EVERYONE SEEMED TO be in the Supreme Court on the balmy summer’s afternoon when Archibald Meredith Bradshaw, aged 56, of 19 Kitchener Row, Bullerton, Trekkersburg, was sentenced to death for the murder of Edward “Bonzo” Hookham, aged 55, of Forge Cottage, Little Bowerby, Hampshire, England.
The Widow Fourie was there, sitting in the front row of the public gallery on the side reserved for whites, and she caught Kramer’s eye with an understanding look as Mr. Justice Willoughby-Evans, an Oxford Blue, began to intone the formula.
Archibald Meredith Bradshaw, the sentence of the Court is
Miriam Zondi was there, seated in the middle of the public gallery on the side reserved for non-whites, and gazing proudly at her husband, who had just received a special commendation in the judge’s speech for the assistance he had given the arresting officer. Zondi, squirming a little on the wooden bench beside the Lieutenant, kept his eyes averted in embarrassment.
you shall be taken back
Colonel Muller was there, hunched forward in the disused jury box, watching Bradshaw’s face with a curious sort of satisfaction, for all the world as though his bachelor days were numbered. It was already known there would be no appeal.
to the place of custody whence you came
Three former members of the French Resistance were there, having been flown out specially to confirm beyond any reasonable doubt that the prisoner in the dock was the selfsame bullnecked, toadying airman glimpsed pointing out the “safe house” in Albert where young Alice Hookham had once lived with her family.
and that you from there, on a day to be appointed
Six former prisoners of war were there, also having been flown out, to testify that the prisoner in the dock had not been seen for a month after his return to camp, by which time he claimed to have recovered from his injuries by torture. None of this was essential to the case, but the Attorney-General had left such a show trial required the proper embellishing.
by the State President
The widow of Trigger Stevens was there, having traveled the 6,000 miles at the expense of a British Sunday paper, to see her husband’s name cleared at long last.
shall be brought to a place also appointed by him
Mrs. Sophie Pritchard, the late Alice Hookham’s dearest friend, was also there, having testified that on countless occasions the dead woman had described the coward who had looked up at her bedroom one day, pointed, and then had been led away by a friendly, chattering group of Gestapo officers.
and that there you be hanged by the neck
Classina Marie Baksteen was there, loving every minute of it. A busty girl with frizzy hair sat beside her balding fiancé.
until you are dead
“Thank you, my lord,” said the prisoner.
Oddly enough, Dr. Christian Strydom and Sergeant Van Rensburg were not there. Kramer found them engrossed in a corner of the post-mortem room at the mortuary when he called in just after five. They had scores of test-tubes, flasks, beakers and lengths of glass tubing arranged about them, and were communicating in pleased little grunts.
“My God,” said Kramer, stopping short. “What is this? Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”
“Ah, Tromp!” said Strydom, turning round with a test-tube of blood in his hand. “You’ve solved the one with the keys?”
“No, I’ve just been in court to hear your friend the jolly green giant being sent for the chop.”
“Oh,” said Strydom. “Was that today?”
“Shall we show him, Doc?” whispered Van Rensburg.
“Show me what?” asked Kramer.
“What we can do with our extract of slime,” replied Van Rensburg, proudly. “Man, it’s like a miracle! For instance, what color of blood do you think that is in Doc’s hand?”
“Red,” said Kramer.
Van Rensburg frowned. “Ach no! Is it white blood, or is it black blood? If you found that at the scene of a crime, would you know?”
“I’d taste it for purity,” said Kramer, grinning and moving over to the bench where they were working. “Is this what all those bloody snails were for?”
“Let me show you!” enthused Van Rensburg. “It’s a question of a protein action, hey? You just put a drop of our extract in the sample, and then it precip—er, precipitates according to whether the blood is white or not.”
“Hey, Doc! That’s not bad!”
Strydom flushed slightly. “Not entirely original, I should point out. Pioneer work in this has been done in Port Elizabeth, using the snail Helix—”
“No, don’t start being too scientific with me, please!” begged Kramer, looking round him. “I’m just a layman, remember?”
“Ja, Doc, we must make allowances,” said Van Rensburg.
“Have you lost something, Tromp?”
“Uh huh, an unopened letter I brought in here this morning in the mad rush before court. It’s got ‘air mail’ on it and English stamps.”
“Oh, of course, I picked it up and I’ve been keeping it for you,” said Strydom, fishing the envelope out of his apron pocket. “Where will you be tonight? The farmhouse?”
“Uh huh.”
“Only I’ll be able to give you some results on the Bantu midget job.”
“Fine—well, keep up the good work, hey?” said Kramer from the doorway. “There’s just one thing: what happens if you find a sample of Cape Colored blood? Mixed blood—you know?”
“Yirra!” said Van Rensburg, turning in alarm to his mentor.
Zondi discreetly stayed outside the car, chatting to Nxumalo and sharing a cigarette with him, while Kramer read the letter he had opened with some trepidation.
Dear old Tromp,
Excuse the handwriting, but I’m doing this in the waiting room of Southampton General matern’ty section—need you ask. Tish is having to have special tests or something. She wanted me to let you know how well everything has worked out since we got home, and to pass on her best wishes. You really taught us both a lesson, you know. I never thought I’d get her back—day after day I begged and pleaded with her. I even dragged old Smorgasbord along from the gym to swear blind we hadn’t been having it off in the sauna room. No more of that for me. Not only that but as Trish says, there’s no place like home in the end, and the hell with la dolce vita, matey! By the way, you may be interested to know that I’ve Gone Straight with my new salon. I have my reasons of course. What if a few months from now a very butchy babe is born in Southampton town, screaming for its bottle in Afrikaans? I suppose I’ll have to learn the lingo and in the meantime, old pal, there’s something for you to think about. Many thanks!
Yours sincerely, Jonty Hayes
“Hayes!”
“Yes, Lieutenant?” asked Zondi, coming to the window. “You’re ready to go?”
Kramer nodded, laughing and looking again at the letter, which had a lot between the lines. “Now there’s a typical example of how prejudice doesn’t help in this job,” he said, as Zondi got behind the wheel and started up. “You never stop to think that a poof hairdresser might have a second name, do you?”
“Boss? Have you slipped up somewhere?” Zondi said with concern in his voice. “Is this letter—?”
“No, it was just as well, I suppose,” said Kramer, putting the letter in his pocket for the Widow Fourie to read. “Kwela Village, please, Mickey, through the park, and don’t spare the horses.”