He perched on the scuffed maroon velvet of an antique divan. Du Plessis sat opposite on a high-backed wicker armchair. Only then was she ready to engage him. Her gaze remained intent, cautious.
“The unfortunate Major Cox has caused me great inconvenience,” she sniped.
“I’m sure it’s been very difficult. I am terribly sorry.”
“The police, the questioning, the paperwork, not to mention the loss of rent. And no good for business. Word gets out.”
She was honest, thought Finch.
“I’ll be frank with you Captain … Doctor …”
More frank?
“… I didn’t like Major Cox particularly.”
Her description came in staccato bursts.
“He had weaknesses … A good customer, yes … Pleasant enough … He stayed here at my house three, four occasions over the past eight, nine months … But each time, trouble … Even before all this …”
She raised her hands in exasperation, meaning the war, his murder, both.
Mathilda entered bearing a tray. She set it upon the low coffee table between them – a pewter teapot, strainer, willow pattern cups and saucers, silver spoons, a cut lemon.
“I say, sorry to be a spoilsport,” chirruped Finch. “Would you happen to have any milk?”
Du Plessis rolled her eyes.
“The British and milk. Milk in tea, milk in coffee …”
Mathilda stifled a little chuckle before scuttling off again. The landlady looked up at the picture above the mantelpiece.
“My Louis. We ran a farm. Three hundred head of cattle. Up in the north … on the Orange River. Dead eight years, God rest his soul. Typhoid.”
Finch mumbled a further apology. He thought of the farm at Magersfontein and fiddled awkwardly with Cox’s wristwatch, now strapped to his own arm and which, in lieu of his own defunct timepiece and his dependency on tram and railway schedules, he had decided to borrow. He hoped that Cox wouldn’t have minded.
“Ach … God makes his plans,” said Du Plessis. “We had no sons. No children. Became too much work. The Karoo. It is harsh country. Sold the place and moved down here. A fresh start.”
Finch’s milk arrived in a ridiculously large jug. Du Plessis poured the tea. He thought he caught the flicker of an ironic smile.
“You say Cox was in trouble. What do you mean?”
“If you knew him well, you wouldn’t be asking such a question. I note you didn’t confirm your friendship. “
She was sharp, he thought.
“Often back late and drunk. For a married man, he was very fond of female company … the wrong kind of female company. He knew I was aware of what was going on. But he was a charmer. Could talk his way out of anything.”
“You could be describing half of the entire British officer corps,” quipped Finch. “Not reason enough to get a man killed.”
“That was only the half of it,” she continued. “He was a gambler. I’m sure of it. The second time he stayed. Was here for a week or so in the Winter. Before the fighting started. Two men turned up looking for him. Luckily for Cox, he wasn’t in. These men weren’t on a social visit.”
Finch sipped his tea – rooibos. He was acquiring a taste for it. He wondered whether he could get it in England.
“A few days afterwards, they came around again. Same thing, no Cox. Wanted to come in and wait for him but I said no. Told them he could be hours. They returned later that night, too late, and I told them so. Cox kept quiet. Checked out first thing.”
“You think he owed them money?”
“Who knows. They warned him to ‘stay away’.”
“Stay away from what?”
She shrugged.
“Anyway, just two days ago, Christmas Eve, another man came knocking at my door. Early morning. You could hear the slosh of water, Cox singing to himself while he was shaving. There was no way for me to pretend that he wasn’t in. Cox appeared on the landing in his undershirt with soap on his face and a towel round his shoulders. He looked embarrassed. He said it was all right to let the visitor in.”
“The visitor?”
“A gentleman. I do not know his name.”
“What happened?”
“Invited him up like a long-lost friend. All smiles. Charm itself. Though it was just for public show.”
“How so?”
“Inside there were raised voices. Shouting.”
“You heard it?”
“The whole street would have heard it. I banged on the door and warned them I would call the police.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“I don’t know … Something … Someone …?”
The man had then stormed out of the house, Du Plessis explained. Cox had asked her to tip him off if he showed up again.
“Did he?”
“Yes, about two hours later. He burst right in … right there in the hallway … yelling up the stairs, calling Major Cox a liar. He said he would kill him.”
“He threatened he would kill Cox?”
She nodded. She shrugged.
“One of my other officer guests, the Hampshires, didn’t like his tone. Came down to speak with him. Gave enough time for Cox to run. He climbed out of his window and shinned down the drainpipe. There …”
She turned and pointed out through the rear sash window, beneath the burgundy festoon blind, towards the back garden.
“Disappeared over the back wall in his undershirt. The man—”
“The gent?”
“Ja. He burst right in, charged straight through the kitchen and out of the back door. Gave Mathilda a fright. Went over the wall after him.”
Finch was leaning forward now, elbows on knees, listening with intent.
“Can you describe the man, the gent?”
“I’ve told all this to the police.”
“Please. Indulge me.”
“Why?”
“Because …” he faltered.
“I have told you all that I need to tell. Everything is a matter of record.”
He placed his cup and saucer back on the table, a small theatrical gesture while he gathered his thoughts.
“Are you really here to collect his things?” she asked.
“Actually I am here to do that. I also thought it would help to have someone here to bat for Cox …”
No, too British, too damn colloquial.
“… to show a face on his behalf.”
Her eyes didn’t move from his.
“Captain, I have been running this boarding house for eight years. When you let strangers sleep under your roof you become a good judge of character.”
She gazed some more – the master fisherman, fisherwoman, playing him on the line. She gave a light cough and put her hand to her mouth.
“I believe that you are genuine.”
“Thank you.”
She sipped some tea – the ritual slow, methodical.
“The gentleman? … Top hat. Cane. A rich man. Or one who liked to give the impression of being a rich man. Oh yes. Diamond ring. Very showy. Pin-stripes. Silk cravat. How do you say? … white gaiter on the shoe?”
“Spats?”
“Ja. Spats.”
“The officer from the Hampshires. He can confirm this?
“Lieutenant Compton gave evidence to the police. He returned to the Front that afternoon.”
So the police have this description?
“Of course. The detective. The Jew—”
“Brookman.”
“Ja, Brookman. I told him myself when they turned up to remove Cox’s body.”
You crafty beggar, Brookman. Pinkie Coetzee was merely confirming a description you already held.
“You said there were two men on a previous occasion. They came to warn him off about something?”
“That was a while ago now. Back in, let me think … June, maybe July. One was young, 20s. Decent clothes. Suit. Bowler. Lean. It is hard to remember.”
“His face?”
&
nbsp; She thought for a moment.
“Sort of long nose is all I can say. How would you say it in English? Sneery. No whiskers.”
“And the other?”
“You could not forget him. No. Not at all. A big man. Huge. Like a bear. Older. Dark hair. Clipped beard. Looked strong. Very strong.”
“How about Mathilda? Can she add anything? About the gent in particular?”
“You may speak with her if you wish …”
Mathilda was summoned. Finch stood and asked her to take his place on the divan. It was probably the first time she had ever sat in her mistress’ front parlour, he guessed. Her discomfort was palpable. It was obvious she believed she was in trouble and he tried to allay her fears. He thought it cruel to ask her to recount the discovery of Cox’s body – that would have been recorded in great detail by the police – so he asked her, instead, a few questions about the men chasing Cox.
She corroborated the accounts given by Du Plessis. Finch thanked her sincerely but she couldn’t wriggle away fast enough.
He turned back to Du Plessis.
“Was that the last time you saw Cox?”
“No, he returned that night, the 24th. Crept in quietly. Kept the lights off. I was in bed reading. Heard him move around in his room for about ten minutes or so before he slipped out again. Next day. Christmas morning …”
She let out a sigh.
“Well, you know the rest.”
Finch absorbed the information. He mulled over the details.
“Did you actually see him that night? Are you sure it was him who came back?”
Her brow furrowed.
“You are the first person to ask me that. Now that you mention it, no. No I didn’t… I just assumed.”
‘Assumed’. Finch could imagine Brookman’s reprimand.
“May I see his room?”
Du Plessis set down her teacup and paused. She fixed him again. She had a thespian’s sense of timing.
“Heer Dokter, let me ask you a question.”
It seemed good grace to allow her. He flung open his palms and settled back on the divan.
“How long have you been in South Africa?”
“Two-and-a-half, nearly three months.”
“My Louis, God rest his soul, could trace his lineage in the Cape back over 200 years. French Huguenots. There have been Dutch here since 1652, Portuguese since the 1480s. There have been Europeans in South Africa longer than they have been in the Americas. For some reason, history has never accorded us the same legitimacy.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand—”
“Doctor, you come to my house unannounced. You drink my tea. You are polite. But you poke around. You seem to think that you can just walk in and put everything to right. The British seem very convinced that they can just walk into a stranger’s house and put everything to right.”
Finch felt a flush of anger.
“Madam, that is dangerous talk.”
“Before there were British in my house, there was no danger.”
He bit his lip. She softened a little.
“Doctor, I love this country. If you’ve been here even three months, then I believe that you will have begun to love it too. You, me, we are guests in this ancient land. Please to God, let us not rip it apart.”
Finch wondered if this wasn’t the most sensible thing he’d heard throughout the entire South African crisis.
Now it was his turn. Humility.
“Mevrouw Du Plessis. I thank you for your hospitality and your time. You have been candid with me, I shall be candid with you.”
He took her lead and let the pause hang pregnant.
“The truth is, I did not know Cox that well and warmed to him no more than you did. He was a character, make no mistake, and a decent CO on the whole. I had no idea about his life outside active service other than he’d been in South Africa for a year or so, before the war, a regular rather than a volunteer. He was British, yes, but colonial British, a man who had spent much of his career in India. That is where his family reside.”
She nodded her understanding.
“Admittedly, it is curiosity that has led me to your door because I still find it strange that a man of his position should have met his end in such a sordid manner. Knowing how the authorities work, I imagine they will have been quite officious and not accorded you or your business any great sympathy. And, yes, too, Inspector Brookman thought I might be of assistance when it came to Cox’s personal effects.”
He sat forward again.
“But I am also asking these things to spare myself. Most likely, questions will be asked of me by Cox’s family, his friends, his loved ones. I feel it is only proper that I am apprised of the facts, if only that I might be judicious with them when it comes to administering soothing words.”
Du Plessis stood up and gestured towards the door.
“Please.”
Finch followed. She ushered him into the hall, then up the creaking, rickety staircase with its warped steps and unstable, ornate banister. Onto the landing, much brighter thanks to a skylight, faced four doors. She produced a bunch of keys from her skirt pocket and turned it in the lock of the one with a brass number three screwed to it.
There were two rooms within: a small sitting room with a settee, a low table and a chair; beyond that a bedroom, from which the window opened out, with a large bed, a chest of drawers, a washstand and wardrobe. The suite was airy and cool. Quiet. Pleasant.
That said, it had the standard artefacts familiar to the traveller – cheap framed floral prints, a bookshelf with a few dog-eared volumes, the faint smell of mothballs.
She opened the wardrobe for him. There was not much inside. Two khaki shirts hung from wire hangers, a pair of braces. A drawer yielded underwear and socks. By the washstand were toiletries and shaving tackle. Anything of use to the enquiry, Finch guessed, Brookman’s men would have removed.
Under the wardrobe was an empty kit bag, a bespoke one, more like a carpet bag.
Finch pulled it out and examined it. He turned it this way and that, pawing at every seam, tugging at the linings.
“Something wrong, Heer Dokter?”
“Cox was a man of surprises,” he said.
She shrugged and rolled her eyes.
“Did the police take anything, do you happen to know?”
“Some papers, I think. They were on the desk. There …”
There was nothing on it now bar a blotter and an ink well. In a drawer there were some pencils, a worn guide to Cape Town and a street map. Finch leafed through them. There was nothing of Cox’s.
Mathilda was calling up the stairs. He was clearly detaining her mistress.
“Thank you. I have kept you long enough.”
“If you wish, I can pack what’s left of his things. You can return to collect them. When are you leaving Kaapstad … Cape Town?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You are going back to the Front already?”
“Not directly. First I head to Paarl.”
“Paarl?”
“Conference. Royal Army Medical Corps. I go up to the Front from there. Due back with my unit on the 29th … But I’m not leaving till the afternoon. I could call on my way if that’s convenient. Say two-ish?”
Finch took a last look out of the window. He could see the drainpipe and could imagine portly old Cox huffing his way down it.
“Very good,” she said. “Two, you say?”
He didn’t answer. Something had caught his eye. Brookman’s men weren’t as thorough as the inspector would like to think.
The mantelpiece was not quite flush with the wall. In the crack, something had slipped down. It looked like card, or paper.
Finch took out his penknife and inserted it into the gap.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
She shook her head.
Carefully he eased it out.
It was a slightly creased photographic print – not framed, but within a rough white border �
�� a moodily lit portrait of a brassy-looking woman in a tight bustier and fish-net stockings, sitting astride a dining chair that had been turned round the wrong way. She held a cigarette holder in hands that were gloved to the elbow.
He flipped it over. It was signed, ‘My darling Lenny, Love Vesta x’.
“Vesta …?”
’V’?
“Some kind of singer or dancer. Some kind of harlot.”
He propped it against a candlestick.
She got her door key out, the signal for Finch to leave. He hastened on his way.
“My apologies.”
Down in the hallway he fumbled for a shilling and offered it to her.
“Please. For your trouble.”
Her hands remained by her side. She nodded at a small glazed earthenware pot on the dresser. It stood next to a large carved wooden statuette of a panting and slightly cross-eyed King Charles spaniel which watched lopsidedly over an assortment of knick-knacks.
“For Mathilda.”
Finch deposited the coin. He turned to shake Du Plessis’s hand.
“Until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
Back outside, the sun was blinding. Once through the gate onto the dusty street, Finch examined Cox’s wristwatch again, hoping that he had understood the instructions from his bellboy about which trams went where and at what hour.
By the tram stop, to ease his stiff knee, Finch leaned a hand on a telegraph pole and gave it some cautionary exercise, gently easing his leg back and forth.
He was not a great believer in fate but in this case made an exception. There, posted right in front of him, was a bill for a burlesque review at the Gaiety Theatre. At the top, in bold case, above an assortment of comedians, singers, jugglers and novelty acts were the words ‘Vesta Lane’.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Nama dead were buried within the rocky corral. Again the ground was unyielding, but this time the men were undaunted in their digging. It was an act of catharsis as much as tribute.
Mbutu hacked at the ground with a flat stone. His fingers bled but he did not care.
Though the Nama do not say it, Mbutu you are a curse.
This time the fallen were given separate graves. They were aligned east–west, laid next to each other so that the dead would face the rising sun. The plight of the Nama dictated that things should be done speedily. Already the bodies had been bound in white cloth – excess material ripped from the petticoats of the women’s voluminous skirts.
No Ordinary Killing Page 15
