by Peter Rimmer
"The boy is with his mother," said Henry.
"I don't care who he is with as long as he comes back to Hastings Court. I've made him my sole heir if he comes back here with or without his mother. Now, where is Harry, seeing you know so much?"
"In Cape Town with his mother."
"Then the police will bring him back to his father."
"You don't care about Emily do you?"
"Not particularly."
"Or Sebastian."
"He gainsaid me and the law is the law. We can't go having people running off kidnapping. Can we, Sir Henry? The law. There always have to be rules and the rules say a son and wife shall live with their father. And that's how it will be. The law, Sir Henry, is on my side. Now seeing that we Brigandshaws own this house I suggest you get back from whence you came. I bought you, remember. A man who sells his daughter and then interferes with a man protecting his family makes me laugh frankly. Why don't you get off your high horse?"
Half an hour later, when it was quiet, Tilda left the sanctuary of her arbour and walked back to the house, collecting a basket of flowers on the way to arrange in the dining room. They gave her pleasure though none of the men appreciated her work. The June flowers were rich and plentiful in the borders that lined the old garden paths and she picked them with care. At each intersection of the paths a sundial, old and difficult to read, centred the cross paths. Below the high terrace a groom was removing the evidence of one of the horses and from inside the house, deep inside came a muffled shout and a banged door and Arthur, her eldest son, rushed into view and told the groom to drive him to Epsom railway station. He ignored his mother standing quietly with a basket of flowers. Sadly she remembered the pain he had given her at birth and wondered when it would stop. Having done her job so long ago she was irrelevant to all of them.
"Where are you going, Arthur?" she called but he walked on following the groom.
"They found Harry and arrested Sebastian," said her husband's voice from the high terrace behind as she watched her son turn the corner to the stables without looking back in her direction. There was great satisfaction in the voice of her husband. She turned and only his head and shoulders were visible to her from the end of the garden path. She hated them. Slowly she turned and walked back down the path.
"Where are you going?" shouted The Captain.
This time it was Tilda's turn to do all the ignoring.
Quite probably the man had forgotten Gregory Shaw had been drummed out of the Indian army: he had not been at Chittagong and possibly had never served under Colonel Jones. Whatever the reason he seemed very pleased to see a fellow officer so far from where they had served together.
"Captain Gregory Shaw. Well I'll be damned. What brings you here?"
For no other reason than needing a meal and company, Gregory had left the empty flat he shared with Henry Manderville and gone to the Cafe Royal and before supper sat at the bar and ordered a chata-peg and maybe the name of the drink, which the barman had failed to understand, had focused the mind of the man seated at the bar at Gregory's left.
"Jonny White. Good Lord, old boy, what are you doing here?…Make it a pink gin," he said to the barman with the blank face.
"On leave. You on leave, old chap?"
"In a way, I suppose. The army found out about Sing and told me to give her up or leave the army. So I left the army. Can I buy you that drink, old boy?"
"Don't mind if I do." For a long moment there was silence while the man decided to be polite and leave enquiries to another place and another time. Jonny White was alone in London, Gregory decided and smiled to himself as he reordered the second drink. For a moment he wondered how she was and put that thought out of his mind: it was the one path he always stopped himself from travelling in the mind, the path back to the last time when he had been happy.
"Are you staying at the In and Out?" asked Jonny White referring to the Naval and Military Club.
"No. With an old friend. Sir Henry Manderville." White was impressed by the title as he was meant to be. "We've just come back from Africa."
"Shoot any tigers?"
"They don't have tigers in Africa. Only lions and leopards. Nothing as big as a Bengal tiger I'm afraid. No, nothing that size. Cheers, old boy. Good to see you."
"Do you miss the army?"
"Yes, I rather think I do. All parts of it." He was again thinking of Sing. He had wined and dined a string of young ladies while Henry made his plans against his daughter’s father-in-law, and none of them had sparked his interest. Pale London versions were just not his type. He wondered if Sing was still a virgin or married with children and he put that out of his mind as it came.
"Pity that company of Rhodes is falling apart," said White.
"Only the share price. Not the company. The Charter Company is alive and well and I can vouch for that. Taken up a farm myself and intend to go back to Rhodesia."
"Met a chap two nights ago at the East Indian Club who had lost all his money. Bought shares, mortgaged them at the top and bought more shares using the bank’s money, poor chap and now the bank wants the money back and he doesn't have it. Fearfully in debt. Said he was going down to Epsom to plead with his father to bail him out. Poor chap, could go to jail as he told the bank when he borrowed the money that his house was worth more than anyone will pay. Mortgaged his house as well, you see. Now that's fraud. Nasty business."
"His name wasn't Brigandshaw by any luck," said Gregory turning his full attention to Jonny White. "Arthur Brigandshaw."
"How did you know? Bad news does travel fast. I say old chap would you care to dine with me?"
"An absolute pleasure."
By the end of the evening, Jonny White had learnt nothing more about Sing but as the wine and conversation flowed, Gregory Shaw extracted every detail of the man's meeting in the East India Club and stored the facts carefully where he could bring them out again. The only figure which Gregory was unable to pull from the conversation was the amount Arthur Brigandshaw owed the bank. But he had the name of the bank and the branch.
The bank manager came out of a small office wringing his hands with dutiful subservience. Somewhere in the right hand among the wringing was the visiting card of Sir Henry Manderville which Henry had presented at the front desk when he asked for an appointment on the following Monday morning expecting to call back later in the week. Henry found the man's behaviour ridiculous but it served its purpose.
"Sir Henry, what a pleasure," said the bank manager ingratiating himself further while trying to give his staff the impression they had known each other for years: bank manager to favoured client. Henry wondered once again what it was about a title that made people grovel in the dirt. He put out a calloused hand, calloused from months of cutting trees from Tuli in Bechuanaland to Fort Salisbury and saw the puzzled expression on the bank manager's face as he took the pressure in a pudgy hand that had never felt work in its life. The card miraculously had transferred to the man's left hand.
"How can I help you? Please come into my office. Would you care for a cup of tea, Sir Henry?"
"That would be kind of you. Now, let me explain. My son-in-law is Arthur Brigandshaw." By the reaction of the man who was still not quite behind his desk and banged his knee on the corner, Henry obviously had the right bank.
"You wish to honour the debt?"
"Of course. Why else would I be here. All I need to know is the amount."
"It is a great deal of money."
"Well, we Mandervilles have been around a long time making money. I am sure it will be a mere bagatelle."
"Is eighty thousand three hundred and twelve pounds seven shillings and sixpence a mere bagatelle?" said the bank manager nervously having forgotten all about the tea.
"A mere bagatelle," said Sir Henry not showing the least sign of a wince. "Write it down on a piece of paper and I'll have it here for you within a week."
As the bank manager sat down in his chair and wrote the figure he was unable to speak.
The man who had so rashly lent the money in the first place was his brother-in-law.
Sir Henry reached the open door and turned back waving the piece of paper, "Thank you for the tea."
Henry's own solicitor had drawn up the agreement that settled two hundred thousand pounds in three percent Consuls with the capital going to Arthur Brigandshaw on Henry's death, provided Arthur was still married to Emily: the clause had been worded to safeguard Emily and her children should she have any. From The Captain's point of view it ensured his money did not leave his family and all he would have paid for Hastings Court and the even more valuable family connection was six thousand pounds a year for as long as Sir Henry lived, a small price to make his eldest son Lord of the Manor, a subsidiary title that went with the house. The Captain had thought himself very smart at the time and hoped the Baronet would die as soon as possible: most men with too much time on their hands or too much money drank himself to death as there was nothing else to do to pass the time.
"You want to release this eighty-three thousand pounds to your son-in-law to pay his debt?" asked the solicitor.
"In exchange for Arthur withdrawing all complaints against Sebastian and acknowledging that Harry is Seb’s son and that he and Emily had never consummated the marriage, allowing the marriage to be dissolved by the Church and the law. Will the police then withdraw the charges against Sebastian?"
"I rather think they will."
"I should never have let them marry in the first place."
"I rather think I said that at the time, Sir Henry. Arranged marriages into the lower classes are usually unfortunate despite their money."
"I wanted to protect Emily from poverty."
"Hindsight is an exact science, Sir Henry. Now the question is will this reprobate Arthur, except your offer?"
"Why ever not?"
"Because he knows you control two hundred thousand pounds."
"Legally, can I give him part of the money without The Captain's consent?"
"One of the tasks of a family solicitor is to protect the family's interest. The sub-clauses in the agreement were brushed over by Captain Brigandshaw as he was only concerned with you walking off with the capital. What I had in mind was Arthur's premature death and your wish to give Emily's children part of the capital. The clause in question says you are entitled to give all or part of the money to Arthur or his offspring in the event of his death or prior to his death at your discretion otherwise the money could have stayed in limbo. We solicitors have to think of every legal eventuality. Do you wish me to negotiate with Arthur?"
"I'll do it myself."
"Unwise, I would say. And please don't hit the young man. I have no wish to defend you in a nasty case of assault."
The wedding in Cape Town was a black affair. While Jeremiah Shank was receiving his pieces of silver at the offices of Colonial Shipping, Tinus Oosthuizen took Alison Ford to be his lawfully wedded wife. Two strangers they had found at the Mount Nelson hotel signed the marriage certificate and left soon afterwards. Alison's dress, run up quickly in the Malay quarter by a seamstress, billowed from the bodice down to hide her pregnancy from the dominie and was the colour of dark sand. Tinus wore a suit for the first time in his life, a well barbered Tinus with a clipped beard and well cut hair that hung to his shoulders. The tailor said he had never made a larger suit. Tatenda, forlorn and frightened by so large a building, sat at the back. Emily was at the police station.
Outside the Dutch Reformed Church at the top of Strand Street the clock tower stared up at Signal Hill and to the right, far out and down to the right, a squall lashed across Table Bay tearing at the anchored ships. A pair of black-backed gulls had drifted up from the bay and cried a lonely cry, cutting and dropping, lifting in the wind. A weak and wintry sunlight crept towards the door of the church as Tinus thanked the dominie in the Taal and helped his wife into the hired coach. The dominie watched them sadly. Tatenda was already in the coach. As soon as the pair of horses began the cobbled road down the hill, following the strangers in their own coach back to the hotel, the squall hit the big face of the clock in the tower and the big hands quivered in the grasp of the wind. The dominie had closed the door of his church and gone about his business. Despite the howling wind the long arm clunked to half past eleven in the morning and the gulls, wings pinned back in mocking authority over the squall, veered down and away from the clanging sound of man. It was the only sound of wedding bells.
The wind was howling outside the small high window with the thick bars and Seb felt more dejected than at any other time in his life. He was sick to the very pit of his stomach and the terrible hurt drained through all his feelings.
They had ridden the wagons to Johannesburg, the mining camp in Paul Kruger's Transvaal Republic, to load the ivory on the train and travel with the great tusks to Cape Town. Leaving the two locked railway wagons with the ivory in the Cape Town goods siding they had hired a cab to drive them to the Mount Nelson Hotel. Harry was tired and irritable, Emily and Alison were pregnant and most of what they wanted was a good meal and a good night’s sleep and they would worry about the ivory in the morning. There was nothing to say the closed wagons held more than machinery going north to the gold mines. Not even the stationmaster was told the contents and the wagons stood alone and uninteresting. Harry was asleep in his dirty clothes and they left him on the bed with Tatenda fast asleep as they thought on the couch. So much had happened to Tatenda in three years he had given up wondering about the turn in his life. He missed his family and sometimes, when he was alone and the others were asleep, he cried, forgetting he was fourteen-years-old and ready for circumcision. The grown-ups took their baths and when they left to go down to dinner he felt so lonely he cried and Harry asked him in Shona what was the matter as the lamp burned softly in the room to keep away the dark and the boy was not asleep as all of them had thought.
"Are you hungry?" asked Harry and he said he was and then they did go to sleep and when they woke Tinus had brought them a wicker basket full of cold chicken and freshly baked rolls and Tatenda did not feel so lonely.
The next day Tinus and Seb had gone off to Colonial Shipping to make arrangements for the ivory to be told Captain Doyle had left the company and the man in the office was not in a position to say any more. A man with a crooked face who looked familiar had turned away from them as they made their enquiries which led them to believe Colonial Shipping were no longer interested in ivory. Seb had the first twinge of alarm as he always did when people behaved out of context: ivory was the best trade to come out of Africa. In the middle of his conversation with the man who had not invited them into his office but stood at the counter, Seb felt a strong hand on his elbow, Tinus cut the conversation and they were out through the door and back in the cab.
"That was the man, with his back to us, who tipped off Jack Slater outside Salisbury. With Doyle out of the company that manager was acting on your father's orders. Best we leave the ivory and get out of Cape Town and you go back to Rhodesia."
"Tinus, I'll go back with Em and Harry. You stay and marry Alison and sell the ivory somewhere else."
"And Emily's baby?"
"Then I'll go alone." When they reached the gate that led out of the docks it was closed and shortly after the police arrived and Seb was arrested. Three days later Tinus and Alison had been married and Captain Doyle had sailed into Cape Town harbour with his new ship and the old crew of the Indian Queen.
Seb woke to his twenty-first birthday in cell number four of the central police station and he was cold and miserable and very much afraid. Being a capital offence they had told him prevented them from giving him bail and he was to wait in cell number four with two blankets until a Royal Navy ship was able to take him back to England where he would stand trial for the kidnapping of his brother's wife and son and there was nothing the colonial authorities in Cape Town could do but hold him in the cell. The Prime Minister of the Cape, Cecil John Rhodes or the governor of the Cape Colony, had no intere
st in the case as the offence had taken place in England and that was the law and there was nothing anyone could do about it. It was clear to Seb that the idea of a man kidnapping his brother's wife and son left him beyond the pale. The fact that Emily swore an oath that she had gone of her own accord, had in fact left her husband, and the boy was not her husband’s son but his brother’s, had left her as a slut who had committed adultery and broken her wedding vows, none of which changed the fact they were sending him back to England. Privately, the man who ran the police cells, whose wife he knew slept with other men behind his back, thought Emily was as profane as the prisoner and if he had had his way the slut would have been shipped back to England for a trial of her own, though under what statute he could not think. One of his Muslim friends said they stoned people in countries faithful to the law of Allah and that was what he would do to her. From that point all communication had been cut between Emily and Seb and their nightmare took a turn for the worse.
In his cell, alone, early in the morning, the day after the wedding, Seb asked himself what he had done wrong other than to love a girl all the years he could remember. How could a father hate his son so much, a brother hate his brother, to bring him home in shackles when they both knew he was right and they were wrong? What could they want of him so badly that took away what was rightly his? For money? For Hastings Court? Pride and vanity? And what had his mother done to stop what she could see? If he was so wrong to be beneath the hanging tree then how much worse were all of them?
With a force of will and daylight full through the small window above his head he stopped feeling sorry for himself. He was right and they were wrong and right he told himself blindly even foolishly would prevail.
The doorbell rattled imperiously for the third time and Arthur Brigandshaw knew he was trapped. For a week he had thought of suicide and found he lacked the courage. And now they had come for his house. He had nothing. There would be no food or shelter. They were going to throw him out on the street and his father was ready to laugh in his face. No one would give him a job. They would laugh, his friends, and walk away, comfortable in the wrappings of their own money. The fourth ring sent him cringing to the back room, the small storeroom of the Baker Street house. He was quite alone. The last of his women had gone when the money stopped flowing. They had never wanted Arthur Brigandshaw, only his money. Huddled on the floor, the linoleum smooth, uninterested in his plight, he waited for the sound of breaking wood as they crashed down the door of the house he no longer owned. He would be thirty-four-years-old in a month's time and he was penniless and the fear of poverty ripped at his stomach. For the rest of his life he would live as a tramp, despised by everyone. The bell rattled again and Arthur was sick on the linoleum floor.
