“Baas?”
“Could you take us to Stellenbosch?”
“But the train—” Jones protested.
The cabbie did not look sure.
“Long way for my mule. And for no return fare.”
“How much to take us to Stellenbosch, wait half an hour, then bring us straight back here?”
“Man, that’s a three- to four-hour round trip. I don’t know, 15 shillings maybe, but—”
“A guinea. I will give you a guinea.”
The cabbie’s face lit up.
“These your bags?”
He jumped down to load their gear.
“You know what, let’s leave them at the baggage counter,” said Finch.
The cabbie helped Finch cart the two kit bags to the desk where they were checked in. The man at the desk seemed to labour forever at filling out the receipt.
When finally offered, Finch grabbed it and, with the cabbie in tow, re-emerged into the sunshine. Jones was not amused. Finch explained about the later train. It did not alter her demeanour.
Finch helped the reluctant Jones up then clambered on board after her. The cabbie wheeled the buggy around and headed for the road south.
As the sun started to lower in the sky, the vineyards which seemed to stretch on forever were bathed in a pink-orange glow. With the whitewashed gabled buildings and pretty churches, they were a world away from Camp Eureka. It reminded Finch of a trip he’d once taken to Tuscany.
There were few people about. On the outskirts of town, as ever, black folk ambled around the paltry shacks that constituted their neighbourhoods, exiled to the margins.
As the buggy carried on its way, roughly parallel to the train line, they heard the toot of a whistle and saw the smoke as their intended locomotive approached.
Christ, Finch. I hope you know what you’re doing.
Save for the odd wagon, the road was empty, though behind them a lone horse, kicking up dust, slowly gained on them. Nurse Jones just stared ahead. He would have some explaining to do. Again, Finch got out his trusty notebook and jotted down the points that needed addressing.
After about an hour, the great Paarl rock had long retreated from view and the low sun in the west was stinging their eyes when there came a sudden snap, like that of large dry twig being broken in two.
The mule lurched to the side and the cabbie struggled to control the animal as if something mechanical had fractured.
*Snap! *
It came again. The mule snorted, the cabbie cursed.
Only then did Finch realise. That sound and its accompanying echo …
Magersfontein.
It was a gun … a rifle.
Crack-zing!
Someone was shooting at them.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The cab listed over to port, its steering gone. The broken axle was now scraping along the gravel, the mule thrown into a state of skittish panic.
CRACK! Another shot.
Finch heard the bullet thud into the earth bank to their right.
The driver was struggling, pulling hard on the reins as the mule began to rear up.
“Get down!” yelled Finch and reached up to grab him by the back of his collar. Finch wrestled him onto the boards. He landed hard, uncomfortably, shocked.
“The vines. Go … GO!”
He stared at Finch in a daze.
“My mule.”
“No time—”
Finch pushed the man out.
“Go! KEEP LOW!”
His mule was on its side, eyes wide and white, struggling against the weight of the harness to upright itself, kicking out at nothing. The cabbie loitered for a moment, then staggered off. Finch grabbed Annie’s hand and dragged her in the same direction.
CRACK!
They dived between the vines and ran as best they could along a straight earth furrow. The soil was loose and powdery. Running in the ‘V’ of the furrow was awkward, but the gradient, which sloped away gently, carried them along. Up ahead, the cabbie stopped and turned, out of breath, his look one of utter confusion.
“They’re not after you,” barked Finch, motioning with his arm. “Go! Hide till the coast is clear.”
They could hear the rattle of hooves.
Finch took Annie’s hand again and pulled her with him.
Magersfontein. He had a sudden thought of young Miles.
“No straight lines. We zig-zag.”
She nodded. They ran on. The adrenaline masked the pain in Finch’s knee.
The cabbie branched off to the left, lolling through vines, crashing right through the thin wooden sticks of the trellising and creepers.
Finch threw a glance over his shoulder. He saw a flash of white – the horse. He heard it pant and splutter and its hooves scrape to a halt. There was the squeak and clink of tack.
“Now!” he urged Annie, and they ducked right between the head-high creepers, smashing right through.
Ten yards along, the next furrow, they burst right again, repeating the manoeuvre several times.
After a minute or two they stopped. Finch pressed his finger to his lips. She nodded.
The pursuer made no sound. Had he stopped also?
CRACK!
Another bullet. It fizzed through the leaves. A red splash appeared on Annie’s chest.
NO!
Finch was splattered too, right across the face. But he could taste it … Grape!
Too close. Much too close.
They ran on instinctively, ducking low. He didn’t need to lead Annie this time, crashing on across the lines, vine after vine, trellis after trellis.
Instinctively they doubled-back and both hit the floor, prone.
Gradually Finch lifted his head up.
There!
A glimpse. Brown riding boots, slowly and noiselessly stalking in their direction, four or five furrows along, each step placed carefully and skilfully.
Annie pointed upwards. Where they had crashed through, there remained a ragged gaping hole. Their route was obvious. There came the ominous click of a rifle bolt.
You idiot, Finch. You have a gun yourself.
He crawled his fingers down to the holster. But …
His Webley was gone. The security strap flapped open.
The brown boots stopped. Finch saw a hand reach down and, by its stock, pick his service revolver out of the dirt.
Finch stretched his hand. A large stone. It was the oldest trick in the book but he grabbed it, twisted round and hurled it as far as he could in the vague direction they might have continued running.
It landed with just the correct degree of rustle.
For what seemed forever, the boots remained still. Then, mercifully, slowly, they turned, down the slope, as if he and Annie were still fleeing away from the road.
Finch could hear Annie’s breath being brought under control. He felt his own heart pounding inside what seemed his head as, there, right before them, into their own furrow, not five yards away, the man stepped between the vines through the gap they had made.
But he was facing away from them. Not once did he turn in their direction. Had he done so they were sitting ducks. Instead he was creeping away, his rifle raised, the webbing strap wound tightly round his left hand like a marksman.
The light was fading but Finch could see the man wore a dark suit, blue or grey, and had close-cropped sandy, reddish hair. He had a thick neck. His shoulders were broad, muscular.
Ten yards further on, the man picked his way through into the next furrow and continued to proceed away from them.
The sun was fully down, its vestigial glow diminishing. Nightfall would be their salvation. If they could just hold on a little longer.
Sure now that the man had moved some distance away, they crawled back in the direction they had come. Some 30 or 40 yards on Finch signalled it safe to rise and continue on foot, hunched low.
They lay again and almost willed the last light away, saying nothing.
They had begu
n to relax when they heard footsteps once more tramping through the dirt. This time they were not those of a stalker but of an impatient man, a man stamping in anger back to his steed.
Again came the scrape of hooves, but then …
Another shot. A whinny. He had finished off the poor mule.
There was an equine snort and a creak of leather. The man made a clicking sound and the horse wheeled round. Slowly it receded from hearing.
Annie turned to him.
“I don’t care who you are. What the bloody hell is going on?”
Finch got to his feet and rubbed his cursed knee.
“Here …”
He extended his hand. She refused it.
In the thinnest of light he saw her stand and brush the dirt off her skirts. She had lost her hat. Her hair had been pinned up but there were tresses that hung down. She made a rudimentary attempt at re-fastening them.
“This way,” said Finch.
He turned and hobbled off up through the vineyard in the direction of Stellenbosch. To affect an air of cocky calm – though he felt anything but – he plucked a grape and popped it in his mouth. He spluttered and spat it out. Not yet ripe by some distance. He heard her contemptuous snort behind him.
“There’s no way we’re going to get up to the Front tonight,” she said. “I’ll be listed absent. I have written orders.”
He turned and faced her. Her eyes were dark, scowling.
“No, you’re in my charge now, your orders come from me.”
“Fat lot of good that’s done me—”
“NURSE JONES!” he yelled. “Like it or not, you are a nurse, I am a captain. You will do as I bloody well say. You hear?”
She nodded silently, resentfully.
“Now in case you hadn’t noticed, someone just tried to kill us. They may well try to do so again. I don’t know what the hell’s going on any more than you do, but until such time as we can get to safety, all we’ve got is each other.”
He checked Cox’s watch. He could barely read it. She was right. There was no way they’d make it back to Paarl. He wondered whether they might pick up another train at Stellenbosch. He was clutching at straws.
Their bags!
At least they were secure. But he’d packed his journal in his. Now he wished he’d kept it on his person. There was incriminating information within.
At his command, they carried on walking for another 20 minutes till they could see the lights of houses. When they came to the end of the row of vines there stood a water pump.
“Here …”
Finch worked it and Annie cupped her hands under the spout. Then she did the same for him. They sipped at the cold, rocky liquid which emanated from deep in an aquifer. Annie took a kerchief, wet it and wiped the grime from her face.
Finch eased himself down to sit on the ground against the low wall which surrounded the pump.
Annie seized her moment. She ran as fast as she could.
“Shit.”
Finch hoisted himself to his feet and made after her. It was agony but he gained on her. Had she not been encumbered by her thick skirts she would have been clean away.
He grabbed her arm, she smacked it away.
“Please!” he implored.
“Get off me.”
She struggled on. It was no use. He lunged, thrust both arms around her waist and as gently as he could under the circumstances, pulled her to the floor. He landed on top of her and rolled off.
“I’m sorry … really sorry.”
Suddenly she was on top of him, swinging wildly, with hard fists. He raised his arms to protect his face then grabbed her wrists. He pushed her onto her back and held her firm.
“Please, Nurse Jones …”
Her knee rose up and caught him in the groin. Pain seared up through him. He doubled over.
“I’m going into Stellenbosch to find the nearest bloody police station.”
“No!”
She was off again, running. Finch dug deep and sprung after her. This time he brought her down in the nearest approximation he could muster to a rugby tackle. He stayed on top of her and held her arms fast.
“Get off me, you bastard!”
Finch felt her body beneath him. His right thigh nestled between her legs. The sexual suggestion of their entanglement was obvious. It embarrassed him.
“Please, Nurse Jones. It is vital that you at least hear me out. Give me a chance to explain myself. Let me do that and you are free to make your own decision as to your next course of action.”
“You bloody pervert.”
“Please, I implore you.”
Slowly he released her wrists. She did not resist. He flopped back on the ground. She sat up, panting.
“I’m afraid I’ve been caught up in something … something of magnitude.”
“Well whatever it is, why not just march down into Stellenbosch, find the local police station and tell them what just happened?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He hesitated.
“Because I need to speak with someone first.”
“Who?”
Finch sat up. He chose his words carefully.
“Nurse Jones. I know that as a medical professional you will be familiar with the concept of confidentiality.”
She nodded.
“Can I trust you?”
He thought of Mbutu and his need for assurance.
“What do you mean?”
He turned to face her directly again, looking her in the eye, holding the stare. He softened his tone.
“I’m speaking now as a person, not as an officer. Whatever you may think of me, I need to know that I can trust you. Completely and utterly.”
She shrugged an ‘if you must’.
“Listen. I’m deadly serious. I’m appealing to you. Do I have your word? Your solemn word?”
“I still don’t understand—”
“Please. I need to know. This is absolutely crucial. Not a word to anyone about what I’m about to tell you.”
She hesitated, then said it.
“You have my word.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
He had nearly got her killed. She had a right to know. Plus if anything happened to him …
And so he began.
* * *
Over half an hour he told Annie everything. For her part, she was a good listener. He imagined the number of deathbed confessions and desperate ramblings she must have been subjected to over the past few weeks. She asked no questions, just nodded her head, asking him only to repeat the odd piece of information and clarify details.
Afterwards she sat in silence. Finch felt a pang of guilt that this young woman now, too, carried knowledge upon which there was, evidently, a very heavy price.
“Of course, if anything happens to me—”
“Then I know nothing,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“So that’s it then? You want to speak to Lady Verity?”
“Yes. And after that we should do as you suggested, turn ourselves in.”
She stood.
“How’s your knee?”
“My knee?”
“You’ve been hobbling on it all day.”
“There are men in this war who’ve suffered far worse.”
“Then come on.”
It appeared for a moment as if she were extending her hand to help him up. He raised his in return. But she was merely reaching over his head to crank the water pump again.
She sipped straight from the spout then turned. Finch made heavy weather of getting to his feet. His body’s natural anaesthetic was wearing off.
“Lady Verity’s house,” she said. “I think I remember where to find it.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Finch hobbled after Annie. She had breezed on down the dirt pathway to a gate. Beyond it, the path reached wooden steps cut into the embankment which descended to the road proper.
At the bottom of the steps, Annie stopped and looked westward. In the street lamps’ yellow glow, Finch could see the row of fine mansions and villas that curved around the avenue of Stellenbosch’s northern limit.
There was no traffic. Apart from the gas lamps it was quite quiet, though in the distance they could hear the muted hum of activity in the town. Outside one house, about 100 yards ahead, they saw a man shuffling up and down the pavement.
Finch pulled Annie out of sight, into the shadows.
“Is it him?” spluttered Annie.
“Security guard. But best not to be seen by anybody.”
Despite her display of confidence, he could feel Annie shaking.
He tried to calm her.
He explained to her that his impulsive rush to Stellenbosch had probably saved them. The man who shot at them was surely loitering in Paarl. Leaving suddenly like that had made the man panic.
She thought for a moment.
“So he wasn’t intending to kill you … kill us?”
“Believe me, firing with a rifle like that, he meant harm all right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What I mean is, if he’d been in Paarl, he’d have had ample opportunity to bump me off then … and with a greater chance of success than firing at distance from horseback.”
“So he was trying to ward you off, keep you away from something?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Maybe, given what you know about Cox … could he have been trying to capture you?”
Finch mulled it over. Was this the man who had stolen the letters from him on the train? He tried hard to visualise. He had seen him before, he was sure of it?
“If I … we were suddenly deemed expendable, I’m not convinced that would be so—”
“Following you, then. You’re leading him somewhere.”
If Finch had seen the man before, it made a sort of sense. But he could hear Brookman’s voice echoing in his head, reminding him to stick to the facts.
“But again, why fire at us?” he said. “If you’re following someone, expecting them to lead you somewhere, you don’t suddenly charge after them down a country lane. And why alert them to your presence even?”
“What if you have a clue to something? You’re on a path to finding out information he wants … but stray off that pathway, speak to the wrong people, and his mission suddenly becomes void?”
No Ordinary Killing Page 25