No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (e

  “You have a fanciful mind, Nurse Jones.”

  “Lady Verity. You’re not meant to speak to her. Our ginger friend had you covered, but your dash to Stellenbosch turned him skittish.”

  Finch suddenly felt vulnerable again. If she were right …

  “We can’t hang about here. We’ve got to move.”

  “Again?”

  He grabbed her hand and ushered her back towards the gate.

  “If you’re correct – and I’m not necessarily conceding that point – but if you are right, wouldn’t he be here? Wouldn’t he be lying in wait?”

  “I thought he headed back to Paarl.”

  “I’m no expert, but farm country? I’m betting the vineyards are riddled with paths and backroads.”

  They climbed the steps and hurried back into the sanctuary of the vines. By the water pump they sat and assessed the options. Making contact with Lady Verity was a long shot. She might not be at home. Even if she were, what guarantee was there that he could gain access to her – and alone?

  If they could find the street, Annie explained, she was pretty sure she could identify the residence. It was nearby, she thought, near a church, a small one, white, wooden …

  Cautiously they skirted along the edge of the vineyard. Up high they had a good vantage point. The houses before them reeked of money. They were elegant and beautifully kept with the gardens out front usually behind a wall or high hedge. Generally they were in the Cape style, built low with shuttered windows and a veranda.

  One, its owner presumably in sympathy with the wine region, had fashioned his house after a miniature French chateau. Even the stone looked authentic.

  The air was fresher now. There was the smell of flowers, jasmine … night blooming. Crickets chirped. The peace reminded Finch of his visit to the Mount Nelson. It was only a few days ago but seemed like a lifetime.

  Reaching the end of the street, finding no landmark that caught Annie’s attention, they turned in the other direction, retracing their steps.

  “There!”

  The millionaires’ row was intersected by a street that ran through to what seemed the centre of town. On the corner of the first block, a small steeple poked up.

  “You sure?”

  “Got to be.”

  Finch rooted around in the vines. At the end of each row, the trellises were supported by a stake, cut from a tree branch. He pulled one up and snapped it across his knee, the good one.

  “Here …”

  He gave her the half with the whittled point. The broken end was sharp, splintered.

  “We hug the wall all the way, in the dark. No talking. Any sign of our friend, we withdraw.”

  She nodded.

  “I should go first,” she said. “I know what I’m looking for. Someone needs to keep an eye out behind us.”

  “Very good.”

  They climbed over the fence, Annie wrestling with her skirts, and scrambled down the bank as quietly as they could. They crossed the road to the intersecting street. The road had a pavement and they stuck to it, keeping close to the walls and hedges.

  There were lights on but no pedestrians about. From within open windows they could hear the sounds of gentility – the clinking of cutlery, the tinkle of a piano. Somewhere, someone on a violin was making a hash of a minor scale.

  The church on the corner was not much more than a chapel. There were no lights on. While Finch kept watch, Annie peeked round the corner.

  There was a sudden rustle which startled them. A tabby cat shot across their path.

  “This is it, I’m sure,” she whispered, pointing ahead. “One of these up on the left.”

  To Finch there was no doubt which one. Out the front stood two uniformed members of the Cape Police.

  They crossed the road as discreetly as possible and huddled into a side gateway to a building two doors along.

  There was a metallic clang. From seemingly nowhere a rotund black maid appeared emptying rubbish into a dustbin.

  “Good evening,” whispered Finch.

  “Good evening, mister,” she replied.

  She shrugged, turned and waddled back through a side door.

  “We need to get a move on,” he said.

  But Annie had already gone, striding purposefully.

  “What the hell—?”

  He grabbed her arm to restrain her just as she was turning the corner.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but this is ridiculous. There are two policemen right there. Let’s just…”

  “Shhhhhhh!”

  She pulled herself away but he grabbed her from behind and put his hand over her mouth.

  “Look!”

  There, standing with the two policemen, making small-talk, sharing cigarettes, was the red-headed man. He had his rifle slung over his shoulder. Beyond, his white horse was tethered to railings. There was a peal of laughter at some joke.

  Finch released his grip.

  “Now do you understand?”

  She said nothing. She didn’t have to.

  “Even if we got past them – past him – there’s no way I can just march up and demand an audience with Lady Verity Hancock. It was a stupid idea.”

  “We could pose as a medical deputation.”

  “Look at us.”

  They were both ragged and dirt-covered.

  “How about if we—”

  “Jones, what are you doing?”

  Unseen by the police guards, she crept along, then darted across the front of the adjacent building to where an alleyway ran down the side of the Hancock place. Finch cursed and hurried after her.

  The house was bounded by a wall atop which sat a neatly boxed screen of thick leylandii making for a height in total of about 7–8ft. Spaced along the wall at regular intervals were square, ornamental brick towers; they were flat-topped, crowned with a square slab.

  “I think I’d better do this,” said Finch and did his best to climb up. His knee had other plans.

  “Link for hands,” said Annie.

  “What?”

  “Give me a leg up.”

  He intertwined his fingers. She planted her high-laced boot in his palms and was hoisted up. Crouching, with her head just peeking over, she could see in.

  “There’s grass,” she whispered. “Looks soft.”

  “No, it’s too risky.”

  It was too late. Annie had swung herself up onto the top of the hedge and was suddenly gone.

  Finch could do nothing else but follow. He made a meal of it but he clambered onto the hedge, rolled over and jumped down, tumbling right into her.

  The building was made of a pink-reddish soft stone. They watched from its shadows. The gardens were lush. Even in the gaslight you could see they were an explosion of colour. Across the lawn, in the cobbled courtyard, a shiny black landau waited with two horses champing at their bits being held fast by a valet.

  Then, two black servants emerged from the front doorway and walked to two large, glossy, wooden gates. Slowly they went through the business of bolting them back in position. As they did so, the two Cape policeman were in full view, though the red-haired man was now gone.

  The policemen took their positions either side of the gate in what seemed a set routine. As they did so, deep conversation came from within the house. A white driver appeared. He swung himself up into the box seat. The landau was well sprung, it tilted over.

  Behind emerged two men, one a man in his 60s in top hat and dark suit. He had full grey side whiskers and a rather sour expression. A generous belly strained at his trouser waistband.

  “Sir Frederick Hancock,” whispered Finch.

  A servant opened the door to the landau and lowered a step. A second man, younger, slimmer, similarly dressed, helped him up. He nodded to the driver who twitched a whip and the two blinkered geldings, their tails tied up, began to walk.

  “Quick,” said Finch.

  At ground level there was a window open, the sash halfway up. Chancing that the lack of ligh
t within indicated it was empty, Finch manhandled Annie through. He followed. They could hear the landau squeak and scrape out through the gate. Then the horses picked up speed to a trot.

  “Now,” said Finch, “we just have to hope that his wife is at home.”

  They were in a side room of sorts, one filled with stacked chairs and trestle tables.

  They sneaked to the door. It led straight into the hallway. It was brightly lit with an electric chandelier. The walls were oak-panelled. The floor was made of black and white tiles. There was a Queen Anne divan with light blue upholstery and a round, dark wood table upon which sat a tastefully arranged bowl of fruit.

  The front door closed and the two black servants traipsed back in followed by the valet. Finch and Annie ducked back from view as he came towards their room and pushed open the door.

  “Under here,” urged Finch and they slid beneath the main table which had been draped with a protective sheet.

  The room was also electrically lit. The valet flipped a switch and it was illuminated instantly. He was young and square-jawed and stood looking round the room in the manner of someone who’d forgotten what he had come in for.

  He shrugged, went over to the window, pulled it down closed, then, on his way out, reached for a large ring of keys that he kept on his belt.

  He found the one he was looking for, turned the light off, then began to pull the door closed.

  No.

  Suddenly a voice called out, one of the servants: “Mister Paul. Mister Paul.”

  “What now, Noah?” he groaned.

  He stamped off to supervise his charge.

  Finch and Annie emerged and went to the door. From upstairs they could hear the voice of an Englishwoman instructing a maid – something to do with the bed linen – and the woman insisting that the maid leave whatever it was till the morning.

  There was no one in the hallway.

  “Come on,” said Finch and Annie followed him to dart across the black and white tiles to the swirling patterns of the maroon stair carpet. The impressive staircase doubled back on itself on the way up to the landing. The landing itself had an overabundance of busts, vases, potted plants and feathery leaves.

  Up ahead, at the end of the corridor, a door was ajar.

  “Very good, Christine,” the woman was saying. “Good night.”

  “Good night, ma’am.”

  They squeezed into an alcove and the maid, a young black woman of 17 or 18, hurried past bearing a stack of crisp, folded sheets. She went down the stairs.

  “Is that her?” asked Finch, nodding towards the door.

  Annie signalled a ‘yes’.

  “Right, here we go.”

  They smoothed down their clothes and Finch went and knocked.

  “Come.”

  Finch entered first. The room was some kind of parlour, lit by an overhead electric arrangement of tulip-shaped glass casings. It had a chaise longue and two armchairs, pale blue and Queen Anne, matching the ones downstairs. A gramophone player with its large trumpet stood on a low table. Finch was minded of Jenkins.

  By the window, writing at a desk next to a potted palm, was a middle-aged woman in a white linen blouse and long dark blue skirt. Her chestnut brown hair, with a fleck of grey, was tied up in a bun.

  “Excuse me, Lady Verity?” ventured Finch.

  The woman turned, a look of surprise on her face. Her half-moon spectacles fell and hung on the gold chain around her neck. At her throat was a blue cameo brooch. She had unusual blue, almost violet eyes and clear, lightly tanned skin.

  “Who are you?” she asked and stood up right away.

  Finch guessed her age to be about 45 but she had the athletic physique of someone ten years younger, a horsewoman maybe.

  “And how did you get here?”

  Finch cleared his throat.

  “Please ma’am, it is with urgency that we need to speak with you. I am Captain Ingo Finch of the Royal Army Medical Corps and this—”

  “Nurse Annie Jones of the New South Wales Army Nursing Service Reserve,” added Annie, stepping forward.

  “Christine!”

  Finch made the flapping, palms-down gesture of a man urging another to keep their voice down.

  “Please ma’am, just a moment of your time—”

  “CHRISTINE!” Lady Verity barked again, louder.

  They could hear the patter of feet below.

  “I don’t care who you are .. or what state you’re in …”

  She looked them up and down disapprovingly.

  “… but you can’t just come barging in here like this. If you are on official business then kindly make an appointment.”

  Christine the maid appeared at the door. Lady Verity breezed right past them, trailing a light musk of sandalwood.

  The maid looked concerned.

  “Christine. Tell Paul to inform the police detail that we have intruders.”

  The maid nodded and scuttled off.

  “Now, I kindly ask you to leave, Captain.”

  She motioned to the exit.

  “Please ma’am. Sorry for the interruption,” urged Finch, “but it’s the only way we could speak with you—”

  “I’m warning you.”

  She held the door open for them to leave.

  “It’s about Cox … Major Cox.”

  At mention of the name, Lady Verity’s face slid from its steely resolve. Her violet eyes glistened.

  “Cox?” she asked.

  Finch nodded.

  She turned to the corridor.

  “Christine!”

  They heard a ‘Yes, miss’ from the stairs.

  “My mistake entirely. I’d completely forgotten. The captain and the nurse do have an appointment with me after all.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  “Not a word of this to anyone, you understand? And see that we are not disturbed.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  She shut the door and looked Finch in the eye. Her voice cracked.

  “Go on.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  It was quiet, eerily so for such a large mass of people. All Mbutu could hear around about him was the rasping and wheezing of sleep or the pained gurgling of those for whom slumber was to become permanent. There was the occasional, distant wail. The place stank of death. It was death. Mbutu had noted the pall of smoke from the pyre as they had arrived.

  Mbutu you are a curse.

  He clutched the strange hessian head-sack. The officer-doctor had briefly examined it then tossed it back to him. He wasn’t sure whether the man had given serious thought as to what it might be. Neither had the other man, the blessed Dean Newbold.

  The officer-doctor had not long departed when this other white man came striding towards them. Around his neck was the dog collar of a holy man.

  A Man of God. God left this place a long time ago.

  The man seemed kind, concerned. He was informed of their plight and nodded silently, with furrowed brow. Despite his attempts to be even-handed, to treat the Lord’s children all the same, his immediate concern was for the well-being of the two white females.

  “My poor dears,” he began and took a hand each in his. When the woman did not speak, he grew confused. Little Emily tried to explain but could not get her tongue round the name of village from whence they had come, her description of events thereafter delivered as one would expect of a child her age – not presented in a logical order, glossing over important aspects and with emphasis placed on insignificant details.

  “Four days ago, hunting for food, we came across Mrs Sutton and her daughter Emily,” explained Mbutu. “They have been on the run from great danger.”

  “Sutton?”

  “Yes, Sutton … They are the family of the missionary at Vankilya.”

  “Is this true?”

  The little girl nodded.

  “Then where … how …?”

  Mbutu spared the child. He discreetly shook his head indicating that Missionary Sutton n
o longer walked God’s earth.

  On his knees Newbold embraced them both.

  “Please,” said Mbutu. “I need to show you this.”

  From his bag he withdrew the silver elephant box and handed it over, as he had done previously to the army doctor. Newbold opened it with great curiosity and began leafing through the papers like the captain.

  Mbutu indicated the huddled, sightless men nearby.

  “Something terrible happened in the villages.”

  It was then that he had produced the strange hessian sack again, which Newbold pawed at but with as little regard as the doctor-captain.

  Newbold informed the Suttons that they would be evacuated on the first available wagon. They could have use of his tent for this evening.

  “But Mbutu—” protested Emily.

  “I’m sorry,” said Newbold, lying as nicely as he knew how. “There isn’t much room.”

  Emily had hugged Mbutu, hugged hard. The embrace felt final. He sensed the wetness of her tears on his neck.

  “Do not be afraid my child, you are safe now. Mister Newbold, he knew your father. He is a missionary also. He will take care of you.”

  The woman gave a faint trace of a nod.

  “Thank you for what you have done … what all of you have done,” said Newbold.

  “May I keep this?” he added of the elephant box now under his arm.

  “It is not mine. It is theirs.”

  And with that, Newbold put his arm round the Suttons and led them away.

  * * *

  That was some hours ago. It was dark now, getting cold, the heat of the day evaporating fast into the cloudless night with its breathtaking splash of stars and the great Southern Cross constellation shining down on them.

  Though every fibre in his being screamed exhaustion, Mbutu’s mind was too active for easy sleep.

  He did not feel safe with the hessian head-sack in his possession. It was evidence of some act of evil.

  Devil soldiers.

  He took it out of his bag again, wandered past and over bodies to where the camp reached its natural limit. On his knees, and with his bare hands, he scooped out soil.

  It had blindsided him, but as he patted the last handful down, searching for a mental marker should he wish to retrieve the object, a hurricane lamp came swinging towards him.