Thunder over the Grass

by Steve Turnbull

  Their steam carriage arrived and they climbed aboard the spacious passenger area—the vehicle was like a luxury charabanc. It had an open top but still boasted its own Faraday device although Maliha thought it was not as effective as most. Still, it helped.

  The air-dock was, as usual, near the outskirts of the city and they drove through streets laid out in grid patterns. It was strange how all the British-controlled cities had the same look. Perhaps this was a little different but it was still completely European in flavour. The streets were filled with Caucasians with only a few people of darker skin both native and Indian.

  The Carlton Hotel was an impressive modern structure built just a few years earlier, after the war between the Boers and the British. The British had won, of course, although the Boers had been remarkably well equipped. The fact was that the British had the best flying machines and, though outnumbered at first, as the months went on they could bring in troops from all over the world.

  She sighed. She somehow felt the British would not stop until they owned the entire world, and all the planets in the Void as well.

  They disembarked and headed inside. The doorman assisted them through the doors until Amita reached him. She was carrying the baby.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” said the doorman aggressively in his curious local accent. “You can’t come in, can’t you read? No blacks.”

  Maliha spun round. The doorman was pointing at the printed sign on the wall beside him and addressing Amita. Maliha found herself at a loss for words. Or, more accurately, found herself with so many things she wanted to say all at once that they jammed in her mind.

  Valentine laid his hand on Maliha’s wrist and gave it a squeeze. Then he stepped back out through the door.

  “What’s the problem?”

  The doorman turned to Valentine, who was dressed impeccably with his crystalline English accent. The doorman seemed unimpressed.

  “No blacks allowed in the hotel.”

  “My fiancée’s maid is not a black.”

  Maliha could hear the dangerous edge in Valentine’s voice though that was only because she knew him so well. She doubted anyone else would notice, perhaps until it was too late.

  “Not the girl,” the doorman said dismissively. “That.” He pointed at the baby in Amita’s arms.

  “Are you serious?”

  “The rules are the rules.”

  Valentine smiled and turned to Amita. “Just give the baby to the man, Amita.”

  “What?” he said. “I don’t want it.”

  “Well, as you say, we can’t take it inside. So I’m sure you’ll be happy to look after it. She’s a good little thing really.”

  “It’s not my job!”

  “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to leave it by the wall. Pop the baby down over there will you, Amita?” He indicated the wall under the sign. Amita went over obediently and knelt down.

  “You can’t leave it!”

  The discussion was beginning to draw a crowd. Inside the hotel there were people who wanted to come out and passers-by had noticed the disagreement and stopped to listen. The doorman was looking uncomfortable at the attention.

  “Really?” said Valentine with convincing surprise. “Perhaps you have a suggestion?”

  “Take it away,” said the doorman in exasperation as if he were explaining to a child that would not listen. “Just take it away from here.”

  “Oh, I understand,” said Valentine. “Miss Anderson, I’m so sorry, we shall have to find another hotel. Would you mind letting the manager know we’re cancelling our bookings for the month? What rooms did we have?”

  Maliha suppressed a look of wonderment. “Three suites on the top floor, Mr Crier. Oh dear, I expect the manager will be terribly disappointed when he finds out we’ll be staying somewhere else.”

  All eyes turned on the doorman. He seemed to wither beneath it. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, if it’s a baby.”

  Valentine’s pleasant demeanour evaporated and his voice became hard. “No, I imagine it doesn’t.” He turned on his heel and went back through the door.

  Maliha caught the glance of disgust on Amita’s face as she gathered up the child and followed.

  The party arrived at the desk. Valentine was still scowling and he looked the desk clerk in the eye. “You don’t have a problem with the little black baby, do you?”

  The clerk shook his head.

  “In that case, we are the Anderson party arrived from Ceylon.”

  “Yes, Mr Anderson.”

  “This is Miss Maliha Anderson. I am Mr Valentine Crier. Mrs Barbara Makepeace-Flynn, and staff.” Barbara made a little cough. “Mrs Makepeace-Flynn will require a maid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  The three adjoining suites had connecting doors with short passages between them. Barbara had insisted on having the one between Valentine and Maliha.

  “Really, Barbara,” said Maliha as they sat in Barbara’s lounge with the baby, while Amita and the supplied maid unpacked. “Do you really think I would indulge in any shenanigans with Valentine?”

  “Better to avoid the temptation,” replied Barbara. “I know what young people can get up to when given a chance.” She seemed to be remembering when she said it and had a half-smile on her face. Maliha surmised it was to do with the intimate relationship Barbara had admitted to having before she married the General.

  Maliha wasn’t shocked. Given her own history she had no right to be, but her relationships had been purely in the interests of her investigations. The image of Françoise naked in bed reminded her that was not entirely true, but she pretended she wasn’t lying to herself.

  “I am quite eager to begin looking for little Barbara’s grandparents,” said Maliha as Valentine came through from his room. Once more he had dodged the idea of having his own man. He had not been brought up in a privileged environment and preferred to do everything for himself. He had had a chap when he had been working at Sigiriya but Jameson was long gone. It was a shame as Maliha had liked the man.

  “I have to visit the consulate,” he said.

  “Now?” asked Maliha.

  “My previous mission was interrupted.”

  “I hope you are not complaining about the result.”

  “Of course not, my dear,” he said. “However that was not what I was being paid for. I shall have to see what my paymasters require of me.”

  Maliha frowned. “But I really need Amita with me.”

  Barbara sighed. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just look after the baby.”

  Maliha stood and gave Barbara a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll have them send up a nurse as well.”

  Barbara raised an eyebrow. “Better make sure it’s one that doesn’t mind looking after a ‘black’ baby.”

  “Sorry, I should have given you more warning,” said Valentine. “They don’t all feel the same way but I’m afraid this prejudice against the natives is quite pervasive.”

  “What about Indians?” asked Maliha.

  “There are a lot here and they are treated better than the natives.”

  “But not much better?” Maliha said. “Is that what you’re trying not to say?”

  He nodded.

  “It’ll be just like being back at school, then.”

  iv

  When Valentine exited the front doors of the hotel the doorman had been replaced by a younger man.

  “Cab, please.”

  The fellow whistled loudly and waved his arm. Up the street the front machine from a line pulled forwards and trundled up to a stop. The man opened the door for Valentine to climb in and closed it after him.

  “Where do you want to go, Mister?”

  “British Consulate, please.”

  It was approaching noon and the sun was beating down. The vehicles, almost all motorised unlike in India, raised dust as they drove through the streets as well as filling the air with smoke, steam and diesel fumes. Johannesburg was the same bustlin
g town as when he’d left last year. It was the heart of the diamond and gold boom. Though the rush was over people still came from across the world seeking their fortunes in the hills and rivers.

  Valentine had spent the better part of four months studying the records of Terence Timmons’ cargo fleet. He’d compared details in London, Johannesburg, the Fortress and Pondicherry. They did not marry up. Ships intended to arrive in one place with one cargo, turned up late with a different one. Or did not arrive at all. Not only that but Terence Timmons had been the man financing the operation of Lawrence Renfrew to extract stock market information from vulnerable wives, the so-called Guru Nadesh.

  Valentine clenched his fists as the memory of how he had killed Renfrew flashed through his mind. And the memory of Maliha with the fellow.

  He shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind. There were many bad memories when it came to Maliha and yet he would not have given them up for anything. He loved her completely.

  The taxi steamed to a stop outside the strongly fenced grounds of the consulate a little way out of the city. The British had beaten the Boers in the war eight years before but it had been a hard struggle. The British wanted the diamonds, of course. And still just took whatever they wanted, like a spoilt child.

  Valentine was proud of his country, proud to call himself British, but he was not entirely comfortable with everything that was done in the King’s name. That was one of the reasons he had left the employment of His Majesty’s Foreign Office. And it was Maliha who had opened his eyes.

  He opened the door and climbed out of the cab. He handed over money to the driver—he still had rands from his previous visit—and received some change. The gate was guarded. The Boers did not like the British and there was always the risk of another revolt.

  The Empire had given the country autonomy, while still being a vassal state, as a compromise and there had been elections a couple of years previously. Money was still being pumped into the country to help the farmers whose farms and livelihoods had been destroyed by Kitchener’s scorched earth policy. It had been a harsh action though it had no doubt shortened the war.

  He presented his papers to the guard who passed them to someone in the gatehouse. There was a long pause and he was admitted.

  It was a long walk from the gate to the consulate building itself. Beyond a stand of trees there were hidden fortifications. There was even a moat, though it was disguised as an ornamental lake. He understood a Faraday grid had been put underneath the moat because it would upset the aim of anyone trying to shoot across it—and even artillery—as well as disorient anyone trying to cross it.

  He was not challenged at the doors to the consulate and went through to the clerk in the lobby. He showed his papers once more and asked to speak with Mr Leamington. The clerk smiled enigmatically and asked him to wait.

  Valentine took one of the comfortable leather armchairs scattered in friendly groups around the foyer. A waiter appeared and offered him a drink; he declined as it was still only morning. The place had always reminded him of a gentlemen’s club.

  After ten minutes he was invited to follow the clerk who took him up the majestically curved stairs and along a corridor of deep tufted carpet that absorbed every sound. He knocked at an unnamed and unnumbered door.

  “Come.”

  The clerk held the door open as Valentine entered and closed it after him.

  “Sir Bertram?” He said in surprise. There was no mistaking the perfect suit and impressive moustache. The man had not changed.

  “Bill, bit of a surprise you turning up here.”

  “I could say the same, sir.”

  The last time they had spoken was when Valentine had quit the service in Sir Bertram Kingsley’s lavish office in the Fortress.

  “Take a seat, Bill. Drink?”

  “No, thank you,” he hesitated and then said. “I use Valentine now.”

  Sir Bertram sat down opposite him, behind the solid oak desk. Behind him wide windows looked out on to the lawns and trees. “Valentine?”

  “My fiancée prefers it.”

  “Miss Anderson,” the older man said, carefully enunciating each syllable. “So you’re planning to marry her despite everything.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”

  Sir Bertram looked as if he were on the verge of saying something then he smiled and waved his hand as if shooing away an irritating fly.

  “Daresay it’s none of my business.”

  “No.”

  “She’s a clever little thing though,” he continued. “Still no chance of recruiting her? Reliable females are very hard to come by.”

  “I didn’t think you considered her reliable.”

  “Touché.”

  “Are you familiar with the mission I was on, sir?”

  “Before you got distracted in Pondicherry?”

  Valentine sighed inwardly. “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you sure there’s a problem with Timmons?”

  “There’s no question of it.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “The evidence is in my reports.”

  “Errors in record-keeping?”

  Valentine stood up. “If you don’t wish me to pursue it then I won’t. We’ll call it even and I will be on my way.”

  “Sit down, Bill—Valentine.”

  Instead Valentine went to the window and looked out. “I travelled in their crews for a while after I filed my final report.”

  “And found nothing.”

  “Nothing solid. But there were rumours.”

  “Dammit, Bill, I can’t arrest a man of Timmons’ standing on a rumour. He’s a leading industrialist for heaven’s sake. He’s been to the Palace and is probably due for a knighthood.” Sir Bertram got to his feet and came to stand beside Valentine. We need hard facts and if you can’t find those facts then, quite frankly, there’s no point you being on the payroll.”

  “I’ll find something.”

  “No hearsay. Solid facts.”

  “Solid facts.”

  v

  Maliha kissed little Barbara on the forehead. The baby giggled. Maliha found that she could not help but smile. She knew people did not consider her to be a very happy person, and it was true she found that most things angered her in one fashion or another. Except for Baba. Even when the child was unhappy Maliha could stop her crying and make her laugh. Maliha felt as if it broke something inside of her, yet she was happier when it happened.

  “How are you going to find Riette’s parents?” asked Barbara.

  “I don’t think I will,” said Maliha. “The Frenchman who examined her said that, although she had been well fed after she’d been imprisoned by my uncle, she had starved before that.”

  “When she was with the slavers?”

  “Well they probably didn’t feed her well, but that would only have been for a short time,” said Maliha. “No, she was on the streets or at least very poor. But she spoke a form of English and Dutch, not one of the native languages so she was from the city.”

  “Johannesburg?”

  “As best we can determine from the slavers’ records. If she had been from a city in the south she would probably have spoken just English.”

  “So you’re just going to look for the father’s parents?”

  Maliha sighed. “I’m no longer sure,” she said. “After the reaction of that man on the door and what Valentine said about the people in this place.”

  Barbara was silent for a moment. “If nothing else, my dear, you have knowledge of their son. I think if a child of mine disappeared I would want to know what happened.”

  “Isn’t ignorance better?”

  “Never.”

  * * *

  Amita followed Maliha from the room and they made their way down via the lift. Being a completely modern hotel the lift had a Faraday device built into it which cushioned the ride. The device was ubiquitous. It infiltrated every aspect of their lives in one way or another. Maliha wondered what li
fe would be like if Faraday had not discovered it—or if it did not work at all. She smiled to herself; that would need the work of a vibrant imagination. Perhaps one of the scientific romances of Mr Wells.

  She pulled on her gloves as they left the confines of the building. She allowed the new doorman to call a cab for them. There was the possibility the previous fellow had been released from his employment for the trouble he caused. Perhaps he had just been moved. Either way she could not find it in her heart to be concerned; she did not care for bigots. She had had enough of them in her life. Her scarred thigh chose that moment to ache.

  The doorman was holding the door for them but as Maliha stepped down to the cab she paused.

  “If one wanted to make enquiries after a particular child who lived on the streets, where would you suggest one went?”

  He looked at her as if he did not understand her question.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “I speak English, Miss.”

  “Well?”

  He looked blank. She repeated her original question then added. “We are hoping to perform charitable acts.”

  That seemed to do the trick. Apparently the first request on its own was like a bent control card in a Babbage, clogging up the works and causing all calculations to cease. Besides what she said was not a lie; she did not lie. She had, however, learnt a few tricks from her association with Françoise Greaux for whom truth was a variable quantity.

  She had provided him with a statement that was open to misinterpretation. He thought she meant general charitable works—the sort of thing English ladies loved to get up to—whereas she had a more specific situation in mind.

  “You’ll be wanting the market streets around the cathedral. That’s where most of the beggars work the streets.”

  Maliha smiled. “Thank you for your assistance. Would you be so kind as to direct the driver? I wouldn’t want to get it wrong.”

  She climbed in and sat in the worn seats. The cab smelled of something rotting. In this heat anything dropped and organic would go off quickly. Amita sat beside her.