Bulawayo
Rogan did not recognize Bulawayo from when he’d visited just a few short years ago to accompany Rhodes’s delegation to meet Lobengula. Back then this section of land consisted of Lobengula’s kraal of beehive-shaped huts and acacia trees. There’d been a setenghi, an airy, open-sided hut of white mopane poles and a thatch roof. Lobengula also had a wagon with his throne made of empty canned milk crates. Yet he’d owned bags of diamonds and pieces of gold. Rogan could still envision the giant chieftain standing there with shrewd eyes and a knowing, mocking smile. “You white men have fat smeared on your lips,” he’d accused. To this day Rogan thought it a fitting description of a smooth talker! He recalled having to crawl on hands and knees through inches of hot dust to meet with the feared Ndebele chieftain, while flies plastered upon his sweating flesh, biting and stinging him.
Here, Lobengula had held his diabolical ceremonies of “smelling out” his enemies for witchcraft, and executing those he found guilty by hideous means.
“I didn’t go on the war hunt,” Derwent Brown was telling Rogan. “But I heard about it. Dr. Jameson led the column to strike against Lobengula because the Ndebele were attacking some Shona around Fort Victoria and raiding their cattle. Lobengula’s warriors raided some of the pioneers’ farms, too, maybe by mistake, but everyone was up in arms. Dr. Jameson and Sir Julien said we’d never be able to live in peace with them. Now was the time to fight Lobengula once for all. Mr. Parnell went riding through as one of Sir Julien’s field officers and had been with Sir Julien to enter the burning kraal after Lobengula fled.”
“Yes, the Black Diamond,” Rogan stated unpleasantly. “I’d say it was the main reason for Julien’s going along. He found out Lobengula had it.”
“Aye, not a nice picture, was it, Mr. Rogan? All that bloodshed for gold and diamonds and land.”
“We’ll make this land into something far better,” Rogan commented briskly. “We’ll build schools and hospitals. Soon the Ndebele and the Shona, along with new Rhodesians, will have some kind of understanding of peace, so we can all dwell together reasonably.”
Derwent shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know, Mr. Rogan. You really think that? Dr. Jakob says there’s little but suspicion, misunderstanding, and hatred right now.”
Rogan’s mouth turned as he caught Derwent’s sober eye. “Well, if it’s up to Rhodes and Jameson and men like them to represent peace and integrity, then everyone is in for more of the same, especially the tribes. Rhodes, Jameson, the others—they’re just men who have their own selfish interests at heart.”
“Aye, you’re right there, for sure. They don’t have God’s interests at all, but their own worldly kingdom. And the Company would like to stop what they call the missionary lobby from growing in numbers here. Just the way the East India Company put a stop to missionaries entering India. They were set against William Carey, for sure. They’re content to let the Africans and East Indians believe in their many gods and idols and don’t want missionaries to stir up trouble. For the most part, all the Company wants is rights to the land and rights to the minerals.”
“Now you’ve gone from politics to preaching, Derwent,” Rogan said with a smile.
“Guess I have. I’ve been listening to Dr. Jakob.”
“You had a heart for the people long before you listened to Jakob van Buren.”
“It’s not just Matabeleland and Mashonaland they want for their empire. They want the Boer Transvaal and the Orange Free State, too.”
“Of course. Gold was discovered in the Transvaal, Derwent, old friend. Of course they want the Boer holdings. Until gold and diamonds were discovered here in huge quantities, England would have been content to allow the Dutch to have all of South Africa. And that’s why there will be a war. They want to get rid of Kruger once for all. And because there’re more Uitlanders working the gold fields in the Transvaal than there are Boers, Rhodes thinks they have a right to it.”
Derwent looked at him. “How did Bechuanaland escape Rhodes’s Company and become a British protectorate, I wonder?”
“Must not be any diamonds or gold there,” Rogan joked.
“Now you’re pulling my leg, Mr. Rogan.”
Rogan reached over and pulled Derwent’s hat down. “All right, I’ll tell you why. You ought to know the African tribes. They’re not a united and peaceful ‘brotherhood.’ Far from it. The butchery of one tribe against another is fact. They invade another tribe, killing, maiming, taking women and children as slaves, stealing away cattle and goods.”
“Aye, it’s true enough. Even Dr. Jakob says the Ndebele people raised cattle, but the other half of the time they were out raiding the cattle from the weaker tribes, mostly the Shona.”
“So the old Bechuanaland Chief feared the British less than he feared his neighboring Zulus or the Boers. So he signed a concession with Her Majesty’s Government. That also keeps Rhodes and others from colonizing the land.”
“Seems a good and wise thing to me. Have you seen Sir Julien yet?”
“No. I understand he’s hand in hand with Doc Jameson in governing Rhodesia.”
“He is. After Chieftain Lobengula’s death, Mr. Rhodes appointed Dr. Jameson Custodian of Enemy Property. And Dr. Jameson has been mostly responsible for rounding up the captured herds of Ndebele cattle and redistributing them as booty to his troops, about four hundred soldier police, I’m guessing. They’re all volunteers. So they support the cause.”
Rogan had heard how Company troops under Jameson, after defeating Lobengula, made huge bonfires of the Ndebele long rawhide shields and hauled away the assegais by the wagonload, disarming the impis and their ruling indunas.
“They took the Martyn-Henry rifles, too,” Derwent told him.
Rogan recalled the rifles with which the Company had paid Lobengula for a concession on the mineral wealth.
“I’ve a feeling that if they hadn’t taken them, we wouldn’t be able to walk safely down the dirt street in Bulawayo,” Rogan commented. But after Anthony’s and Major Tom Willet’s deaths, he wondered if it was still safe.
Bulawayo was a growing white man’s town under British control through the Charter Company of Cecil Rhodes. The indunas had moved farther away into new kraals, living under the rules of the Company. Rules and a lordship that many did not like. Resentment was written on the dignified faces of the warriors of Zanzi blood, royal blood, and hatred seethed in the hearts of the impis, whose assegais had been confiscated and broken, their shields burned, their spears snapped in two. Rogan mentioned to Derwent that he could easily sense the resentment in the sullen Ndebele who worked building roads, mining, and helping to harvest crops.
“Dr. Jakob says the same thing. He’s worried about Harry Whipple.” The breeze blew Derwent’s rusty hair beneath the brim of his Rhodesian style hat. Despite the hot sun of South Africa, his fair skin refused to brown, though the freckles turned a shade darker across his aquiline nose.
“He may have good cause to worry about him. I haven’t met him yet, but everything I hear has prepared me to dislike him from the start.”
“Don’t like him much myself. He takes bribes. And he’s too bold with the ladies. I seen him looking at Miss Arcilla in ways he shouldn’t. Alice, too. And it’s no secret he has a big interest in Miss Darinda. She won’t even look his way.”
“Smart woman.”
Bulawayo was a boom town of sorts, with men of growing wealth, for most of them had ridden here in Rhodes’s Pioneer Column and received their grants and gold claims to settle the land. The men, including himself, Parnell, and Derwent Brown, each owned three thousand acres of farmland on the pastured veld.
Most of the men at Bulawayo, himself included, had already nailed their claim pegs into the land and into the reefs in which some gold could be seen in the Rhodesian sunshine.
“I’m thinking, Mr. Rogan, that too many of them reefs are naught but stringers, no gold, or not much in them. And after the bust we had north in the Zambezi, well, I’m not expecting too much.”
Rogan walked with Derwent down the dusty road of Bulawayo to the saloon to meet his geologist from the Zambezi mine, Clive Shepherd, who’d arrived that morning.
“We won’t give up yet, Derwent. I’ve been studying Henry’s map anew for some time now. I think we were dead wrong in settling on the Zambezi. It may be that Henry discovered an ancient working.”
“Instead of a new deposit, you mean?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. It makes sense. And we’ve got to find and peg it before Rhodes’s men do.”
“Least with Sir Julien all taken up on that diamond in Matopos, he’s given us some breathing space,” Derwent said.
Rogan had learned from Derwent that there was still discussion about an expedition to the Ndebele sacred hills. “I heard Pritchard stumbled onto a find between the Hwe Hwe and the Tshibgiwe Rivers,” Derwent told him with excitement. “He’s boasting he’s panned some samples at six ounces to the ton.”
Yes, thought Rogan with ire, and acting on Cecil Rhodes’s instruction, one of the Company men had recently surveyed that same ancient gold reef and estimated that there could be thousands of tons in reserve.
“There’s red gold here, Mr. Rogan. Most everybody in town is saying so.”
“Maybe … but don’t forget the BSA owns half of every ounce of gold discovered and mined here.” Rogan’s irritation with Uncle Julien and Rhodes came back to haunt him again.
“Seems all the land grants are taken now,” Derwent told him. “Good farmland, Mr. Rogan, some of the best if a person knows how to work it right. Now, the Ndebele, they’re cattlemen. Rovers, they are. Need lots of land to support their cattle. But farming, there’s none that do it better than we colonials. And in the long run, sir, it’ll be us who feeds everybody, the Ndebele included.”
“I don’t doubt it, Derwent. But I’m not a farmer. I’ll leave that to the pioneers.”
“True enough, Mr. Rogan. Someday I wouldn’t mind, but me and Alice haven’t fully decided yet if we’ll stay in Rhodesia or go back to Grimston Way. They say many of the farms are already being worked plenty good.”
“And the mineral rights?”
“Heard there was ten thousand claims registered on the mineral rights. Some of them boast real good crushings.”
“That may be, but my mind’s set on Henry’s map. I’ve been working on those symbols. They must mean something, though I gave up on that notion when we thought we discovered his deposit in the Zambezi. With it going bust, I’m reconsidering.”
Derwent looked at him. “Symbols?”
“I never showed them to you?”
“Don’t recall seeing them. Must have been Mr. Mornay who got a gander.”
At the mention of Mornay, silence settled over them.
After a moment Derwent said, “Clive Shepherd’s arrived. Waiting to meet with you at Ranger’s place about the mine at Zambezi.”
Rogan strode across the dusty street toward the tavern.
“Sure is a lot going on here now,” Derwent said.
There was, but Rogan was not deceived by the boom-town mentality. Bulawayo was alive and growing, and so was danger growing right alongside success, ready to swallow it up.
The tavern was the rallying point for the men of the town. There was a billiard table inside that had been hauled from Kimberly piece by piece. The men came to play and drink Sundowner beer. It had become a tradition in Rhodesia for the men to have a drink at sundown.
“Dr. Jakob preaches against the practice,” Derwent was telling Rogan. “He also says that any town built on blood has a foundation of guilt. Someday, unless aggrieved evils are dealt with and God’s forgiveness sought, a time of judgment comes to call. No one much listens, though. The gold and diamonds just keep coming, and the folks think they always will.”
Inside, the tavern was crowded with men, tobacco smoke, and the smell of stale sweat and alcohol. A small crowd was lined up at the rough wooden counter watching two men playing billiards while the others wagered on the outcome, sipping their beer and smoking cheroots; all the while an old fellow in a dusty black jacket and derby hat played an out-of-tune accordion.
One of the two men at the billiard table was Rogan’s brother, Parnell. Parnell had been drinking and was weaving now and then on his feet. Seeing Parnell this way stabbed at Rogan’s heart. The sight also angered him. He was throwing his life away. Parnell probably felt self-pity because of failing to win Darinda’s heart. In Rogan’s mind she was a losing battle. His brother didn’t need pity; he needed someone to shake him out of his foolishness.
The second man playing billiards was Harry Whipple, head of Julien’s native Company police. Rogan had seen several of the native police sitting outside in the dust waiting, evidently, for their sergeant. Captain Ryan Retford claimed Harry was crooked.
None of this surprised Rogan. Most of Julien’s men were bought, except, perhaps, for Peter. Peter had managed to teeter back and forth without completely losing his balance under Julien. Rogan had yet to have the long conversation alone with Peter that he wanted. He would have it tonight, as Arcilla had invited him and Evy to Government House to take dinner with them in their private rooms.
Rogan continued to watch Parnell. He had turned from being the expensively dressed young man about London into a haggard man with a frightened, cynical countenance. Arcilla was right. Parnell was drinking too much.
Harry Whipple was big, but soft and fleshy, with what looked to be a perpetual sunburn. His eyes were a watery blue; his golden hair was sparse. He wore his barber-shop mustache proudly. It was wide and stiff, the tips oiled so that they pointed upward. Suspenders held up his canvas trousers, and the familiar boots that all the men wore were dusty.
Whipple was skilled at billiards. He took careful aim with his stick on the black ball, which knocked two others into pockets. He grinned, then turned to Parnell, chuckling. He slugged him playfully on the shoulder.
“You lose again, Par. C’mon. Let’s have another beer.”
“He’s had enough,” Rogan heard himself saying from just inside the door.
Harry Whipple turned his head and looked over at Rogan and Derwent. He recognized Derwent, of course, and gave a brief nod. His eyes came back to Rogan, and he measured him with careful glance, taking in his rugged clothing and the belted gun.
“Yeah? I suppose you want his beer, eh? And who are you?”
Derwent cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Say, Mr. Whipple, you’ve not met Parnell’s brother yet? Rogan here, he’s been in Bulawayo a whole week now, staying at Dr. Jakob’s.”
“Brother?” Whipple looked surprised. “So you’re Rogan Chantry, huh? Well, I’m your uncle’s head policeman. Harry Whipple. Just call me Harry.” He walked over and shoved a big hand toward Rogan.
Rogan took his hand and nodded.
“Parnell,” Rogan said, “take a seat over here at the table, and we’ll have some coffee.”
Parnell walked over a bit unsteadily. Derwent pulled out a barrel seat for him, and Parnell sank onto it. Derwent went to the rough wood counter for mugs of coffee.
Harry Whipple hung around for a minute, sipping his beer and eying Rogan, then drifted outdoors to collect his native police.
The native Company police were a band of Ndebele whom Derwent said were not of Zanzi blood, but despised as dogs by the induna and the impis.
“The police are mostly Ndebele, but there’s some Shona, too. Mostly considered low folks by the indunas.” Derwent cleared his throat. “The worst of them have been taking their women, even married women. The indunas have complained to Harry Whipple, but he says the indunas are lying.”
Rogan thought he could understand what was happening. The ruling class of the Ndebele wouldn’t fully cooperate with Julien and his magistrate, Harry Whipple. So Harry had hired the lowest of the low as police. For vengeance he was sending them to patrol those of Zanzi blood. A typical peasant-over-the-lord strategy.
“Why does Julien have a man like Whipple?” he asked Parnell.
Parnell took a drink of his black coffee. He ran his tanned fingers through his chestnut hair and avoided Rogan’s eyes. “What do you think? You know Uncle as well as I do. Harry does what he’s told and doesn’t ask too many embarrassing questions. Why else would he want him? Harry isn’t known for his great intellect.”
“No, not if he thinks he can deliberately mock the indunas without creating more feelings of hatred. If Julien and the others were smart, they’d listen to Dr. Jakob. Build more medical bungalows, cooperate with the Ndebele culture as far as they can, and use their structure of laws and indunas as steppingstones for working with the Africans. The missionaries can teach the BSA a great deal.”
Parnell angrily pushed his coffee away, slopping some over the rim. “Look, Rogan, if you want to lecture, go lecture Dr. Jameson and Uncle Julien, will you? Nobody listens to me.”
“Why should they? Look at you,” he said brutally. “Arcilla says you’re drunk half the time.”
“Dashed malarkey. Never mind about me. If anyone’s cooperating with Julien, it’s Peter. Ask the ol’ girl about Peter.”
Rogan wondered. “I intend to ask him. Anthony called me to London before he sailed for the Cape. He wanted me to see your letter.”
Parnell’s gaze shot up. For a moment he looked alarmed, then he scowled and shrugged. “So? It was all true. But don’t tell Julien about it.”
“I’ve no intention of telling him.”
“I didn’t send the letter to you, Rogan, because I didn’t want you here stirring up more trouble, for your sake as well as mine. You’ll get yourself killed one of these days. Well, you’re here now. Look, no matter what Julien says about that attack on Lobengula, what I wrote to Anthony was true. I know. I was there.
“I was there,” he repeated. “He lied the other night at supper, telling Darinda and Retford he was a hero when he ransacked Lobengula’s hut and wagon. Telling them I was the one that alerted him to fire his pistol at Dumaka. Actually, Julien was down on his knees with diamonds dripping through his fingers when Dumaka showed up. Harry fired at Dumaka, not Julien. Harry knows it, but he’s not going to contradict him. I know. I was there.”
What was Harry Whipple getting for his cooperation? Money, to be sure. Maybe some promise of a higher position later on. Julien liked to pass out positions. Made even a fool feel important.
“Now, Julien says Harry followed after Dumaka until Harry got him cornered, and a croc finished him off.”
“Dumaka?” Rogan was startled. He had always felt there was something between him and Dumaka that would end in a controversy. “Was he shot?”
“Not badly. Harry’s a poor aim for being head of the native Company police. He said he cornered Dumaka after he fled. I doubt that, too.” Parnell leaned across the table. “There’s not a man around who can track a Zulu or outdistance one when he’s moving with a purpose. We both know it. But Harry’s told Julien he tracked Dumaka to the Shangani, where Dumaka jumped in to swim away, and the crocs got him.” He straightened, looking wily. “I say the story’s a fake.”
Rogan wondered about Dumaka. If he was dead, then Julien had one less enemy to face over the Black Diamond. That left only Heyden van Buren.
A glass of warm beer sat on the table, and Parnell reached for it. Rogan pushed it away. Parnell glared at him, but Rogan did not relent.
“This drinking has got to stop. You’re making yourself sick and acting the fool. And I’ve told you before, you need to forget that woman, Darinda.”
“You don’t know a thing about her or me.”
“I don’t need to know everything. It’s obvious she doesn’t care a whit about you. She’s always been for herself. She’s Julien’s granddaughter and more like him than any male offspring. She’s seen you losing your head over her without batting an eye. She wants power. That, and taking over after Julien. And now that Anthony’s dead, it looks like she may get her wish after all.”
Parnell stood and took a clumsy swing at him, but Rogan pushed him back down. “Sober up, Parnell. You’ll get no pity from me, and certainly none from her. The more you carry on like this, the more she thinks you’re a fool and a failure. And that’s exactly what you are and will stay like unless you stop pitying yourself and act the man.”
“I don’t want your lectures. I tol’ you,” he slurred.
“Now that I’m here, that’s what you’re going to get.”
“Say—what d’ye mean?”
“Just this. I’m taking over. It’s time you began listening to Dr. Jakob’s preaching. In fact, I’m going to have Derwent pack you up and take you out to the mission to stay.”
“You can’t do that—”
“Just watch me. We’re going to make sure you don’t get near a jug again.”
Parnell glared but apparently realized there was little he could do at the moment. He sank back into the seat and glowered.
“Now,” Rogan said comfortably, refilling Parnell’s coffee mug, “tell me about Uncle’s expedition into the Matopos. What do you know about it?”
He shrugged. “I’ll tell you plenty. It will rile the indunas and put us all on the edge, that’s what.”
“Then he’s still going? Nothing has happened since Anthony arrived that altered his plans?”
“Maybe something … He’s going, all right, but he’s got to bide his time.”
Rogan leaned toward him. “What do you mean? I’d think he’d do better to have gone at once. Fact is, I’m plenty surprised he hasn’t done it by now.”
“Sure, but he can’t.”
Rogan exchanged glances with Derwent.
“Can’t? You’re not making sense, Parnell.”
“Sure I am, little brother. I always make sense.” He smiled to himself about something and reached for the leftover glass of warm beer sitting on the table.
Rogan wearily snatched it up and handed it to Derwent. Derwent took it and tossed it out the open window. Somebody bellowed, and Derwent grimaced. “Sorry, mister,” he called.
“Better explain yourself, Parnell,” Rogan continued.
Parnell smirked. “Am I my brother’s keeper, eh?”
“Don’t mock. You’ll find out at Jakob’s. Maybe I’ll pack you up and send you back to Aunt Elosia.”
“Go on, talk to me about our beloved Uncle Julien.”
“What do I get if I do tell you a bit of a secret, eh?”
“Nothing,” Rogan said brutally, smiling. “Maybe sugar in your coffee.”
“Cruel people. All right.” He looked at Derwent as though just now remembering he was there. Parnell pointed a finger at his chest. “And you’d better not say a word of any of this to anyone, Vicar Derwent.”
Derwent ran his fingers through his russet hair. “I got no reason to talk, Mr. Parnell.”
“Never mind about Derwent,” Rogan interrupted shortly. “He’s proven himself a friend long ago.”
“Better hope so … ’cause if word gets around too much about what’s planned, there may be more than ol’ Cousin Tony dead.”
Rogan was ready to pounce on that, and why his brother thought so, but Parnell had to be calmed and steadied. He was darting here and there in his crazed brain.
“What plan, Parnell?” Rogan asked with deliberated patience. “Tell me about the plan, okay?”
“Sure. All you had to do was ask. Julien can’t get Doc Jameson to agree about the Matopos expedition. After poor Cousin Anthony’s death, Doc Jameson came down as hard on Julien as, well—whatever somebody used on Anthony. ‘No Matopos. Understand? No Matopos, Julien!’ Doc tells him. And Uncle Julien? He was purple with rage. But he kept quiet. First time I saw Julien take orders.”
Rogan stroked his mustache. Important—yes, what he’d just heard was perhaps the most important news so far. He looked at Derwent. Derwent was squinting with intensity.
“So Julien’s waiting until Doc leaves Bulawayo. Then he’ll make his move.”
Derwent changed positions on his barrel and looked at Rogan for a ready response. Rogan weighed his brother’s words.
“So that’s it. Very significant. So that’s why Julien hasn’t gone by now. Makes sense. I was worried I wouldn’t arrive in time. When is Jameson leaving Bulawayo?”
Parnell looked up and over at the tavern door. “You mean on that … er … secret mission?”
“That’s right. The one. When?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. Big secret. They’re worried about a Boer spy among us. Somebody prepared to send word to Kruger. So Doc and Julien are keeping the day buried.”
“Boer spy?” Rogan asked with incredulity. “In the Company?” He laughed. “Surely you jest.”
Parnell shook his head. “On the contrary, Julien takes it seriously. That’s why if he found out I sent the letter to Anthony, he’d have me for treason or something. He’d think I was the spy.” He shook his head suddenly and looked around suspiciously, as though they were being listened to. But the tavern was so noisy no one could have heard.
“I’m not saying any more. I’ve already said too much.” Parnell stood, a bit wobbly on his feet, his hands on the table. “I’m going back to my bungalow—number twelve. Retford has thirteen. Bad luck.” He rubbed his forehead and grimaced. “I feel awful …”
Rogan stood, intending to get his brother to the bungalow.
“I’ll see he gets home, Mr. Rogan. Look, Clive’s just come in to talk about the mine.”
At the door Rogan saw the geologist he had hired to work for him at Zambezi. Clive was an older man, tall and gangling, with curly silver hair and a rather rueful smile.
Someone else entered almost at the same moment, and every male eye turned toward the sight. Darinda Bley stood near the door looking toward Rogan’s table. She scanned Parnell, and her face hardened.
“Get me out of here, Derwent,” Parnell groaned. “She hates seeing me this way.”
“Bunge him off to bed,” Rogan told Derwent. “I’ll be over to the bungalow later. Wait, Parnell—one more thing. Do you know where Anthony’s body was found?”
“Sure, on the trail near bungalow number one, where he was staying. Darinda found him—under the wait-a-bit tree. The tree’s right there on the trail bank. Can’t miss it. Ol’ Harry’s tagged the tree. ’Bout the only thing he has done so far. Retford says the body was dragged there. Poor ol’ Anthony was killed somewhere else. And it all had to happen quickly, too. From the time Darinda first met him on the trail to when she found him dead was, say, somewhere around about thirty or forty minutes.”
“Darinda saw him alive on the trail?” She had not mentioned that in her letter to Camilla.
“She met him, all right. Argued with him too.” He glanced her way. “She doesn’t know it,” he slurred, “but Arcilla heard ’em. Real cat and dog fight.”
Rogan looked at his brother sharply. “Has Arcilla told anyone else about this?”
Parnell shrugged, quickly appearing to lose interest. “Don’t know … She told me. Ask her. Better yet,” he said maliciously, smirking toward Darinda, “ask her. She’s the one who can tell you a thing or two she hasn’t told Harry Whipple.”
Derwent got Parnell out of the tavern, and Rogan looked across the room at Darinda. She had a bit of spunk coming in here like this. A decent woman wouldn’t, but with a grandfather like Julien, she could evidently get by with it, since the men knew who she was. They moved aside as she walked boldly through the center of the room toward Rogan. She stopped, hands on hips.
Rogan glanced toward Clive Shepherd, then lifted his hand. Later, he seemed to indicate. He then walked up to the counter to order, carrying his coffee mug with him.
Darinda walked up to the counter. “My grandfather wants to see you.”
“Does he? I’ll be at Government House tonight to see Peter and Arcilla. I’ll look in on him then.”
“He wants to see you now. I’ve the trap out front. I’ll bring you.”
Something about her attitude, or maybe it was just Julien’s way of making things urgent when he wanted something his way, provoked him. He picked up his mug and finished the contents, though the coffee was cold.
“I’ve another matter to attend to right now. I’m meeting someone here.”
She lifted her dark, slim brows and scanned him. “Yes, Clive Shepherd. He ran the Zambezi mine after Mornay was killed in the mining accident. The mine’s gone broke, hasn’t it?”
“Word travels fast, it seems,” Rogan said nonchalantly. He knew Darinda was trying to influence him, but it wouldn’t work.
“The Company owns half of everything that mine produced. Do you think Rhodes wouldn’t know if it had stopped?”
“Forbid. You can include Julien in on that, too. Is that what he wants to see me about, Zambezi?”
“Grandfather has many things on his mind.”
“A very industrious man.”
“You’ll admit, Rogan, you’ve been in Bulawayo a week, and you haven’t called on him yet.”
“He’s not exactly what I would call charming company, Cousin Darinda.”
“He expected you would come to him at once.”
“No doubt.”
“He is your uncle,” she accused. “And don’t forget, he has more to say about your share in the diamonds than anyone else in the family.”
He felt an ironic smile tip the corner of his mouth. “And more to say about my bride’s? That’s it, I suppose. He wants to discuss Evy and her van Buren inheritance. And now that her father’s been murdered, she stands to inherit a great deal more from the Brewster side as well. That should be most upsetting for him. And you.”
An angry crimson stained her cheeks. Her dove-gray eyes sparked. “What Evy gains by means of her birth, and now the death of Anthony, doesn’t interest me.”
“No?” He smiled. “Come, now. We’re old friends, Cousin. The last time we were together on the Limpopo River and the pioneer trek, you made it excruciatingly clear that you have but one aim in life—to boot Anthony aside and take over the reins of the family business.”
“Are you going to come or not?”
“Wait for me at the trap. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
She gave a curt nod of her dark head and, turning on her boot, strode from the tavern looking neither right nor left at the men who watched her.
Clive walked over. “Hello, Rogan. ’Bout time you got back.”
Rogan smiled and shook hands. “Agreed. Ruddy luck things went to ruin. How’s that arm and shoulder doing?”
Clive shook his head sadly. “Not as well as I’d like. Too bad about the mine. It fooled us all, Mornay included. He was depressed toward the end. I couldn’t find out what was actually troubling him.”
“Troubling him?”
“Rather extraordinary, actually. Couldn’t understand why he was so unhappy toward the end. Talked a lot about betrayal. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking of himself or someone else.”
“He didn’t like the BSA.” Had Derwent been able to direct his thinking toward eternity?
“No. He didn’t respect some of the top BSA men, but he worked for them. Did you get all the papers and reports I sent you on the status of the mine?”
“I got them. Looks to me as though we could mine deeper, but it may be a loss. I’m not sure I care to throw money at it right now.”
“I’m still of two minds on the idea myself. You read my report. I think it’s time to close down and look elsewhere. Can’t see how that particular area could be the golden goose Henry Chantry thought it was.”
“I’m convinced it wasn’t. I’ve some ideas we need to discuss in the future. Unfortunately, now isn’t the right time for a trek.”
“That’s right. Derwent said you have your wife here with you now.”
Rogan’s jaw set. “That’s not the reason. She came fully expecting me to go to the Zambezi. Evy’s content out at Dr. Jakob’s mission station right now. She’s discovering her family history.”
Evy would undoubtedly talk about the strain in their marriage with Dr. Jakob, but Rogan had no inclination to discuss his personal life with anyone. He wanted to push everything to the back of his mind and forget about it. His wife’s lack of trust still angered him.
“With what’s happened to Anthony Brewster, I’m reluctant to leave just now,” Rogan explained. “On any new expedition I’m likely to follow up on my uncle’s old map. Right now, though, I don’t want that spread around. We’ll keep it between us.”
Clive nodded. After a moment he said, “That was an ugly thing about Lord Brewster. I just heard today when I rode in. Whoever did it is still running around loose. Was it a native?”
Rogan had been thinking a lot about that. In fact, he’d done little else on both the train and the stagecoach line between Kimberly and Bulawayo.
“I would have thought so at first because of Major Tom Willet.” Rogan briefly explained what he’d learned about the major’s death near the Matopos, which was first palmed off as a lion attack, and now thought to be an attack with an assegai.
“Anthony was different. The back of his head was hit badly. My guess is that he knew the murderer. They met on the trail between Government House and the bungalows. Anthony walked away, and then unexpectedly—wham, struck from behind.”
“Sounds like there’s more than one breed of savages around here,” Clive commented, glancing about.
“The civilized ones are most dangerous.”