He was not going to hang around a moment longer to witness this cheek-by-jowl existence, humanity at its most base. No doubt someone is making a lot of money somewhere, he thought, but it’s not these poor sods.
When he emerged the following morning and stepped across the chequered floor of the main reception of the Kimberley Club to have breakfast on the verandah, it didn’t take him too long to find where most of the diamond riches were funnelled. This gentleman’s haven clearly welcomed only the privileged and the wealthy, and Reggie’s good luck was that his father’s club in London had visiting rights. Leaning on the Grant name, he’d been warmly welcomed and given a splendid suite on the ground floor at the back of the property, where it was peaceful and shaded.
This collection of rooms gave the wealthy a private place to meet in convivial surrounds. Along the hushed corridors photographs of solemn men watched over the passers-by moving up the grand staircase – polished twice daily, he noted, by the black servants – towards the snooker hall or the library. The walls were also adorned with the heads of wild animals; their benign, glassy-eyed expressions suggested death was pleasant, and not at the hands of a man with a rifle. Reggie deduced the beasts had been proudly shot and donated by big-game hunters who’d enjoyed the hospitality of the club.
That only one chairman’s name graced the gold-lettered board showed just how new this establishment was. If Reggie was honest, he was surprised that such a place already existed in what was essentially a shantytown.
On the verandah, he reposed beneath slow-turning fans powered by electricity, which most of England still dreamed of. He ate like a royal – and was waited on like one too, by a host of servants in starched uniforms ready to jump at his every whim. They kept their eyes lowered when they addressed him. He could well understand how men of means could get used to this lifestyle, provided they were kept well away from the filth and flies of the diamond fields.
He said as much to a gentleman who gave him a polite good morning as Reggie passed by to reach his table.
‘You watch how this place develops. By next year it will be given a proper name. Perhaps you’ve walked through what looks like a motley group of huts acting as stores?’
Reggie nodded.
‘The plans are big. They’ll be bricks and mortar by Christmas next, mark my words.’ The man extended a hand. ‘John Plume.’
Reggie shook it. ‘Reginald Grant.’
‘Of the Northumberland Grants?’
He was surprised his father’s name stretched this far. ‘That’s the one.’
‘You’re his son?’
He nodded.
‘I was sorry to hear of his passing. He was a bit of a visionary, your old man.’
‘Many wouldn’t describe him quite so generously.’
‘I’ve been to your family home in London – mind-boggling, I’ll admit, but nonetheless intriguing – like a journey around the world.’
Reggie gave a small laugh. He agreed with Mr Plume’s observation; he’d only seen the London house once himself, although he wasn’t going to admit to that. ‘I hope to spend a lot more time there on my return from Africa,’ he replied, suitably vague. The idea of a home in London and another in the north was seductive, to say the least. ‘I’ve been in the north for most of the past year,’ he said.
‘How is your mother?’
He gave a tight smile. Was it worth telling the truth to this stranger? He opted for diplomacy, neither dishonest nor entirely truthful. ‘Mrs Grant has been unwell recently, but she is looking forward to my return and no doubt to the English summer.’ When in doubt, always talk about the weather, he’d learned.
‘Oh, yes, indeed. It’s been a grumpy old winter back home, hasn’t it? How long are you here for, old chap?’
‘Not long.’
‘Here for some diamond prospecting, no doubt?’
‘I’m certainly here to stake a claim but I’ll be gone as soon as I can,’ he said, enjoying hiding behind his cleverly chosen words.
The man sighed. ‘The heat can send a man mad, they say, and now I believe it.’
‘To me the daunting aspect is the sheer expanse of nothingness surrounding us.’
‘It’s not all bad. Just the idea that you might dig out a diamond the size of a huge pebble is enough to keep most men sane.’
‘That big, eh?’
‘My word. The Eureka diamond is why we’re all here. It set the world on fire. It was displayed at the Great Exhibition in Paris. I don’t think most of us here could imagine its worth, although I’m told it’s currently in the possession of the governor of the Cape. The next big find could be a single shovelful of dirt away . . . that’s how the men who own the claims think, anyway.’
‘Are you one of them, Mr Plume?’
‘I’m one of a conglomerate. We hold several claims. We’ve done very well with smaller diamonds.’
‘Still searching for the big one?’
‘Oh, yes. Always hoping to unearth that one-hundred-carat egg to set off a bidding frenzy in Europe or America.’ He grinned.
‘Indeed. Speaking of eggs, I’m starving,’ Reggie said, catching the eye of a servant, who hurried over. ‘I’ll have scrambled eggs and some toast with a pot of coffee.’
‘At once, sir,’ drawled the man, as he probably did a few dozen times per day.
‘See you tomorrow, perhaps, Mr Plume?’ Reggie continued, turning back to his companion.
‘Hope your claim-staking goes well, Grant.’
It seemed that his secret of the Grant empire’s failing health was holding tight. How good it would be to find a haul of diamonds or even a single massive diamond to drag his family firm out of the mire! It was a pleasant thought he played with over breakfast to keep his mind occupied as he chewed mechanically and read the paper, predictably called The Diamond News.
The weekly newspaper seemed to be doing very well, from what he could see. Advertisers were busy: a place called the Ice House was offering chilled drinks and refreshments; a group called Christy Minstrels was making its debut at Parker’s Music Hall; a man called Joel Myers at the Iron Store was offering to take any form of payment for the full range of tools that farmers and diamond diggers could possibly need. Forty merino sheep were missing, although the report didn’t mention the word ‘stolen’; meanwhile, a reward of one pound was being offered for a pocket watch that the owner had no issue with claiming had been stolen from Klipdrift. He shook his head with mild awe. Reading the advertisements was nothing short of entertaining, and he passed most of the morning over an expansive breakfast and several pots of coffee.
He finally flapped his newspaper closed, deciding it was time to fulfil his promise to Lilian Grant and find her granddaughter. He had no proper plan in place, beyond passage on a ship for two adults and a child in just under two months. His hope was to time himself so well that he could board the same ship that had brought him to the Cape and was presently wending its way to and from that great landmass they called Australia. He needed approximately forty-five days to be back in Cape Town, ready for the voyage. Back in his room he looked at himself in the mirror to check he was ready.
‘That means you have four days, Reggie,’ he told his reflection as he combed his moustache, thinking about whether he should go clean-shaven for his return to England. He stared at the mirror’s image. He would look handsome enough without his moustache and he’d also look younger; his intention had been to appear older in order to be taken more seriously. Now he wanted with all of his heart to see every ounce of Louisa that might run through his family blood. That might be a subtle yet powerful Grant family message to pass on to Knight. ‘We want our child back,’ he murmured to the reflection. We need her is what he didn’t utter aloud.
Four days to find and convince James Knight that he should come back to Britain; that the remaining Grants would make him welcome, provide for him and his child until he got on his feet. Reggie was already imagining finding Knight an irresistible engineering ro
le in a company far from Northumberland. He even entertained the idea of setting up Knight in his own firm, but whichever way he could lead the man, he needed Clementine to be left behind in the care of her grandmother. The more he could dislocate Knight from his daughter, the more he could draw the child into the bosom of the Grant family until the little girl would refuse to be separated from the only woman left in the world who loved her and could provide everything she needed.
It worked in his mind. James Knight and his pride were the only obstacle.
‘So don’t lose your calm, Reggie,’ he told his reflection. ‘Be persuasive. Use all your cunning skills of coercion. Bring them home.’ He nodded at his neat image, newly laundered and pressed. He looked convincingly like a man relaxed in his wealth. No one needed to know otherwise, especially not Knight.
‘Let’s go find them,’ he said to his other self.
It felt like he’d spent the last few hours chasing after shadows. James and Clementine were here but Reggie kept missing them at every place he was sent to – including a saloon that smelled of stale whisky, vomit and beer swill. Surely James wouldn’t have brought his child here?
‘He called in for a nip about an hour ago. He’ll be back at the fields now. The whistle’s gone for the end of the luncheon hour.’
It reminded Reggie he should be hungry too. ‘Will he be back later, do you think?’
The man wiping glasses behind the makeshift counter grinned. ‘Well, Jimmy loves his liquor but probably not here. He likes to go to the one over there of an evening.’ He pointed with his chin. ‘Although as I understood, he and his sweet little girl were going over to Bordinckx and Fallek.’
Reggie repeated the name. ‘Should I know it?’
‘Only if you’ve got roughs for sale, mister.’
‘And where is this shop?’
‘They have an office in Main Street, right here. But he bought his little girl a lemonade for the journey – so he said. I’m guessing they are going over to Du Toit’s Pan.’
‘Dewtoytzpen?’ he said, sounding out what he’d heard with a confounded frown.
The man repeated it slowly. ‘You’ll need to hitch a ride, mister – unless you plan to walk through the scrub in those fancy shoes?’
He ignored the jibe. ‘Where do I find Mr Bordinckx or Mr Fallek?’
Now the fellow openly laughed. ‘I have no idea if you’ll find them, but Jimmy Knight was headed for Martin’s Hotel.’
‘Why would he journey there, if there is a merchant of the same firm right here?’
‘Most likely because he doesn’t want to show his rivals that he’s had a good find. That’s usually why diggers head out to peddle their roughs in private.’
‘I see.’ He felt a prick of pleasure. So James was finding diamonds. This was a good omen, but it meant the conversation could go one of two ways. Either James would be open to returning home with full pockets, perhaps even relieved to have someone bully him into leaving – or the find could make him more determined to seek the fortune all these men obviously believed they could achieve.
‘Then you stay, James,’ he murmured under his breath as he lifted a hand in farewell to the bartender. And we’ll look out for Clementine.
As he turned back onto the dusty path they called Main Street, he decided it was pointless to go hurtling off to another pioneer town. He’d found Knight’s claim after searching and weaving his way through the mass of filthy people busy at their toil, but all he could see when he squinted through the dust was an African working the pit. James had hired his own slave, presumably, to give him more time to . . . what? To spend with his child? To drink? He’d asked around, begun building a picture of Knight, and he didn’t like what he was hearing. And worse, many people kept referring to a Zulu called Joseph One-Shoe. What sort of name was that? Why did an African feature so strongly in Clementine’s life?
‘Lock up your supply of whatever whisky, mister,’ one wit remarked. He won a big laugh from the other men standing around taking a break from digging, who were watching their women shake through pans, looking for the elusive glint. Most of the women looked too weary to join in the amusement, although one did catch up with him as he departed.
‘Mr Grant?’
He turned, irritated that she’d touched his jacket. He glanced at her hands: rough and calloused, although she’d obviously rinsed and wiped them dry on her apron.
‘What is it?’ He couldn’t hide the testy tone. It was hot and he was parched, in every sense of the word.
‘Are you family to James Knight?’
Reggie wouldn’t say she possessed a cultivated manner, but she was English and clearly educated. He blinked. ‘I am his brother-in-law.’
‘Oh, you’re Louisa’s kin. I’m so sorry for your loss. She is missed.’
His lips firmed to a line.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said, sounding suddenly superior. She lifted her chin and tucked back a lock of hair that had escaped her makeshift linen bonnet. Educated but fallen on harder times, no doubt. ‘You need to see to it that Louisa’s child gets proper care and attend to her education. She’s running wild, that girl.’
Well, well. She had the audacity to berate him, the very person who had come to help Clementine, to make sure she was raised with care and gentility. ‘And who are you, please?’
‘I’m Mrs Carruthers. I run the schoolhouse.’
He looked her up and down with a puzzled expression.
‘School is three days a week just at the moment,’ she offered defensively. ‘I help my brothers in the fields when there’s no class hours – but even if it were a school day, I doubt Clementine Knight would appear. That child plays truant most days. She’s extremely wilful, and do you know, sir, I have a suspicion that your niece considers herself too clever for school.’ She leaned in with an extra baffled frown. ‘Can you imagine such a thing?’
Schoolteachers had plenty to answer for, in Reggie’s cold opinion; she was not speaking to the converted. ‘How old are you, Mrs Carruthers? You look very young yourself, if you’ll pardon my observation.’ He smiled generously but already disliked the woman, with her unsolicited advice and her quarrelsome approach.
‘I’m twenty-two, sir. I may be shaking through dirt to find diamonds for my brothers but I had little choice being brought here. My husband was a missionary, and he died soon after our arrival. We had hopes of starting our own mission for these poor unfortunate natives, but I can no longer rely on that dream. I find myself living with my family until we can all return home. All these men hope to make it big.’ She sounded disdainful. ‘Nevertheless, I have an education and I plan to at least help the children of the diamond fields to perhaps have the opportunity to choose a different path to their parents.’
Haughty little harridan! ‘I’m sure all the parents here appreciate the keen interest you take in their children’s welfare.’ He took pleasure in watching her eyes narrow as she assessed whether this was praise or sarcasm. ‘I will ask you not to worry yourself over our Clementine, however. When she left England she was brighter than most twice her age, and I suspect her lack of attendance is because she is bored by the tedium of what you teach, Mrs Carruthers. You have no cause to fret over her education. Clementine will be receiving private tutoring of a far higher quality in the coming months, which will allow her wit and intelligence to expand to their fullest capacity. Good day to you.’ He lifted his hat and strode away before the shocked woman could gather her thoughts sufficiently to respond.
He smiled inwardly. No Grant should ever be trifled with – not even a seven-year-old. He did a circuit of the Big Hole, surprised at how long it took him to walk it. By the time he had reached the road that led back into the town, if you could call it that, he noted that the Knight claim was empty. The black worker had left. Reggie, hot and sweaty now, wended his way back towards the rows of shanty huts where he’d been told the Knights lived. It had been such an appalling discovery that he’d avoided walking this way
sooner, but now he felt he had no choice.
Names were daubed onto doorways and he found the Knight hovel soon enough. The entrance was open, and he didn’t have to peer very far into the gloom. It was a tiny space, hardly bigger than the boot room at Woodingdene. There was no sign of Clementine, so presumably father and daughter were still at that place he could no longer remember how to pronounce.
He was startled by the emergence of a man. This must be the Zulu warrior he had heard about. At least he wore shirt and trews, although they were as rough as anything the other diggers wore. One foot, he noticed, wore a boot; the other was unshod. How peculiar – but now he understood the man’s name.
‘Good morning, sir,’ the Zulu said in perfect English.
That took him aback. ‘Er . . . I’m looking for James Knight but I gather he’s —’ he wanted to say ‘out of town’ but this was hardly in town — ‘not here.’
‘He has travelled to Du Toit’s Pan today, sir, to get supplies.’
Stupid unpronounceable name. ‘And when will he return?’
‘In time for dinner,’ the man said. ‘I am Joseph One-Shoe.’
Reggie flashed a contrived smile. It was gone as soon as it arrived. ‘So I gather,’ he said, glancing down at the man’s large feet.
‘Miss Clementine named me,’ he added.
‘I see. Well, let Mr Knight know that his wife’s brother is here.’ He didn’t think the Zulu would understand ‘brother-in-law’. ‘And that I wish to see him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m at the Kimberley Club.’
The man nodded.
‘Do you know where that is, boy?’
The black man’s expression did not change; Reggie found his calm vaguely irritating. ‘He does, sir.’
The Diamond Hunter Page 11