The sound of feet moving through the long grass made the hunter think of snakes.

His quarry was in fact a species of reptile, the lowest of the low, a sneak and a spy.

These people would always try to cheat, the hunter thought, raising the weapon and sighting carefully just ahead of the now panting quarry. One didn't expect them to understand one's own code of honor, but one had to make an example occasionally.

The noise of the weapon sang over the grass toward the quarry, which heard and turned too late. The feathered death hit just under the sternum, ripping through the stomach and coming to rest in the plowed-up liver.

So much the better; less work for me, thought the hunter as he strolled toward the thrashing body. Displaying nothing more than mild interest, he stood and watched while the life at his feet bled out on the tawny grass.

When it was over, he unsheathed his knife and knelt.

"I will never get used to the idea of a woman doing this sort of thing," said Redmond Trevelyan as he watched Claire Winter peering into the unlovely remains on the bench. Her red-blonde hair was bundled up in a Java cloth headscarf not unlike those worn by the market women. She wore an overly large white lab coat that had been ineptly basted to reduce the length of the sleeves.

"You men are a squeamish lot," said Claire. "Surely you can't think that anyone who has seen or experienced childbirth is going to be put off by a slightly dead body? Besides, if I don't examine this man now, who will? Do you think you can get a pathologist to come to Tshaniland from Johannesburg to investigate the death of a black boy?"

"All human life is important," said Trevelyan.

"Yes, you're right, but that isn't a view held by everyone. Old opinions change slowly; in some ways this might as well be 1835 as 1935. Anyway, you've got enough on your plate with a possible royal visit coming up, so why don't you go while I get on with this? The sergeant and Percy will help me if I need it."

Relieved, Trevelyan left the shed that served as the police mortuary for the Protectorate of Tshaniland and headed for his office. Equally relieved, Claire watched him go. She preferred to do postmortems without having senior government officials hanging on every snip and stitch. Her total experience in forensic medicine prior to coming to Africa had been a three-month residency in the Suffolk County Medical Examiner's office in Boston, and a lot of reading on the three-week sea voyage to Cape Town. She was more experienced now, but still uncomfortable with an audience. "More water, please, Percy," she said, motioning her assistant to rinse off some of the blood so she could get a clearer view. While he did this, she had a quick look at Gray's Anatomy, which lay open to the section on the upper abdomen. It made her feel a bit more confident when the things she found in a real body matched up to the drawings in Gray's.

Outside, Trevelyan took a deep breath and hoped that this murder would be solved quickly. He wondered if the young doctor would be able to provide him with clear evidence as to what had happened to the dead man. Somehow he doubted it. Squaring his shoulders, he went up the steps to his headquarters.

"Nee sabona, Tata, I see you, Father," said the crisply uniformed aide-de-camp at the front desk as Trevelyan entered the foyer.

"Nee sabona, Khaba," replied the Commissioner, sketching a salute to his right-and-left-hand man. "Any chance of tea?"

"I'll get Tolo to bring you a tray for two," said Zadok Khaba. "You have an appointment with The Ear of the Queen in ten minutes."

"Oh, Lord, what does he want now?" sighed Trevelyan, running possible problems through his mind. The Queen's liaison officer was not so much a thorn in the side as a constantly twinging sore tooth. If it wasn't a complaint about a breach of protocol it would be something to do with the Honors List. Hananiah Molapo was as single-minded in his pursuit of a knighthood as he was in the interests of his young queen. Not for the first time, Trevelyan wondered if he could survive on his pension if he retired from the Colonial Service of Great Britain. The peace of an English county tugged at him, some days more strongly than others. Days when he had to see Molapo it tugged strongest of all.

Stepping behind the Zanzibari screen in the corner of the office, he rinsed his hands and face in a bowl of water. Looking in the cracked mirror over the washstand, he combed his hair and moustache. A face weather-tanned by years in the African sun looked back at him, its gray eyes looking tired but still alert. Several years of administrative work had not much blunted the keen awareness developed during Trevelyan's years as a district officer, in the bush more often than in a town. The waist was a bit thicker, perhaps. He sucked it in and squared his shoulders. Must get out for a bit of a walkabout some time soon.

He went to the back window of his office and looked out over the enclosed yard, where two dusty Land Rovers and three bicycles were parked. In the lane behind the yard a fox furtively sniffed a metal trash bin, hopeful of a meal.

He briefly considered pulling out his revolver and shooting the beast. It would relieve his tension for a moment, and save some farmer's hens from a gory visit. The chance of hitting the fox from this distance was slight, and the commotion that a gunshot in his office would stir up so great that Trevelyan sighed and sat down at his desk. One had always to be on guard against doing anything that would bring disrepute on His Majesty's servants abroad. Taking pot-shots at vermin would be considered undignified. Not to mention embarrassing if he missed. Stacking up a pile of folders that begged for attention and would not get it yet, Trevelyan prepared to receive Hananiah Molapo.

Precisely on time, Khaba showed Molapo into the office. After the obligatory and prolix opening exchanges, Trevelyan showed the old man to a chair. Today Molapo was tailored by the best of two continents: Harris tweed jacket, French silk tie in a subdued stripe, and a Java cloth skirt in a green and black paisley pattern. The goatskin loincloth--by accident or design--matched exactly the lighter gray in the tweed. An intricately braided elephant-hair bracelet encircled one thin brown wrist. A gold-framed pince-nez depended from a black satin ribbon and clicked softly against a porcupine quill and bead breastplate. Over it all, the old man wore an invisible cloak of dignity that unified the disparate garments.

"So, Ear of the Queen, what service may I do you today?" Trevelyan asked, having judged the time ripe to approach the reason for the visit.

"There are many things that concern Her Majesty, the Great She-leopard and her advisers," said Molapo, rubbing his hands gently together with the sound of leaves rustling.

"Yes, I imagine there are. But perhaps one thing in particular...?" persisted Trevelyan, waving Tolo into the room when he appeared at the door with a tea tray.

"Ah, tea, just one of the many benefits of our beneficent English protectors." The old man, with no perceptible sarcasm, leaned toward the pot appreciatively. "And Brandon's Biscuits as well. How very nice."

Sighing inwardly, Trevelyan poured tea and prepared himself for a long afternoon.

Back at the mortuary, Claire Winter was finishing the postmortem examination.

"Where was he found, Sergeant?" she asked the uniformed man who stood as close to the door as he could get and still remain in the room.

"In the Sea of Grass, madam, about here." He indicated a spot on the flyspecked wall map of Tshaniland. "There was much blood. I think the jackals had found him, and it is certain that the kites had done so. That is what drew me to investigate; all those birds." He looked uncomfortable, but not for anything would he have admitted his feelings to this foreign woman.

"Well, I can give you some preliminary findings, but I'll have to do a bit more work before I can say for sure. It appears he was shot, but not with a bullet: with an arrow. You see this?" She held up a ragged fragment in her tweezers.

Sergeant Moliesa, carefully avoiding looking into the gaping corpse on the table, stepped over to look at the tiny clue.

"It's a feather, or part of one, Sergeant," explained the doctor.

"From the kites, perhaps? They were fighting greatly over the body."

"No, I don't think so. Watch." She stepped over to the soapstone sink with its one corroded tap and rinsed off the fragment. Patting it gently with a clean rag, she went to the door and held it up again where it could catch the sunlight. "See? It's red. And it's dyed, not natural. I think it's from a commercially made arrow, the sort of thing people use at archery clubs."

"I do not think we have any archery clubs in Tshaniland," the sergeant stated firmly.

"Well, it needn't be a formal club. It could be from someone's backyard archery set; it's become quite a popular sport in some areas."

"So if this person was killed by an arrow, then he was killed by a foreigner. A white man." The sergeant was not slow to pick up the direction of Claire's thoughts.

"That's a bit of a jump on thin evidence. Let us say that it is more likely to have been someone who has some skill as an archer, perhaps a foreigner."

Claire returned to the corpse. "However, there was damage beyond what the arrow did. As I see it, the man half-turned, perhaps in response to a call from his killer. The arrow tore from left to right and slightly upwards, slitting open the stomach and lodging in the liver, managing to sever the hepatic vein and several arteries on its way. Then another wound was inflicted, probably by a knife. See here, and here: these are cuts from a sharp blade." She indicated the injuries. "I wouldn't testify under oath about it, but I think the man was dead of the arrow wound before the cuts to the upper abdomen were made. The killer was careful to take the arrow away with him, but missed that small fragment of feather."

She stepped back and looked at the corpse again. "Could it have been a muti murder, done to get parts for magic? Don't pretend that sort of thing doesn't happen any more; we both know it does," she added, cutting off any protest before it came.

Sergeant Moliesa frowned and said, "Occasionally, in remote areas; but the parts they usually take for such things do not seem to have been taken."

Claire knew what he meant; both the heart and genitals were still in their proper places, although she would not have said so aloud for fear of scandalizing the sergeant. In Tshaniland there was a convention that men's private parts were never spoken of directly: all manner of coy circumlocutions were used if the matter had to be mentioned at all.

"Yes, although the murderer might have been interrupted. But if it wasn't done for magic, why was it done?" Claire mused.

"An enemy has done this," said the sergeant firmly. "Someone hated this man, and hunted him down."

"Yes, but why cut up his stomach? He would have bled to death in ten or fifteen minutes. Why take the chance of staying at the scene of the crime and then cutting him up further? There isn't any folklore about this that I am aware of. Not like cutting out the tongue of traitors, as used to happen in the old days," said Claire. In the previous century there had been a ghastly punishment inflicted on anyone convicted of treason by the High Council. The guilty one's tongue was cut out and he was hung by the heels until sundown. Few survived this, and those few probably wished they hadn't.

"Well, I'll write up my report later and send it over to the Commissioner. I don't suppose we know who this man is yet?"

"No, but some woman will come seeking him, a mother or a wife. Can you keep him here until that happens?" asked the sergeant.

"Yes, but not indefinitely. The cellar is cool but we don't want him around too long. Why don't you go, Sergeant? I doubt I will learn anything more of importance." Claire saw the look of relief cross the hard-set features. The sergeant stood to attention and marched himself out of the mortuary, no doubt headed for the nearest cold beer. She didn't blame him; this was one of the nastier deaths she'd had to investigate in her fourteen months in Tshaniland.

"Percy, I'm nearly done here; you can take him away to the cellar in about ten minutes," she said to the small, thin man who had been hovering around, passing swabs and scalpels. Percy rarely spoke, and what he thought of his job as her assistant Claire had never discovered. He received an extra four shillings a month to supplement his pay as night watchman at the Main Roads Depot. She supposed that the extra cash made up for the unsavory nature of the responsibilities in the morgue.

Returning to the corpse, it was pretty clear to Claire that the arrow wound had been the cause of death, but she gave a cursory look to the rest of her involuntary patient. She felt a roughness on the left tibia that was probably an old break that had healed strongly but not quite straight. The man might have limped very slightly. Other than that, there was nothing of particular interest.

Reaching for the black silk that she used to sew up those cuts that wouldn't be seen once the body was in the coffin, Claire started to whip together the edges of the ghastly wounds. As she did there was a tiny sound, like a rock falling onto a hard surface. She stopped to see what it was. There in the gory underlay of the body was what looked like a piece of broken glass. Picking it up with tweezers, Claire rinsed it well and put it in a glassine envelope to look at it later.

Claire finished sewing and stepped back for Percy to take over. With the care of a nanny presented with a dirty child, he began sponging and cleaning. When he was done, a cloth soaked in methylated spirits would be draped over the body, followed by a canvas sheet, and the whole parcel stowed in the stone cellar where the temperature was considerably cooler than the mortuary proper. It wasn't ideal, but it was the best this little country could provide. One day the budget might run to a refrigerated compartment, but at present Claire was lucky to get a modest wage for her part-time medical examiner's work, never mind a well-appointed workplace.

Stretching the knots out of her back, Claire left her gloves and lab coat for Percy to take care of and made her way across a courtyard to the back door of her house. After stopping to scrub her hands in the kitchen, she went down the hall to the front room where her nurse-secretary-guardian angel held sway.

"Anything new, Duchess?" she inquired.

"No, Doctor, it has been very quiet. To-oo quiet, perhaps?" smiled the large black woman, quoting from the radio serial which purported to be a true life African adventure, broadcast every Tuesday afternoon. Duchess and Claire had taken to having their afternoon tea by the radio and enjoying the fifteen minutes of foolish escapism and the frequent unintentional humor.

"I'm sure that won't last. In fact, I hear someone at the gate now." Claire got up and went into the hall to the front door, to the despair of Duchess, who was trying to teach her the proper behavior for an important person like a doctor. Doctors did not answer their own doors.

Quite unconscious of her faux pas, Claire opened the door to find a pair of young women on the doorstep. One held a thin stick with a white envelope wedged in a slot at the top.

"We see you, Doctor," said the taller woman in Sitshana.

"I see you also, little sisters. Will you have tea?" responded Claire in the same language, getting a giggle from the younger woman, who rarely saw any foreigners and still found them exotic.

"May your cooking fire never burn low," said the elder, speaking the formal Sitshana thanks phrase used between women, then switching to English. "However, we must hurry back as soon as you have answered this message." Refusing to come in and sit down, the young women retired to the stone front wall, where they watched Claire open and read the letter.

"I'll just write an answer and you can return to the Great She-leopard," Claire called.

The letter was from the Queen and requested (in demanding tones) that Claire pay a visit to the royal village as soon as possible.

Claire rummaged in her desk for her fountain pen and wrote at the bottom of the letter, "I would be pleased to call at Enkalovu this afternoon at 4 o'clock."

Not for the first time wondering at the odd customs the English had spread around the world in the wake of their empire building, Claire went out and fixed the envelope in the cleft stick and watched the messengers trot off toward the royal village. The idea of the stick was to keep messages from becoming dirty or crumpled, as well as to keep the importance of the mission in the messenger's mind. The Batshani had adopted the custom enthusiastically, as had many other people in Africa and Asia. Everything from grocery orders to important legal papers transited the country in cleft sticks.

Returning to the office, Claire looked at the appointment book. "Mrs. Wilson-Gore. Did she say what she is suffering from this time, Duchess?"

"No, but I'm sure you will find it interesting. After her is Mrs. Mohale, the magistrate's wife; something is wrong with her younger daughter. After that you are free for the day until you go to the German Farm to give some injections this evening. Then you are finished."

"Well, in that case you can hang up the Closed sign at three-thirty and go home early. I am summoned to Enkalovu and won't be back for a while, I imagine. I can do the men at the farm on my way back." Picking up the file folder for Mrs. Wilson-Gore, Claire went into her office to re-read the previous notes. So far this year Mrs. Wilson-Gore had suffered from self-diagnosed typhoid, cholera, malaria and snakebite, which had proven to be influenza, colitis, hay fever and spider bite, respectively. No doubt today's illness would prove to be something equally simple.

The front door opened and closed and Mrs. Wilson-Gore's twittering voice rose and fell as Duchess greeted her and ushered her into the office.

"Oh, Doctor, thank you for seeing me; I'm quite distracted with worry," exclaimed the little blond woman, perching gingerly on the edge of her chair and twisting her gloved hands together. "It's, er, it's ... well, there's something wrong, down there, I know there is, I had an aunt die of cancer of the, er, womb and she was just like this, they say things like this run in families, although she was an aunt by marriage, but perhaps--"

"Mrs. Wilson-Gore, let me just check out the usual things first," said Claire, breaking into the spate and wrapping a blood-pressure cuff around the thin arm.

"You really mustn't get yourself in such a state. Remember how you were worried about that snake bite, and it was only a spider?" Claire pumped up the cuff and found that her patient's blood pressure was perfectly normal, although her pulse was a bit erratic. Like patient, like pulse, she thought to herself.

"Now just what are these symptoms that are worrying you?" she asked.

"I'm passing water too often, and I have funny cramps low-down, you know," Mrs. Wilson-Gore waved a hand vaguely at her abdomen. "And I'm ever so tired, it's not like me at all. I like to keep busy, you know, but I just can't seem to keep going lately. I'm sure it's cancer. I don't know what Harold will do if I die, he can never find his cufflinks or socks, how will he manage? And I had so hoped to live to see my grandchildren, but Clive isn't even married and--"

"Mrs. Wilson-Gore, please, let me do the diagnosing. Come, hop up on the examining table and lie on your back." Claire took her firmly by the elbow and took her behind the screen.

"Now you've had this done before, so there's no need to tighten up. Just relax, take deep breaths, and let me feel around a bit," Claire said, gently laying her fingertips on the pale skin.

"There's a lump, I know there is. How long do I have? Will it be painful? Aunt May was in dreadful pain toward the end; she went all gray and pinched-looking. They gave her opium but it did no good." Mrs. Wilson-Gore would not be stopped; her self-diagnosis was set firmly in her mind. Any minute she'd start discussing funeral arrangements.

"Mrs. Wilson-Gore, I need to do an internal examination. It's a bit uncomfortable, but it won't hurt, I promise. I want you to bend your knees, like this."

Protesting in squeaks, Mrs. Wilson-Gore suffered the ensuing indignities.

When her patient was seated again, by now a quivering mass of worry, Claire said, "I want you to take a deep breath and be ready for a shock."

"It's cancer, I knew it, I knew it. There's a mass there, and it's going to kill me," moaned the little woman.

"No, it's not cancer. Yes, there is a mass there, but it isn't going to kill you. Give you many difficult times perhaps, but it won't kill you. It's a baby. You're pregnant."

Complete silence for once prevailed. After a long half-minute, Mrs. Wilson-Gore said shakily, "What? What? A baby? No, it can't be a baby. I'm forty, I can't have a baby."

"Many women have babies at forty. You've already had one baby, you shouldn't have any trouble with this one."

"Doctor, my baby is twenty-one! I can't have another one! What will people say? What will Harold say?"

"He'll probably be pretty proud of himself, if I know men. I want to see you in two weeks just to be sure everything is going well, and after that every month. You are about four months gone."

"It was the anniversary party!" exclaimed the woman. "Harold made me one of those champagne and cassis things, and--but--oh, dear!" A tear trickled down her cheek.

"Perhaps it will be a little girl. Wouldn't that be nice?" Claire offered, desperately trying to find a way to make this unexpected diagnosis acceptable.

The mopping up and consoling and congratulating process took time, but eventually Claire saw her patient out, raced through the rest of her appointments, and at quarter to four was driving her elderly Austin up the road to the royal village, Enkalovu. In her pocket was the small stone she had found at the autopsy.

On the drive she considered what sort of problems the Queen was going to dump in her lap. From the day they had met seven years ago, Malaila's life had fascinated and baffled Claire. It was an amazing amalgam of folktale, National Geographic and current affairs.

When she was an intern at Boston General in 1928, Claire had been assigned small medical problems on which to practice her newly acquired skills. Malaila had come into the outpatient department in misery, with easily diagnosed chilblains. The prescription, a pair of Claire's grandmother's homemade mittens, was received as if it had been a gift of emeralds. When an impala fur bed cover had been delivered to her one-room apartment, Claire discovered that the tall, brown-skinned girl she had treated was not just any foreign student, but the heir apparent to the throne of Tshaniland, a place she had never heard of.

Seeking the girl out among the many students at Commonwealth University, Claire found her in a modest apartment off Kenmore Square. "The bed cover is much too grand for such a small favor, and besides, I'm paid for my work," she explained to the thin, grim-faced woman who acted as Malaila's duenna or governess.

"The Great She-leopard would be offended if you refuse the gift," the woman explained. Claire had no idea whom that personage might be, but stayed for the offered meal and soon knew more than most people in Boston about the tiny British protectorate of Tshaniland in southern Africa. The Great She-leopard was Malaila's mother, the Queen, whom she would succeed in due course.

The duenna, Elspeth Masilani, was a distant cousin of the Queen. Her job was to watch over, feed, and protect the heir while she undertook her college education.

"The Princess will be the first in her family to complete a university degree," Elspeth explained proudly. Claire understood that: she was the first woman in her family to have gone past high school, and was a source of endless pride to her own mother.

Despite the slight difference in their ages, Claire and Malaila became friends. The girl had never experienced any but the best treatment, and was often jolted by the new environment. Everything from the demands of her teachers to the weather to the racial prejudice of some of her classmates came as a shock to Malaila.

One day, after hearing a jeremiad from the Princess, Claire became exasperated and said, "You've only got two choices: give up and go home, which you tell me will please the conservatives in your High Council; or grit your teeth and carry on to the end, which I think will please you. What's it going to be?"

After that Malaila buckled down and graduated with a grade average of 3.7 out of a possible 4.0. Asked why she had chosen to study geology when there were easier and more useful courses a future ruler could pursue, she said it was because geology was serious science and if one was going to test oneself, it should be against a worthy foe. Privately she admitted to Claire that English Literature bored her rigid, and she had no skill at arts or music, which left only the hard sciences or mathematics.

It was because of the Queen's knowledge of geology that Claire had brought the odd little stone from the autopsy. Malaila could probably identify the stone and explain how it had become attached to the corpse. The grasslands where the man was found formed a thick mat and it was unlikely that any small stones lay about on the surface. It was probably not important, but it was an anomaly that rang a tiny alarm bell in Claire's mind. Deep in thought, Claire drove through a herd of goats with barely slackened speed, managing more by luck than skill not to hit any.

"Nee sabona, Tshadola," said the guard at the gate as Claire drew up and stopped.

"Nee sabona, butilo," she replied, mentally chuckling at the idea of this six-foot-four-inch man being anyone's little brother. He had addressed her as "tshadola," which meant something between an adopted sister and a special friend, and was a title not given lightly.

Enkalovu, the royal village, was an interesting combination of old and new. There was a store-cum-trading post, a doctor's office, a post office, and a community hall, all made of unremarkable stuccoed brick, and roofed with red clay tiles. There was a handsome little stone church, built by the Bristol Bible Society in the hopes that it would shelter scores of converts one day. The society was still waiting patiently for the converts, but was acknowledged to have one of the best choirs in the country.

The royal residence was a large gray stone building, behind which clustered a small village of woven grass huts that housed the Queen's staff and relatives.

Claire was shown into the Queen's sitting room, a modest chamber behind the grander formal reception room. Never quite sure how much their early friendship had been changed by Malaila's assumption of the throne, Claire remained standing until the Queen arrived. Shortly thereafter a tall, sleek young woman in a gray silk suit strode into the room and threw herself into a chair.

"You are looking very elegant today, Great She-leopard," said Claire. "Official function of some sort?"

"Tea party for the new diplomatic wives, cucumber sandwiches and fish paste and all that. I got away as quickly as I decently could and left them to be given the grand tour of the palace compound. It makes them feel superior, until they get to the throne room and see all that gold. Never mind about those boring women, sit down and read this!" demanded the Queen, thrusting an envelope at Claire.

Inside was a newspaper clipping from a Washington newspaper headlined "Baltimore Girl to be Queen?" With it was a letter. Claire raised her eyebrows interrogatively at Malaila, who flipped her hand impatiently and said, "Read it all."

The newspaper piece was a bit of fluff by a society writer, suggesting that one Wallis Warfield Simpson, about to become a divorcée for the second time, might be about to wed the Prince of Wales and in due course be Queen of England. The enclosed letter was a chatty three pages from one of Malaila's college friends, saying how exciting it was that an American woman might soon be on the English throne. Claire read as rapidly as she could, very conscious of the Queen's drumming fingers on the arm of her chair.

"All right, so what? Newspaper gossip. Why has this upset you? The Prince has had lady friends before and will no doubt have them again. How does this affect Tshaniland?" asked Claire.

"You don't understand! What if he wants to bring her here? I cannot receive such a woman at Enkolovu!" Malaila sprang from her chair and began pacing the floor like her namesake totem animal.

"But why should he?" Claire was more puzzled than ever.

"His Highness is supposed to be going to the grand opening of the Birchenough Bridge over the Zambezi. Apparently, it's the greatest engineering feat of the decade. Once he gets that far, he's bound to carry on to visit us; he enjoyed himself no end on his last visit, and promised to return. What's more likely than that he'll take the chance to visit us after the bridge opening? And he'll bring her and then there will be an international incident, and--argh! Why do these things happen?"

"For heaven's sake, calm yourself. Number one, nothing has happened yet and nothing may ever happen. Number two, you have a staff of skilled speakers who can talk the hind leg off a wildebeest: they will find a way to say no without appearing to do so. And number three, you can always be out of reach: a retreat to consult the ancestors, perhaps? Failing that, I can check you into the Clinic for exhaustion. It wouldn't be that much of an exaggeration, come to think of it."

"If I were the King of England, I would have the woman removed. Either pay her to go, or have her dropped into the North Sea. That would solve the problem."

"You know that isn't how things are done in England. Once, perhaps, but not now. The very idea of King George hiring an assassin is ludicrous."

"I bet there are days when he'd like one," said the Queen with a grin. "All right, perhaps I'm worried about nothing. Forgive me, Claire. Let's sit on the back veranda and drink gin and gossip."

Once settled with a generous gin and tonic, Claire filled the Queen in on what had been happening lately. Little of what she said appeared to be news; the Queen's intelligence network, known as the "Ears of the Queen", clearly had already reported most items of interest.

As she listened, the Queen opened a drawer of a small table and brought out a package of Camels. "No, do not lecture me. It's my only vice."

She lit the cigarette and drew the smoke in deeply. "Don't frown at me, Claire, it will give you wrinkles."

"I will say nothing, but you know my opinion of tobacco," said Claire.

"Yes, you're in the camp of James the First in that, aren't you? A lot of doctors recommend an occasional cigarette for relaxation."

"A lot of doctors recommended bleeding their patients and killed them in the process," said Claire with some asperity.

"We'll have to agree to disagree on this matter," the Queen said with an air of finality. "Now, the dead man with the slashed stomach: what do you make of that? So far no one seems to be missing, but probably word has not reached the outlying areas yet."

"I suppose the DC will have an article put in the newspaper: that might bring the man's family to look at the body. I hope it's soon; the weather is warming up and we don't have a refrigerator."

"I'm working on that: I had the Minister of Finance put an item in this year's budget and it might just squeak through. I haven't forgotten." The Queen had enticed Claire to Tshaniland with the promise of a lucrative private practice with wide and fascinating experiences, as well as a soon-to-be-upgraded national forensic center. The center presently consisted of one stone building, a microscope, centrifuge, soapstone autopsy table and Percy as an assistant. The private practice kept the wolf from the door, but payment was as apt to be made in negotiable domestic fowls as cash. If it weren't for the few foreign patients, Claire would be poor indeed.

"I've got something interesting to show you. Tell me what it is and I'll tell you where I got it." Claire gave her the stone that she had retrieved from the gore of the postmortem.

Malaila took the stone to the window, held it up to the light, bounced it on her palm, and tapped it against her front teeth.

"I hope you have a good explanation for this; otherwise I'll have to call the guard and have you speared," she said, only half joking.

"Why, what is it?" Claire asked.

"A diamond, about twelve carats and quite good quality. More to the point, it's one of what we call the 'Tears of Alilo,' a lavender diamond, and absolutely forbidden to be owned or even touched by outsiders."

"Oh, dear. I only brought it to you because you know about stones, I didn't think it was anything valuable. That makes where I found it even more puzzling." Claire told the Queen of hearing the small noise during the postmortem and finding the stone beside the wreckage of the dead man's abdomen.

"Initially I thought that the stone had stuck to the clotted blood, which would be unusual given that the man was apparently killed in the Sea of Grass and there aren't many loose pebbles lying around there. I brought it to you more as a curiosity than anything else."

"It's a curiosity all right. How did a murdered man come to have such a thing on him?"

"Or in him--it's possible the stone was inside him, although I can't think why," Claire mused.

"I can. In the South African diamond mines people sometimes swallow stones to get them out of the miner's compound. Some of the big mines have taken to fluoroscoping departing workers to identify swallowed stones. Many of our men have been to work in the mines of the Transvaal, and they've no doubt heard all the tricks for secreting diamonds," the Queen explained.

"But we don't have any diamond mines here, so how would that matter?"

The Queen gave Claire a rather odd look, then turned back to the window and re-examined the stone. "Perhaps this man worked in South Africa in the recent past."

"He was definitely some sort of workman, because his hands and feet were callused. But that would apply to almost any adult male, except a clerk or a teacher," said Claire. "Tell me about these Tears of Alilo."

"They are rare. Over the years they have been found here or there in alluvial deposits. There are some in the Mafulunga: you probably would have seen them there. The tradition is that any such diamond found must be brought to the Queen."

Claire thought back to the last time she had seen Malaila in her full ceremonial costume, complete with the Mafulunga headdress. She didn't recall noticing any lavender diamonds, but in an uncut state, probably they didn't look any more impressive than the translucent lump she'd taken from the gore of the autopsy table.

"And Alilo was the original Lady of the Winds, wasn't she?"

"We prefer to say she is the original Lady. Her spirit is still with us in the Cave of the Winds, and sometimes she chooses to put on flesh and speak to us again." Malaila was suddenly not a twentieth century college graduate, but a personage to be ranked with Ayesha or Sheba. Claire always found it rather spooky, the way the younger woman took for granted that one could talk to a six-times great-grandmother. Her tall figure seemed to get taller, and her curiously oriental eyes glittered when she spoke of the ancestors.

Something in Claire's eyes must have told the Queen the effect she was having, for she smiled suddenly and sat down. "Sorry; I've frightened you."

"Well, not frightened so much as disconcerted me. You get this look and it makes me feel as if you've turned into someone else."

"Don't worry, I'm not dangerous to you, Tshadola."

Claire thought that she wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of Malaila; there was something about the young queen that made one suspect she'd be a very bad person to cross.

"You get a sort of Chinese look when you talk about the ancestors," observed Claire.

"It is said that a Chinese princess was shipwrecked off the coast of Mozambique and was rescued by a group of Batshani who had gone to get sea water for the Umshola festival. She came back with them to Tshaniland with her maidens and one old man who must have been some sort of shaman. The royal family is supposed to be descended from these people, who settled down and intermarried. I used to wonder about whether it was just a myth or fable, but there's a historian in Germany who has discovered documents that support the story. Or so I am told by Reverend Berghof."

"Watch out, he may be trying to convert you," laughed Claire.

"I don't think I would enjoy his brand of stringent northern Christianity. If I were going to convert, I would choose something with more incense and ceremony. I used to enjoy going down to the harbor and watching the Blessing of the Fleet when I lived in Boston. Those Catholics really know how to celebrate."

"I can just see you now, arriving for Mass in the Mafulunga and your monkey-fur skirt and all that gold!" chortled Claire.

The Queen joined the laughter, then clapped her hand over her mouth. "We must not make light of such things: we are naughty girls, as Elspeth would say."

"How is she? I haven't seen her for months. What does she do now that you don't need her the way you did in Boston?"

"I am worried about her. She has odd spells sometimes, but pretends they're nothing. I tried to get her to visit your surgery but she would have none of it and said she'd brew up something the inyanga gave her for coughs. I did what I could to make her life easier by putting her in charge of the regalia room and giving her a helper, but you know how stubborn she can be. That is not your worry; let us get back to the important thing: how do we find out where that diamond came from?"

"We? I'm just a humble doctor, not a detective. Surely you have people skilled in finding out things."

"Yes, but they don't have your access to some places we may need to investigate."

"I think we should get Mr. Trevelyan involved if you are really determined to find out about the diamond. He's far more likely to get results, and as this is a case of murder, he needs to know about the complication of the diamond, as that might have a bearing on the killing," Claire said.

"He is a man of discretion, if a bit patronizing. I will leave it in your hands what you tell him, but I must know where this diamond came from. It's much more important than you could understand."

Claire felt a bit miffed at this statement. There were times when Malaila treated her like a not-too-bright child. "I did manage to get all the way through medical school, Your Majesty," she said.

"Don't get huffy, Claire, it's childish. I'm only asking you to take it on trust that this is important, but if you insist, I can turn you over to Mr. Moleponi to explain the history of the Tears of Alilo and their place in the mythology of Tshaniland."

"No, no, that's all right; I'll take your word for it," Claire said hastily. Some things it was better for one not to know, and Mr. Moleponi's lectures came into that category. The official Tshaniland historian, the old man spoke as if he had years, if not decades, in which to make his listener understand the importance of a topic. Claire vividly remembered his speech on the occasion of the first anniversary of Malaila's accession, which coincided with her own arrival in the country. After the second hour, most of the audience had fallen into a stupor bordering on coma. It was worse than listening to someone read the "begats" from the Old Testament.

"If there's nothing else I can do for you, I must be going; I have to call at the German Farm before I go home." Claire collected her handbag and gloves and stood up, awaiting official dismissal.

"You haven't finished your drink," the Queen protested.

"No, not when I have to drive up Dead Man's Hill after dark; thank you anyway."

"All right, you may go. Keep me aware of what you find out, and I will set some eyes and ears at work here." Without a further word, Malaila swept out of the room, leaving Claire in mid-farewell.

Pondering the complex creature that she doubted she'd ever be able to say she knew well, Claire got into her rackety car and started it on the second attempt. With only one backfire, she got to the main road and headed back toward Entshanini.

A few miles further along, the road branched and ran beside green fields neatly fenced with white-painted boards looking not unlike those in Kentucky's Blue Grass country. Several large signs announced what was in the fields, and that the project was sponsored jointly by Her Majesty and the Department of Overseas Development of the Third Reich.

Turning into a meticulously graded and raked driveway, Claire arrived at the main farm building and parked her car beside a Mercedes truck, still dripping from its daily wash. Say what you would about the Germans, they had good equipment and knew how to take care of it. If only they weren't so ... German, Claire thought.

Barely had she stopped her car when a young man in khaki work clothes, the creases sharp enough to plow with, was at her elbow.

"Fraulein Doktor, wilkommen," said Franz Felsbach, the assistant farm manager. Snatching her medical bag from her hand, he all but stood to attention. "The men are assembled."

In the dining hall, a dozen brown-skinned men wearing identical khaki shorts and sleeveless shirts sat at tables, their chairs squared up with military precision. On a side table lay a white cloth lay upon which Franz set Claire's bag, snapping it open like a salute, and standing back ready to help if required.

Claire greeted the men. "Nee saboni, babuti."

A chorus of greetings came back to her, but none of the dark eyes met hers. Claire took a syringe from her bag, passed the needle through the flame of the Bunsen burner, and filled the syringe from the large bottle Franz brought from a locked cabinet. The specially imported vitamin cocktail was given to the workers every week, and Claire had to admit that they all looked very healthy. Herr Albrecht had convinced the Ministry of Health to allow him to conduct tests on worker health, and the vitamin injections were part of the overall scheme.

This was only the second week of the project. Claire wasn't happy with it, despite having read the hefty folder of information Herr Albrecht had supplied about the wonders of vitamin therapy. There was no single thing she could reasonably object to; still, Claire had some niggling questions. Why, for instance, did they choose to run the program in Tshaniland? Weren't there any German farmhands in need of vitamins?

Swallowing her baseless concerns and mindful that her employer, the Department of Health, had approved the project, Claire put on her best "this won't hurt" smile and faced her patients.

The men formed up in a line and one by one accepted the injections with varying bravery. Claire opened her notebook and recorded the date, dosage and blood pressure against the names written there. "Franz, I'm short one man, Thabo Khonzi. Is he ill? It will spoil the test if we lose one of the subjects," she said, trying to call the man's face to mind.

"Thabo had to go home. A family problem--a death, I believe," Franz said. "Perhaps he will not be returning to us."

Claire caught one of the workers looking surprised at this statement, but said nothing.

"And now you will visit the Pastor for a meal; he has particularly asked you to join him," Franz said, stowing Claire's equipment away with a practiced hand and snapping her bag shut. The large ampoule he put back in the wall cabinet, locking it and pocketing the key.

"That is very kind of him. Perhaps you will put my bag in the car and tell him I'll be there directly," Claire said with a smile.

Franz hesitated for a moment. "Of course, Fraulein Doktor." He left the hall and Claire started to follow him, but slowly.

"Bendhu, you wanted to say something?" she asked the worker who had shown surprise at Franz's explanation of Thabo's absence.

"No, madam. It is nothing, only that I did not know that Thabo had family. I thought that--no, I must have been mistaken." He backed away quickly and left the building through the rear door. Claire went outside, thoughtful.

Franz appeared at her elbow. "I will escort you; the path is rough," he said.

"It's not necessary, Franz," she said, but he would not be put off.

At the top of the path, Claire reclaimed her elbow and said, "Thank you. I'll be all right from here on." Franz made a sort of aborted arm movement and turned on his heel, leaving Claire thinking that he was a very peculiar sort of farmer. She rapped on the door of the house that sat on the slight slope above the farm machinery yard.

"Ah, doctor, guten Abend," exclaimed Mrs. Berghof, flinging open the door and releasing a wave of good smells onto the still evening air. "We heard you were coming, and knowing how late it would be, thought you would enjoy a meal with us."

"Very kind of you, Mrs. Berghof. Is the Pastor at home?" Claire stepped in and laid her hat and bag on a table by the door.

"I will bring him out of his den with promises of good food and good company. Come, sit."

Mrs. Berghof pushed Claire into a chair by a small cozy fire. "The evenings are still cold, nein? And the fire is always the heart of the house."

"I would not be surprised to learn that heart and hearth have the same roots," Claire said.

"And you would be most probably correct," said Pastor Berghof, coming out of a back room, looking rather like a bear newly awakened from hibernation. His reading glasses perched crookedly on a wild nest of graying brown hair and an Indian file fastener nested incongruously in his beard.

Mrs. Berghof pounced on it like a robin on a worm, "tsk-ing" loudly. "Truly you are not safe to be let out alone, nor in either. So untidy, what will the doctor think?"

"Marta, do not fuss, it is bad for the blood pressure. Mine if not yours. What about something to warm us up, some of your cinnamon cider, perhaps?" With a broad smile, the pastor engulfed Claire's hand with an ink-stained paw. "And how have you been, young lady?"

"Very well, thank you, Pastor. Or as well as one can be on a day which has included a postmortem."

Following a noise that sounded like "Tchak!" the pastor exclaimed, "Another road accident? It is becoming unsafe to walk anywhere these days."

"No, this is worse: it appears to be murder. But that's no sort of topic for dinnertime; tell me how you are coming along with the plans for the school."

Easily diverted, the pastor soon had the dining table covered with drawings and lists, to the distraction of Marta, who was trying to put plates and silverware around. Claire stood sipping the hot cider and making admiring noises as Pastor Berghof explained the Lutheran School that would soon rise next to the church on the back side of the hill overlooking the experimental orchards. "It will be a wonderful thing, to bring education and the true word of God to these young men," the pastor said.

"Isn't it tempting fate to put school boys and fruit trees in such proximity?" Claire asked mischievously, sidestepping comment on the advisability of trying to convert the Batshani.

"No, they will be so tired from studying they will not think of sneaking into the orchard at night," said the pastor confidently. Claire and Marta exchanged knowing glances: both thinking it was highly unlikely that fatigue would overcome the attraction of forbidden fruit.

"Also, we will have an assistant master sleeping in the anteroom to the boy's dormitory, so they will not be going anywhere he does not know about," finished the pastor, rolling up the plans and piling them haphazardly on the sideboard. "We shall want you to be the doctor for the school, of course."

"I'm flattered, but you might find a male doctor preferable. Batshani boys are by and large a modest bunch," Claire said, wondering how she'd fit a school doctor's work into her already packed schedule.

Marta Berghof served her usual huge and delicious meal. Tonight it was sauerbraten and red cabbage, with strong coffee and apple strudel to follow.

"A little kirsch to settle the stomach?" the pastor asked, as Claire sat back, feeling like a very small python that had consumed a very large goat.

"I dare not; I must drive home tonight," Claire said.

"A small taste will not dim your reflexes," persisted the pastor. "Or you could stay with us, we have a guest room."

"No, thank you very much. I would have another cup of that marvelous coffee if you offered," said Claire, feeling herself sliding toward torpor. She had the feeling the Berghofs wanted her to stay here longer, and wondered if it was because they got lonely with no one to talk to but the militaristic Franz and Herr Albrecht, whose own mother wouldn't have described him as a cozy person.

She accepted the coffee gratefully, but waved away the offered second serving of strudel. "No, really, it was wonderful, ambrosial even, but I can't eat another bite, Mrs. Berghof."

"You work hard; you will burn up the calories quickly," Mrs. Berghof said, then fell silent. Claire intercepted a glance between the two Germans that reminded her of patients she'd had who struggled to bring themselves to the point of asking a delicate question. Finally, she said, "Look, I have the feeling that there's some reason you wanted to see me tonight, other than the hospitality. Why don't you just tell me what it is: is it a medical problem?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. It's ... that is to say..." began Mrs. Berghof.

"It's a friend. A friend of a friend, of Marta's, really. From Austria, but she has lived in Germany. She needs a place to stay. It's just that we cannot invite her to stay here, because ... it would be awkward, you understand? I am not explaining this well," Pastor Berghof said.

"What the Pastor means is there are people giving bad advice to our leader. We must hope he sees through them, but meanwhile, others, innocent people, are often in trouble," put in Marta Berghof. "It is not good for Germany, this trouble. But one has to be careful what one says, there are those who report every little thing and make a small mistake look like a big crime, you know?"

"Ah, I begin to understand. Your friend's friend has run afoul of a tattletale and been reported for something," said Claire, thinking she was seeing a bit of light in the tangle of words.

"Tattletale? Ah, yes, yes, that is the word. So we were hoping..." The pastor trailed away again.

"You were hoping that as I have several spare rooms I might like to have a lodger for a while, is that it?" Claire asked.

"I know it is a very big, what is the word, imposing on you. We are hoping the friend will be able to go to America; she has relatives there. For the moment she has been able to get a permit to stay in Tshaniland, but only for six months."

"How did she get out of Austria if she had run afoul of the authorities?"

"There are ways. Not always very direct ways; she has been many weeks getting here. She is an artist, a brilliant woman. You will like her. And she can pay a bit, she has some funds."

"Well, then, what about the hotel? Or a rented house?" asked Claire.

"There are no suitable rental houses; we have already asked. And the hotel would use up all her remaining money before a few months. She is staying there now, but cannot remain long. We would help, but we receive only a small stipend," said Mrs. Berghof.

"Marta! The doctor is not interested in our wages!" The pastor protested.

"Are there no other German families around with a spare room?" Claire asked. She wasn't at all sure she wanted a houseguest.

"Only a few technical aid people and they are not the sort she would feel comfortable with. It would not be suitable for her to stay with an unmarried man, for instance." Pastor Berghof tugged his beard impatiently. There was an air of tension in the room, which had been steadily building since the matter of the friend of a friend had been brought up.

Why, they're frightened! Claire thought to herself.

"Marta, we cannot make this imposing, it might put the doctor in a difficult position. We must think of something else!" the pastor exclaimed, mistaking Claire's silence for unwillingness.

"No, no, not at all!" protested Claire. "It was just a surprise, that's all. It might be good for your friend to stay with me if she's trying to get an American visa: I know some people in the diplomatic service; perhaps they could help. Why don't we give it a try?"

There was no mistaking the look of relief on the Berghofs' faces. They couldn't look any more relieved if I'd stopped holding a gun to their heads, Claire thought: there is a lot more to the story than they've told me.

Hoping she hadn't just offered hospitality to an axe murderer or anarchist, she said brightly, "Well, let's meet the friend."

"She is in Cottage 3 at the Rangeview Hotel. I told her that if we were successful, we would send you to her tomorrow morning. I know that is presuming of me, but we know you have a good heart and were--"

"It's all right, Pastor," said Claire, having second thoughts far too late. "I'm sure we will get along. It's a big house and there's plenty of space. Perhaps she can teach me to cook."

"About that I cannot say, but if you wish to learn about art, she will be happy to share what she knows," he said.

"I was just joking, Pastor; a feeble attempt at humor. Well, I had better get on home if I'm going to meet my new lodger in the morning. What's her name?"

"Ri--" began Marta.

"Rita. Rita Lerner," interrupted the pastor, looking rather sternly at his wife. Claire was too tired to bother figuring out this little oddity and just smiled and said goodnight. The pastor insisted on escorting her back to the Austin, which she noticed someone had washed while it sat in the yard. Better get home before they throw me in the shower, she thought with a smile.

Safely up Dead Man's Hill, she took the turn onto Roberts Street and was soon at her own home. Stopping only to check that the surgery was locked and the coal stove banked for the night, she tumbled into bed without another thought.