Mbutu bent over the object. It was cylindrical, like a can, the kind the British kept their condensed milk in. Its circumference about the same size as the circle made by touching together the thumbs and forefingers of two hands, no more than about ten inches in height and painted an olive green. The lid had been sheared off, the edge jagged. It was empty but still had a noxious smell from within, sulphurous, like eggs.
Stencilled on its side were symbols and combinations of numbers and letters that Mbutu did not understand. Above them was a black skull and crossbones.
* * *
Heading northwest they carried on riding towards the cluster of tiny settlements from whence Hendrik and his people had come. They would check them at first light.
Half an hour out of the village they stopped to rest the horses.
They sheltered in the late evening shade of some smooth reddish rocks. Mbutu took the opportunity to leaf through the journal.
As he pored over the insufferably neat, insufferably elaborate longhand, he was able to determine certain information.
Missionary Sutton had been posted to Vankilya by a Dean Ephraim Newbold of the Christian Friendship Society, which ran the Cape regional missions from a provincial headquarters near Paarl, way over towards Cape Town.
Moving onward, Mbutu found further references to Dean Newbold, a man whom Sutton clearly held in high regard – the official communiques being, mercifully, typed.
As the war had proceeded, Newbold had been encouraging his missionaries to usher displaced natives to a settlement – a ‘refugee encampment’ – that Newbold was himself administering. The Christian Friendship Society had an arrangement with both the Cape Railways and the British Army to use spare rolling stock to move people south to Paarl, provided they could get first to Beaufort West.
Beaufort West. That place again.
Sutton being Sutton – the man, it was evident, had a stubborn survivalist streak – he had declined the invitation. The war had not touched that part of the Karoo he had explained in his final epistle. And even if it did, he had unswerving faith in the word of Jesus Christ to dull the blade of the sharpest sword.
Mbutu tried to explain all this to Hendrik. He indicated that he comprehended – but Mbutu was not wholly convinced.
When the temperature had dropped, the men remounted and rode on. The other Nama villages were only a few miles distant but, as Hendrik explained, lay across a valley of some sort.
Despite his time in the Karoo, Mbutu was simply not prepared for what lay ahead. As they sauntered along, Hendrik, seemingly noting some local landmark – a rock, a bush, Mbutu wasn’t sure – raised a hand and bade Mbutu stop.
Hendrik tethered his two horses to some hardy acacia, and walked forward. He stopped, turned and beckoned for Mbutu to follow. Mbutu did so, rather too casually for Hendrik, who shot out an arm across his chest to make him halt.
Though, at ground level, the same terrain seemed to continue rolling on towards the horizon, what now lay before them, only inches from their feet was a chasm maybe a hundred yards across and some several hundred feet deep – remnants of an ancient river that had carved its way through the rock, hewing stratified walls of red and brown.
They shielded their eyes against the setting sun glaring directly at them. The dying rays kissed the land to a pinkish gold. To Mbutu it was beautiful. Below them an eagle swooped, circling something way down in the shadows.
He asked Hendrik how long it would take to cross the gorge. To reach the villages.
“Not here,” he replied. “Cross … up …”
He pointed north.
“Many hours. Half day.”
There was a sudden whip, a zing and puff of dirt that exploded from the rock to Hendrik’s right. It was followed by a crack that reverberated around the ravine like a thunderclap.
Mbutu grabbed Hendrik by the arm and pulled him down behind a rock. He shielded his eyes and tried to see. On the other side, across the gap, someone was standing with the setting sun strategically behind them.
Moving round the rock and squinting through the gaps in his fingers, Mbutu could see two soldiers with rifles and another, probably an officer, with binoculars pointed right at them.
Though he and Hendrik were in cover now, the horses, some yards behind them, were out in the open. If the soldiers felled the horses …
They do not want to kill the horses. They want to recover the horses.
Crack-zing. Another shot. Close. Another puff of dirt.
“Quick,” cried Mbutu.
He manhandled Hendrik into a depression and they scuffed along on their bellies to the bigger outcrop of smooth pink rocks further back.
They could hold out till nightfall, but that would gain the soldiers a precious hour or two. By Hendrik’s reckoning it would take some hours to head up-valley and cross, but that was a vague estimate. Military men were resourceful. Could they climb straight down into the ravine and up? They may already have men over on this side. They had to get out of there. NOW.
Their pre-conceived cover-story about returning the horses was clearly naive. The men of the raiding party would have been missing for long enough. That black men were now riding their horses would simply have confirmed their deaths as fact.
They had the soldiers’ horses but they also had their guns.
Mbutu signalled to Hendrik. They must get to the horses, reach for the saddles and the sheathed carbines.
Crack-zing. Crack-zing.
As long as they were behind the precious horses they were safe, shielded.
They scurried low along the ground as shots whistled over their heads. They pulled the rifles free and on a nod of understanding, Hendrik fired a shot across the gorge, which made the horses buck. It was nowhere near its mark but showed that they meant business.
Mbutu need to untether the reins of all four steeds from the acacia bush. They exchanged another glance. They knew they must preserve their ammunition. But – bang! – a covering shot was vital.
Once the horses had been freed, they kept within their equine shield, walking them into the lee of the big round rocks.
It could not be determined with absolute certainty but, with the light almost gone, they were convinced enough that there were no soldiers on their side of the ravine. They mounted their horses, then rode for their lives.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Finch rose early. Feeling that his stiff knee might benefit from stretching, he took a tram to the Company’s Garden in view of a gentle stroll – having first, as had been requested by the police, lodged a note with hotel reception informing of his whereabouts.
It was set to be a glorious day, already warming. The birds were in full song. Finch wandered the straight geometric paths between the rows of shrubs set before the great white edifice of the Parliament building. Save for a pair of middle-aged women walking arm in arm, to whom he doffed his hat, Finch had the place to himself.
The garden had been founded by the Dutch East India Company in the days when Cape Town – Kaapstad – was a way station on the long haul to Batavia. Back then, this patch of fertile ground, watered by canals of fresh water running from the slopes of Table Mountain, was the Company’s lifeblood, the reason Jan Van Riebeeck had been sent to fortify this distant southern outpost.
Finch stared in wonder at a small pear tree. It had been planted in 1652, the year Van Riebeeck landed, its plump green fruit still ripening nicely. The Portuguese explorer Bartolomeu Dias had rounded the Cape in 1488, a plaque reminded. By comparison, Columbus was a New World arriviste.
A cough interrupted Finch’s drift.
“Good morning, Captain.”
It was Brookman, extremely chipper.
Finch didn’t know whether his advent was a good or a bad thing.
“Good morning, Inspector.”
Brookman stood beside him, gazing at the tree. Finch remembered something he had learned from a psychologist – women faced each other when talking, men conversed while conte
mplating some mutual object of fascination. Probably the reason that sporting events were so popular.
“I see you have found the forbidden fruit, centrepiece of our little Eden.”
“Makes you think,” said Finch.
“Certainly does, sir. Certainly does,” Brookman ventured. “Just wanted to say thank you for the information you passed to us last night.”
Finch nodded.
“Of course, ordinarily, I’d have slapped your wrist for mounting your own little freelance operation,” he said, his face now twisting into something of a mock frown. “But, given the circumstances, I can only add, ‘Well done.’”
Finch breathed a sigh of relief.
“You’ll be able to find him, Fancy Dan … Ashley K?”
Brookman was subtly leading Finch back towards the street.
“In custody as we speak.”
Finch discreetly checked Cox’s watch. It was not yet nine o’clock.
“Fast work.”
“All down to you, my friend.”
Finch grinned. Smug satisfaction. And friend?
* * *
Half an hour later, Finch found himself at the police station again, his presence required to confirm another identity, not of Cox this time, but of the man responsible for his passing. In the cab, Brookman ran through the particulars – the subject’s name was Ashley Kilfoyle; he had arrived in the Cape two years ago from Portadown, Ireland; he was a gentleman of means, newly acquired, but a loner – no family, no wife, no sweetheart. His wealth had come from speculation on the precious metals markets.
Kilfoyle owned a villa in Hout Bay but found that it made him even lonelier and thus spent most of his time at his city apartment not far from the waterfront, walking distance from the Officers’ Club and the other gentlemen’s attractions. He had been arrested there at dawn. A search of his apartment revealed Cox’s missing glove, which had been left lying casually on a coffee table, and a crocodile skin notebook which matched the stationery given to the cabbie. It had had a page ripped from it with a corresponding tear along its length.
Mrs Ans Du Plessis had already been summoned to provide witness, given her previous testimony as to a man matching Kilfoyle’s description turning up to argue with Cox at her guest house. So now, explained Brookman, if Finch could just confirm Kilfoyle as the man he had seen at the theatre last night, the law would take its course.
On the way, Finch told Brookman about the intruder in his own room. Brookman listened attentively but suspected nothing sinister. Given the items that had been taken – the pocket watch, the money, the whisky – it could be dismissed as a burglary. The city had gone crime-crazy, he reminded. Never had this much Old World money poured into this particular bit of the New. Policing was stretched and the thieves knew it.
Unfortunately, the Belvedere was a budget hostelry. Such things could be expected in an establishment populated by transients. He hadn’t wanted to alarm Finch, but it was the Belvedere’s third break-in in as many weeks.
“There’s one thing I don’t get,” said Finch. “Why take the money from the wallet and not the wallet itself? Seems rather … I don’t know, fussy?”
“Petty cash has no trace, unlike a piece of someone’s personal and identifiable leather.”
As they approached the police station, a man exited and stopped to hold the door open. He wore a smart, beige double-breasted suit and a Panama hat and had a clipped brown moustache set in a kindly pink, slightly puppy-fat face. Green eyes twinkled. Finch would have put his age somewhere around the same as his own.
“Why thank you, good sir,” trilled Brookman, happiness personified now that he had got his killer – and beaten the Military Foot Police to the punch.
“Good morning, Inspector.”
“Allow me to introduce Captain Ingo Finch of the Royal Army Medical Corps,” Brookman offered.
“Ah, Captain,” the man sighed. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
He noted Finch’s bemusement.
“Rideau,” he added. “Albert Rideau.”
In his head, from the card, Finch had assumed ‘Albert’ to be pronounced the French way – Al-behr. But he was wrong.
Gloves were clearly the garment of the hour, for when Rideau extended his hand to shake, he kept his fine, black velvet ones on.
“Forgive me, an accident,” he apologised.
“And please forgive me, Mr Rideau, for not getting back to you. The last 48 hours have been something of a whirl.”
“Quite, quite,” concurred Rideau, staring at the ground, shaking his head, his tone turned mournful. “Terrible business. Truly terrible. Beggars belief.”
“Mr Rideau was an old associate of Major Cox’s,” explained Brookman.
“India,” Rideau added. “Fellow spearman. Eleven years. Bought up my commission and came to the Cape. Business opportunity. Tinned fruit. Lo and behold our Lenny gets a posting, we rekindle our friendship. And then … this …”
Though Finch hated to admit it – how subtle his institutionalisation – civilians were becoming objects of mistrust. That Rideau had once worn khaki put him at ease.
Rideau perked up again.
“But listen, I hear you’ve been very good to old Coxie, tidying up his affairs and whatnot. The least I can do is buy you lunch.”
“That’s very kind of you. But really, I couldn’t. Plus, I’m rather—”
“Nonsense. Any friend of Cox’s …”
The ‘friend’ thing again.
“I’m afraid, I’m being shipped north again this afternoon.”
“Already? What time’s your train?”
Rideau was persistent, he’d give him that. Finch unfolded a scrap of paper from his pocket on which was scrawled, in pencil, various travel details.
“4.07 … But I have to check out of my hotel and also have an errand to run. To be perfectly honest—”
Rideau was already on his way up the pavement to commandeer the cab they’d just vacated.
“Then we’ll dine early. Wherever you need to be, whatever time, have you there in a jiffy …”
Resistance was futile.
“… What say half past eleven, La Rochelle? Unless the inspector …?”
The detective waved a hand, indicating that he would not need to keep Finch for long.
“La Rochelle’s not to be sniffed at,” Brookman whispered to him.
“Very good, Mr Rideau. Thank you.”
Rideau climbed up over the running board, the cabbie twitched his whip and the horse began clopping off. Rideau leaned out over the side.
“Please,” he shouted. “Albert.”
Brookman’s office was its usual cramped, dingy self. The paperwork which had seemed more than enough a couple of days ago, now towered in piles on his desk, the table and the windowsill.
The inspector rummaged for an ashtray, they took seats and the ritual of smoking began. No sooner had they lit up than there was a knock on the door – Krajicek. He bid them good morning and bustled over to hand Brookman a typed document, positively beaming.
“Just as we thought,” he trilled while the detective scanned the details. “Major Cox had consumed enough alcohol to have felled an elephant, but he was killed, as we suggested, by a combination of factors. There was the oral administration of a massive overdose of a liquid opiate, almost certainly laudanum. But trauma inside the throat, vomit and the flooding of the lungs, confirm that the poisoning was compounded by suffocation due to a large foreign body blocking the airway – the handkerchief. In short, if Cox wasn’t already unconscious, the drug would have rendered him so, allowing the killer to stifle him with ease.”
Finch nodded a ‘thank you’.
“Most intriguing,” Krajicek chirruped, rubbing his hands with what almost seemed glee.
Krajicek scurried off. Brookman got up and indicated for Finch to follow him across the corridor. This time they did not enter the interview room, the one where Pinkie Coetzee had been held, but went through a doo
r next to it into a narrow cramped, darkened space. Along one wall was a window.
The other side of the glass, seated the same side of a worn table, with two empty chairs opposite, were two men. They did not look up. It was a two-way mirror. Brookman put his finger to his lips.
The first man, Finch knew, was Ashley Kilfoyle, dressed in another smart suit, this time a cream linen number. His wrists were cuffed. He still wore the ostentatious white spats. Without his hat, with his wavy, sandy hair on display, he looked younger than Finch remembered, but it was, without question, the same man.
The other was a bald, stern-looking fellow in pinstripes, leafing through some documents.
“Legal counsel,” whispered Brookman.
He let Finch observe for a moment.
“So?” the inspector asked.
Finch nodded.
“That’s him.”
“Absolutely certain? You’d swear to it?”
“Absolutely.”
Brookman made for the door. Finch followed. Brookman put his hand up to stop him.
He kept his voice low.
“I shouldn’t really do this, but I think you deserve to see what’s about to happen. But please, not a sound.”
Finch nodded again.
“And not a single word to anyone.”
Finch indicated that he understood.
Seconds later, Brookman was the other side of the glass with his trusty corporal, Pienaar, in tow.
Above the glass was a grille. The sound was reasonably clear. The solicitor’s name was De Villiers, Finch learned, clearly an expensive brief and one who preferred that his client said absolutely nothing. He was fussing over the technicalities of Kilfoyle’s apprehension and whether the arrest was legitimate.
Brookman paid little regard to the overture.
“You know I’ve just come from a meeting with a colleague of Cox’s,” he said, directly to the suspect. “Another brave man putting his life on the line, while others swan around, drinking, whoring … murdering.”
“I would ask you to refrain from making unsubstantiated allegations, Detective,” interrupted De Villiers. “Opinion has nothing to do with this. We are to keep to the points of law.”
No Ordinary Killing Page 18