swayed by her personal feelings," Personnel Department advised her to wait a couple of years and reapply. Her mixed race, it was emphasized, was not a factor.
No question mark at all, however, hung over the unhappy passing of Justin Quayle. Deranged by despair and grief, he had taken his own life at the very spot where his wife Tessa had been murdered only weeks before. His swift loss of mental balance had been an open secret among those entrusted with his welfare. His employers in London had gone to every length short of locking him up in an effort to save him from himself. The news that his trusted friend Arnold Bluhm was also his wife's murderer had dealt the final blow. Traces of systematic beating around his abdomen and lower body told their own sad story to the tightly knit group of insiders who were privy to the secret: in the days leading up to his death, Quayle had resorted to self-flagellation. How he had come by the fatal weapon — an assassin's short-barreled.38 pistol in excellent condition with five soft-nosed bullets remaining in the chamber — was a mystery unlikely to be resolved. A rich and desperate man bent upon his own destruction is sure to find a way. His final resting place in Langata cemetery, the press noted with approval, had reunited him with his wife and child.
The permanent government of England, on which her transient politicians spin and posture like so many table dancers, had once more done its duty: except, that is, in one small but irritating respect. Justin, it seemed, had spent the last weeks of his life composing a "black dossier" purporting to prove that Tessa and Bluhm had been murdered for knowing too much about the evil dealings of one of the world's most prestigious pharmaceutical companies, which so far had contrived to remain anonymous. Some upstart solicitor of Italian origin — a relation of the dead woman to boot — had come forward and, making free use of his late clients' money, retained the services of a professional troublemaker who hid behind the mask of public relations agent. The same hapless solicitor had allied himself with a firm of supercharged City lawyers famous for their pugnacity. The house of Oakey, Oakey and Farmeloe representing the unnamed company, challenged the use of clients' funds for this purpose, but without success. They had to content themselves with serving writs on any newspaper that dared take up the story.
Yet some did, and the rumors persisted. Scotland Yard, called in to examine the material, publicly declared it "baseless and a bit sad" and declined to forward it to the Crown Prosecution Service. But the lawyers for the dead couple, far from throwing in the sponge, resorted to Parliament. A Scottish MP, also a lawyer, was suborned, and tabled an innocuous parliamentary question of the Foreign Secretary concerning the health of the African continent at large. The Foreign Secretary batted it away with his customary grace, only to find himself grappling with a supplementary that went for the jugular.
Q: Has the Foreign Secretary knowledge of any written representations made to his department during the last twelve months by the late, tragically murdered Mrs. Tessa Quayle?
A: I require notice of that question.
Q: Is that a "no" I'm hearing?
A: I have no knowledge of such representations made during her lifetime.
Q: Then she wrote to you posthumously, perhaps? (laughter.)
In the written and verbal exchanges that followed, the Foreign Secretary first denied all knowledge of the documents, then protested that in view of pending legal actions they were sub judice. After "further extensive and costly research" he finally admitted to having "discovered" the documents, only to conclude that they had received all the attention they merited, then or now, "having regard for the disturbed mental condition of the writer." Imprudently, he added that the documents were classified.
Q: Does the Foreign Office regularly classify writings of people of disturbed mental condition? (laughter.)
A: In cases where such writings could cause embarrassment to innocent third parties, yes.
Q: Or to the Foreign Office, perhaps?
A: I am thinking of the needless pain that could be inflicted on the deceased's close relatives.
Q: Then be at peace. Mrs. Quayle had no close relatives.