The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  That evening, they took it in turns to keep watch on the house, but there were no visitors and the place remained shuttered. Faan de Witt was added to the watch rota for the following day, but again the vigil proved abortive. It was as though the house had been locked and bolted many years before and not lived in since. As he stared at it during his watch from behind the tree, Simon began to feel that the building itself exuded malevolence, some strange essence of evil, as though the sun-scorched timbers, which could only have been thrown together less than a decade before, had witnessed years of misery. The feeling was confirmed by Jenkins, who confessed to Simon that he had disobeyed instructions not to break cover and, during the afternoon, driven by extreme boredom in the heat, had crept down the alleyway at the side to check on the rear entrance and had found nothing - except a terrible smell.

  ‘What sort of smell?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Well . . .’ For once, Jenkins looked embarrassed. ‘A bit like . . . you know . . . a bit like . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t bloody well know. What sort of smell?’

  The Welshman put a finger in his ear. ‘It’s a bit difficult to describe in polite company, look you. Not very nice at all.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Then Simon had a moment of horror. ‘It wasn’t . . . it couldn’t be . . . a decomposed body, could it?’

  Jenkins wrinkled his nose. ‘Aw, no. Not like a battlefield an’ all that. I know that smell. More like a shithouse, actually.’

  ‘Good lord!’

  ‘Yes, well. I told you it wasn’t very nice.’

  ‘It’s probably just dogs, in the alleyway.’

  ‘No. That’s quite clean. Seems to be coming from the house.’ He frowned. ‘Look, bach sir. I don’t think we should ’ang about much longer. I think we should break in and ’ave it out with the people inside, see.’

  Simon nodded slowly. ‘I’m inclined to agree. But I think I should see this Rhodes chap first. He is back tomorrow. Maybe he can point us in the right direction, or give us some guidance on Mendoza. He may even have seen Nandi. Tonight, though, I think we had better keep watch through the night.’

  They did so, but no chink of light gleamed through the shutters in the darkness and no one went to or from the house. It was with some frustration, then - and meeting with some surliness from his companions - that Simon set the guard rota for the morning and strode off to see Cecil J. Rhodes.

  After a brief wait in an anteroom, Simon was ushered into a large room overlooking the de Beers mine, containing the longest table he had ever seen. At its end, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties, perhaps two years older than Simon, rose to greet him. He had thick wavy hair and rather bulbous eyes, and his rumpled cotton jacket and white flannel trousers did nothing to conceal the fact that he was running to corpulence. He walked quickly towards Simon - he had some way to come - with outstretched hand. As they shook, Simon realised that Rhodes did so with the third and little finger of his hand curled inside his palm. Some sort of Masonic ritualistic signal, or was he concealing an injury?

  ‘Fonthill,’ said Rhodes in a surprisingly high and even squeaky voice. ‘What’s your game, eh? Do sit down. What’s your game, then, eh?’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Simon was taken aback.

  ‘What’s your game? Want to sell me a holding, eh? Can’t buy everything, you know, but I’ve always got an open door. What can I do? What can I do?’

  ‘Well, I don’t have a game, as you put it, Mr Rhodes, nor do I have a property to sell you. But I am hoping that you can assist me in finding someone who has asked for my help.’

  The bulbous eyes stared unblinkingly at Simon. ‘Are you an Oxford man, Fonthill? University, I mean, eh?’

  ‘Er, no. Actually, I went to Sandhurst.’

  Rhodes’s face lit up. ‘An army man, then. Still serving, or what?’

  ‘No, I resigned my commission in Afghanistan.’

  ‘Been around the Empire, then. Splendid. I’m an Oxford man myself, you know. Still studying, as a matter of fact. Can’t slog through the terms in the conventional way, don’t you know, because of my health. Have to come out here regularly and clear me lungs, so to speak, do a bit of business and then go back to the university. But it’s a good thing. This is the place to make money and, more importantly, build empires.’

  Listening to the squeaky voice, Simon had an impression of great energy emanating from this unconventional young man. He noticed with relief that the little finger of Rhodes’s right hand was completely bent at the knuckle, so that there had been no ritual in the handshake. Simon disliked secret societies. He drew breath to speak, but Rhodes went on.

  ‘Been here long?’

  ‘Kimberley? No. Two days. That’s all. I just—’

  ‘Look here, Fonthill. I will be quite honest. I like the look of you. Just the sort of fine young Englishman this place can do with.’ The tall young man rose to his feet and began to pace around the long table, his hands buried deep in the crumpled cotton jacket.

  ‘We have come a long way with this business in a very short time. We are not the largest concern in the diamonds business here - Barney Barnato is bigger at the moment - but we will be. Diamonds can no longer be mined with pick and shovel, yer know. Getting ’em out of the blue ground, further down where the diamond pipes are, is a matter for capital investment and heavy machinery. That means big companies, and that means buying and selling, merging, you know?’

  Simon, fascinated with the flow despite himself, nodded.

  ‘I shall be the biggest within a few years, maybe sooner. Fancy coming in? I can find work for you. Young chap like you, fit and knocked around the Empire a bit, can make your name and your fortune within a couple of years.’

  Simon opened his mouth to speak, but again Rhodes lifted his hand and intervened.

  ‘Fonthill,’ he went on, ‘I’ve got a dream. I’ve got a dream and, I’ll make no bones about it, I intend to make it a reality. I know we’ve only just met but I feel I can confide in you. May I?’

  The large eyes bored into Simon’s as though they could see right through him. It was a strangely appealing intensity and Simon found himself shifting on his chair. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘yes, of course. But I really came to—’

  ‘Splendid. You know, Fonthill, Englishmen are the finest race in the world, and the more of the world we inhabit the better it is for the human race. Mankind has suffered because the English nation is only increasing in numbers at half its capacity. We must extend the Empire. Just fancy, those parts that are at present inhabited by the most despicable specimens of human beings: what an alteration there would be if they were brought under Anglo-Saxon influence! I contend that every acre added to our territory means, in the future, birth to some more of the English race who otherwise would not be brought into existence—’

  Simon tried once more to speak.

  ‘No, no, Fonthill. Think of it. The unification of the greater part of the world under British control would mean an end to all wars. British domination would lead to the establishment of peace throughout the world. Africa awaits us still, and it is our duty to seize every opportunity of acquiring more territory - and more territory,’ he leaned forward, the bulbous eyes now seeming to be starting from the head, and pointed his finger in emphasis, ‘simply means more of the Anglo-Saxon race, more of the best, the most human, most honourable traits the world possesses. We can’t leave this to politicians, whose lives have been spent in the accumulation of money. We can learn from a study of the Romish Church, from the Jacobites, even from the single-minded dedication of the members of the Masonic Order. Think of the power these people hold.’

  Simon tore his gaze away and looked around the gloomy, dark-panelled room. Was the man mad? ‘But how,’ he asked hesitantly, ‘how . . . er . . . would you do all this?’ He realised that such a question sounded pathetically plebeian in the middle of all this rhetoric.

  ‘Ah.’ Rhodes stood and began pacing again, his head
back and his words now addressed to the low ceiling. ‘Let us form a church for the extension of the British Empire, a society which would operate in every part of the Empire, working with one object. Its members would be placed in our universities and our schools, and would watch the English youth passing through their hands and being sent by the society to that part of the Empire where it was felt they were needed. What d’you think, Fonthill, eh, eh?’

  Simon gulped. ‘Well, I . . . ah . . . I confess you make a good case, Rhodes. But . . .’

  ‘Good. Well, why don’t you come aboard and help me make it a reality? Make it a reality, eh? A reality, yes?’ Rhodes seemed like a retriever dog in his eagerness.

  ‘No.’ Simon took a deep breath. ‘I am afraid, sir, that I don’t quite share your view of the superiority of the British. I have seen something of our behaviour in war which convinces me that our race, while basically honourable, can make mistakes born of arrogance which can lead us . . .’ he stirred uncomfortably on his chair while he sought for the right words to placate the strange man opposite, ‘which can lead us into committing acts of folly - sometimes criminal folly.’

  Simon expected an outburst, but the big man merely blinked his eyes and raised his brows. ‘Really,’ he said, and it seemed as though a shutter came down over his face. ‘Well, Fonthill, we are both busy men and I certainly don’t want to waste your time or mine in further debate on matters of philosophy. Now,’ he resumed his seat, ‘you came to see me. How can I be of service to you?’

  ‘Thank you. I am grateful to you for receiving me and for sharing your views with me, which, I would like to emphasise, I have found extremely interesting.’

  Rhodes inclined his head, but his eyes now began to wander round the room as though he found Simon of no further interest.

  ‘I am told,’ Simon continued, ‘that you know virtually everything that happens in Kimberley.’

  ‘Not quite true, but I keep my ear to the ground, certainly.’

  ‘Do you know a man named John Dunn?’

  Rhodes’s head went back for a moment in contemplation. ‘Yes, yes. Heard of him back in Natal, a few years ago. Didn’t know him personally, though. Why do you ask?’

  Simon decided not to confide completely in this strange, possibly dangerous man. ‘I understood that he came here, under a year ago, and went into partnership with a man called Mendoza. And that his daughter came out to join him. She wrote to me, from here, asking for my help. But I cannot find her.’

  Rhodes frowned. ‘I haven’t encountered Dunn here, though I do know of Mendoza. Understand that he can be a nasty piece of work, but nothing has been proved.’ He leaned forward. ‘You know, Fonthill, I waxed a bit lyrical about this place a moment or so ago. But I was looking ahead - at the potential. At the moment it is a mess that urgently needs sorting out. I shall be going into local politics next year to take a lead. It’s no use just talking. People must actually get up and do.’

  Simon gave a half-smile. He could well believe that Rhodes was not cut out to sit on the sidelines. Despite his growing anxiety to get away, now that it was obvious that Rhodes could be of no help, he could not resist asking, ‘What’s the main problem, then?’

  ‘Oh, we have lots of them. Lots of shortages: shortage of water to drive the steam engines, shortage of capital to fund expansion, and shortage of price stability in the international diamond market. But I suppose the most pressing problem is IDB.’

  ‘IDB?’

  ‘Illegal diamond buying. It’s something we are all looking at now as a matter of great urgency. We are talking about the Kaffir and Hottentot workers stealing diamonds in their raw state from the diggings, smuggling them out and then selling them to unauthorised buyers. All the mine owners are losing vast sums of money in this way, and these crooked dealers are making fortunes because, of course, they buy low - the natives have no idea of the worth of the stones - and sell high. Then they’re smuggled out, sometimes down to the Cape, sometimes across to Portuguese East Africa and from there, of course, to Antwerp or London.’

  ‘But surely you can search these workers when they leave the mines?’

  Rhodes threw back his head and gave a girlish chuckle. ‘Oh, we do that all right. But the devils are now getting very inventive. We’ve found stones stuffed into cartridges, in the cut-out heels of their leather sandals, and even in their mouths. Now they’re on to something new - and quite disgusting.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They swallow the stones and then retrieve them later after they have passed through the stomach and out of the body in the . . . er conventional way.’

  ‘Ugh! How disgusting.’

  ‘Quite. But to them it’s worth the risk of ruining their digestive systems. They can make a year’s wages by selling just one stone.’

  Simon fell silent for a moment as he remembered Jenkins’s disgust at the smell at the back of number 5 Currey Street. ‘Could it be,’ he asked Rhodes, ‘that this man Mendoza is an illegal diamond buyer?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Have you any evidence?’

  ‘Not at the moment, but it does not seem that his holding is being worked now, yet the man remains living in Kimberley.’

  ‘Hmm. Suspicious - and I understand that he has a bad reputation. Bring us proof and we will nail him. But I am afraid that I can’t help you with the whereabouts of John Dunn or his daughter. I am sorry.’

  Simon stood. ‘You have helped more than you know. I am most grateful to you, Rhodes. Good luck with your . . . er . . . ambitions.’

  The two shook hands, with Rhodes grasping Simon’s hand perhaps a second or two longer than was necessary. Then Simon was gone, making almost indecent haste from the room and back to the observation point in Currey Street. There he met de Witt and, without explanation, took him back to their boarding house to pick up Jenkins - and the brace of Colt pistols.

  As the three gathered together in Simon’s room, Simon explained what Rhodes had told him - although he omitted the lecture on the superiority of the British race. ‘Don’t you see?’ he said as the others wrinkled their brows. ‘The awful smell. Number five must be the place where the thieves go straight from the diggings. There they . . . er . . . relieve themselves and Mendoza buys the diamonds and smuggles them away, probably across the border to Portuguese East Africa.’

  ‘Where he has a farm,’ said de Witt.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Jenkins’s nose was still wrinkled in disgust. ‘Ooh,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t fancy buying any of them after where they’ve been.’

  ‘Well obviously the diamonds are washed,’ said Simon. ‘They’ll still be in their raw state and will have to be thoroughly cleaned and perhaps even polished anyway before they are sold, and I guess this could be done at somewhere like Lorenzo Marques. That means that there must be a smuggler’s route running to the north-east from here.’ He handed one pistol to Jenkins and kept the other. ‘Do you have a gun, Faan?’

  ‘No.’ The Boer grunted. ‘But I can use my hands.’

  ‘Right. Let’s go and rescue Nandi.’

  The three walked now with a sense of purpose towards the wooden house. At the broad tree they paused. ‘You two go to the back,’ said Simon. ‘You will need to get over the fence. I will knock on the front door while you break through from the back. Try not to make too much noise because we don’t want neighbours interfering. No shooting if you can possibly help it. We don’t want blood on our hands. Use the pistol to threaten. Right. Now go.’

  After waiting until the others had made their way down the side alley, Simon tucked his Colt into his belt and banged on the front door. Nothing stirred within the house. He waited a moment and then tried again. Nothing. He looked up and down the street, but the sun was at its highest and no one was to be seen. He ducked down the side alley and climbed the wooden fence to join the others waiting in the little back yard, by a narrow door. Jenkins was right. The smell was overpowering. The three held handkerchiefs to their noses and de Witt pu
t his shoulder to the wooden door. It resisted for only three massive blows before it splintered and the Boer was able to reach inside and turn a key left conveniently in the lock.

  They pushed open the remnants of the door and found themselves inside a narrow vestibule. To the right was a primitive toilet consisting of a wooden seat set over a large bucket, across the top of which rested a crude metal grill. The grill was filthy, and the bucket had not been emptied.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ muttered Jenkins, and they hurried through into the house, handkerchiefs still at their noses and mouths.

  It took less than a minute to see that the building was empty. There were four bedrooms on the upper floor, three of them quite large and each containing three beds, the blankets and sheets of which had been roughly thrown aside, as though the occupants had recently left. The fourth was tiny, with room for only a small single bed, neatly made, and a washstand with jug and bowl. On its edge stood a tiny glass vase from which a wan veldt flower sagged.

  Simon and Jenkins exchanged glances. ‘It’s ’er room,’ whispered Jenkins. ‘The bastards. What ’ave they done with ’er . . . ?’

  A quick search of the rooms on the ground floor proved equally unproductive. The remains of a meal had been left on a table; it was as though the occupants had left in a hurry.

  ‘Right,’ said Simon. ‘Let’s see if we can find when they left and if anyone knows how many lived here and where they might have gone. Faan, you go to the right and knock on doors and find out as much as you can. 352, you do the same to the left - oh, damn it all, man, that’s that way,’ and he pointed. ‘I’ll ransack this place to see if I can find any clues at all.’