“You!” He shook his fist. “Don’t you ever think of anyone but your bloody self? Not your family or your country, just yourself. The Empire! Rhodes was the architect of the greatest empire the world will ever know. An empire that will rule forever, and make the Earth England, and England the Earth. Rhodes conceived of it, drafted the plans, and spent the rest of his life making sure the means were left for posterity. All we had to do was build the federation, stone by stone, generation by generation. But what have you and this Melville done? Destroyed it! Fucking torn it down before it’s even been built, you damned ingrate!” He sprayed spittle all over his desk and reached for the buzzer.
I removed the Webley from my pocket for the second time that morning.
He froze.
Carefully, I placed it on the desk in front of him and stepped back.
He grabbed it, and pointed it at me.
“One!” I shouted, holding up my index finger to reinforce my words.
“What?”
“One.” I shook my finger. “There is only one bullet in the revolver. Your choice.”
I turned my back, walked to the door, and unlocked it.
Never mind Caesar’s Camp, the VC, Groenkop, or what came later, that — turning my back on my father in his study — was the bravest thing I ever did.
I opened the door, stepped into the corridor, and closed it behind me. I descended the stairs and let myself out.
I heard the shot as I closed the front door.
An hour and three quarters later, I boarded the steamer for Cape Town using Drayton’s first class ticket. I was carrying his valise and his cane, complete with sword-stick and silver skull pommel. My only regret was that I’d not had an opportunity to say goodbye to Roberta. This time, I hoped I was leaving someone behind.
Good-bye Dolly I must leave you, though it breaks my heart to go,
Something tells me I am needed, at the front to fight the foe,
See, the boys in blue are marching and I can no longer stay,
Hark, I hear the bugle calling, good-bye Dolly Gray.
30. Doctor Leander Starr Jameson
I was one of the first passengers to disembark, in the middle of the afternoon on Saturday the thirtieth of August. I’d given away all my light suits when I’d left for London, but my tweed was not out of place: the temperature was about fifty degrees and, as is usual for the Cape winter, there was a steady downpour. In front of me, beyond the city, Table Mountain was covered with a ‘tablecloth’ of flat cloud, grey as opposed to the more picturesque white artists are so fond of depicting. To the left of Table Mountain, the summit of Devil’s Peak was completely shrouded. I walked down the gangway to the Cape Town dockside with Drayton’s valise in my left hand and his cane in my right. The Mauser was snug in its rig, and the brass knuckles were in my left side pocket.
Another lesson from the war: be prepared.
Less than half a minute after setting foot on solid ground, it became obvious I was indeed behind enemy lines when two large men, both smartly dressed and sporting military moustaches, approached me. I’d noticed them prior to coming ashore and suspected they were police detectives.
“Dr Drayton?” said the slimmer of the two.
“Yes, how may I help you?”
“Chief Inspector Maguire, Cape Constabulary Criminal Investigation Department. This is Sergeant Neesom. We’d like you to come with us, sir.” Like most of Cape Town’s policemen, Maguire was Irish. He reminded me of a younger Melville.
“Certainly. I have a suitcase — ”
“That will be taken care of, sir. This way, please.”
Neesom held out his hand for Drayton’s valise and I gave it to him. I was escorted, with a detective on either side, to an automobile, a 12/14 h.p. Wolseley. Maguire directed me to the tonneau and I climbed in behind the driver’s seat. A canvas roof had been raised above us and there was a window at the front to protect the driver. I’d never seen a window screen before and I thought it was a good idea. Actually, I thought the invention as a whole was a useful one, and I’d already made up my mind to learn more about them as soon as possible. Maguire squeezed in next to me and Neesom started the carriage. It was my first ride in an automobile, but I didn’t mention that — or anything else — to the policemen.
The differences between Cape Town and London were so numerous that I couldn’t but wonder they were part of the same Empire. Notwithstanding the weather, the air was clean and fresh, and many of the buildings — constructed in the distinctive Cape Dutch style — were a dazzling white. There was smoke from the odd kitchen fire, but nothing compared to London. Perhaps that was why so many doctors still advised their patients to go to the colonies for their health. Rhodes had of course come to the Cape for that very reason, exactly thirty years before. We drove over several tram lines — banned from central London — and it seemed as though there were more horseless carriages as well. I wondered if this would be the pattern of cities in the future.
My knowledge of Cape Town was extremely limited, being restricted to two short visits. I spent a week there in ’ninety-nine with Ellen, and then two days in July of this year, en route to England. Nonetheless, the geography of the city made it easy to find my bearings. Cape Town was built on a peninsula between Table Bay in the west and False Bay in the east; Table Mountain provided a three and a half thousand foot high point of reference above the former, with Devil’s Peak a couple of hundred feet lower and a couple of miles closer to the latter. Even with the rain and my impeded view, it was obvious we weren’t going to police headquarters.
We were in fact driving away from the city, towards Devil’s Peak. If we continued in this direction I knew we’d shortly reach Rondebosch (‘round bush’ in Dutch). Somewhere in Rondebosch was Rhodes’ home, Groote Schuur (‘big barn’). Rhodes had bequeathed the Groote Schuur estate to the premier of the Cape Colony, currently Sir John Sprigg. South of Rondebosch was Muizenberg — on the more temperate east coast — where Rhodes had chosen to spend his last days.
We left the city behind and began the climb up the eastern side of Devil’s Peak. I recalled from my visit with Ellen that the area was one of the greenest I’d ever seen in Africa, even more so than the Valley of a Thousand Hills in the Natal Midlands. To the north-east of us, towards Stellenbosch, were acre upon acre of vineyards. To the south-east, the scenic Cape Flats extended to the coast. All around, there were orchards of pine trees — maritime and stone — and small but striking silverleaf evergreens.
Shortly, we entered Rhodes’ estate, and I caught my first glimpse of Groote Schuur. Behind thick hedges covered with light blue flowers, I saw barley sugar chimneys, ornate gables, whitewashed walls, a red roof, and colonnaded verandas. The house was formerly the Dutch East India Company’s granary, and had been rebuilt to Rhodes’ order by an unknown architect named Herbert Baker. He’d done a magnificent job, and the design had been heralded as the beginning of a new vernacular Cape style. Rhodes, being a self-made man, didn’t stand on ceremony. He looked for energy and ability, and rewarded them wherever they were found. They were two qualities which Morgan Drayton had possessed in abundance, and accounted for his rapid rise in the ranks of Rhodes’ inner circle.
Neesom drove to the rear of the stately home, and stopped the Wolseley next to a long portico supported by marble columns. The rain had eased to a gentle drizzle and I climbed from the carriage after Maguire. “Will I need that?” I asked, pointing to the valise on the front passenger seat.
“No,” Maguire replied.
I followed him into the house, Neesom close behind.
Inside, Groote Schuur was a forest of teak woodwork. Every room I saw was panelled, and filled with curiosities and souvenirs collected by Rhodes on his travels through Africa and Europe. At another time I would probably have been fascinated by the marvels on display, but I was aware that with each step forward, I had less chance of emerging alive. I wasn’t being taken to meet Sir John. Until the will had been proved, this was stil
l the lion’s den, and the lion himself — Dr Leander Starr Jameson — awaited me.
I was ushered into a commodious study with a lofty ceiling. Across from a delft tile fireplace, arched windows revealed a rose garden apparently without end. Jameson was standing behind a russet-coloured stinkwood desk so large it could’ve been a dinner table. He’d put on some weight in the last two years. So had I, and considering we’d been suffering from enteric fever at the time, we were probably both the better for it. Jameson had also lost hair, however, and the monk’s tonsure that remained didn’t suit him. His moustache was thick, and styled in a neat chevron. He wore a brown coat over a double-breasted blue waistcoat, with a cream necktie and grey trousers. He would’ve made a gaudy spectacle in London, but here he was the archetypal colonial gentleman.
Jameson’s smile was hearty, which I thought ominous, coming from a man who’d just lost the Empire’s greatest fortune. Nor, I noted, was he surprised to see me in place of his private secretary. “Good afternoon to you all, gentlemen.”
“Afternoon, Doctor. This gentleman was travelling under Dr Drayton’s name.”
“Thank you very much, Maguire. And you too, Neesom. If you’d care to take some refreshment in the drawing room, I’ll call for you shortly.”
“Are you sure, Doctor?” asked Maguire.
“Absolutely.”
“Very good.” The policemen left.
“I seem to recall that we’ve never been formally introduced, even though we know so much about each other. I, of course, am Dr Leander Jameson, and you are Major Alec Marshall. Please sit down.” He gestured towards the two antique chairs on my side of the desk, and produced a cigarette case with a flourish. “Cigarette? Cigar? Feel free to light a pipe, if you wish.”
I set my homburg down on one of the chairs, and sat on the other, both hands on the pommel of Drayton’s cane.
Jameson lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply, and sat in the massive chair behind the desk, a throne fit for an emperor. The expanse of the desk top was bare save for a writing set and an ash-receiver, the latter fashioned from a rhinoceros’ foot.
“To what do I owe the honour of a visit from one of our war heroes?”
“I have a message for you.”
“A message? From whom?”
“From Superintendent Melville, of Scotland Yard.”
“Melville, Melville? Can’t say I’ve heard of the man, but then I don’t really follow the English news much.”
“Melville is the head of Special Branch.”
“The Special Irish Branch?” Jameson sat up in surprise.
“No, their successor. Our equivalent of Europe’s secret police, you might say.”
“Ah, an important official then. Your presence becomes clearer. Go on, go on, don’t let me interrupt.”
“First, the Empire Loyalist League is dissolved.”
Jameson’s hands flew up in the air, and he grinned broadly. “But of course it is, my dear boy! Of course it is, or The Doctor would be here in your stead. Should I infer from his absence, that his soul has departed for a better place?”
“You should.”
“That is a shame. As I’m sure you recognise, he was a man of exceptional ability. Absolutely exceptional. A more gifted secretary I shall never find. Had Cecil lived longer, I’m sure Morgan would’ve risen much higher in this world. Now, alas, the keep each other company in the next. How did it happen?”
“I ran him through with a cutlass.”
Jameson raised his eyebrows, the movement extending to his bald pate. “Now that really does surprise me. He was an excellent swordsman. You know he studied under Pini?”
“I do.”
“And you beat him in a duel?”
“He was wounded prior to our engagement.”
“Ah… still, quite remarkable. So, you’ve killed my private secretary… now I shall have to find another. I will miss him, but life goes on. As far as the League is concerned, you’ve told me nothing new.”
“If you didn’t know Drayton was dead, how did you know the League was dissolved?”
“Bloody bankers, damn them all!” He smiled as he cursed and pretended to punch the desktop. “Lawyers are bad enough, but I tell you, Marshall, bankers are the absolute pits.” I said nothing, having no inkling as to his meaning. It took him a moment to realise this. “Bankers, eh? Now you’ve got me wondering exactly how much you do know about the League.”
“I know that you and Drayton coerced Lowenstein to sign the codicil you’d faked, and that Lowenstein changed his mind and went into hiding.”
He pointed at me with his cigarette. “Yes, that’s it! I managed to turn one of Beit’s bankers to my way of thinking, but only temporarily — blasted fellow had a change of heart. Either that or he feared one of us was going to kill him — which I did in the end!” He laughed. “Anyway, no it wasn’t Eric I meant. I’m talking about Lewis.”
“Lewis?”
“Mitchell, Lewis Mitchell. Cecil’s banker. I thought I had him firmly in agreement with the League, but he changed his tune at the end of last month. He and Hawkesley pulled some sort of fiddle and now the sixth codicil to the seventh will — Morgan and my effort — has been discounted. I only found out on Tuesday.”
“So you no longer inherit everything?”
“Exactly.”
“Let me make sure I’ve got this correct. On Tuesday, you lost the opportunity of being sole heir to the richest man in the Empire — some say the whole world?”
Jameson waved his cigarette again. “Yes, although you exaggerate. Cecil was the richest man in the Empire, but not the world. Far from it. There are several American gentlemen with a lot more money than Cecil ever possessed. He was, however, the richest Briton. The richest Briton ever.” He shrugged, drew on his cigarette one last time, and stubbed it out in the ash-receiver.
“You seem to be taking this rather well,” I remarked.
“You’re a soldier, Marshall, you know how it goes. The fortunes of war, Lady Luck, etcetera. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. If I were a religious man — which I’m not — I’d say that He took away on Tuesday, and gave on Wednesday. Of course, my apologies, how could you possibly know! You’ve been cooped up on that boat all month. On Thursday I gave my inaugural speech as the Member of Parliament for Kimberley. Cecil would’ve been ecstatic, seeing as he practically built the place himself. Sort of fate, really.”
“You’re not concerned about the will and the League?”
He shrugged again. “Of course I’d rather have all the money in the Empire and rule the world, but I’m not one to cry over spilt milk, or let the grass grow under my feet. I have plenty of other goals to pursue. Morgan would’ve understood, although he’d have been devastated about Lewis. Never mind, there’s no more disappointments for him now, eh?” He lit another cigarette. “Are you sure you won’t have one? They are superb. Moroccan. No? Suit yourself.”
I’d heard that Jameson had a magnetic personality, a charisma that inspired fervour and loyalty in his peers and subordinates. I wasn’t sure about all that, but his sanguinity was impressive. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” I said.
“Ask away, ask away.”
“When you realised that Lowenstein wasn’t going to return, or hadn’t returned — whichever came first — why didn’t you call Drayton back immediately?”
“Ah, yes, good question. I only found out that Eric hadn’t returned when his ship docked. Another nasty surprise at the quayside, although on that occasion there was nobody, rather than an impostor — if you’ll forgive the term. So I could’ve brought Morgan back, but in doing so I would’ve risked too much. That was at the end of May. The League had only just been established, and I needed Morgan in London to keep an eye on things. Wisely so, as Joe decided to try and go his own way at the conference.”
“But wasn’t that a huge risk, not calling Drayton back to Cape Town?”
“Risk! Of course it was, but you should understand t
hat, Marshall. Didn’t you risk your very life when you won your Victoria Cross?”
“I did, but I didn’t risk it specifically for that purpose.”
“I appreciate the distinction, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I’m afraid it was a case of all or nothing in this instance. Aside from which, I’d every faith Morgan would find Eric in time — which he did.”
“But he’d had a change of heart and wasn’t any good to you.”
“Yes, although Morgan’s one failing was that he was a little over-zealous where the League was concerned. I think the whole ruling the world thing went to his head.” He waved his hands in the air. “For me it was one avenue of many — and a chance to fulfil Cecil’s dream. Poor fellow, for all his practical business expertise, he was such a romantic idealist. But yes, Drayton took it upon himself to kill Eric, and he nearly bloody killed Joe as well. Now, that would’ve been hell to pay… ” He tailed off. “All ancient history now, though.”
I stood and drew Drayton’s sword, letting the hollow cane fall to the floor.
Jameson started — dropped his cigarette — then recovered. “Ah, this would be the second part of the message from your secret policeman.” The tip of the Wilkinson blade hovered a foot or so from his heart. “It seems I was over-hasty in dismissing Maguire.”
“No, this is from me. Several people died because of your Empire Loyalist League. Not as many as on your dash into the Transvaal, but one of the casualties was my sister.”
“Ah. That doesn’t bode well for me, does it?”
“My sister’s name was Ellen, she was twenty-five, and she was a veterinary surgeon. Drayton had her killed because she overheard a conversation about the inauguration ceremony.”
“Oh dear, I told you Morgan was over-zealous. I have a Colt in my top drawer, but I suspect you’d be over the desk and have me transfixed to this ridiculous chair before I could open it, let alone take aim and fire.” He wasn’t smiling anymore, but he was calm.
The Architect of Murder Page 25
