Mbutu strained to look upward but couldn’t twist his head, couldn’t open his left eye. The skin had been pulled tight by the swelling.
The main man, in blurred silhouette against the hurricane lamp, was standing casually, nonchalantly. He was cleaning his hands again, fussily.
From the side, a bucket of cold water was sloshed over Mbutu’s head. It made him choke and splutter.
The two soldiers grabbed his arms and hoisted him back up to a standing position. His legs could not take his own weight. The men had to hold him there. They pulled his arms tightly, roughly, behind his back, behind the pole.
The plainclothes one scooped up a piece of paper from the table. To Mbutu he did so with the ease of someone browsing the society circulars he used to run between the big Kimberley houses.
“Mbutu … Mbutu Kef … Kef-a-leze?”
Do not speak my name. Do not dishonour it.
His tone was flat, methodical, unemotional.
“We didn’t know who you were exactly. But we knew you’d show up somewhere.”
He had the grey facelessness of the bureaucrat sycophants Mbutu saw cosying up round Cecil Rhodes – a thin, drawn face, dark beady eyes.
The man said the next bit sarcastically.
“We must thank our friend the Dean for being so thorough in documenting the comings and goings in this human toilet.”
The soldiers laughed.
“Wh… what do want?” Mbutu groaned.
He wished he’d said nothing.
“To come straight to the point, and to begin with – two Lee-Enfield carbines.”
The guns. We should have discarded them. They were taken from us when we arrived.
“We’re not fools. The serial numbers …”
Serial numbers?
“… match those from a cavalry patrol that went missing southwest of De Aar three days ago.”
He casually returned the paper to the table.
“So, anything to say for yourself?”
The silence lingered for some 30 seconds, then… BAM!… came the hardest blow yet to his face, the right side this time. He was down on the floor again, his face in the dirt. Then, more water, another hoisting.
He doubted whether he could survive many more.
“I would advise you, for your own comfort, to speak.”
Comfort?
Think. Think fast. What had you worked out with poor Hendrik?
“We found the weapons … My party, we crossed the Karoo … Three days,” he pleaded.
“Why on earth cross the Karoo on foot? Or are you people really as stupid as they say?”
Why, Mbutu?
“Because we wanted to come here, to Paarl.”
The man gave a snort of derision.
“My dear fellow. Even the most simple of natives would have found his way to the railway.”
Think, Mbutu.
“I had fled from Kimberley. Did not trust—”
The man put his hand up to stay the words.
“Is it because you had just murdered British soldiers?”
“No!”
The man nodded. The blow this time came from behind, a rabbit punch to his right kidney. His legs buckled and he went down. The pain was not a stab, nothing that reached a crescendo and then subsided. It was a sustained deep sting through his innermost organs. It sent Mbutu into an added spasm of panic.
“The women. Mrs Sutton … her daughter. Where did you find them?”
Mbutu squinted upwards. This pain. Could they help him? Could they make it stop?
“We – the Nama, myself – we were hunting for food,” he panted. “We found them in the wild. Hiding.”
“Mrs Sutton claims that you – your little band of savages – raped her.”
The long sting continued. He closed his eyes. He willed it to go.
“What? NO!”
It is a shameful lie. Besides, she cannot talk.
“The rifles. You found rifles in the middle of the desert? You just happened to stumble upon them?”
Think, Mbutu.
“No, we found bodies. Four of them.”
Good, the number. It lends weight to the story.
“We buried the men. Prayed for them—”
His words were cut off by a kick to the stomach. He was winded and gulped for air.
“We thought Boers …” he groaned. “We were afraid … we moved on.”
“No horses?”
Think Mbutu. Were there horses in your story? If you found bodies, would horses still be there?
“No, no horses.”
More water. He was hauled to his feet again.
The man took his time.
“Three days ago, two natives armed with Lee-Enfield carbines engaged in gunfire with a British reconnaissance party at the gorge near the village of Vankilya – one Hottentot, one Bantu. The Bantu was wearing a blue-checked shirt. The same kind of filthy rag you are wearing now.”
Think Mbutu.
“They were riding British cavalry horses. One of them was identified as the grey mare belonging to a Lieutenant Masterson of the Special Expeditionary Force. So, let me ask you again. Were there horses?”
Mbutu. THINK!
The man’s fist connected with his left cheek. He slumped but, this time, was not allowed to fall.
“I … I …”
Another fist cracked his right eye socket.
Mbutu screamed: “Yes. Yes. There were horses, there were horses!”
Think of Hendrik.
“We were returning them.”
“I can’t quite hear you.”
“We were returning them. I said there were no horses because I feared you might accuse us of stealing them.”
The man cracked a faint smile.
“I can assure you that an accusation of theft is the least of your worries.”
The soldiers chuckled.
“So you rode off into the back of beyond, to the northwest, just on the off-chance you might run into some British soldiers, and all rather nicely and conveniently hand their horses back?”
“Yes.”
“Why not take them to Beaufort West … De Aar?”
“Because—”
The man hit him hard, but seemingly effortlessly, in the solar plexus. Mbutu’s diaphragm went into spasm. He gulped wildly, like a fish that had been landed on the riverbank.
“And where are the horses now?”
“Don’t … know,” he panted.
The man curled his knuckles into a fist again. The act alone was sufficient now to elicit information.
“Two ran off. The others—”
“What about the others?”
“Across the Karoo. We used them for transport. And then—”
“And then what?”
“And then … for—”
“For what?”
“For meat.”
The man was mock apoplectic.
“Meat?! FOOD?!”
Mbutu said nothing. Slowly, he slid down the pole. The man was over him.
“Well let me tell you, you bloody cannibal …”
The soldiers tittered.
“Those horses belonged not to me, not to the army, but to Queen bloody Victoria. You mean to tell me you ate Her Majesty’s horses?”
Mbutu looked up.
“Yes.”
Hands washed again, the man started to roll his sleeves down then re-insert his cufflinks. His next words came casually.
“Well that just about does it, Mr Kefaleze. I regret to inform you, you are to be executed at dawn. Given that you’ve already feasted generously upon the British Crown, don’t expect a last meal.”
No! It cannot happen like this.
“I have a wife. A son,” he protested.
The man said nothing. One of the soldiers helped him on with his jacket and lifted the tent flap for him to exit.
Mbutu, think! THINK!
“A black man,” yelled Mbutu, “accused of all that you say. Why not just shoot
me right here?”
The man stopped.
Slowly he returned and squatted down. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket so that he wouldn’t have to touch him directly and cupped Mbutu’s chin. It brought a wince of pain. His neck.
The man’s dark eyes were expressionless, ruthless.
“I know for a fact,” hissed Mbutu, “that Mrs Sutton uttered not a word about anything.”
The man stared on, unblinking.
Mbutu, keep your counsel. Give them nothing and your life still has value.
The man clicked his fingers. He was handed something wrapped in cloth, something angular and heavy. He unrolled it directly into Mbutu’s lap.
A crucifix. A brass crucifix tarnished by fire.
The man took out his pocket watch.
“Sun-up’s in about three hours. I suggest you have a good hard think about what you saw, what you know. More importantly, what the Suttons saw.”
And if I do, I will have sealed their fate.
“Tell me nothing, tell me lies, I’ll put the bullet in you myself.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Once over the wall, Finch and Annie moved as fast as they could, hugging the hedges and fences, keeping to the shadows as before. Clear of the vicinity, they huddled in a chained gateway.
“Right, let’s think about what’s next,” panted Finch.
“What we need to do is turn ourselves in to the nearest police station and explain everything as soon as possible,” Annie spluttered.
“No.”
“What?”
“The man, our red-haired friend. You saw how cosy he was with the police.”
“That means nothing. He could have been asking for the time of day, a light, anything.”
“Why take the chance? You saw how Lady Verity reacted when we described him. If there are political ramifications to this I’d rather steer clear of the bumbling local bobbies and take this directly to Brookman.”
“The army then … The town will be crawling with soldiers. We find a friendly officer—”
Finch blew out his cheeks.
“Again, I’m sorry. Any officer worth his salt has got far bigger things on his mind right now. They’d just refer us to the Military Foot Police.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“Believe me, I’ve seen how they operate …”
He shook his head and exhaled a whistle.
“… The quicker we get to Brookman the better.”
He looked south towards the lights.
“More than that, we have to anticipate what our trigger-happy friend will be expecting us to do. There are only so many times we can slip through his grasp.”
“So?”
“I don’t know for sure,” said Finch, “but shouldn’t we head for the least obvious place? Hide out?”
“You mean double back the way we came?”
“Or just head in the wrong direction altogether.”
She didn’t sound enthusiastic.
“So we’re not going to Cape Town tonight, either?”
Finch pulled up his sleeve and looked reflexively at his left wrist. He had no timepiece.
Annie had her nurse’s fob watch pinned upside down to a ribbon on her uniform.
“Just gone eleven,” she said.
“Too late. Besides, wouldn’t he have the station and cab ranks covered?”
She sighed.
“Then where to this time?”
She followed Finch to the corner and, once again, carefully, they looked round. A few blocks down they could see people.
“That’s the main drag, right?” asked Finch.
“I think so.”
“Follow the road west or south and you’re on your way to Cape Town.”
He turned and pointed north.
“We already know what the Paarl road’s like. Plus we’d have to go back past the Hancock place. In which case why not go east—”
“East?”
“Just for a while.”
She rolled her eyes and huffed, then started out ahead of him.
* * *
After some more zig-zagging through the backstreets they hit an unlit path, a rutted wagon trail. They had already passed a road sign indicating they were proceeding broadly in the direction of Franschhoek. Ahead, in the moonlight, were the silhouettes of more mountains – jagged this time, ominous.
They knew better than to talk more than necessary and ploughed on down the trail for another hour.
Finch felt the pain in his knee keenly. Annie, though physically strong, was encumbered both by her skirts and her boots, which had a low heel. In the dark, they were both stumbling over stones and ruts. More than that, the boots had given her blisters.
Several times they stopped so that she might sit and soothe her feet, the skin shredded at her heels.
“We can stop for the night if you like,” said Finch. “Yes, we should stop.”
“Don’t feign chivalry on my account,” she winced. “I’m fine.”
“There’s only so far we can run. We’re safe for the moment. If we can get a few hours’ sleep. Take it in turns.”
To their left was a field; to the right, woods.
“The field’s too exposed,” said Finch.
She pointed to the trees.
“No. This is still Africa. Some pretty unpleasant creatures about.”
“Then what?”
“First sign of civilisation, we’ll find somewhere.”
A further ten minutes on they came to a narrow river and a flat, slatted bridge crossing it. Annie climbed down and bathed her feet. Turning inland they could see lights.
“We stay close,” he said. “We hug the riverbank, we watch.”
A short while later they were huddling behind bushes on the scrubland that led towards a cluster of buildings on the road out of Stellenbosch.
The main one, a walled, grand 17th century building in the Dutch gabled fashion, with smallish, shuttered windows, looked like part of a winery. There were men, and some women, coming and going. Buggies loitered outside. The women were finely dressed, the men too, but mainly in khaki.
Whispered Finch: “It’s a hotel.”
Finch checked his wallet. He still had money, nearly three pounds.
“Right, wait here,” he said.
“What?”
“Don’t move …”
Annie panicked.
“You’re going to just waltz in and grab a room? I thought you meant a barn, some old farm shed.”
“We stumble out of the wilds and the first place we hit is a hotel? I say kismet.”
“But—”
“Indoors, amongst fellow officers. Might be the safest place yet. Hiding in plain sight.”
“And how about me?”
“Don’t worry.”
Annie watched in exasperation as Finch brushed himself down then, in the dim light emanating from the hotel, limped across the road.
The building had high stucco walls, a red-tiled roof and an ornate iron double gate into its courtyard. Finch made his way in, as carefree as he could convey. He turned and gave a nod, then disappeared into the lobby.
It seemed to take forever but, 20 minutes later, he was back out, limping across the road towards her.
“Right. All set. Third floor on this side. I’ve been up to take a look.”
He pointed to the western wall. It was a more recent extension to the property.
“I’m afraid budget won’t stretch to a second room. And we’d be sure to arouse suspicion …”
He turned awkward.
“… if we went in together.”
Annie wasn’t sure she felt comfortable with the thoughts and considerations that had obviously gone through his head.
“Go around to that side,” he said. “Wait back in the trees there. You see them?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go to the room, turn the light on and lean out. I’ll signal to you when it’s safe.”
“Ho
w do I—?”
“See, the fire escape …”
She nodded.
“Give me another five minutes.”
* * *
Annie went to the line of jacaranda trees across a lawn. The air hung heavy, the crickets in full chorus.
There were several gas lamps already glowing on the four storeys on that side.
Eventually, on the third floor, two windows from the right, a new lamp was lit. The sash window was pulled up and what looked like Finch leaned out and beckoned. She doubted whether he could see her. He had faith in her.
She looked back and forth then crossed the grass and reached the iron fire escape. She unhooked the ladder to access it – it creaked and grated way too loudly. The rungs clanged as she progressed.
Passing the second floor she saw a large man in his undergarments sitting in an easy chair, reading a book. On reaching the third floor, Finch helped her in. He locked the window and pulled the curtains closed behind her. She saw he had bolted the door and slid the security chain across.
“Added bonus. They have a telegraph office here,” he enthused. “Just sent a cable to Major Jenkins. He knows about the Cox murder and some of the shenanigans. He’s my CO now, and a friend. He’ll cover for us.”
“You sure?”
“We speak to Brookman first thing, get the next train up. We’ll still be in Hopetown by evening.”
There was a small sigh of relief.
“Bad news is it’s too late for dinner. But took the liberty of ordering room service … sandwiches, ham, cheese and a pot of coffee. I hope that’s—”
“Thank you.”
There was, pointedly, only one bed. A big double one on a framed brass bedstead. Finch bade her sit on it … to ‘make herself comfortable’ while he took the armchair in the corner.
The room was reasonably clean. It had a washstand and a jug. Across the way, he said, was a bathroom and water closet, though they’d have to be careful leaving the room.
Annie removed her boots and rubbed her feet.
“Would you like me take a look?” offered Finch.
She declined.
There was a knock on the door. Finch pressed his finger to his lips. On the dresser was a large vase. At his signal, she grabbed it as a makeshift weapon and positioned herself on the blindside of the jamb.
Finch looked out through the spy hole. He sighed in relief.
No Ordinary Killing Page 28