Darinda left Anthony’s bungalow and walked along the path back toward Government House. Twilight deepened, bringing out faint noises of the wild. Arcilla might make disparaging remarks about the pistol she wore, but with dangers from animals and poisonous snakes, along with rumors of unrest among the Ndebele, Darinda felt it wise to be armed. It gave her a sense of independence. After frightening chatter from Arcilla and warnings from Parnell, the pistol was comforting.
Who had Anthony gone to meet? He’d left after their argument, and she’d thought he was on his way to see Parnell, yet that couldn’t have been, since Parnell had come to the bungalow looking for him. Maybe Anthony had gone back to Government House to confront Julien? But somehow she didn’t think Anthony would confront Grandfather. Julien had always told Anthony what to do, and she didn’t think that had changed, even if the high commissioner had sent Anthony here with a letter for Julien.
Darinda slowed her steps on the trail, listening. The breeze was up, and she brushed a strand of her dark hair away from her cheek and glanced about. Her instincts were on edge. That silly Arcilla! She was beginning to affect even Darinda’s own steady nerves. I wish she and Peter would be sent back to London. Arcilla is an embarrassment to womanhood. Giggling, primping, fainting, screaming, always dressing improperly. Silks and lace, and the absurd shoes she’d worn tonight, obviously designed for a ball. Whatever did Peter, a sensible man, see in her?
Diamonds. Arcilla was a Chantry, and that meant a sizable inheritance in the family diamond mine.
Darinda thought of her own inheritance. She was by far the greatest of diamond heiresses. Whoever married her would become tremendously rich and politically powerful. Did Parnell actually think Grandfather Julien was seriously dangling her before his eyes? Grandfather wouldn’t give his granddaughter in marriage to any man unless he had something to offer in return that her grandfather felt was crucial to the family conglomerate. Grandfather had gained influence in Parliament through Peter’s marriage to Arcilla.
It didn’t seem to her that Grandfather was actually planning to have her become Parnell’s wife. Parnell had the impression that Grandfather had promised her to him, and so Parnell was serving him dutifully. Julien best utilized Parnell by continuing to let him think Darinda would become his without ever following through.
Darinda would have been outraged by this, except that Parnell’s avid interest in her had not been based on love. The one man Grandfather might have wanted to let her marry was Rogan Chantry, and mostly because Rogan always contested him and in many instances had gotten the best of him. Grandfather Julien would have been pleased to get Rogan on his side, but Rogan had surprised them by returning suddenly to England and marrying the illegitimate daughter of Katie van Buren and Anthony Brewster. Oh! How furious Grandfather had been about that turn of events!
“He did this behind my back,” he had shouted. “It will never stand! I’ll see to that.”
What her Grandfather had meant, she didn’t know. But Julien had seen the marriage as a cunning move on Rogan’s part to undermine his control.
The last rosy flush of sunset in the western sky was turning the polished rock of the distant, brooding Matopos Hills to a marbled pink.
She walked slowly along the path with a dark stand of trees on her right.
She shuddered when a bat, noiseless in flight, swooped and flittered past the Rhodesian wisteria. Now in October, the lilac-blue flowers were in bloom in a showy display, while the tree was leafless. She paused to take it in, for she had always loved nature.
She passed on, nearing a wait-a-bit tree, of which there were many across the land, with what she considered curious hooked clutching thorns. The multistemmed branches drooped with hairy leaves that had two thorns. It was the thorns that caught her interest—one thorn went straight up, while the other thorn was curved, coming up from the leaf base. There were fruits on it too, round and dull red. They were edible, and some animals liked to browse on them, but she hadn’t found their taste particularly exciting. Derwent Brown was often suggesting that “the Great Creator designed all these things for His glory and the good of His creatures.” Darinda wondered. She hadn’t been raised to believe in a good and loving God who had concern for His creation. She didn’t know what she believed, actually. She had never read the Bible that Dr. Jakob van Buren taught at his mission. She had prayed several times in her life, though she had no clear concept of to whom she was speaking.
She studied the thorns again. Derwent had said a crown of thorns was mockingly placed on Jesus’s brow. He called Him the Savior of mankind. Just what had Jesus come to save mankind from? Derwent had said sin. Well, there is plenty of that to go around, Darinda thought wearily.
The sun was now behind the Matopos, and the reddish horizon shone behind a handful of rose pink clouds. A lone planet that was as yet no more than a polished silver gleam caught her eye.
It was a pleasant evening, breezy and yet quite still of sounds. She glanced down, seeing something odd from the corner of her eye. What was that lying there all sprawled out—
She gasped. Just off the beaten pathway was what looked very much like a body lying in the tall, swaying grasses. Were her eyes deceiving her? It could be a dead or wounded animal from the creek below.
Yes, that’s what it must be. An animal.
She moved forward cautiously, aware that it could still be alive and dangerous in an injured state. She might need to put it out of its misery. She couldn’t stand to see helpless animals suffer.
She drew her pistol. Her heart was beating heavily. It was unnerving to discover she’d been standing so near something sprawled in the grass. It was like discovering someone watching you when you’d thought you were alone.
Darinda approached with her pistol drawn. She could see better now. Her mouth went dry. It was a human body, a man, and he wasn’t moving.
She approached, still wary, lest it be some sort of deception.
She studied the body from a safe distance and sensed the man was dead—it was Anthony Brewster.
She rushed to where he lay, hoping against reason that he could still be alive, that she could do something, when footsteps on the path caught her attention.
She turned to see Captain Ryan Retford in uniform. He was walking toward her and must have caught sight of the body near her feet. He came swiftly. He saw the pistol in her hand, looked at her, then down at Anthony Brewster.
“Don’t touch anything, Miss Bley. And don’t step in or disturb any scuff marks in the dust.”
He stooped beside the body, appearing to take in the scene.
“Did you hear or see anyone as you approached?”
“No.” Her voice sounded ragged. A touch of shock was gripping her.
A few moments later he stood again and faced her grimly. Captain Retford was quite handsome and very precise. He hadn’t discovered that it was she who had recommended him, first as Peter’s assistant in military affairs, then more recently as assistant to her grandfather. She had first noticed Ryan on a trip to Capetown to see Arcilla, and had later used her position with her grandfather to gain access to his records.
His reputation as a soldier was impeccable; his schooling was traditional at the Honorable East India Company’s Military College in Addiscombe. He had served with honor and received a brevet for courage in the fighting in the Sudan. If he had come from a family of distinction, or had wealth, she could easily interest herself in him. As it was, he was merely a career military attaché from a poor family. His father had been killed in the Sudan, and he had a mother and sister in London who were making ends meet, partly on his wages. His generosity for them showed admirable responsibility, nothing more.
She had also learned within the last month that there was a girl he was writing to, and who in turn wrote him, a girl by the name of Ann Parker.
He looked at the pistol in her hand. His eyes, she knew, were a flinty blue, his hair a sandy color. He was muscular and browned.
“It—the gun is mine. I wasn’t sure it was safe to approach him.” She looked to the ground, where the hand was thrust forward. A wave of remorse for the harsh words she’d spoken earlier to Anthony washed over her.
“He was alive just a very short while ago, and now suddenly he’s dead.”
The reality of the brevity of life was glaring, painfully so.
Captain Retford gave a nod. “You can put that gun away now, Miss Bley,” came his quiet voice.
She tightened her lips. Her gaze sprang to his, searching. “You don’t think that I—” Under his level gaze she bit her lip and dropped her eyes first to Anthony, then to the gun in her hand.
“He didn’t die from a bullet wound. And see those marks in the dirt? Looks to me like he was dragged here after he died.”
She glanced about in the last vestige of twilight. “Can you tell how he was killed?”
“Concussion, at the back of his skull.”
She didn’t move. She tried to steady her breathing from coming in gasps. She envisioned someone creeping up from behind with a heavy club.
“Then … he was taken by surprise.”
“Where were you coming from just now?”
Darinda realized how suspicious it would sound—“From his bungalow.” She turned and looked back toward the circle of bungalows, pointing, though in the settling shadows they could just make out the outline of the huts.
“I have witnesses. I was with Arcilla—Mrs. Peter Bartley. Parnell Chantry was there too. I just left them about ten minutes ago.”
“They must still be there. A lamp’s just been lit.”
Darinda saw the yellow light flickering wholesomely in the front windows.
“Did you hear anything as you came along the path, Miss Bley?”
“Just the sounds of evening coming on, and the wind.”
He nodded thoughtfully, glancing about. “I didn’t think you would hear anything. Whoever did this has probably been gone for a while. Lord Brewster’s been dead a good hour.”
“How would you know that?” Her voice was strained. She kept thinking of when she’d met Anthony—and where they had argued.
He glanced at her thoughtfully. She had the notion he was weighing her emotional stability.
“Ants,” he stated simply.
He need not have said any more. She gritted her teeth to keep from giving away her shock. Why it seemed important to her that Captain Ryan Retford thought her strong, unlike Arcilla, she couldn’t say. Perhaps she dare not think why it mattered.
“Let’s step away from here,” he said, and she passed before him onto the dusty path. She walked a few feet and stopped, looking off toward the bungalows. Captain Retford came up behind her.
She placed her palm against her forehead and shook her head again.
“It’s so awful, isn’t it, Captain? Two deaths in a week. Do you think they could be related?”
He appeared to regard her calmly. “What makes you ask that, Miss Bley?”
She shook her head, looking about for answers in the breezy darkness. “Doesn’t it seem obvious?”
“Perhaps it is. Major Tom Willet, you’re talking about?”
“Yes. A nice man. A gentle man. He had a family.”
“Yes. My sister is a friend of his wife.”
He seemed curious as he looked at her. Did he wonder how she knew about Major Tom Willet?
He was looking at her with the same military grimness she so often noticed on his face, a mental attitude of calm discipline that she found somehow comforting, so different from Parnell’s emotional upsets. The captain seemed to be a man who could handle crises with cool resolve. In that, he reminded her of Rogan. She had liked that about Rogan. Rogan didn’t need a drink for his courage. She had never seen Captain Retford with liquor, either. Even on his time off from duty he seemed to stay alert. Was it true what Arcilla said? That on his time off he’d gone to Dr. Jakob’s mission?
“Who could have wanted to kill Anthony?” she wondered aloud.
“The authorities will sort through the facts on that, Miss Bley. But there were no trumpets blown at Government House in celebration of Lord Brewster’s unexpected arrival.”
She turned her head sharply, but it was getting too dark to see his expression. Was he including her grandfather among those disturbed by Anthony’s arrival?
“Why? Because of the talk of an expedition into the Matopos?”
“I’m inclined to think it had to do with Lobengula and the Kimberly Black Diamond.”
“Because Anthony brought a letter from Capetown to my grandfather?”
He remained dutifully silent.
“Was it a cease and desist order?” she persisted.
“I left the room before Sir Julien read the Capetown letter, and before he and Lord Brewster entered into discussion.”
Discussion. A diplomat’s language. Had they argued heatedly?
“You’re not suggesting that my grandfather had anything whatsoever to do with Anthony Brewster’s death?” she asked tersely.
“I’d be a fool to suggest that, Miss Bley. But I do know your grandfather is determined to search for Lobengula’s burial cave to find that diamond, regardless of what Capetown or London may say.”
“How would you know my grandfather’s plans?” she challenged.
“He’s already suggested that I lead his expedition.”
She looked at him quickly, surprised, though she could see why her grandfather would want to choose Captain Retford for the task.
“Are you going to do it?”
“I am opposed to any such effort. I believe it’s unwise at this time. There’s nothing I can say to Sir Julien to change his mind, but perhaps he will listen to you.”
So Captain Retford agreed with Parnell. The expedition, if her grandfather went through with it, would be dangerous. The silence between them lengthened.
“You say Parnell and Mrs. Bartley are at the bungalow?” he said in a professional tone.
“Yes,” she stated tersely. “That is, they were there when I left a short time ago.”
“Then you’d better wait there, Miss Bley. I’ll need to go to Government House for help.”
She permitted him to walk her back to the lighted bungalow. He was silent and looking thoughtful.
Was there anything to what Captain Retford had said about the poor reception at Government House? She tried to think, but her mind was fuzzy.
“And you didn’t see anyone in the area? Coming or going?” he asked again quietly.
She gave him a cool glance, noting how well his uniform fit, and how straight his shoulders.
“No one until you appeared, Captain.” If he wanted to cast doubt upon her grandfather, Captain Retford wasn’t above suspicion, either! “One could ask, Captain, why you unexpectedly appeared from the shadows. Might it not be said you could have been there all along? Having brought the body there? You could have watched me a moment from the trees, decided it was better for you to come out in the open and cast doubt upon others.”
Naturally, Darinda wasn’t inclined to think Captain Ryan Retford had bashed poor Anthony, but—
“I see,” came his casual response. “Looks as if I’d better do some explaining,” he said. “I would hate to think you believe me a possible murderer.”
There followed an obvious lapse, in which she could have hastened to deny thinking so dreadful a thing about him, but she deliberately kept silent.
“So if you will, permit me to explain what I was doing here,” he said. “Sir Julien sent me to escort you back to Government House. It was getting dark, and he didn’t want you out alone after Major Willet’s death. I don’t think he or Peter realized Mrs. Bartley was here as well.”
Her curiosity was baited. “How did Grandfather know I was here?”
“Did you tell him before you left?”
“No.”
“Then he must have seen you leave the house, or perhaps someone told him where you were headed.”
She hadn’t told anyone at the house where she was going. Her grandfather would have been upset if he’d known she was coming to talk to Anthony about the diamond business. She wondered how he would take Anthony’s death.
“I walked over earlier this afternoon,” he said. “I didn’t see you until I rounded the corner of the trail. When I caught sight of you, I wondered why you were just standing beneath the tree. It didn’t seem a conducive spot to meditate. At first I thought you might have turned your ankle, and that I would be coming to your rescue.”
She glanced at him, having noted the smile in his voice. “I’ve never sprained an ankle just walking trails, Captain,” she said dryly.
“Most fortunate, Miss Bley.” He smiled. “But a man can hope.”
She felt absurdly pleased and quickly put a damper on her emotions.
“The wait-a-bit tree,” she said thoughtfully. “Interesting that Anthony’s body was placed there.”
Captain Retford looked quizzical. “What did you say?”
“The tree, Captain. It’s called a wait-a-bit.”
He nodded politely and continued to look puzzled, as though he wondered what she was suggesting.
“Do you suppose that’s why Anthony—Lord Brewster’s body—was placed there? The murderer was telling us something?”
They walked on toward the bungalow. “What might that be, Miss Bley?”
“You did say the body was dragged there.”
“It appeared so. We’ll set up a search unit to follow the marks in the dust. It could lead us to where the murder took place.”
“Why was the body brought here?” she asked. “To the wait-a-bit tree? Is there a message to us in the choice of the tree?”
She feared he might be amused with her imagination, but either he was too polite to show his feelings, or he thought her question worth considering. He was grave as he regarded her, then looked back into the shadows they had come from. Darinda followed his glance. The odd-looking tree stood darkly etched and sinister against the backdrop of the Matopos, still faintly silhouetted by glowing crimson in the last light.
“Meaning, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “that there will be more deaths to come if we just wait?”
“Precisely. I know it sounds silly, but—”
“Not silly, actually. The answer to your question depends on who killed Lord Brewster.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, Miss Bley, that we both know the African tribes set a great store by symbols.”
“Yes.” Darinda thought of some of the things Arcilla and Parnell had said earlier about bizarre happenings in Government House. Could there actually be something to Arcilla’s hysterics?
“Yes,” she repeated, “especially if a nganga were involved to give advice to the killer.” She was aware of the night around them, the wind, and the otherwise ominous silence. She must put some restraint on her runaway emotions, or she might end up on a precipice with Arcilla.
He gave a short nod. “If Lord Brewster was attacked by a Shona or Ndebele warrior, there may be some imagery to the tree. Unless …” He looked off toward the trail once more, as though it might produce an answer.
“Unless,” she offered, “someone wanted to divert our attention away from the murderer, onto a superstitious tribal warrior?”
“Entirely possible. The police will have some work here. Let’s hope they do it wisely and not stampede to judgment.”
“You think they might blame one of the Ndebele without searching deeply for the truth, Captain?”
His gaze became unpleasant. “There is that tendency among us. I hope this notion of yours about the tree symbolizing something doesn’t set the hounds off on the wrong scent.”
Her grandfather was the head of native affairs in Bulawayo, and he had authority over Company police.
“You’re not implying Sir Julien won’t be fair and just in his approach to this terrible crime?”
His face took on the expression of a military man carrying out orders.
“I, for one, will take nothing for granted when seeking who murdered Lord Brewster. That goes as well for Major Tom Willet.”
Was he saying that others might do so, even including her Grandfather Julien? Her temper was kindled. She was aware that the thaw between them, which occurred so naturally in their discussion of the tragic circumstances, was chilling up once more.
“Parnell believes the Ndebele are planning an attack. He mentioned you don’t believe Tom was mauled by a lion.”
“I’m inclined to agree with Parnell about the tribe. And I’ve said before that Major Willet was killed with an assegai.”
She felt a shiver. “But you’re the only one in Government House who feels that way, Captain.”
“I spend time out with the regular troopers and police. Those inside government may convince themselves of what they prefer the facts to be, Miss Bley.”
“You don’t like my grandfather, do you?” she accused suddenly. “I hadn’t realized that until now, but it’s plain to see.”
“It’s not within my professional responsibilities to decide whether or not I like the men I take orders from. Sir Julien is chief native commissioner here in Bulawayo, and it’s my duty to serve him. That goes for Peter Bartley as well.”
“Yes, but you must surely have an opinion.”
“If you care to know my personal opinion on their judgment of matters concerning the tribe, I believe Sir Julien is too harsh with the indunas. His use of their blooded warriors for road building is likely to lead to trouble. Peter has more insight into this, but he fears to stand up to your grandfather.”
Darinda stared at him. She should have been furious, but somehow she was not. Perhaps because she had heard Dr. Jakob van Buren saying much the same, but in the spiritual arena. Still, she felt it was her duty to take up arms for her grandfather’s reputation.
“Sir Julien Bley is a very important gentleman in South Africa. I am sure you know that, Captain Retford.”
“I do, Miss Bley. I fail, however, to see that his importance as a diamond magnate augments his wisdom for dealing with the tribe.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Rhodes and Dr. Jameson seem to think my grandfather is a man of knowledge and ability. He wouldn’t be native commissioner if he weren’t,” she said shortly.
“Mr. Rhodes is also a very rich man in diamonds, Miss Bley. One could suggest that perhaps that is the chief reason for his being politically powerful in South Africa, as well as in London. And one diamond magnate would tend to think highly of another. But common sense where the Africans are concerned doesn’t necessarily come with riches or the ability to form a conglomerate of diamond mines into a monopoly. That kind of knowledge may be related not to wisdom but to shrewdness and greed.”
She sucked in her breath, staring at him, searching his face for signs that he simply must be joking. But there was no ironic humor in those blue eyes, or the tanned, rugged face.
“That sounds outrageous,” she stated. “You should know, Captain, that I could wire your commanding officer in Capetown and request that you be removed from service to Peter and my grandfather.”
He looked back calmly. Something in his unwillingness to cower was surprisingly refreshing. She was accustomed to Parnell, who until quite recently attempted, above all else, to please her.
“Yes, Miss Bley, I am aware that you are a very wealthy diamond heiress. Your complaint to the War Office could have me called up.”
“And yet, you’ll still say these things about my grandfather?”
“Would you think better of me if I flattered him? You asked for my opinion, and I gave it. If that upsets you, then I suggest you don’t ask, or ask only those who are willing to please you.”
Her cheeks burned with a rush of temper. She tightened her mouth and stared back evenly. As their standoff solidified, she turned and went up the steps to the screened porch.
“Please tell Mrs. Bartley and Parnell not to leave the bungalow for any reason until I return with the police.”
She looked back, still angry. He touched the brim of his military hat in a polite, gentlemanly salute, then turned and walked back to the trail and Government House, disappearing into the evening shadows.
Darinda was left alone with the unpleasant burden of telling Arcilla and Parnell that Anthony was dead. Murdered, in a most brutal fashion.
She felt suddenly tired and hesitated on the porch. This was no time to allow her weariness to take control. Arcilla would most likely scream and perhaps faint, and Parnell, in emotional weakness, would reach for a decanter. She sighed and squared her shoulders in determination. She stepped into the lighted drawing room, aware that both Arcilla and Parnell turned toward her, surprise on their faces.
I must look awful, thought Darinda.
Arcilla’s blue eyes widened, and she reached a hand, sparkling with diamonds, to her throat.
“Something’s happened,” Arcilla whispered in a cracked voice as she studied Darinda. “Not another killing?”
Parnell took a step toward Darinda, shocked, then stopped. “Who?” he asked. “Not—?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Anthony’s been murdered.”
Darinda wondered just why Arcilla had braved the twilight to walk here alone. It was so unlike her. In the days following the death of Major Tom Willet, she had refused to go outdoors after sunset even to walk in the immediate garden around Government House. Arcilla had said that she came here to the bungalow to see Anthony about Peter being sent back to the Home Office in London. Was that the real reason?
Though her arrival at the bungalow could be viewed somewhat suspiciously, the idea that the frivolous Arcilla would commit murder seemed preposterous. She didn’t have the fortitude to step on a bug, much less the strength to swing anything that had struck Anthony.
And why had Parnell shown up looking so dreadful? He’d said he had come from his own bungalow not far from Anthony’s. Was Parnell concealing something?
Someone at Government House had contacted Anthony in London about her grandfather’s plans for an expedition into the Matopos. Had it been Parnell? If so, Parnell should have wanted Anthony here in Bulawayo.
And what about herself? Darinda grimaced. She was known to be strong and bold. She had argued with Anthony about her inheritance just before his death on the very trail where he’d been discovered—and by her! What if someone had heard her threaten him? Nor was it lost on her that she would be seen as having a motive. For she, more than anyone, had much to gain by Anthony Brewster’s death. The one obstacle that had kept Grandfather Julien from making her his primary heir had now been eliminated.