A hyena warbled and sobbed in the darkness.
Arcilla’s flesh prickled as she looked behind her into the night. The leaves on the bushes lining the walk up to Government House shimmered in the windy moonlight. Peter had been delayed from returning with her, as they’d met Dr. Jameson. He’d heard about Anthony and ridden out to get all the facts. Afterward he’d wanted Peter to attend a meeting at his house. Arcilla had gone with Peter and had been served tea while Peter went with Jameson and some other officers into the meeting. Finally, she’d had to send a message to Peter through the cook that she needed to get back to Baby Charles. Dr. Jameson had insisted one of his aides safely escort her back to Government House while Peter stayed to finish the meeting.
This time, surely, after what had happened to Anthony, Peter would keep his promise to come home early to cheer her and cuddle his baby son.
Arcilla opened the front door and stepped inside the big rambling bare wood room everyone called the common room. Here, attachés working for Julien, Peter, and the Company police had their desks and chairs lined around the walls. One of those desks belonged to Captain Ryan Retford.
A few small oil lamps were burning on several of the desks to cast a secure glow. She grimaced, for the light also revealed bugs that disappeared into the cracks when she approached. She walked slowly to give them time to scurry away. Anything to avoid them. Little lizards walked the ceiling. She liked the geckos; she thought they ate lots of bugs. Some bugs didn’t run away, but seemed to run toward her. Before the rainy season there were spiders, lots of spiders. Some were flying spiders—to her, at least, they appeared to fly. Peter claimed he needed calming pills as the rainy season approached just to endure her screams. Peter always exaggerated. Her screams weren’t loud, just little shrieks. At night she would make him wake up and lead the way safely to the “powder room.” Sometimes he would need to carry her.
“My dear, can you not just ignore them?”
“You’re heartless. How can I? They squish if you step on them.”
Standing in the common room, she looked along the floor before walking. She picked up the hem of her straight skirt and tiptoed across to some steps.
There was a square woven matlike rug in the center of the floor. She moved as quietly as she could toward some crude wooden steps that led to the top rooms used for private sleeping quarters. She’d complained loudly to all that one small bedroom was not enough with a baby, so Peter had bribed the workmen to add a second small room and a “powder room.”
She was climbing the steps when she noticed a sliver of light under the door of Uncle Julien’s office.
They had left Julien at the bungalow with Darinda. From there he was supposed to have ridden with Harry Whipple’s police and Shona guards to question the induna at his kraal. Arcilla could never remember how many indunas there were, nor how many kraals. Anyway, I don’t care. Perhaps Julien had not gone to question the induna after all.
Anthony must have told Uncle Julien whether the Colonial Office wanted Peter transferred back to London. In the letter she’d written Camilla, she’d begged her to intervene with Peter’s father in London to see that his son was brought back to work for the colonial secretary. It had taken nearly a year, but at last Camilla had written her, saying Anthony promised to do what he could to get them back to England. Had Anthony mentioned something about Peter to Julien this morning in their meeting?
She made up her mind. She was going to ask Julien straight out!
She turned and came back down the steps. Perhaps now was not the best time to see Julien, with the vicious thing that had happened to Anthony, but the horror of his murder only inflamed her urgency to leave this loathsome land.
Arcilla hurried to Julien’s office before her courage thawed into cowardice. Outside the door she smoothed her mussed golden hair back into its bun and rubbed color into what must look an anemic face. What a horrible day! A draft came from somewhere, and on the air wafted the smell of supper cooking on the other side of the house. The very thought of food turned her stomach.
The door to Julien’s office was already open an inch, as though the latch hadn’t clicked. The lamp was burning. The window behind the desk was open, and the rattan blind was drawn partway up, bringing the draft. Her fingers shook as she took hold of the door edge and pushed it open.
Julien stood by a tall table with his straight back toward her. For a moment she thought he was striking a match to light one of his square, stubby cheroots. He turned sharply, startled by her entry. It wasn’t a cheroot he was lighting. It was a sheet of paper. It was burning in the big ashtray on the table, turning to gray ash. The odor of burned paper and smoke gently drifted past her nose.
He walked toward her, effectively keeping her from approaching. He motioned to a chair.
“Where’s Peter?”
“In a meeting with Dr. Jameson.” She sat down, looking up at him as he towered over her, unsmiling. His black eye patch gave him a hawkish look—his one bright eye somehow impressed her with the notion of a bird of prey.
“I know it’s a horrid time to bring this up, Uncle, but it’s about Peter’s father. He’s so sick, you know. In that last letter I showed you from Lord Bartley, he spoke of being confined mostly to his room now, in London.” Her fingers kneaded the arms of the chair. She felt she couldn’t tear her eyes from his steady gaze.
“Cousin Anthony—poor Anthony—he’d promised Camilla to see that Peter and I got home for a spell to stay with Lord Bartley.”
“Peter has mentioned none of this to me.”
“He should have.” Her frustration flared. Excuses, always excuses. As though she had no right to want to take the baby and go home with Peter for a time.
“Then, naturally, Aunt Elosia wants to see Baby Charles Rogan …”
“Yes, of course she does.”
“And, well, I didn’t get a chance to talk with Anthony alone about what Lord Bartley wanted.” Because you hovered over him, not allowing it.
“How charming of you, Arcilla, to be so worried about the ailing old father of Peter. Very generous of you, my dear.”
She felt her cheeks scorch with heat. He saw through her like an owl eying his prey at midnight.
“Peter worries about his father.” It was all she could do to keep her voice calm and civil. Julien was a scavenger!
“I know Lord Bartley well, my dear. You must not worry so about him. He wants what is best for Mother England.” Julien’s lips drew back, showing his white teeth in a derisive smile.
“Ah, my poor lamb, Arcilla. How I am disappointed in your stamina. I worry about you and Peter getting on!”
She stood, trying to measure her breathing. “I want my son raised at Rookswood!”
“Of course you do. A worthy ambition on your agenda.”
He was mocking her!
“I … I wondered if Cousin Anthony had brought any new orders for Peter about serving in London in the Colonial Office.”
Why was he smiling at her like that? She always felt uncomfortable when he smiled that way. She could see no humor in the situation. And especially now with Anthony lying dead. She believed Julien considered her a foolish child, as though he must either threaten her, or soothe her bedtime fears of darkness.
“No, Anthony did not mention any new post for Peter. Peter is needed here in Bulawayo, you see. Has Peter talked to you about returning to London soon?”
“No,” she admitted slowly. “I thought Anthony may have mentioned any future plans to you when you met with him this morning after he arrived.”
“I’m sorry, my dear, he did not. But you mustn’t fret, you know. As soon as this nasty business about his death is resolved, and we deal with the Boers, you and Peter will have plenty of time to visit Rookswood with Baby Charles.” He walked to where his decanter sat on a tray, pulled the stopper, and poured himself a drink. “To British South Africa.” He emptied the jigger.
Her hands clenched, and her nostrils flared. She had the urge to fly at him like a mad, fluttering crow and peck out his eye.
“Why must Peter stay here until the murderer is found? That’s the job of Harry Whipple!”
“Now, now.”
“And the Boers? I daresay if there’s a war, it will last for years! And there will be a war if you and Dr. Jameson have anything to say about it.”
He turned sharply on his heel and looked at her. All mocking playfulness was washed clean from his swarthy face. Alert and determined, he approached her.
“Why did you say that?”
She saw her mistake. She had come close to giving herself away. If he discovered she was aware of their plans for a strike into Boer territory to rouse the Uitlanders—
The front door opened boldly and shut. Voices sounded. With relief she heard Darinda, then Captain Retford.
Julien took his attention from her and looked toward the doorway into the common room. He walked there and called out. “That you, Darinda? Captain Retford?” Julien stepped out of his office.
There followed an exchange of words, then the calm voice of Captain Retford took over.
Probably discussing Anthony’s death … Arcilla paced, frustrated. Nothing had gone well. With Uncle Julien it never did. She was no match for his shrewd devices.
She rubbed her arms in distaste and moved about the office. He had no right to say Peter couldn’t leave until the Boer situation was cleared up.
She wandered about the room until she’d ended up by the table where the large ashtray contained the ashes of the paper he had set a match to. The remains looked to have been a letter. In fact, she knew it was, because the envelope was intact on the table. He must have forgotten it was there. Her entry must have distracted him.
George Trotter, Cape Mining Fields, Capetown, it read. Then in florid handwriting: Sir Julien Bley, Chief Native Commissioner, Bulawayo.
A small section of charred paper remained in the ashtray. The smudged words lazily looked up at her.
—R’s and J’s plans for—Uitlanders should proceed—
The voices in the common room continued. Arcilla glanced there over her shoulder. Her deft fingers quickly retrieved the section of sooty paper from the ashtray. She blew it off and slipped it down the front of her blouse. The envelope she reached for—then decided against it. No, he might remember he didn’t burn it. He might look for it, and if it was gone, he would know she was aware. She moved back across the room to where she’d been sitting.
Another voice joined the discussion outside the office door. Peter! With relief she swept from the room into the hall.
Julien stood with Darinda and Captain Ryan Retford. Arcilla came up beside Peter.
“Something more has happened?” Arcilla asked.
Peter nodded. “The bungalow was searched.”
“What do you think was behind the search, Captain?” Julien was asking Retford.
“Diamonds, perhaps, Sir Julien.”
Arcilla noticed that Darinda looked briefly surprised, then her face went blank.
“And gold, too, perhaps,” Captain Retford added.
“You think this was a common burglary of Anthony’s bags, then?”
“It could have been more, I suppose. If you’re thinking this is connected to Lord Brewster’s murder.”
“Evidently, Captain, you do not?”
“I really couldn’t say either way, sir.”
Arcilla looked at Darinda, but she remained expressionless.
Peter frowned. “Someone was dashed bold, I daresay. Entered the bungalow beneath our very noses, you say?”
“Indeed, sir,” Retford said.
“And after Harry Whipple’s out with a dozen police, too,” Peter said with disdain. “It doesn’t say much for our murderer being a native, then, does it?” He looked at Julien, brows raised, questioning.
“Captain Retford doesn’t think it was a Ndebele,” Darinda said.
Both Julien and Peter looked at Retford for an explanation. Arcilla thought he looked a trifle reluctant. He smiled, however, and turned straight to her, knowing she was exhausted and under duress.
“I’m sorry to have to ask more questions, Mrs. Bartley, but earlier, when you were at Lord Brewster’s bungalow with your brother and Miss Bley here, did you see or hear anything unusual outside the open window?”
“Open window? Oh.” Arcilla just remembered. “I’d forgotten. I thought I’d heard something outside, footsteps, or maybe just the bushes moving too much.”
“You mentioned it to Parnell Chantry and Miss Bley?”
“I did. When Parnell went to close the window, something startled him. He made the comment he thought he’d seen a figure crouching. Remember, Darinda?”
Captain Retford nodded. He looked at Peter and Sir Julien. They were sober.
“Eavesdropping?” Julien asked doubtfully.
He pondered. “I don’t know what else it would be, sir. Lord Brewster’s murderer wouldn’t have dared hang about the bungalow. Your granddaughter, Miss Bley, said their conversation went on for thirty or forty minutes.”
“Yes, I see what you mean, Retford,” Julien stated. “Foolish, indeed, for the enemy to hang about eavesdropping for that long. Makes no sense at all.”
Arcilla waited, and when no one else commented, she turned to Peter. “Do let’s go up, Peter. The baby is awake by now, and Marjit can’t feed him. He must be crying, poor dear. I think I hear him.”
Peter accompanied her across the common room to the steps, and they went up together.
Arcilla thought of the scrap of paper she had. She ought to show it to Peter. She was sure it was part of the letter Anthony had brought Uncle Julien as a reprimand from Capetown.
She glanced at Peter. He was deep in his own troubling thoughts. The only problem with showing it to him was that the words on the scrap seemed to approve Julien and Dr. Jameson’s plans to aid the Uitlanders, not rebuke them. Could she safely assume that from those few words? What would Peter say? He looked as though something was disturbing him. From the top of the stairs, he looked down at Captain Retford.