As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom of the tent, the captain could see that the tiny bodies were covered with red spots. One of them had yellow puss oozing from a scab.
The captain leaned into the tent and addressed the younger woman. ‘Are you Elizabeth Bindeman?’
She did not budge, but glared at him defiantly. ‘Yes.’
‘Your husband is on commando.’
‘He is. And when this war is over, you’ll answer to him.’
The captain turned to his batman. ‘Send for a stretcher.’
The sergeant passed the order to a private, telling the second private to stay by the tent. ‘Make sure these two kids aren’t disappeared into some other tent.’
‘I’ll take care of my own children!’ The woman placed her fingertips on the forehead of the smallest child. ‘Just get me some fresh water, some calamine lotion.’
The captain said, ‘You won’t be taking care of anyone. Not for a good while.’
‘Don’t send them to that damned hospital to die.’
One of the children moaned, more like the hurt cry of a small animal than a human sound.
‘They’ll be better off there. You’re coming with me.’
‘Don’t take them.’ The woman pleaded now. ‘Children die in there. Go in with measles, come out dead from typhoid.’ She came to the front of the tent, blocking the children from view.
How did you deal with these people? That was the question the captain asked himself. If she were a soldier, there’d be rules. He knew better than to send her off to the magistrate in town. It would reflect badly if he could not keep order in the camp. Better to deal with this himself.
She stared at him in sullen silence. She was a fine looking woman, a bit scrawny but good bones.
‘You were seen, leaving the camp. Supplies went missing. You were giving succour to the enemy.’
She stepped from the tent. ‘So shoot me. You’ve just condemned my children to death.’
From a shadowy corner of the tent, a woman raised her head and in broken English said, ‘You mad. What Elizabeth give? Nothing. No food. No wood for fire, nasty, nasty . . .’
Elizabeth Bindeman said, ‘She’s right. What succour can any of us give? We queued six hours for mouldy horseflesh that we can’t cook. There’s no fuel to bake bread with your rotten weevil-ridden flour, even if we had clean water.’
‘I’m not here to listen to complaints,’ the captain said calmly. ‘I’m here to investigate.’
If she would vehemently deny giving help to the enemy, he could go back and write in his report that he had investigated and found no evidence. If these foolish crones would give her an alibi instead of coming out with a battery of complaints, he could say that his informant had been mistaken.
‘You were seen leaving the camp, madam.’
‘And where did I go on these mysterious escapades? Do you think I would stay here if I knew how to leave?’
‘I did not mention more than one occasion. You have just done that yourself.’
‘Who accuses me?’
Another reason not to send her to the magistrates. That would suit her – to demand in court to know who were the camp informers.
‘Escort this lady to my office,’ he said to the sergeant.
Let her kick her heels for an hour, then he would give her two weeks’ detention in the cage, keeping a watch in case her Boer husband or his friends came to her rescue.
In the camp office, Captain Wolfendale made a great show of looking at his notes. ‘You were seen by the camp fence two nights ago, passing food through the wire. Last night you were watched going through a gap in the fence.’
Fires had been lit on the hillside. Scouts were sent but, as usual, found no one. Brother Boer, as ever, disappeared into the heart of the mountains, following the Pied Piper. Before dawn, the explosion from the railway track had lit the sky. And this was the shame of it, he believed it was not the men on commando who had done that, but Elizabeth Bindeman.
She did not deny it. ‘Your trains won’t fetch any more souls here to their slow death,’ was all she said.
‘For breaking camp regulations, your punishment will be two weeks’ detention. Sergeant, escort Mrs Bindeman into detention.’ He could not say, to the cage.
‘Say it,’ she said. ‘Say that an English officer condemns an English woman to be caged.’
She fixed herself to the spot and closed her eyes. Her fists clenched. When the sergeant touched her arm, she would not move. The sergeant sighed. He turned to the private. ‘If she won’t walk, carry her.’
The women started to sing as she passed by, one of their Boer hymns.
A sullen silence hung over the concentration camp as the captain walked his rounds. This wasn’t what he’d signed on for, to be a prisoner himself in this stinking hole, this town of tents. Tents were all right for soldiers who struck camp and moved on. How long could this continue? Was every Boer woman and child to be holed up, and forever?
In a clearing by the fence, two dead children lay on a blanket. A group of women sat weeping.
How he hated these scenes. Fortunately, his batman had found him again. ‘For God’s sake, get those kids buried.’
The sergeant paused and spoke to the women. He had picked up a little of their language.
To the captain he said, ‘They won’t bury them without coffins.’
The captain and the sergeant exchanged a look. For a brief moment, each knew what the other was thinking: of their comrades left behind at the foot of a hill, not marked by the smallest of crosses.
‘Tell them there are no more coffins. If we had wood, they could have fuel. Tell them I’ll speak to the hospital. We’ll find them shrouds.’ The sergeant did not respond. ‘What? What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know how to say shrouds in their language.’
The captain strode on, leaving him to it. He had a report to write. The powers that be wanted to know how lessons progressed in the school tent. They seemed to think this place was a Sunday school outing.
He stood in the doorway of the designated tent. Miss Marshall had her back to him. A dozen children sat cross-legged. One or two looked at the teacher. The others, skeletal and hollow-eyed, existed in a kind of trance. Did they all have dysentery? A foul stench filled the tent.
She had not heard him, or affected not to. She spoke in English, with a Cape twang, and was reading to them from Alice in Wonderland. ‘If everybody minded their own business, said the Duchess in a hoarse growl, the world would go round faster than it does.’
Feeling his presence, the woman turned. She had light curling hair, the colour of burnished gold. Her skin was pale with a faint sprinkling of freckles. In the half light of the tent, he could not make out the colour of her eyes. Blue? He should remember. He had boldly remarked on their loveliness the last time they spoke. Her lips were full and ready to go on speaking of the Duchess.
She turned back to the children. ‘Excuse me one moment, class.’
Outside the tent, the teacher stepped onto the dusty track. As she did, the heavens opened. Rain came in a great sudden pelt so that for a moment she seemed to lose her balance. He reached out a hand to steady her.
Through a sheet of rain, she said, ‘Captain, one of the children is upset.’
Upset? They stank, they sickened, came out in scabs, their bellies swelled, they caught measles, typhoid, were bitten by snakes. In the hospital and out of it, they died like flies.
‘Upset?’ Captain Wolfendale repeated, wondering had his ears deceived him.
‘Yes. One of the boys. Young Bindeman.’
The captain put his hand lightly on her waist and guided her back into the tent, out of the rain. ‘It would be a help if you would come to the office, Miss Marshall, after your duties. I should like to hear about the little chap who is upset, and to know how your classes progress.’
She blushed at his interest.
He spoke in a low voice, almost cajoling, as if his life
depended on her answer. ‘You will come to see me?’
‘At what time should I come?’
‘Would six o’clock be convenient?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Good.’
Women were such fools. All an officer had to do was swear undying love and eternal fidelity and the manoeuvre was more straightforward than an Aldershot field day. But a school teacher. This would be a challenge, he could tell. He smiled at her, looking adoringly into her deep-set eyes. A washed-out blue. She was not in the first flush of youth. Perhaps a proposal of marriage would be number one priority. He felt sure his reputation had not reached the well-meaning school teachers of Cape Town.
Rodney walked me through the motor showroom. We paused by a shining Wolseley 10, highly polished paint work, glossy mudguards and gleaming lamps.
‘This was Dad’s favourite.’
On an impulse, I opened the door, stepped onto the running board and climbed in. ‘She’s a beauty.’ I patted the driver’s seat beside me.
As Rodney got in, the tension slid away and he smiled. ‘My mother said cars were better standing than running. No noise, wind, smell, and you didn’t have to put on goggles and a big coat.’
‘She had a point.’
He reached out and held the steering wheel. ‘Who would have killed him, Mrs Shackleton?’
Good question. I shook my head, and kept my thoughts to myself. You are not a bad actor, Rodney. It could have been you. Your way is clear to take over the firm and marry Alison. Be rid of the man who tormented your mother and belittled you. Alison herself? Milner stood in the way of her happiness. Or Lucy, sick of Lawrence Milner’s pestering. And what better and more dramatic diversion than to take herself into hiding, as a kidnap victim. All four young people had stuck together in the theatre bar. Rodney, Alison, Dylan and Lucy. For weeks they had rehearsed, perhaps in a hothouse atmosphere that led them to compare notes about more than the play. Three of the four, Rodney, Alison and Lucy, would have easier lives as a result of Milner’s death.
Either of the Geerts could be the murderer. He because cuckolded, she because she knew he made love to her while hankering after a girl half her age. Or the captain. The man I could not fathom. Did he want Lucy off his hands to the highest bidder, or resent Milner’s interest in her?
I looked at Rodney, holding the wheel like a little boy pretending to drive. ‘The investigation is in good hands. Inspector Charles will get to the truth.’
His hands dropped to his sides. ‘I suppose so. I don’t know what to do now. It seems so strange that I’ll be going home without having to give a full report to Dad on who came in to look at what motor. I made most of my sales on a Saturday, while he was playing golf.’
‘I’m sure when you go home Mrs Gould will look after you.’
‘I’m wondering about Alison,’ he said. ‘And I’m surprised that Lucy hasn’t been round to see me. I mean if the captain knew, she must.’
‘I happen to know she hasn’t been home yet.’ I hated to do it, but I was here to find Lucy. ‘Alison stayed at the Geerts’s last night. Lucy didn’t.’
‘Really? That’s where we left her last night, me and a chum of mine who was at the play.’ The surprise looked genuine, but then he had spent several weeks under Meriel’s theatrical tutelage.
‘Do you know where else she might be?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Some other friend perhaps. I hope she’s all right.’
‘I’m sure she will be.’ On an impulse, I said, ‘Why don’t you go find Alison, at the Geerts’s? I saw her earlier, and to tell you the truth she looked a little under the weather. Go there, and drive her home. Her mother’s at a church fete his afternoon, you’ll be able to have a good chat.’
And it would be better for her to be out of the Geerts’s house before the police came asking questions of Madam Geerts, if they had not already called.
He climbed from the shiny Wolseley. ‘Do you know, I think I will.’ The resolve changed his appearance. He looked more like the young man I had photographed a few weeks earlier.
‘What about you, Mrs Shackleton, may I drop you somewhere?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to chauffeur me about. You have enough on.’
‘Could Owen take you somewhere? We keep a couple of motors on stand-by for visitors to hire. I’d be glad to help. I was completely at a loss before you came today.’
‘Well yes, since you mention it. That would be good.’
‘Owen!’
And so I found myself on the way to Pannal, hoping that I should have more luck in locating Miss Vanessa Weston, who had pawned a watch chain, than I had in failing to find Mrs deVries, owner of the diamond ring.
Owen drew up outside a newsagent’s before we left Harrogate, for me to buy a couple of boxes of chocolates, which always come in handy. At least I was not now drawing entirely on my own income. I had the cheque from Mr Moony to cover this particular extravagance. If I solved the case, which was looking unlikely, I might eat the other box myself. It irked me to be acting as a messenger for Mr Moony, rather than an investigator, but there was so little to go on.
The ride to Pannal along the quiet road was pleasant. I wore the spare motoring goggles, which were too big and kept slipping down my nose.
‘It’s Church Lane,’ I said, lifting the goggles to check the house number in my notebook.
‘Well then, that’ll be near the church I presume,’ Owen said cheerily. It is surprising how sitting in the driving seat can change a personality, for better or worse. In the showroom, Owen had seemed quite downtrodden, at least until Rodney had assured him that he would keep his job.
The elegant stone house looked too grand for someone who would visit a pawn shop. A slender, faded woman looked at me suspiciously as I approached the gate. She snipped the dead head from a rose. I apologised for disturbing her and asked for Miss Vanessa Weston.
‘I’m her mother,’ she said. ‘Miss Weston is indoors.’ Her look asked me my name and business.
It is always best to get in quickly, with an introduction, and a story. If you say something with sufficient authority, it comes out with a ring of truth. With as much verve as I could muster, I brandished a box of chocolates. ‘I’m Mrs Baker, from the Beckwithshaw ladies’ friendship committee. Miss Weston bought a raffle ticket from one of our members and has won third prize.’
‘Ah, thank you.’ Mrs Weston prepared to take the chocolates.
‘Would you mind very much if I deliver them personally? I said I would.’
Mrs Weston frowned. She placed her secateurs in the trug.
‘Oh please don’t trouble,’ I said hastily. ‘I hate to be interrupted in my gardening. It will take me a moment and I can report back to my ladies that I have hand-delivered the prize.’
I could see someone in a shady spot at the front of the house, reading. As luck would have it, it was Miss Weston. Unsurprisingly, she had no recollection of buying a raffle ticket. She looked at the chocolates with suspicion, as though I might be a mad poisoner. Briefly, I told her the real reason for my visit, adding, ‘And Mr Moony would like you to go to the shop on the day the watch chain is due to be redeemed. If the stolen items have not been recovered, he will make restitution.’
She glared at me. ‘I must have the same watch chain. It was my uncle’s, my mother’s brother’s. She doesn’t know I pawned it.’
‘I’ll tell Mr Moony. He’ll do his best to find something similar.’
‘Dash it all. How could the stupid man let himself be robbed?’ She ripped violently at the chocolate box lid. ‘If dressmakers didn’t charge the earth I would not be in this pickle.’
Mrs Weston was approaching at a grand pace. I escaped, leaving Miss Weston to think of her own explanations about the winning raffle ticket.
Owen dropped me off on Leeds Road, at the end of St Clement’s Road, which was now becoming more familiar than I could have wished. I was no nearer finding Lucy than when I started my search
. To put off the moment of reporting to Captain Wolfendale, I strolled slowly past each immaculate dwelling, from number one to number twenty-nine. With its unkempt garden and peeling paint, the Wolfendale house stuck out like a sore thumb on a well-manicured hand. It felt fanciful to think this, but it gave off an air that I could not fathom. Captain Wolfendale and Miss Fell were relics of an earlier age. Meriel was immensely talented, a liar and a thief, clawing her way up. Beautiful and ruthless Lucy held those around her in thrall. And then there was Dan Root.
It still niggled with me that 29 was the reverse of 92, Mrs deVries’s address. Let the captain wait. I would speak to Mr Root, and get another look at the coin on his watch chain. He was a good actor, quite capable of becoming the stooped clerk who had robbed Mr Moony.
Something else felt odd. Lucy could have asked Dan, the captain’s favourite tenant, to pass on the message that she would stay with Alison. By not asking him, she had kept him out of the picture. It crossed my mind that he might be hiding Lucy, and that the ransom notes had been posted in the pillar box on the corner.
It was time for me to have a chat with Mr Root. The previous afternoon when my feet hurt and I was tired out from looking for the elusive and probably non-existent Mrs deVries, he had all but snubbed me. This time, he would not shrug me off so easily.
I caught a glimpse of him through his window. He stood at his worktable, head bowed as he gently replaced the back on a fob watch. Several clocks and watches stood at one end of the long table.
The door to his flat stood open, to let in air I guessed.
I tapped as I stepped inside.
For a moment, he looked surprised at my boldness, then he smiled. ‘I needed a little break. Shall we sit on the wall and have a cigarette?’ He removed his eyeglass, and took off his apron.
Why did he not want me to be inside? Perhaps he was a very private person, or did not want me in his work place. His anxiety to go out increased my determination to stay in.
‘I’ve always wanted to see how a watchmaker does his work,’ I said, with what I hoped was a charming smile. Moving further into his room, I examined the eyeglass he had just removed. ‘How on earth do you keep this in place, Mr Root?’
A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 16