“Room service,” came the call.
Finch slid off the chain and undid the bolt. Annie pressed herself into the corner as the bellboy, in tunic and artfully skewed pillbox hat, placed the tray on the coffee table. He made an over-elaborate fuss of indicating every item on the plates, enquiring as to whether the coffee should be poured right away. It seemed of deep concern to him.
Finch pressed a coin into his hand, screening Annie the whole time.
“Thank you, sir,” he bowed and scuttled out.
They ate in silence, working diligently at a generous slab of bread, cured ham and something that resembled cheddar. The coffee was hot.
They had almost forgotten it, but when they had finished, Finch pulled the brown manilla envelope from his pocket. He tipped the contents onto the counterpane. There sat a lightweight darkened brass key, about the length of a thumb joint, barrel-ended, with a triple-looped grip that gave the impression of a miniature carpet beater.
Annie examined it.
“Looks like the kind you lock an upright piano with.”
“Small. A locker, a latch, who knows?” shrugged Finch.
“And what did she say? That name? ‘Moriarty’?”
“Heard it before … From Rideau, for one. He’s the villain in the Sherlock Holmes stories.”
“Rideau?”
“No, Moriarty.”
“Sorry, never read any.”
“My goodness, you should.”
He was going to mention that he had a novel in his kit bag, but thought better of it.
“So what does it mean … the name?”
She handed the key back.
“Might be real, probably a pseudonym, a codename. All I know is we have to find him.”
“Or her.”
“Yes, I suppose … or her.”
“She couldn’t be more precise as to Moriarty’s whereabouts, Lady Verity?”
“No.”
“Fat lot of use … Sounds like she doesn’t know who Moriarty is herself. She’s asking you to find out. Using you.”
“She wouldn’t do a thing like—”
“Oh please.”
“Really, I must insist—”
“Then why keep the key? If she were that committed to her noble cause, why not get off her fat backside and use it herself?”
“She’s a public figure. It’s not that easy. I’m guessing Cox gave it to her for safekeeping and probably didn’t reveal its use, perhaps to protect her,” Finch mused. “It was a leap of faith on her part to entrust it to us.”
Annie rolled her eyes.
“What is it with men? One handsome woman, even one as old as dear old Verity—”
“She’s not that old.”
“… and you lose all sense of reason.”
He got out his cigarette case and lit himself a Navy Cut. As an afterthought he offered the case to Annie. This time, she took one.
“You think that’s why that man’s after us? To lead him to Moriarty?” she ventured, her tone more conciliatory.
He exhaled.
“Or is his job to stop us getting to Moriarty …” said Finch. “I’m not sure of anything.”
“Were you ever?”
“Nurse Jones—”
“You can cut out the pompous captain act. You don’t wear it well.”
Jesus, was he that transparent? Finch was truly speechless.
He held the key up, pretending to examine it. Then, suddenly inspired, went over to the dresser. There was a key in the lock of one of the smaller top drawers. He removed it and held the two together. They were of a similar design, though theirs was smaller.
“I just don’t know,” he said, shaking his head.
He motioned for her help. Together they dragged the dresser over to barricade the door.
“Better safe than sorry,” he said.
He returned to his chair and perched on the edge. He was hesitant but eventually got to his point.
“Nurse Jones. I … I … Once again I apologise for the situation I have put you in. I promise you I will do everything in my power to resolve this matter. Tomorrow, first thing, we will go to Cape Town and put it right. You have my solemn promise that you will not be held responsible for failing to report for duty. The blame is entirely mine.”
She nodded her thanks. For the apology, if not for the rest of it.
“Now, please, I suggest we get some sleep. The bed. I insist you take it. I shall sleep here in this chair.”
He pulled a cushioned footstool close to him to enable him to stretch out and Annie gave him one of the blankets and a pillow. It was awkward, yes, she thought, but not as bizarre as some of the other activity that had gone on today.
“Goodnight, Nurse Jones.”
He extinguished the gas lamp.
“Goodnight … Sir.”
Annie, stared up into the dark. Her mind was still active, racing with thoughts, but she heard the soft, unconscious breathing of Finch across the room and felt relief, at least, that he was able to get some rest.
There was no telegraph office, she guessed. Or not one open at that hour. He had made that up for her sake.
It took her a while to slide into oblivion.
* * *
Finch had left the curtains open a little so that they might wake with the sun. Day was breaking. He had a brief moment of amnesiac calm before the bubble was pricked and the weight of their predicament descended on him.
He got up and began his daily business of stretching. He tried to stop himself, but watched Annie lying serene and peaceful. Her dark hair was down around her shoulders. He was minded of the day that he had first seen her, in the coffee shop. She was beautiful.
Of course he remembered her. How could he not?
He touched her shoulder and roused her. She awoke with a start.
“Come on,” he said.
He would go downstairs, check out of the hotel, and grab as much as he could from the breakfast buffet. She was to exit via the fire escape again and meet him at the same spot in the trees. She was to leave it ten minutes. She was not to answer the door to anyone – anyone!
As quietly as they could, they manoeuvred the dresser out of the way. Satisfied that the coast was clear, Finch left and Annie locked the door. She waited the designated ten minutes, then hitched up the sash window to begin her clanking descent down the fire escape.
The guests had yet to stir, the curtains remained drawn, but at the bottom, as she swung down off the ladder, she bumped slap bang into a handyman walking along the path, armed with a sink plunger and a spanner. But he saw that she was making a getaway from what he assumed to be a gentleman’s room, smiled and threw her a wink.
She made her way across the lawn to the trees. She was desperate to relieve herself and, in Finch’s absence, squatted amid the undergrowth further in.
The birds were lively this morning, the dawn chorus resounding, though her thoughts flashed back immediately to the red-haired man and the fear returned. The sun’s rays were growing stronger, she could feel their warmth. Death seemed an interloper on a day like this.
She stood again at the tree line. Eventually Finch appeared. His limp was not quite as pronounced as yesterday and his tunic bulged with what appeared to be pastries. One had already fallen out onto the gravel of the drive and he was smiling for once, like a mischievous schoolboy.
Finch did not see her returning his impish smirk. For, as he came towards her, she shot straight back behind a trunk. From behind, running straight at him, were two burly men in uniform. Their caps bore red crowns. They wore red and blue armbands and white webbing. Military Foot Police.
One wrestled Finch to the floor and held him in an arm-lock, face in the dirt, while clamping on handcuffs behind his back.
The second man, a sergeant, was bellowing at him.
“Captain Ingo Finch. You are under arrest.”
“Arrest? For what?”
“The assault and battery of Lady Verity Hancock.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Mbutu sat with his back against the post. His hands were numbing from the thin rough rope that cut into his wrists, his shoulders strained and ached from the way they had been forcibly contorted behind him.
Pain does not matter anymore. Mbutu you must think.
By rights he was a dead man … and a black man. Did a slender chance of survival now seriously hang on his ability to incriminate the Suttons?
He had brought them all – the Nama, the Suttons – on a three-day trek to this place. It was supposed to have been a refuge, a sanctuary.
Mbutu, you are a curse.
It was dark but light would soon come. It would come fast.
There seemed only one thing he could do – say nothing. His life would be in their hands now, these men of the British Crown. These men with the guns and the authority. White men. They would walk through the entrance before him and casually determine his fate. They would expend more energy ruminating on their choice of breakfast.
To his left he was aware of someone moving along the side of the tent. It had already come.
Please God. Let my son know that I only ever meant good.
The shape came close, the moon not bright enough for a silhouette, but enough to give the impression of a man … but a man, it seemed, who was struggling for breath.
The huffing and puffing did not befit an assassin. Whoever it was, whatever it was, did not carry the menace that had accompanied the others. There was some clawing at the tent flap and the large black shape crouched in a most ungainly fashion. It was trying to squeeze itself under. It entered, rolled over, pawed at the air above as if looking for an invisible hand-hold, then managed to right itself and pop on its hat.
The figure came behind Mbutu. The flash of blade made him suddenly doubt his instincts. He strained away from it. Then it fumbled at his wrists, severed the rope and accidentally nicked his forearm.
“Sorry.”
Dean Newbold was helping Mbutu to his feet.
“Listen, we haven’t much time,” said the cleric.
“The Suttons … are they safe?” Mbutu asked.
“They will be.”
Newbold beckoned Mbutu to the flap. It was hugely painful for him but Mbutu got down on all fours, eased himself into position and rolled under.
“I’m afraid the smell got too much for the guards, so they’ve taken themselves off site. Back at sun-up. But we’ve got to hurry.”
Newbold pulled Mbutu to his feet. He bade him put an arm round his shoulders and carried on without pause. Newbold did not have the bearing of an athlete, but he was a big man, strong, felt Mbutu. Secure.
“I’m afraid little Emily told them all they need to know. Thought she was being helpful. Whatever ungodly business these men are involved in … Quick, across here …”
They were heading towards the northern perimeter.
“I don’t know what you saw out there in the wilds, but whatever you did, none of you were supposed to. Missionary Sutton was not due at that village until next month. But he had zeal. Asked my permission to arrive early, to begin God’s work at once. If only I’d …”
They were stepping over bodies towards a rough, informal pathway that led down to the shepherd’s tree where they and the Nama had first sat. To Mbutu the vast, silent, unseen human carpet was eerie.
“The Nama?”
“I took the precaution of dispersing them amongst the general population. But we know where they all are. We will relocate them to another mission as soon as possible. I will oversee it myself.”
“All of them? You can do that?”
“As it still stands, for a short while at least, this is a civilian camp run by the Christian Friendship Society. The Lord’s authority still holds good here.”
Not Godless after all.
“The man who questioned you, interrogated you,” said Newbold. “He is not regular army. Some kind of intelligence officer. He wants to remove the blind men to Cape Town so that they can have their medical data recorded. Something about experiments.”
Mbutu started to turn back.
“Then we have to help them.”
“Not ‘we’ … ‘I’. I will get them all to a safe mission. I can tweak records. Then we can sneak them back to the Nama lands. You, meanwhile …”
Behind the tree sat Mrs Sutton and Emily. The little girl ran up and hugged Mbutu.
“You’ve got to get out of here, all three of you.”
He led them further. Emily held Mbutu’s hand as he staggered along.
Suddenly there was a light up ahead.
“Down!” urged Newbold.
The four of them hit the ground, Mbutu doing as best as he could to support his own wrenched neck.
The light came closer. It was one of the soldiers from earlier. He was swinging his hurricane lamp back and forth.
“He hasn’t noticed you gone yet, or we’d have heard him raise the alarm,” whispered Newbold. “Must be looking for the Suttons.”
They were lying among the human carpet – the amorphous, wheezing black mass of sick and dying. The light swung closer towards them.
“I would say needle in haystack,” hissed Newbold, “but given our skin colour. And my size …”
Mbutu did his best to shrug off his jacket. His shoulders screamed with pain.
“Mrs Sutton, Emily … huddle in close,” he urged. “Cover your heads.”
The light moved close, less than eight yards away and then began to retreat. They could hear the man complaining of the ‘bleeding stink’. He was pressing his kerchief to his face.
The people immediately around them seemed either asleep or so weak, the best they could do was turn their heads and watch silently.
It caught them by surprise but, from somewhere, an emaciated black arm reached out and touched Mrs Sutton on the cheek. She screamed but no noise came. Startled, she went to get up, making a commotion. Newbold dragged her back down and held her fast.
The light, which had been moving off, stopped.
“Oi?”
They said nothing.
“Someone there?”
They froze.
“Come out and show yourselves!”
Newbold, even prone, was too conspicuous.
“Oi … I said come out. Now!”
Newbold eased himself up to his knees, a look of sheer innocence across his face.
“Oh, hello my good fellow,” he said.
“Mr Newbold?”
The light was coming towards them again.
“Don’t you ever get no sleep, sir?”
Newbold pretended to be tending to a sick female, the one who had reached out and touched Mrs Sutton. Mbutu held Emily and her mother firmly, keeping his jacket across their heads.
“Alas, not when there’s God’s work to be done,” he said.
He stood up and walked towards the soldier, preventing him from coming closer.
“And might I ask what you’re doing out here, my boy? This is not a place for a lost soul.”
“That woman … the British one. ‘Er and ‘er daughter. You seen ‘em?”
“They are in my tent.”
You are a fine actor, Mister Newbold.
“No they’re not.”
“Sleeping like babies,” said Newbold. “Come on, I’ll show you …”
He strode up to the soldier and threw his great arm round his shoulder. The man didn’t appreciate it.
“You sure you looked in the right one,” the Dean added.
“S’all right,” the soldier said, uncomfortable.
He turned and ambled away, lantern swinging again.
Newbold hastened back over.
“Come on.”
Two hundred yards on, clear of the unofficial camp border was a clump of acacia. There were two horses tethered, standing patiently.
“The grey. She’s my own,” said Newbold wistfully. “And the bay? … Ask me no questions, I shall tell you no lies.”
Each hors
e bore stuffed saddlebags and plump deerskins.
“Enough here to last a few days.”
“Where do we—?” asked Mbutu.
“Here.”
Newbold pressed into his hand a small, round, flat tin. A compass.
“There’s your map in the saddlebag.”
The British and their maps.
“If you worked in the surveying gangs, then you’ll know how to use both in tandem.”
Mbutu nodded.
“Head north,” instructed Newbold. “Round the escarpment. You know this country better than any now. You’ve lived off it before. You can live off it again. Stay clear of the railway line and the army camps along it. The Coloureds are raising their own people at Calvinia. Their own push against the Boers. Travel with them. Use sound judgement.”
“But where …?”
Newbold cut him short, fiddled with the grey’s stirrups and motioned for Mbutu to take the bridle to hold her steady. He bundled Emily in both arms and swept her up into the saddle.
Newbold turned to her mother.
“Mrs Sutton. Do you ride?”
The woman gave no indication.
“Not well, but she can,” offered Emily.
“Good,” said Newbold. “Not side-saddle I’m afraid. Astride. But you’ll find it easier.”
He lowered the stirrup and bade the woman put her left foot into it. She refused.
“Mrs Sutton!”
Her eyes flicked to Mbutu. He nodded that she should do as Newbold asked. Newbold extended his arms. He grabbed her lower leg, helping spring her upwards. He told her to swing her right leg over and squash up behind Emily. She gathered her skirts and did so.
“Be good to Bessie,” he said. “You’ll not find a more tolerant creature.”
He went to the front and rested his cheek on Bessie’s nose. He stroked her face tenderly.
“Goodbye, old girl. Look after them.”
Bessie seemed to snort a farewell of her own. He gave her a tap on the rump and she ambled off.
Mbutu did not dally. He shook hands and tried launching himself up onto the other horse. But, physically, it was beyond him. Newbold did his best to heave him up. Mbutu grabbed the pommel and clung to the reins.
“Thank you,” said Mbutu.
Newbold panted.
No Ordinary Killing Page 29