No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (e

  Finch seized his chance. He slipped over to the dressing room, knocked in the same pattern as the man had done previously and smoothed himself down.

  The female voice from within called out, ‘Ashley?’

  He avoided confirming this as fact and waited for the door to be opened. Vesta Lane didn’t even look at him, swinging it open, having already turned to pour two generous glasses of Gordon’s gin, rattling at the bottles and glasses on her dressing table, splashing into them a token measure of bitter lemon.

  The dressing room was cramped. It had a rack of gowns and outfits, a hand-painted chinoiserie floral screen, a cluttered dressing table and mirror with illuminated bulbs around the outside. A striped couch ran along one wall. On a small round table, from a chipped ceramic vase, sprouted the bright spray of gladioli.

  Vesta had on a red Japanese kimono, the riding boots had now been replaced by a pair of fluffy pink slippers, her copper-coloured hair, albeit with greying roots, cascading in waves over her shoulders, a black feather boa around her neck. The kimono had a fiery dragon shooting flames across her shoulders. He – probably more likely a she – seemed the perfect emblem for her.

  Vesta Lane lit herself a cigarette which she held in a long dark-wood holder and turned, brandishing the two glasses. All pleasantry slipped.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Miss Lane. My name is Captain Ingo Finch of the Royal Army Medical Corps …”

  “I need a doctor I’ll get one myself.”

  In close-up the pancake make-up seemed vulgar – an orange mask with bright red lipstick extending beyond the natural line of the mouth and thick black Cleopatra mascara.

  “I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your show …”

  “Get in the queue.”

  “… and felt it my duty to visit you out of respect for Major Leonard Cox.”

  The name turned her face to thunder.

  “Lenny?”

  She sucked hard on the cigarette.

  “That bastard.”

  “Forgive me, I don’t think I expressed myself clearly. Respect for Major Leonard Cox … the late Major Leonard Cox.”

  Silence.

  Vesta downed her own gin and retreated to the dressing table to start on the second. She sat on her stool, wringing her hands, the upper of her crossed legs jiggling nervously, the fluffy pink slipper wafting in a state of high animation.

  “Stupid bloody war.”

  He spelt it out as tenderly as he could, but it still sounded coarse.

  “I’m afraid he was killed right here in Cape Town,” he said. “Christmas Eve … Murdered.”

  She stared off into middle distance and drew again on her cigarette.

  “He had it coming!” she snapped.

  She stood up, the signal for Finch to leave. Her kimono flapped open revealing the tantalising inches of pale thigh flesh that had driven a thousand Tommies wild. Finch had not enjoyed female company in a while himself. He tried not to look and turned instead to the flowers and saw the handwritten card wedged between the stems and the signed initials “A.K.” … Ashley K.

  “If I might be so bold, Miss Lane, what exactly do you mean by that remark?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I was a colleague of the major’s. I wanted—”

  She yelled towards the door.

  “Bonzo … Steve …!”

  “He had a watch … an engraved watch that you—”

  “I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about … Bonzo! … Stevie!”

  Finch bade a swift farewell and exited, saw that the coast was still clear and made for the stage door.

  Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a man appeared. Finch ran slap bang into him. The man was skinny, wore a silk shirt, had bouffant hair, carried some kind of make-up kit and spoke in a manner that seemed oddly feminine.

  “Can I help you?” he lisped.

  Behind him, Finch heard an, ‘Oi you!’ and the two bouncers were after him. Finch pushed silk-shirt aside and hobbled away as fast as he could.

  For a big man, the bearlike bodyguard was nimble and soon upon him. He swung a meaty right hook but Finch ducked and the fist collided with the wall, producing a yelp of pain. Such was his size and the narrowness of the corridor, Bonzo the bear-man – Finch assumed he was Bonzo – had inadvertently blocked the way for his more sprightly colleague.

  “Don’t you ever fucking come back here again!” the young one was shouting from behind the man-dam as Finch slipped out into the crowded street.

  “Bitch,” added silk-shirt.

  The bear, nursing his hand, stumbled after Finch, adding for good measure up the alleyway: “You show your face again and you’re fucking well dead.”

  * * *

  Finch’s growing confidence with the city’s public transportation enabled him to hop two trams back to Adderley Street and limp his way to the police station on Wale.

  Unsurprisingly given the hour, Brookman was not present, but Finch left a lengthy note with the desk sergeant.

  It was gone midnight, but the streets were still busy. Finch made his way back to the Belvedere feeling smugly satisfied with his amateur sleuthing.

  In the lobby he nodded goodnight to the late-shift desk boy and climbed the stairs. He had reached the landing when he heard a bump from within his own room. There could be no mistake about its provenance.

  Conscious that it was way too late for the maid to be turning down his bed, Finch proceeded with caution, flipping the safety strap off his holster. Unfortunately, the creaking floorboards betrayed his advent. There were a couple of thuds and the clang of what sounded like someone scuttling down the fire escape.

  Slowly, with his Webley service revolver raised, Finch pushed at the door. It swung open. As he struck a match to light the lamp, he saw that the room had been ransacked, the sash window wide open, its wooden shutters swinging in the night breeze. He hurried to it, leaned out and thought he could see the shape of a man running down the street.

  He yelled: “Stop!” but it was pointless.

  Turning back he saw the intruder’s handiwork. His clothes had been strewn over the floor. The drawers from the dresser were hanging out, the wardrobe doors flapped open. On the bed was Cox’s cardboard box, upturned and with the Major’s belongings similarly scattered.

  He checked through them. Whoever it was had helped themselves to the ten shillings from Cox’s wallet, which lay unfastened on the bed blanket, and Finch’s own useless pocket watch, which he had left on the bedside table. But that was it.

  Finch had nothing more of value in the room. His own wallet was on his person. Any papers he didn’t need to hand, he had deposited in the hotel safe. Everything else, at first glance, appeared to be present.

  Almost. Finch sat on his bed, sighed and reached for his beloved Talisker.

  They had taken his bloody whisky.

  There was a knock on the door – the bellboy, wanting to know if everything was all right.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was the horses that reacted first. As the humps of the huts within the kraal became defined, the animals whinnied and scuffed. It was the smell – not the obvious aroma of burning, but of the sickly, fetid one masked by it. Of rotting. Rotting flesh.

  Mbutu and Hendrik dismounted and tethered the horses to a lone baobab. Mbutu fanned his bush hat in front of his face then wrestled his red spotted kerchief up from around his neck. Hendrik rummaged in the saddle bags and found the yellow rag that had been used to wrap the officer’s pistol. He pressed it over his nostrils. Each man grabbed his carbine.

  They advanced, creeping forward slow and low. Smoke was wafting on the gentle breeze, the thin pall that they had seen at a distance was rising from the embers of a large wooden structure to one end of the village of Vankilya. In the dry heat and with a light wind, a fire could keep burning for days.

  Their ears became attuned to an ambient hum – flies. There were black clouds massed over
several mounds strewn.

  They were soon upon the first heap. The insects buzzing over it were worked up into such a frenzy that the arrival of the two interlopers resulted in them swarming around them too. Mbutu and Hendrik flapped at them.

  Beneath the cloud were the remnants of a cow, the thin emaciated cattle of the veld that were the lifeblood of the natives. It was now just a deflated hide draped over bones. The eyes, lips and tongue had been devoured. Rancid blue/grey entrails spewed from its belly. As they moved on, black masses were feasting on beasts in similar states of ruination.

  In the desert, it was a wonder that no carnivore had binged upon the flesh. But the reason was the same as the one that had prevented any animal from drinking fetid water.

  “Vleis. Meat,” said Hendrik. “No good.”

  Satisfied that there was no one about they moved on. They counted 19 dwellings within the kraal – haru oms, the basic round huts fashioned from a rush-like matting.

  Unlike the larger buildings, the native dwellings had not been burnt or ransacked, but left abandoned. All that remained were the meagre possessions of the Nama people – wooden cooking and household utensils, spears, rudimentary bedding and the odd trinket, beads, hand-carved figurines for the children. Although again, flies had made swift work of any uncovered foodstuffs, largely dried meat and seed cakes. Whoever was here had left in a hurry.

  The huts were gathered in a rough circle about 20 yards in diameter. In the communal space the dirt had been scuffed and kicked up furiously.

  Hendrik knelt down. He called Mbutu over and pointed. It was the impression of a boot, one with hobnails. There were plenty more. There had been soldiers here without question.

  Mbutu saw something glint in the dust and picked it up. He handled in his palm the spent casing of a bullet. He removed his carbine and detached the magazine. The bullet was of the same calibre, from the same type of weapon.

  A cattle pen fashioned from branches had had its entrance left open, explaining why the cows had wandered. Nearby was a well, a much deeper, wider borehole. Next to it was an iron hand pump and, behind, a covered wooden water tank raised up on a latticed support structure. The water source must have been bountiful or it would not have sustained a permanent settlement.

  Mbutu activated the pump. After several rusty cranks some muddy brown liquid choked out into the trough then became more fluid, running clear, smelling fresh.

  Hendrik tasted it and decreed it to be drinkable. They each took a turn slaking their thirst then gleefully pumped the water over each other’s heads.

  Near the well was a meagre vegetable patch. It had had a basic irrigation system rigged up, channelling water from the tank, following the rows of root vegetables.

  To the eastern end of the village were three wooden structures that were still smouldering, the timbers reduced to blackened, charred embers.

  The first, it appeared, had been a low, simple hall, its roof beams collapsed. There had been homemade benches. There was a blackened book flapping in the dirt – Cobham’s Flora of Southern Africa. Given the barren wilderness that surrounded them, it was a largely redundant text. But the zeal of a missionary was a force of nature, Mbutu recognised. The building, its walls a whitewashed wattle and daub, had been a schoolhouse.

  The second one was most likely a home, a bungalow. There were some metal kitchen utensils and a bathtub that had survived the flames. There was a low wooden fence and a rudimentary garden.

  The English and their gardens.

  Though there was not much left of it, it was obvious what the third and largest building was. It was raised up on a higher platform and faced east–west.

  Like the graves of the Nama.

  It had had steps leading up to its double doors.

  Poor Emily. Is this where you hid?

  If her father, Missionary Sutton, had remained under the church floorboards, there is no way he could have survived the inferno. Mbutu picked up a stick and began poking about in the embers. The heat was still strong. There was still the glow of orange and silver/white flecks amid the charred wood. It was impossible to tell if there was a body in there.

  Mbutu scuffed at something in the dirt – a large brass crucifix.

  A light gust blew in and made the embers glow angrily, fanning them like a bellows. Ash swirled in the air. It stung Mbutu’s eyes. He turned his back.

  It was then that he saw it. The wind had stroked some of the soot away. It was a picture … an engraving … an ornate carved elephant, tusks proud, trunk raised, trumpeting against a backdrop of palm trees. It had been etched into a silver panel, now lying forlornly in the cinders. He went to brush the ashes away, burnt his fingers and cursed. The alert Hendrik raised his carbine.

  Mbutu signalled that it was okay. He removed his shirt, bound it round his right hand and brushed at the panel again. A few wipes revealed a beaded border, a surround. The metalwork was exquisite. It was a rendering of Africa, but not the Africa of these parts.

  He jabbed around it with the stick, removing dirt and ash. He thought at first it was a tray. But no, it was the lid of a box.

  Further digging revealed a hinged handle. With his wrapped hand he pulled hard. It was wedged under a timber. He tried again, freed the box and fell on his backside.

  Its metal had been dulled but there was no mistaking it was made from silver. And the art wasn’t African at all. The elephant looked different. It had small ears, a domed head. Conclusively, riding on its back was a plump, mustachioed man in a high-collared jacket. On his head was a turban with a feather and a jewel in it.

  The British had soldiers who dressed as such. There were similar men who had worked for the mining administration in Kimberley, their wives and daughters dressed in brightly coloured silk. From across the sea … From India.

  The box was about 18 inches long, 12 across and six deep. It had a lock but no key and a lid attached by two elaborate hinges.

  Hendrik returned with a jug half filled with well water and made the box hiss. He fiddled at the keyhole with his knife but to no avail. Mbutu took a turn. He tried to unscrew the hinges but the blade of the knife was too broad.

  Shooting the lock off was out of the question. Though they were sure there was no one around for miles, the sound would carry. Plus they could not afford to waste the ammunition.

  They resorted to a more primitive method. Hendrik stood over it and hammered at it with the butt of his rifle. On the third blow the lid sheared off and papers fluttered in the breeze. Mbutu ran after them, stamping at them with his feet.

  The two men then hunched over the box. The interior was lined with worn green velvet. Inside were more papers, letters largely, and a handwritten book, a journal of some sorts. The book was of cheap material, bound in card and frayed blue linen, the jottings hand-written in a spidery scrawl on feinted paper.

  To Hendrik, who had never written a word, they were simply objects of bemusement, the white man’s affectation. To Mbutu they were otherwise. He leafed through them. It was official correspondence mainly – a permit from the Cape Government allowing the missionary to ply his trade; a receipt for the bathtub; some correspondence with a vicar in Port Elizabeth, an ongoing debate over liturgical interpretation.

  The English. Not to worship God, but how to worship God.

  Mbutu stuffed everything back in the box. He would read it thoroughly at their next rest. He put his shirt back on and crammed the box into a saddlebag. The lid no longer fit securely. A square piece of card fluttered down.

  It had been inserted between the pages of the journal. It was a photograph of a man with huge mutton chop sideburns in a cleric’s dog collar. He was standing stiff and uncomfortable with his hand resting upon the shoulder of his seated wife. She seemed much younger than him, not unattractive. A baby girl bedecked in flowing lace was cradled in her arms. She was slightly blurred, out of focus, amusingly unable to sit still during the film’s long exposure.

  It was the mute woman and Emily. On the re
verse was handwritten, ‘Lichfield, March 20th, 1893’. Not yet seven years ago.

  They wandered further around the village. There were more bullet casings and, here and there, splashes of blood. More flies.

  They tracked the footprints as best they could. A group of men had come from approximately the direction they had, some by foot. Either side of the marks were hoof-prints which continued out of the village to the western side with further activity around a low mound of freshly dug earth.

  Both men had witnessed enough death to know what this was. At about 20ft long and 6ft wide, it amounted to a roughly-hewn trench with the desert soil shovelled back on top. Around the mound the ground was spattered with white powder.

  Mbutu recognised it from the disposal of corpses after an outbreak of lung sickness in the mine camps of Kimberley – quicklime. They were staring at a mass grave.

  “Devil soldiers,” growled Hendrik. “Devil soldiers.”

  Suddenly, with a panicked whinny, one of the horses reared up.

  Hendrik ran. It happened too fast for Mbutu to register, but in a flash, as soon as he reached the baobab, Hendrik had gone to ground his arm rising up and slashing down, the sun glinting on the blade of a knife. A moment later he stood. Hanging from the hand of his outstretched arm, almost down to the ground, was the limp carcass of a snake. Mbutu approached gingerly. It was a light copper colour, almost yellow. In the dirt, Hendrik scuffed his foot toward the severed, hooded head of a Cape Cobra.

  He tossed the body aside and made a claw like gesture with the first and second fingers of his right hand, imitating fangs.

  “Bite … Kill.”

  It was a signal to leave. The light was thinning. They should make as much headway as they could then find a place to camp. The snake made Mbutu nervous about sleeping out in the open.

  As they rounded the horses, Hendrik kicked something and it skittered along the ground. He grumbled and rubbed his toe.