No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (e

  Brookman came round the table and began walking up and down behind the suspect.

  “For a soldier in a war to meet such an ignoble end is a cruel thing. It will be even harder for Cox’s wife and children to stomach.”

  “Please, Detective!” blurted De Villiers. “My client is here to assist with your enquiry.”

  To Brookman, the lawyer was a ghost. Finch knew it all to be part of the theatre of interrogation. Kilfoyle, meanwhile, stared straight ahead. He fiddled with the diamond ring on his little finger and appeared to be whistling silently to himself. Given his circumstances, it seemed a questionable tactic.

  The lawyer was not done.

  “I also request that, as my client’s agent in this interview—”

  “‘Interview’?” scoffed Brookman.

  “… that you address all questions to me.”

  Kilfoyle, seated to the right of his representative, reached out a hand and touched De Villiers’ forearm.

  “Really, it’s fine,” he said, his voice tired, bored.

  “Mr Kilfoyle,” urged the lawyer. “It would be prudent—”

  “The man is just doing his job.”

  He looked up at Brookman, a haughtiness to his tone, as if this were just some irritable inconvenience.

  “Detective … Inspector? Please, ask me your questions and I will do my best to answer them.”

  He had wrong-footed Brookman; his lawyer, too, who exhaled a sigh of exasperation. Brookman scraped out a chair, sat down opposite his suspect and stared him in the eye.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let’s get it out of the way. In the early hours of December 25th, the body of Major Leonard Cox was discovered on the stoep of the Esperanza Guest House on Atlantic View Drive. His death had been brought about under suspicious circumstances. So, I am asking you—”

  The lawyer cut in. Kilfoyle sneered defiantly.

  “Mr Kilfoyle, you have not been charged. You are not obliged to answer.”

  This time it was Brookman who did the wrong-footing.

  “Kilfoyle,” he continued. “Did you like Major Cox?”

  “Like? Good God, no. I despised the man—”

  The lawyer tried to stop his client but it was in vain.

  “I’m sure even the most amateur policing will reveal that we had argued in public on more than one occasion.”

  Brookman checked his notes.

  “You visited him at his guest house on the morning of the 24th. The landlady heard you threaten to kill him.”

  “I was probably not the first that day.”

  “This is no time for flippancy, Kilfoyle.”

  “Mr Kilfoyle,” corrected De Villiers.

  “We have a cabbie who can place you at the hansom cab rank and is witness to you helping Cox on board. Your handwriting matches that of the address that had been written. It was inscribed on a piece of paper ripped from your very own notebook.”

  Brookman slapped both items down on the table, right in front of him.

  “Circumstantial evidence,” blurted De Villiers.

  “I hear both you and Cox had become pretty cosy with a certain music hall performer.”

  Kilfoyle affected a theatrical voice.

  “‘The face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?’”

  “Beg your pardon.”

  “Helen of Troy … Doctor Faustus.”

  Brookman stared blankly.

  “Kit Marlowe …?” Kilfoyle offered, faux helpful.

  “Don’t play smart with me,” Brookman snapped. “You and Cox were seen gambling in recent weeks, playing cards. Did he owe you money?”

  “He now owes me a cab fare plus generous gratuity.”

  “Don’t push me, Kilfoyle—”

  “Mr Kilfoyle …” chipped in De Villiers again.

  “The glove. How do you explain the presence of Cox’s glove in your own flat.”

  “I’ve already told your estimable officers. I picked it up. He’d dropped it. I’d intended to return it. It’s certainly no basis for an accusation of taking a man’s life. Or are you going to arrest me for theft? I’d be pretty bad at it. No self-respecting thief takes a single glove.”

  Brookman was not running this show. Not at all.

  “I’m tired,” yawned Kilfoyle, “I should like to lie down.”

  In a flash, Brookman had kicked the chair from under him. Kilfoyle landed on his back.

  “Ashley Reginald Kilfoyle, I hereby charge you with the murder of Major Leonard Armstrong St John Cox.”

  He turned to Pienaar.

  “Corporal …”

  Pienaar let in two waiting constables. They made swift work of scooping Kilfoyle from the floor and escorting him from the room.

  “I’ll see you lose your job over this,” yelped De Villiers.

  Brookman ignored him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At the insistence of Mbutu, they turned their horses north. It would mean wasting precious energy travelling in the wrong direction but there was hope that, should the soldiers pursue them, they would be leading them astray.

  After about a mile-and-a-half they came to another depression, a dry riverbed similar to the one they had traversed previously. In the orange glow of twilight, they selected the two fittest horses and took them to one side.

  Hendrik watched as Mbutu removed his shirt and bound it round the front right hoof of the first horse. Mbutu used his undershirt round the next hoof, his trousers and a ripped piece of bedroll round each at the rear two.

  He mimed out to Hendrik his plan, that these horses must not be leave hoof prints. Hendrik understood and began binding the legs of the second horse.

  Once done, Mbutu pointed the two weaker horses northward and whacked them each sharply on the rump. They galloped off into the gloom, continuing the false trail.

  Mbutu and Hendrik led the remaining two softly across the riverbed. They headed for a cluster of sweet thorn.

  A fire was out of the question, though the lack of one would bring the danger of wild animals. They would have to remain alert.

  They took turns on watch, carbines at the ready. With only two horses now it would be hard going.

  The sleep was fitful. In the almost oppressive silence, predators could easily be heard, shuffling around, the odd growl in the distance. The horses were uneasy and in need of constant soothing.

  Creatures, we depend on you. Please do not let us down.

  Come the first rays of the sun they were on their way. It was hotter than the previous day and, throughout the morning, the horses suffered greatly.

  They were forced to ride while looking back over their shoulders continually, but, mercifully, no pursuers emerged from the shimmering haze.

  By mid-morning they were forced to rest – a baobab tree, more rocks. In what shade they could find there was better chance of sleep than at night-time. As before, they took turns on watch, Hendrik first.

  For Mbutu, the sleep was light, a mélange of dreams and recollections and anguished thoughts. He had not had any meaningful rest since he left Kimberley.

  I will get back there.

  He thought of Beaufort West and of pushing his way through the gangs of eager black volunteers to take his place on the train north, and of the Boer besiegers being swept away.

  A scream.

  Hendrik!

  Instinctively he reached for his carbine and crept low to his companion who was sitting with his back against a rock, clawing frantically at his shirt collar.

  Mbutu scanned the land, assuming, at first, that he had been shot. But there had been no crack of a rifle. There was not a soul, not a creature to be glimpsed.

  No. Please let it not be so.

  There, on the ground, scuttling away towards the shelter of a rock, was a tiny scorpion. Its size was not relevant, but its colour was. The darker a scorpion, the less potent its sting. This one was a pale amber, almost translucent. Its venom could be lethal, depending on where it had stu
ng.

  Hendrik was clutching at his neck. On the left-hand side Mbutu saw a welt, swollen an angry red even against Hendrik’s brown skin, right on the jugular vein. The scorpion must have crawled down onto him or tumbled under his collar. Either way he must have brushed at it, causing the tiny creature to react in the only way it knew.

  “Hendrik. You must keep still. Your heart—”

  But it was no use. It was over in a second – no words, no struggle. One moment Hendrik was alive, the next he was quite dead. Mbutu felt for a pulse, for breath. There was none. Hendrik was slumped in a sitting position, legs out before him, head lolled forward onto his chest.

  Mbutu, you are a curse.

  Though his own heart told him to rest a while, to accord poor Hendrik some kind of burial or goodbye, his head told him that he must go. And go now.

  Did it really matter that Hendrik’s earthly remains were not to be buried beneath a pile of stones? He laid him out on the ground, said farewell and thank you. Animals would see to the rest. It was all dust to dust.

  Switching horses, Mbutu rode the remaining hours across the desert, stopping only when absolutely necessary and praying he could trust his navigation. Late that afternoon, the rocky corral appeared on the horizon.

  As he approached, heads appeared, a handful of men came out to greet him. The empty saddle told its own story.

  Sheer force of will had overcome his exhaustion but, once dismounted, he could barely stand. He was given water and broth.

  One of the Nama, a thin young man, probably no more than 18, was pointing … pointing east.

  “Soldate.”

  Soldiers.

  “Vanoggend.”

  This morning.

  He held up his hands and counted off on his fingers. Eight.

  East. Soldiers now lay in the way of Beaufort West and the railway. Go on his own and he could sneak through, Mbutu was sure of that. But to attempt it with a party including women, children and blind men … and the Suttons?

  “Hello.”

  A tiny voice. Mbutu sat up. Standing before him was Emily. She hugged him. Her mother lingered behind her. The Nama were going through the saddlebags. Waving away the advice that he should rest, Mbutu got up and rescued the ornate silver box.

  The lock and hinges were now bent and broken from its enforced opening.

  “The elephant box!” Emily exclaimed.

  She looked up at him.

  “Daddy?”

  He crouched down. Children respected honesty.

  “My child, the village, the church, the homes, have been destroyed. It is very unlikely, almost certain that your father did not survive. I am very sorry.”

  He glanced up at her mother. She stared impassively. Emily did not betray emotion at what seemed mere confirmation of something they had already accepted.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Mbutu opened the lid and pulled out the photograph. Emily smiled bittersweetly. Her mother remained expressionless.

  Then, with greater purpose, Mbutu got out the ledger with its letters of correspondence stuffed within. He pointed.

  “Mrs Sutton. Here … I understand that your mission was in contact with headquarters in Paarl … a Reverend … a Dean Newbold there?”

  She nodded. He extracted a typed sheet.

  “See … this place, sanctuary … this encampment for refugees. Your husband had deliberately chosen not to comply with Newbold’s request to send the villagers down to there.”

  He detected the faintest of shrugs.

  “This is very important. Was there any reason for him to suspect that it might not be a safe place to go?”

  Slowly the woman shook her head.

  Others were gathering round now.

  Mbutu stood in the centre of the corral and beckoned the remaining Nama around him. He tried his best to explain that they were no longer safe where they were. There were soldiers off to the north and west. They had shot at him and Hendrik. They were the ones who had attacked the corral.

  He summoned the youth he had spoken with. He asked to him to repeat to his people that eight soldiers had since been seen this morning, off to the east.

  In which case they had no choice but to leave. It was what Hendrik had been building towards, waiting for the right moment. Well, that moment was now. The route to the railway was cut off. Their villages had been destroyed. Stay put and they would lose any fight against armed troops.

  Someone asked about heading north to De Aar, the next significant railway junction on the way back up to Kimberley. Would the whites there be hostile to them?

  They would, said Mbutu. There were military camps all around the place. Word would be out.

  He forewent the map and did as Hendrik had done, sketching it out in the dirt, drawing a gentle arc that began at Kimberley in the north and rolled south-southwest through De Aar to Beaufort West before curving into a more defined westerly course for the last leg of the journey to Cape Town.

  They were currently in the bush in the region of the bend, he marked, which meant they were already two thirds of the way along this grand route.

  In which case, they should continue in that general direction, towards the Cape – but not by following the curve of the railway. Instead they should shortcut across it in a straight line.

  By his estimation it would take three days across the harshest of terrains. They would be reliant solely on their own wits, but his faith in the Nama was absolute. There were no people more hardy or resourceful.

  They must head towards here …

  He drew an ‘X’.

  Paarl.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When Finch arrived at La Rochelle, the sign hanging in the door greeted him with a single word – ‘Fermé’. The awning was still unfurled, the pavement chairs stacked.

  Assuming Rideau to have miscalculated, Finch prepared to wait. No sooner had he turned, surveying the trickle of oncoming pedestrians, than there was a rattle of bolts. A small man with an elaborate curled moustache popped his head out.

  “Monsieur?” he asked. “Captain … Captain Finch?”

  Finch nodded. The man wore a white shirt, black bow tie and long white apron.

  “Vite … Come,” he beckoned.

  Inside, the man re-secured the door behind them. The tables were unoccupied save for one slap bang in the centre. On seeing Finch, Rideau stood, all smiles.

  “Sorry, old chap, should have explained, Henri does me the odd favour on occasion. Out of hours.”

  The man who’d led Finch in bowed.

  “Monsieur Rideau is a special customer.”

  “And Henri owns the best damned restaurant in Cape Town,” added Rideau, patting the man on the back, at which Henri the owner blushed, then snapped his fingers.

  A waiter appeared with a tray bearing a jug of water and two glasses of Pernod. Finch always found the taste of aniseed a little overpowering, but he toasted the two men and sipped politely.

  Half an hour off opening time there was already a heady garlic-laden aroma wafting from the kitchen. There was a clatter of utensils and a hubbub of activity behind the scenes, wisps of steam glimpsed through the slatted saloon doors.

  Despite the summer sun, the shuttered restaurant was dark – dim enough for there to be a candle on the table. It had crisp white tablecloths, sun-drenched impressionist-style paintings on the walls, vignettes of country and small-town life in the Midi. From the ceiling hung baskets and old-fashioned wooden cooking implements.

  Rideau gently removed his velvet gloves. His fingers were cut and grazed with a couple of fingernails taped up, the middle two fingers of his right hand. He showed them off like war wounds.

  “Found this early edition Steinway,” he said. “1855. Idea was to do it up an sell it on but I just fell in love with the thing. Tone like you wouldn’t believe. Rich, deep … You play at all?”

  “Was pretty handy at the clarinet once. Wish I’d kept it up.”

  “Never say never. Mus
ic is a great tonic … Anyway, been up late the last few nights sanding the thing down. Whoever owned it previously had coated it with this thick brown lacquer … varnish. God knows why. Really mutes the sound. Almost impossible to get off. Can’t take a flame to it so have to scrape it off shred by shred, then rub it down by hand. Frustrating, I can tell you. Takes its toll.”

  Finch noticed something over Rideau’s shoulder. On the zinc counter stood a huge clear-glass vase. Swimming in it were a dozen or so small, pink-skinned, black-eyed frogs. They looked like little naked people.

  Rideau saw what was amusing him.

  “Good old Henri. A sense of humour,” he said.

  “Rideau – is that French?”

  “Back in the mists of time. Paternal line hails from Guernsey. But me? I’ve spent more time in India than anywhere. Part of that curious imperial breed. Prick me and I bleed for England, though I’ve spent not more than a handful of years in the Mother Country. Boarding school. Father was a civil servant. Moved around. I was actually born in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Shall probably pop my clogs elsewhere on the map painted pink. India was what I knew for much of my adult life. But have to say, love it here. Love it. Home now. Of course this war’s a damn beastly mess.”

  “Wars are, Mr Rideau … Albert. I’m afraid I know that all too well.”

  “Indeed … Saw active service myself, just minor insurrections really, usual Sub-Continental stuff. Bouts of pitchfork-waving that interrupted our polo. That said, there were some unpleasant things to witness. But, Captain, nothing, nothing like this—”

  “Please … Ingo.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine, Ingo … Old Coxie had written to me about the sterling work you RAMC chaps were performing. Heroic, he called it.”

  “He did?”

  Rideau lowered his voice.

  “Confessed that he felt a little useless. You fellows doing the spadework, saving lives, and him, a cavalryman, filling out chits.”

  “He needn’t have felt that way,” said Finch, glad at least that Cox had imparted this confession. “We can’t all be firing bullets. We couldn’t function at all without expert administration and there was no doubting the Major’s knack for it. Really licked us into shape. Pen mightier than the sword and all that.”