Echoes from the Past (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 1)

by Peter Rimmer

  Chapter 2: November 1895

  With all his bravado of ten children, no one had thought to tell her the man was impotent and a girl of twenty-four had her needs. The bloody farm made her sick. Those two self-satisfied women clucked all day around their children and had no conversation other than babies past and present all the time looking as if something was wrong with her. And when they looked at their husbands with puppy dog eyes it made her sick. The only man she fancied was Seb and never once had he given a sign that he noticed her. Jack Slater was no oil painting but at least he was a man even if he had developed a high degree of conscience after his first long burst of sexual gratification. Generally, men made her sick they were so easy to manipulate. She had first checked up the wealth in the Shaw family and by a devious route even found out the extent of Gregory's private income. And how was she to know the Trust would cut him off if he married a Catholic. Worse still, the stupid man had only found out himself after the event when they both cursed his bigoted great-grandfather who had made all the money and written the terms of the Trust. Then the great estate in Africa came to the front and it had sounded fun and a girl with a bad reputation and no great future took what she could get. But stuck in the bush with sanctimonious morons and a husband who couldn't even get it up was more than Fran Cotton could take. They could call her Mrs Shaw all they liked. Until the captain from India got it up she was still Fran Cotton. And if she heard him call out Sing once more in his sleep she would ring his bloody neck. Touching Jack Slater's back very slowly with the tip of her right index finger nail she woke him up and before he could think of his conscience she had him on top. They both forgot where they were in the dark and it was a full half minute after their mutual climax before they came back to earth.

  "You’re a damn good fuck, Jack Slater," she said.

  "And you're Greg's wife."

  "You weren't worrying about that a minute ago." And then she laughed. It made her feel happily in control when she laughed at them.

  "You'd better go home, Fran," he said seriously. This time she had been in Salisbury for three days.

  "I know. You are becoming a bit of a bore. A good fuck but a bore. It really is such a shame."

  "You're a bitch, Fran."

  "Just after copulation it's rude to call the girl a bitch. But you’re right Jack. I am a bitch and you can't say we haven't had some fun you sanctimonious hypocrite. Why do people always sound so righteous and act so wrong? Funny thing is they even convince themselves they have atoned for their sins. Probably why my ancestors became such devout Catholics. Fuck all week and prays all Sunday. What a religion!"

  "Don't blaspheme."

  "There you go again Jack Slater. Up on your high horse. Some day you should try and look at yourself through my eyes and then you won't even dare talk about God. Now, do you want another quick fuck to keep you going for another week?"

  Ten minutes after the door slammed, Jack Slater wished he had taken up her offer.

  Doctor Leander Starr Jameson, physician, confidant of Cecil John Rhodes, destroyer of Lobengula, King of the Matabele and Administrator of Rhodesia was not amused. The new administration office was at the top of the main street they were calling Jameson Avenue and half an hour after Fran drove her horse and buggy up Second Street on her way back to Elephant Walk the man in charge of keeping him informed reported the liaison. It was so hot Jameson's mind was boiling from oppressive heat and his plans for invading the Transvaal, whilst outside his open window a whirly-gig scuttled down the street sending dust high into a sky heavy with cumulus that every day gave the promise of bursting with rain. And now he was forced to think of Jack Slater who was going to be left in command when he rode for Johannesburg the following day. Far away came a roll of thunder which made him get up and look out of the window over the small Jacaranda trees he had planted on both sides of the dusty street. Far away beyond the new town he was trying to build, high up between the stacks of clouds, pitch black at the underneath and fluffy white at the top, forked lightning was flashing down the side of the thousand yard-high clouds towards the dry earth. It was five in the afternoon and while he was standing with his back to the room looking quizzically at the electric storm, a servant came to his office on bare and silent feet to light the lamps. When all four were finally lit Jameson turned round to face the problem of Jack Slater's affair with a married woman and left the storm to rumble and crackle with forked fire far away behind his back over the rooftops of scattered houses that were the beginning of his new country. He was going to bring this new country the three C's promised by Dr Livingstone, missionary and explorer of Africa. Civilisation to stop the tribes killing each other; Christianity and the only true God; commerce that would bring the tribes out of fluctuating poverty to where a man could plan his life better than one day at a time. If only the petty foibles of individuals would keep out of his way, the trivia that took up so much of his time. If the man was so obsessed by his sexual lust why couldn't he find a wife other than one that belonged to someone else: Captain Shaw may have left India under a cloud but he was still a British officer and a gentleman. After thinking through the problem for nearly five minutes he was unable to find a solution. When it came to women, Dr Jameson was out of his depth. As he looked in brief despair out of the open window a crack of lightning hit an old tree the builders had left for shade, splitting it in two, the crash of thunder booming instantly above his head. 'If only it would rain' he said to himself for the umpteenth time that day.

  Fran had stopped for a pot of tea at the new Meikles Hotel and was sitting outside on the veranda that overlooked Third Street and the road back to the farm when the crack of lightning and crash of thunder frightened her out of her wits. Even the well-dressed man with the well-cut beard and silver-topped cane at the next table jumped. They both nervously laughed together at their mutual fright. The man stood up and bowed to her as if to introduce and reassure. As he did so another violent fork of lightning cut the dark sky but this time the crash of thunder made them laugh together without the nervousness. The man was dapper and wore a diamond ring on the small finger of his left hand. He was alone and the diamond was larger than anything Fran had seen before in her life. The flash of the big diamond was in surprising contrast to the tattoo of an anchor below the elbow of his left arm. The man had taken off his jacket in the desperate heat and was wearing a short sleeved shirt that came to his elbows.

  "That should bring the rain," he said in a cultured English accent that to Fran was somehow not quite right: maybe the man was a foreigner, she told herself.

  "I hope so."

  "Are you staying in town, Mrs?"

  "Shaw. Yes. I will be. Probably. I had intended driving the buggy home."

  "Is your home far, Mrs Shaw?"

  "Twenty miles. My husband will be worried about me, I'm sure."

  "I'm sure. Shopping always takes longer than one thinks. The hotel will give you a room for the night and tomorrow morning we’ll make a pleasant drive into the country. Would you like me to enquire about a room? I have a little influence as Thomas Meikle kindly borrowed some of my money to build his hotel. Maybe you would join me for supper, Mrs Shaw? My name is Jeremiah Shank who is at your service." The dapper man had put on his jacket and bowed to Fran. Making sure the expression did not show on her face Fran's intuition told her the man was English, not foreign and the accent of culture had been grafted on to an altogether different kind of vine. Which was why the man had quickly put on his jacket: the only thing he could not hide from his past was the anchor on his arm. Maybe this was what she was really looking for she told herself and with her best and sensuous smile she put out her right gloved hand and accepted the invitation. If nothing else it would make that sanctimonious hypocrite Jack Slater feel jealous and Fran Cotton liked making men jealous. The little man smiling at her might have a crooked face but she was sure this one was genuinely wealthy and almost certainly a self-made man.

  The only weak link in Jeremiah Shank's ar
moury was well-bred women. On his way to the bar he had seen Fran Shaw sitting on her own and had changed course for the table just behind her back, inwardly grimacing at the idea of ordering a pot of tea. The crash of thunder had given him just the chance he was looking for. Timing had always been the key to his success, timing and waiting. Sometimes the prey was out of reach like the two truckloads of ivory in the siding at Cape Town station but the lack of opportunity to steal the ivory had sent him north earlier than he expected and in Kimberley, on his way back to Rhodesia with the price of delivering Sebastian Brigandshaw to the police, he had stopped off to look at the large hole in the ground. He was curious to see how Cecil Rhodes had bought up so many claims and combined them to make one big profitable dig without the walls and squabbles in between. Barney Barnato, a Jewish cockney pugilist, had done the same thing. Barnato was rich and Rhodes was so rich he could afford to buy himself a country.

  Many of the small diggers found their capital running out before they found the diamonds. Like a man playing poker for big stakes Jeremiah forgot his land in Rhodesia. Casting his carefully cultivated accent he plunged into the big hole and made friends with the sweating diggers. First he lent them money to keep them going saying he had won the cash at cards. Then he waited. On the same day six months after he arrived on the train from Cape Town he called up the loans on thirty four claims. With half his capital still intact he was able to employ a gang of blacks to dig down far enough into the blue rock to find the diamonds. Nine months later he was rich. He left the first digger who had fallen into his loan trap as manager and rode the mail coach for Salisbury. Behind he left three thugs to watch the manager. The thugs received ten percent of diamond sales as did the manager. Like cat and mouse they found it better not to steal. And to add to the mix Jeremiah had appointed one of the local policemen as a spy.

  The estate of twenty thousand acres seventeen miles south of Salisbury was his main interest as a man who wished to be a gentleman needed land. By the time he found himself entertaining the very sensuous Mrs Shaw in the exclusive dining room of Meikles Hotel, with the punkahs high overhead doing their best to stir the air, the first truly beautiful home in Rhodesia had been built on the north bank of the Hunyani River and Jeremiah's great estate was fenced and three thousand head of cattle roamed the bush inside the perimeter. Looking at the woman across the perfectly starched double damask tablecloth he was not sure whether he wanted to bed the woman as a whore or take her as a wife. There was no doubt in his mind that the accent emanating from Mrs Shaw was the genuine article, born and bred for generations, something all his elocution lessons had never been able to give. Idly as he watched her over his glass of Cape red wine he wondered how much it would cost to buy out Shaw. Jack Slater was easy. The man had a conscience and once he was acting administrator he would have to give up the delectable Mrs Shaw. Jeremiah agreed with Cecil Rhodes: every man had his price.

  Halfway through the meal and three glasses of red wine to the better the lady began to tell him what he wanted to hear though it puzzled him why Elephant Walk was so short of money. If he hadn't stolen the two wagon loads of ivory what had happened to the money unless it had gone down the same bottomless pit of Captain Doyle and his dream of a fleet of ships? Jeremiah felt a proprietary interest in Sebastian Brigandshaw as the boy had been the source of his wealth. He knew the crew of the Indian Queen had left Colonial Shipping to start a new line and suspected the capital had come from Tinus Oosthuizen and young Sebastian Brigandshaw and it never failed to amuse him how easily a fool and his money or a fool and his diamond claims was separated. The story of Shaw losing his inheritance, which he heard after the fourth glass of wine really tickled his fancy. Likely the last of the ivory money had gone down the same rat-hole, Captain mighty Doyle: with a bit of luck the ship had sunk with the whole damn crew. Jeremiah always found satisfaction in other people’s adversity.

  The lady was on a roll. Even Shaw's inability to fuck his wife came up politely in the conversation. Jeremiah at the end of the supper prided himself with the fact the lady had no idea he knew more about his shipmates than the shipmates knew about themselves. He ordered a balloon glass of Remy Martin brandy and a cigar and sat back in his chair replete of food and conversation. It was such a nice feeling to be superior to everyone and the maître d' had been particularly obsequious wringing his hands in compliance at every opportunity.

  If there was thing a woman or man liked doing best it was talking about themselves and Fran Shaw was no exception. By the time her coffee and liqueur arrived, a delicious glass of Benedictine, she was well on her way to being drunk and failed to pick up the gleam of interest in her supper companion's eyes when she mentioned anyone from Elephant Walk. She thought the interest was in her and even managed to delicately slip in her problem with Gregory so the man would not feel constrained when he made the pass she was sure was coming.

  The house in England outside Godalming had been in the family for centuries though the land they owned had shrunk to five acres and the firm of Holland and Cotton, solicitors, had been the source of family income since her grandfather had come down from Oxford with a law degree and not very much else. But he was a gentleman and a gentleman's word was his bond and the local gentry felt safe with him as they did with her father and there was still the old house to prove where they came from. Many of the clients were related to the Cottons as the pool of gentry in the county over the centuries had been small. The firm made the family a comfortable and respectable living. There were two boys and Francesca in the family, the name coming from her parents’ three-week honeymoon in Tuscany. The boys were older which was fun but by the time Fran was sixteen she had met every one of their boring friends and the thought of marrying one of them and burying herself in the country for life was appalling. The one good pursuit that went with her background was playing the piano. Using the female charm she found so powerful she persuaded her doting father to send her to the Royal College of Music in London. She was a very good pianist, there was no doubt about that but her real reason for going had been to get out of Godalming for good so she could start to do some living. They found her a respectable house to lodge in near the college and off she went knowing her real future lay in her power over men not in the way she played a Beethoven sonata. After Godalming, London was so exciting. She played the piano with such joy she was soon the most popular girl in her class. Even the teacher thought she had a future. The only thing she missed from Godalming was the dogs, four highly-strung red setters.

  Her first love affair was with a flautist who wasn't very good at playing the flute but had the sensual looks of Lord Byron and long soft curly hair, the colour of ripe corn. He was nineteen and the only man she was to love for the rest of her life. They talked of beautiful things, beautiful music, beautiful poems, beautiful flowers and most often of all they talked of the beauty they saw in each other. Unfortunately the flautist had a short attention span and after three months he went on his beautiful way. She saw neither hide nor hair of him again.

  Making sure she chose the weak carefully she pursued and crushed a long list of young men. Any that might have been suitable and looked likely to propose marriage were quickly warned of her reputation by her so-called friends. One of her friends was heard to say in a rare erotic moment that Fran Cotton was growing mushrooms on her bed sheets and all but one of her friends had no idea what she was talking about. 'Damp sheets, darling, damp sheets'. Then the unimaginative laughed nervously. By the time Gregory Shaw came along, a rich man of the world who would take her out of England and away from her reputation, she was looking for a husband. She had graduated from the Royal College and occasionally played the piano at soirees in expensive houses where the hostess was more interested in her playing than her reputation. It made her independent and avoided the problem of her going back to Godalming.

  A yellow sunlight woke her in the morning and for a split moment she had no idea where she was. She was hung over which was not unusual, drink h
aving drowned her sorrows many times before. She was relieved to find there was no one else in the strange room and then she remembered where she was and the evening with the dapper man with the crooked nose came back to her. To save her life she could not remember his name. She pulled the cord for the maid dropping a flap on the kitchen board one story down below that sent a servant up with a tray of tea to room twenty-four.

  The tea unparched her throat while she contemplated the next move in her life. She could either go back to England and be ostracised by polite society or go back to Elephant Walk and her husband. There was Jack Slater but intuition said he was a spent force. She thought of work but no one needed a pianist in a frontier town: they wanted a piano player who showed off more than her chest and who could sing. Against an audience that wanted lustful vaudeville in a town starved of women, Mozart had very little chance. Very often in life Fran had found it necessary to take the best she could find out of many evils. With her horse fresh in the hotel stable, it would take three hours to drive to the farm. Maybe this time he would be pleased to see her. One never knew.