The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  The place looked more deserted, more dead-alive than ever. Not a black boy moved in it. Even the cattle and Kaffir sheep were nowhere to be seen.… But then it was always quiet; and perhaps I noticed the obtrusive air of solitude and sleepiness even more than usual, because I had just returned from Salisbury. All things are comparative. After the lost loneliness of Klaas’s farm, even brand-new Salisbury seemed busy and bustling.

  I hurried on, ill at ease. But Tant Mettie would, doubtless, have a cup of tea ready for me as soon as I arrived, and Hilda would be waiting at the gate to welcome me.

  I reached the stone enclosure, and passed up through the flower-garden. To my great surprise, Hilda was not there. As a rule, she came to meet me, with her sunny smile. But perhaps she was tired, or the sun on the road might have given her a headache. I dismounted from my mare, and called one of the Kaffir boys to take her to the stable. Nobody answered.… I called again. Still silence.… I tied her up to the post, and strode over to the door, astonished at the solitude. I began to feel there was something weird and uncanny about this home-coming. Never before had I known Klaas’s so entirely deserted.

  I lifted the latch and opened the door. It gave access at once to the single plain living-room. There, all was huddled. For a moment my eyes hardly took in the truth. There are sights so sickening that the brain at the first shock wholly fails to realise them.

  On the stone slab floor of the low living-room Tant Mettie lay dead. Her body was pierced through by innumerable thrusts, which I somehow instinctively recognised as assegai wounds. By her side lay Sannie, the little prattling girl of three, my constant playmate, whom I had instructed in cat’s-cradle, and taught the tales of Cinderella and Red Riding Hood. My hand grasped the lollipops in my pocket convulsively. She would never need them. Nobody else was about. What had become of Oom Jan Willem—and the baby?

  I wandered out into the yard, sick with the sight I had already seen. There Oom Jan Willem himself lay stretched at full length; a bullet had pierced his left temple; his body was also riddled through with assegai thrusts.

  I saw at once what this meant. A rising of the Matabele!

  I had come back from Salisbury, unknowing it, into the midst of a revolt of bloodthirsty savages.

  Yet, even if I had known, I must still have hurried home with all speed to Klaas’s—to protect Hilda.

  Hilda? Where was Hilda? A breathless sinking crept over me.

  I staggered out into the open. It was impossible to say what horror might not have happened. The Matabele might even now be lurking about the kraal—for the bodies were hardly cold. But Hilda? Hilda? Whatever came, I must find Hilda.

  Fortunately, I had my loaded revolver in my belt. Though we had not in the least anticipated this sudden revolt—it broke like a thunder-clap from a clear sky—the unsettled state of the country made even women go armed about their daily avocations.

  I strode on, half maddened. Beside the great block of granite which sheltered the farm there rose one of those rocky little hillocks of loose boulders which are locally known in South Africa by the Dutch name of kopjes. I looked out upon it drearily. Its round brown ironstones lay piled irregularly together, almost as if placed there in some earlier age by the mighty hands of prehistoric giants. My gaze on it was blank. I was thinking, not of it, but of Hilda, Hilda.

  I called the name aloud: “Hilda! Hilda! Hilda!”

  As I called, to my immense surprise, one of the smooth round boulders on the hillside seemed slowly to uncurl, and to peer about it cautiously. Then it raised itself in the slant sunlight, put a hand to its eyes, and gazed out upon me with a human face for a moment. After that it descended, step by step, among the other stones, with a white object in its arms. As the boulder uncurled and came to life, I was aware, by degrees…yes, yes, it was Hilda, with Tant Mettie’s baby!

  In the fierce joy of that discovery I rushed forward to her, trembling, and clasped her in my arms. I could find no words but “Hilda! Hilda!”

  “Are they gone?” she asked, staring about her with a terrified air, though still strangely preserving her wonted composure of manner.

  “Who gone? The Matabele?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Did you see them, Hilda?”

  “For a moment—with black shields and assegais, all shouting madly. You have been to the house, Hubert? You know what has happened?”

  “Yes, yes, I know—a rising. They have massacred the Klaases.”

  She nodded. “I came back on my bicycle, and, when I opened the door, found Tant Mettie and little Sannie dead. Poor, sweet little Sannie! Oom Jan was lying shot in the yard outside. I saw the cradle overturned, and looked under it for the baby. They did not kill her—perhaps did not notice her. I caught her up in my arms, and rushed out to my machine, thinking to make for Salisbury, and give the alarm to the men there. One must try to save others—and you were coming, Hubert! Then I heard horses’ hoofs—the Matabele returning. They dashed back, mounted,—stolen horses from other farms,—they have taken poor Oom Jan’s,—and they have gone on, shouting, to murder elsewhere! I flung down my machine among the bushes as they came,—I hope they have not seen it,—and I crouched here between the boulders, with the baby in my arms, trusting for protection to the colour of my dress, which is just like the ironstone.”

  “It is a perfect deception,” I answered, admiring her instinctive cleverness even then. “I never so much as noticed you.”

  “No, nor the Matabele either, for all their sharp eyes. They passed by without stopping. I clasped the baby hard, and tried to keep it from crying—if it had cried, all would have been lost; but they passed just below, and swept on toward Rozenboom’s. I lay still for a while, not daring to look out. Then I raised myself warily, and tried to listen. Just at that moment, I heard a horse’s hoofs ring out once more. I couldn’t tell, of course, whether it was you returning, or one of the Matabele, left behind by the others. So I crouched again.… Thank God, you are safe, Hubert!”

  All this took a moment to say, or was less said than hinted. “Now, what must we do?” I cried. “Bolt back again to Salisbury?”

  “It is the only thing possible—if my machine is unhurt. They may have taken it…or ridden over and broken it.”

  We went down to the spot, and picked it up where it lay, half-concealed among the brittle, dry scrub of milk-bushes. I examined the bearings carefully; though there were hoof-marks close by, it had received no hurt. I blew up the tire, which was somewhat flabby, and went on to untie my sturdy pony. The moment I looked at her I saw the poor little brute was wearied out with her two long rides in the sweltering sun. Her flanks quivered. “It is no use,” I cried, patting her, as she turned to me with appealing eyes that asked for water. “She can’t go back as far as Salisbury; at least, till she has had a feed of corn and a drink. Even then, it will be rough on her.”

  “Give her bread,” Hilda suggested. “That will hearten her more than corn. There is plenty in the house; Tant Mettie baked this morning.”

  I crept in reluctantly to fetch it. I also brought out from the dresser a few raw eggs, to break into a tumbler and swallow whole; for Hilda and I needed food almost as sorely as the poor beast herself. There was something gruesome in thus rummaging about for bread and meat in the dead woman’s cupboard, while she herself lay there on the floor; but one never realises how one will act in these great emergencies until they come upon one. Hilda, still calm with unearthly calmness, took a couple of loaves from my hand, and began feeding the pony with them. “Go and draw water for her,” she said, simply, “while I give her the bread; that will save time. Every minute is precious.”

  I did as I was bid, not knowing each moment but that the insurgents would return. When I came back from the spring with the bucket, the mare had demolished the whole two loaves, and was going on upon some grass which Hilda had plucked for
her.

  “She hasn’t had enough, poor dear,” Hilda said, patting her neck. “A couple of loaves are penny buns to her appetite. Let her drink the water, while I go in and fetch out the rest of the baking.”

  I hesitated. “You can’t go in there again, Hilda!” I cried. “Wait, and let me do it.”

  Her white face was resolute. “Yes, I can,” she answered. “It is a work of necessity; and in works of necessity a woman, I think, should flinch at nothing. Have I not seen already every varied aspect of death at Nathaniel’s?” And in she went, undaunted, to that chamber of horrors, still clasping the baby.

  The pony made short work of the remaining loaves, which she devoured with great zest. As Hilda had predicted, they seemed to hearten her. The food and drink, with a bucket of water dashed on her hoofs, gave her new vigour like wine. We gulped down our eggs in silence. Then I held Hilda’s bicycle. She vaulted lightly on to the seat, white and tired as she was, with the baby in her left arm, and her right hand on the handle-bar.

  “I must take the baby,” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “Oh, no. I will not trust her to you.”

  “Hilda, I insist.”

  “And I insist, too. It is my place to take her.”

  “But can you ride so?” I asked, anxiously.

  She began to pedal. “Oh, dear, yes. It is quite, quite easy. I shall get there all right—if the Matabele don’t burst upon us.”

  Tired as I was with my long day’s work, I jumped into my saddle. I saw I should only lose time if I disputed about the baby. My little horse seemed to understand that something grave had occurred; for, weary as she must have been, she set out with a will once more over that great red level. Hilda pedalled bravely by my side. The road was bumpy, but she was well accustomed to it. I could have ridden faster than she went, for the baby weighted her. Still, we rode for dear life. It was a grim experience.

  All round, by this time, the horizon was dim with clouds of black smoke which went up from burning farms and plundered homesteads. The smoke did not rise high; it hung sullenly over the hot plain in long smouldering masses, like the smoke of steamers on foggy days in England. The sun was nearing the horizon; his slant red rays lighted up the red plain, the red sand, the brown-red grasses, with a murky, spectral glow of crimson. After those red pools of blood, this universal burst of redness appalled one. It seemed as though all nature had conspired in one unholy league with the Matabele. We rode on without a word. The red sky grew redder.

  “They may have sacked Salisbury!” I exclaimed at last, looking out towards the brand-new town.

  “I doubt it,” Hilda answered. Her very doubt reassured me.

  We began to mount a long slope. Hilda pedalled with difficulty. Not a sound was heard save the light fall of my pony’s feet on the soft new road, and the shrill cry of the cicalas. Then, suddenly, we started. What was that noise in our rear? Once, twice, it rang out. The loud ping of a rifle!

  Looking behind us, we saw eight or ten mounted Matabele! Stalwart warriors they were—half naked, and riding stolen horses. They were coming our way! They had seen us! They were pursuing us!

  “Put on all speed!” I cried, in my agony. “Hilda, can you manage it?” She pedalled with a will. But, as we mounted the slope, I saw they were gaining upon us. A few hundred yards were all our start. They had the descent of the opposite hill as yet in their favour.

  One man, astride on a better horse than the rest, galloped on in front and came within range of us. He had a rifle in his hand, he pointed it twice, and covered us. But he did not shoot. Hilda gave a cry of relief. “Don’t you see?” she exclaimed. “It is Oom Jan Willem’s rifle! That was their last cartridge. They have no more ammunition.”

  I saw she was probably right; for Klaas was out of cartridges, and was waiting for my new stock to arrive from England. If that were correct, they must get near enough to attack us with assegais. They are more dangerous so. I remembered what an old Boer had said to me at Buluwayo: “The Zulu with his assegai is an enemy to be feared; with a gun, he is a bungler.”

  We pounded on up the hill. It was deadly work, with those brutes at our heels. The child on Hilda’s arm was visibly wearying her. It kept on whining. “Hilda,” I cried, “that baby will lose your life! You cannot go on carrying it.”

  She turned to me with a flash of her eyes. “What! You are a man,” she broke out, “and you ask a woman to save her life by abandoning a baby! Hubert, you shame me!”

  I felt she was right. If she had been capable of giving it up, she would not have been Hilda. There was but one other way left.

  “Then you must take the pony,” I called out, “and let me have the bicycle!”

  “You couldn’t ride it,” she called back. “It is a woman’s machine, remember.”

  “Yes, I could,” I replied, without slowing. “It is not much too short; and I can bend my knees a bit. Quick, quick! No words! Do as I tell you!”

  She hesitated a second. The child’s weight distressed her. “We should lose time in changing,” she answered, at last, doubtful but still pedalling, though my hand was on the rein, ready to pull up the pony.

  “Not if we manage it right. Obey orders! The moment I say ‘Halt,’ I shall slacken my mare’s pace. When you see me leave the saddle, jump off instantly, you, and mount her! I will catch the machine before it falls. Are you ready? Halt, then!”

  She obeyed the word without one second’s delay. I slipped off, held the bridle, caught the bicycle, and led it instantaneously. Then I ran beside the pony—bridle in one hand, machine in the other—till Hilda had sprung with a light bound into the stirrup. At that, a little leap, and I mounted the bicycle. It was all done nimbly, in less time than the telling takes, for we are both of us naturally quick in our movements. Hilda rode like a man, astride—her short, bicycling skirt, unobtrusively divided in front and at the back, made this easily possible. Looking behind me with a hasty glance, I could see that the savages, taken aback, had reined in to deliberate at our unwonted evolution. I feel sure that the novelty of the iron horse, with a woman riding it, played not a little on their superstitious fears; they suspected, no doubt, this was some ingenious new engine of war devised against them by the unaccountable white man; it might go off unexpectedly in their faces at any moment. Most of them, I observed, as they halted, carried on their backs black ox-hide shields, interlaced with white thongs; they were armed with two or three assegais apiece and a knobkerry.

  Instead of losing time by the change, as it turned out, we had actually gained it. Hilda was able to put on my sorrel to her full pace, which I had not dared to do, for fear of outrunning my companion; the wise little beast, for her part, seemed to rise to the occasion, and to understand that we were pursued; for she stepped out bravely. On the other hand, in spite of the low seat and the short crank of a woman’s machine, I could pedal up the slope with more force than Hilda, for I am a practised hill-climber; so that in both ways we gained, besides having momentarily disconcerted and checked the enemy. Their ponies were tired, and they rode them full tilt with savage recklessness, making them canter up-hill, and so needlessly fatiguing them. The Matabele, indeed, are unused to horses, and manage them but ill. It is as foot soldiers, creeping stealthily through bush or long grass, that they are really formidable. Only one of their mounts was tolerably fresh, the one which had once already almost overtaken us. As we neared the top of the slope, Hilda, glancing behind her, exclaimed, with a sudden thrill, “He is spurting again, Hubert!”

  I drew my revolver and held it in my right hand, using my left for steering. I did not look back; time was far too precious. I set my teeth hard. “Tell me when he draws near enough for a shot,” I said, quietly.

  Hilda only nodded. Being mounted on the mare, she could see behind her more steadily now than I could from the machine; and her eye was tru
stworthy. As for the baby, rocked by the heave and fall of the pony’s withers, it had fallen asleep placidly in the very midst of this terror!

  After a second, I asked once more, with bated breath, “Is he gaining?”

  She looked back. “Yes; gaining.”

  A pause. “And now?”

  “Still gaining. He is poising an assegai.”

  Ten seconds more passed in breathless suspense. The thud of their horses’ hoofs alone told me their nearness. My finger was on the trigger. I awaited the word. “Fire!” she said at last, in a calm, unflinching voice. “He is well within distance.”

  I turned half round and levelled as true as I could at the advancing black man. He rode, nearly naked, showing all his teeth and brandishing his assegai; the long white feathers stuck upright in his hair gave him a wild and terrifying barbaric aspect. It was difficult to preserve one’s balance, keep the way on, and shoot, all at the same time; but, spurred by necessity, I somehow did it. I fired three shots in quick succession. My first bullet missed; my second knocked the man over; my third grazed the horse. With a ringing shriek, the Matabele fell in the road, a black writhing mass; his horse, terrified, dashed back with maddened snorts into the midst of the others. Its plunging disconcerted the whole party for a minute.

  We did not wait to see the rest. Taking advantage of this momentary diversion in our favour, we rode on at full speed to the top of the slope—I never knew before how hard I could pedal—and began to descend at a dash into the opposite hollow.

  The sun had set by this time. There is no twilight in those latitudes. It grew dark at once. We could see now, in the plain all round, where black clouds of smoke had rolled before, one lurid red glare of burning houses, mixed with a sullen haze of tawny light from the columns of prairie fire kindled by the insurgents.