Here, in an airless room, lay a sorry mess of British injured – forlorn wretches whose greatest misfortune was having been allowed to live.
He and his black brethren had helped carry the rank and bleeding victims to waiting carts which would transport them on to the railway line and the hospital in Bloemfontein.
The Boers were not like the British. It was hard to tell who was in charge. No obvious ranks, no deference. Although there was a younger officer – smart, well-dressed, horse well-groomed – who was clearly taking umbrage with the command of a revered greybeard, a man Mbutu had heard whisper who was close to Oom Kruger himself.
The greybeard ordered his men to fire volleys of their rifles into the air in order, it appeared, to simulate an execution of the British wounded.
The British, he assured, would rise to the bait. They would seek revenge; they would make accusations of atrocity without proof and then conduct slaughter of their own in reprisal – bringing international condemnation, galvanising further the Boer Republics.
The younger officer, a captain, argued, and with some force, that such an act was immoral; that he, himself, had given his word to the British that their wounded would be cared for; that to employ such dishonourable tactics would only give licence to barbarity, endangering the lives of their own women and children. But the greybeard won out, and the charade began.
Soon after the wounded had been packed off, one of the blacks gave out a shriek of horror. Boers came running. Blacks came running. Behind a woodpile, placed there in hiding, were two bodies – the corpses of British soldiers, their faces leering, their throats crudely slit. One, a large individual, had been stripped of his uniform. The other, smaller, was a lance corporal, denoted by a single chevron on his sleeve. But these were not battle troops. They were too neat, too clean. Around the arm of the smaller man was a dark blue band, the red letters ‘MFP’.
By the evening, Mbutu was becoming conspicuous. Questions were being asked by his own black brothers. Where was he at the battle on the Modder River? Why did no one recall him digging the defensive trenches? A lone Basuto with no Boer master? One who spoke fluent English?
The Boer army was fragmenting as it pushed south after the British rearguard. Mbutu’s duty was to his wife and child. Once more he ran.
* * *
There was a murmur as the information was picked over. Mbutu did not tell them about the lieutenant he had escorted into the wild, certainly not about the money, and was careful not to betray any overt sympathy to the British cause in case their loyalties lay the other way – though he suspected indifference.
He simply told them of his displacement, moreover of his burning desire to be reunited with his family – a fact, once translated, that brought sympathy from the women.
A middle-aged man asked something.
“Does not explain how you came to be here,” repeated Hendrik.
Mbutu enlightened them. They knew of the railway. They seemed to believe him. He expressed his gratitude. He owed them his life.
It was not over.
“And … the devil soldiers?” asked Hendrik. “You have not seen them?”
“Devil soldiers?”
He had not, he said.
A whisper went around.
“Could he ask them a question?” Mbutu added.
It was translated. More murmuring. Hendrik shrugged a ‘go ahead’.
“What has led you here? Out in the middle of the Karoo … the middle of nowhere?”
Hendrik took it upon himself to answer, as if it were too painful for general discussion.
“We come. Villages. Northwest,” he faltered. “We are peaceful people.”
He cast his eyes down.
“But then war came.”
The words hung.
“Men, women, children …”
Even with no direct understanding, it was obvious to the audience what was being said. Some of the women began to wail, a horrible, visceral animal outpouring of grief. A baby started to cry.
“It is the season of Christmas,” added Hendrik.
It was. He had forgotten.
“We sing to Jesus.”
There was more murmuring. Then the crone was on her feet again, screeching, pointing, jabbing at Mbutu. The rabble was roused, rising to add its abuse to hers.
Hendrik nodded to the men holding Mbutu. He felt the barrel hard against his back and, for the first time, the cold sharp blade of a spear at his side – just like the Lord.
The end, after all.
But then Hendrik smiled.
“The old woman … she says you can stay.”
Thank you Lord. Thank you Jesus.
“You sleep. Rest. In the morning, you work.”
Chapter Twelve
The detective allowed Finch to return to his room to dress properly. When he came downstairs again, the bellboy was waiting with black coffee, performing a fawning quasi-bow as he proffered the cup and saucer.
Finch took a few sips of the bitter brew. In the Cape they drank their coffee like nowhere else. He went through the charade of patting empty pockets to indicate that the tip would have to be deferred.
He stepped outside. It was cool but the sun was rising. After the tumult of the night, the only sound now was the squawk of seagulls.
Inspector Brookman stood on the pavement, gaze fixed on nothing in particular, hands clasped behind his back.
Finch gave a courteous cough and Brookman turned around. He had a kind, avuncular face, though his penetrating stare gave the sensation that he was privy to one’s innermost thoughts.
After a cursory enquiry as to Finch’s well-being and the comfort of his lodgings, he got to the matter in hand, his speech, a calm, softly-accented South African English, belying his decisiveness. The police mortuary was half a mile away, he said, a few blocks off Strand Street and around the corner from the police station proper. They must go there. At this hour, the quickest way was to walk.
Finch’s knee was giving him gyp again. Last night’s hike had been undertaken without the clarity of sound judgement. But Brookman had already turned on his heel, striding purposefully. Finch tried to keep up.
“A British officer has been killed,” he began. “Killed, it would appear, unlawfully … Body deposited on the stoep of the victim’s guest house. Was discovered by the maid just after four – about two hours ago – as she was getting up to start the chores, preparing breakfast.”
Finch was still trying to process the fact that he was in Cape Town, that it was Christmas Day, he was hungover and not in the filth of a battlefield.
“You said unlawful killing?”
“Yes sir,” said Brookman. “Foul play, no question. This wasn’t a drunk choking on his own vomit, a stroke, a heart attack or anything like that. Not that we haven’t had a few of those in our time amongst gentlemen revellers …”
He cast Finch a glance
“… and in some unfortunate establishments.”
Christ, his knee hurt.
“Foul play?”
“The police surgeon will tell you more.”
Finch hobbled on.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but if you have a police surgeon, why do you need me? I assumed—”
They were crossing Adderley Street again. A lone horse cart clopped along, the African driver hunched, almost asleep.
“Assumption is our enemy, Captain Finch,” said Brookman. “Be vigilant. Regard only the facts. The fact is the Cape Constabulary is hard pushed to maintain law and order.”
He gestured, without breaking stride, to the smashed plate glass window of a hardware store.
“Fifty thousand troops passing through Cape Town in the last week alone. The uitlanders flooding in from Jo’burg. To make things worse, units of the Cape Police are now being seconded on a paramilitary basis.”
It was true. Police had been in the ranks at Magersfontein. They were de facto soldiers, right down to the khaki uniforms.
“Few us left to a
ctually beat the streets. On top of that we’ve got the Cape Dutch. Two-thirds of the Cape Colony are Afrikaner, don’t forget. Old Kruger’s been rattling the cage. Personally, I think it’d only be a minority who’d revolt. The living’s been good. But we’re not equipped to put down an insurrection … And then there’s the Coloureds.”
“The Coloureds?”
“Talk of arms being passed around, bought on the black market. Fearing civil breakdown.”
Brookman came to his point.
“Special orders have come into play. It’s the Cape Constabulary’s prerogative to hand any case involving military personnel over to the army authorities. Given this is a British officer we’re talking about … the deceased … we’re passing him over to the jurisdiction of the Military Foot Police. There’s an MFP officer on his way over now. Here we are …”
Across the street stood a two-storey stone building with high gables and steps up to the entrance. A Union Jack hung over them. There was a constable outside.
“And me?” said Finch.
Brookman nodded at the policeman who held open the door.
“For us to wrap this up, to hand over the authority, the coroner requires the signature of an officer from the Royal Army Medical Corps.”
Finch gave a snort. This was a pretty swift piece of hand-washing.
“Believe me, 35 years a copper, the last thing I want to do is to pass up a collar. But it’s the most prudent allocation of resources. We’ll co-operate with any leads. Do all we can to bring the perpetrators to book who – if my instincts serve – stand a good chance of being military anyway.”
The interior was cool. They stood in the hallway while a policeman on the desk was dispatched through double doors. Finch did not know what to make of Brookman’s last point.
“Got your name off the passenger manifests at the railway station,” the detective added.
On the desk stood a candlestick telephone. The speed with which information could now be transmitted was perplexing to all but the young. In shiny mahogany with a brass dial and cradle, the earpiece hooked onto it, the wood of the contraption was waxed to a healthy sheen.
“They’re up to their necks at the Military Hospital. Was sheer chance that you were the one closest to the police station.”
Brookman threw Finch a knowing smirk.
“Well, the one closest to us that had the misfortune to answer his door at dawn on Christmas Day.”
Finch cursed to himself.
“Shan’t keep you long, sir.”
The desk officer reappeared.
“He’s just coming, sir.”
Behind the constable followed a small, thin, stooped bald man wearing a waxed apron, his shirtsleeves rolled up, trailing a waft of chemicals.
“Stephen Krajicek, Deputy Coroner,” he declared, briskly and cheerily, almost birdlike, pronouncing his name ‘Cry-Check’.
He shook hands with Finch. Finch worried that he’d snap his fingers.
“Right you are, sir. If you wouldn’t mind coming this way.”
Judging by his enthusiasm, Finch got the impression that a cadaver on Christmas morning was the best kind of present Krajicek could have wished for.
Through the doors they entered a tiled room with narrow vented windows up high, the space brightly lit by an electric ceiling bulb which exuded a low hum. The stone floor had gullies crossing it and a drain cut into the middle, into which gurgled a slow whirlpool of blood.
There were two stainless steel tables. On each lay a body completely covered with a sheet, the nearest one stained a dark red about the abdomen, the farthest unmarked. Sad, cold feet poked out. Each corpse had a paper label tied around a big toe.
A young assistant fiddling with a tray of gleaming medical implements turned and nodded a hello. Krajicek motioned for the assistant to bring over a clipboard.
“Formality, sir. What we’ll need is a signature … here, here and here,” he pointed. “All you need to do is to confirm the description given – male, forties, colouring, approximate weight …”
The assistant moved to the head of the furthest table.
“If you wouldn’t mind, sir,” said the young man to Finch, extending a palm to direct him.
Finch moved past the first table and its bloodied corpse – “Knife fight,” chirruped Krajicek – and took his place at the second, while the assistant did the honours, pulling the sheet back slowly and delicately to reveal a head and bare shoulders.
Finch had seen enough corpses, enough mangled bodies over the previous two months for one more not to bother him. But this one did. Not for its appearance – a purple hue to the face, blue around encrusted lips – but because of its identity; its brown hair, waxed moustache and round, chubby features …
Major Cox.
Chapter Thirteen
The red light of dawn had just begun to seep over the eastern horizon when Mbutu was woken by Hendrik shaking his shoulder.
Mbutu was uncomfortable and aching. He had no blanket or cover, merely his jacket to pull round him; his pillow was a clump of coarse grass. His hips hurt from the hard ground, his sleep fitful. And he was cold.
“Come,” said Hendrik. Mbutu was handed a rough earthenware bowl containing a few sips of a thin, rank, meaty broth.
One of the women signalled to a pot of water and he drank a rationed draught straight from the ladle. It tasted fresh. There must be a source.
Others were stirring. There was a small knot of men – five or six – who sat cross-legged and motionless while one of the women went between them, dabbing their eyes with a damp cloth. Their gazes were fixed, unreactive … apparently sightless.
Hendrik gathered Mbutu and four of the fittest men.
“What happened to …?” Mbutu began, pointing back.
But Hendrik had no time. He said it again: “Come.” They scrambled over the rocks down onto the plain. It no longer carried the menace of night.
There was a dot out in the sea of sagebrush that grew larger. Another man was running back towards them, bounding through the scrub. When he reached them, his words flowed in an excited, furious torrent of clicks.
The men entered into hurried discussion.
“Eland,” Hendrik translated.
“Vleis … Flesh,” one of the others added for Mbutu’s benefit, his face scrunched, searching for the words.
His name, he learned, was Stefaan.
Mbutu was handed a spear, as if all men of colour would be familiar with its usage.
The shaft was made from an extremely light wood. The long, thin tip bound to it was a piece of chiselled flint. He flicked the edge with his thumb. It was razor sharp. It was a precision instrument, even if improvised.
Stefaan turned and they followed. Mbutu went to speak but Hendrik pressed a finger to his own lips.
Mbutu had earned a living as a runner, but even he was having trouble keeping pace as these slight men seemingly glided across the desert scrub with long, loping strides. Unlike Mbutu they were shoeless, the hard, stony ground no inconvenience.
The Nama had long ceased to be pure hunter-gatherers but there was something innate, instinctive, about their survivalist efficiency.
Ahead lay a cluster of aloes … quiver trees. Crouched behind one was another man. He pointed. Up ahead was a small herd of eland – large antelopes – nibbling on thorn scrub.
The man made some hand signals and the others fanned out, ducking down, keeping low. There was a light breeze. Slowly, from downwind, they closed in, spears raised.
With the sun now rising, bathing everything a brilliant orange, they were close enough for Mbutu to see the detail – the fine, light-brown coats; the spiralled antlers; the big brown, almost liquid eyes; the languorously swishing tails. They were beautiful creatures. Six of them. You could hear their jaws chomping.
Though the men had moved with incredible stealth, it had not been enough. One of the beasts stopped, raised its head and pricked its ears. The others stood still, senses primed.
<
br /> Another signal and, suddenly, Stefaan was sprinting towards the closest eland, his arm pulled back ready to throw.
But it was too late. With a scramble of hooves, the eland bounded away. The spear, though launched an impressive distance and with some force, crashed harmlessly short. The others committed a hasty, ineffective follow-up volley.
There was chatter, the men dissecting their failure as they wandered out to retrieve their weapons.
Mbutu asked Hendrik why they didn’t use their guns. They had limited ammunition, he replied. It was reserved for their own protection. Plus the spears had served them well thus far.
Mbutu. You bring bad luck wherever you go.
As the sun’s rays kissed the land, a fine mist began swirling between the scrub and the aloes. For Mbutu it was strange, unearthly. It looked as if the ground were smoking after a fire.
“Come,” said Hendrik again, and they retreated to the trees.
* * *
They were in the bush for several hours, chasing shadows, having advanced maybe three or four miles beyond their camp. At night, Mbutu had still been able to hear the faint and periodic blast of a train’s whistle, but out here he was beyond civilisation. His civilisation.
Mbutu, you must get to Beaufort West.
When the sun was up fully, the ground became a carpet of yellow from the opening flowers of the wild pomegranate. The mist burnt away to be replaced by a shimmering haze.
Through it, they could see more buck – springbok and gemsbok; later, a herd of zebra – but the haze played tricks, distorting the distance. It was not going to be their day.
The breeze eased off. By mid-morning, the land grew unbearably hot and they had roamed far enough. They rested in the shade of more quiver trees, then turned their attention to snaring rabbits, which they did far more successfully, though without a big kill to sate their pride. A small pouch of biltong was passed around and water sipped from containers made from ostrich eggs. Taking turns on watch, they slept through midday.
Later, as the sun began its descent and they were walking in file back towards their camp, the lead man raised his hand, a sign for them to stop.
No Ordinary Killing Page 7
