Indecent Exposure (32 page)

“I suppose you could say I was
MFHDP
,” he said proudly. Els blew his horn and the hunt moved off through the gate and across the field.

“What’s DP stand for?” Els asked as they followed.

The Kommandant looked at him irritably. “Police dogs, of course,” he said and spurring the bay galloped after the hounds who had picked up the scent of The English Rose. Compounded of Chanel No 5 and aniseed, it was unmistakable. Even the Dobermann Pinschers loping ominously behind the fox hounds could pick it up. In the light of the early dawn they quickened their pace.

So did Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon, whose sleep had not deflated him sufficiently to escape from the intractable embrace of his wife’s corsets. Stumbling about the thicket in an attempt to rid himself of the beastly things, the Colonel heard the sound of Els’ horn and read its message rightly. As the first foxhounds breasted the horizon a mile away the Colonel broke cover and headed for the river. As he ran he scattered the less obdurate accessories of An English Rose. The frock of pale pink georgette, the bell-shaped sleeves, the Leghorn hat and the miniature apron fluttered behind him on the veldt, pathetic remnants of an Imperial dream. At the river bank the Colonel hesitated before diving in. “Got to lose the scent,” he thought as he surfaced and allowed the current to carry him downstream.

“He’s given us the slip,” Els shouted as the hounds milled round the discarded garments.

“I can see that,” said the Kommandant studying the torn fragments of pink with considerable distaste. “Are you sure it’s not Major Bloxham?” he asked. “He said he always wore pink.”

But Els was already down by the river with the foxhounds and sniffing the air. “He’s gone thataway,” he said finally pointing downstream and blowing his horn set off along the river bank. Kommandant van Heerden followed slowly.

The sun had risen and with it there came to the Kommandant a sudden sense of regret. There was no need to hurry now. Els was on the trail and had scented blood and from long experience the Kommandant knew he would never give up. Besides there was no doubt now that he was safe from
BOSS
. Verkramp’s errors of judgement had been buried in the wreckage of White Ladies and no one would question the Kommandant’s efficient handling of the matter now that he had eleven corpses and three hundred pounds of gelignite to prove it. He felt safe at last and with his sense of security there returned the desire to do the gentlemanly thing. Certainly chasing elderly colonels dressed as women across the countryside wasn’t a gentlemanly occupation. There was something vaguely sordid about it. With one last glance at the tailless haunches of the Dobermanns gliding menacingly among the willows, the Kommandant turned his bay and rode slowly back to the house. On the way he met Sergeant Breitenbach in an armoured car and with a rejuvenated sense of chivalry pointed in quite the wrong direction. “They’ve gone thataway,” he shouted and watched the Sergeant disappear over the hillside. Far down the river Els sounded his horn and the Kommandant thought he heard the cry, “Gone to earth.” It was followed by the sound of yelping.

In the back of the taxi Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon had spent her night watching the night sky turn crimson over the taxi-driver’s shoulder and had responded with a degree of agitation that lent weight to his conviction that she was actively enjoying what he was doing. As the reflected glow ebbed from the sky Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s writhings ebbed with it and the taxi-driver fell asleep. As she detached herself from him and climbed out of the car, it occurred to her to search his pockets for money but she discarded the thought. There was more to be gained in the house. When the armoured cars drove out of the yard in pursuit of her husband, Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon adjusted her dress and then scrambled through the hedge and walked up to the house. A mound of blackened rubble, it had little to remind her of the past. In any case Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon was more concerned with the future. She hadn’t left the suburbs of South London for the dangers and discomforts of life in Africa for nothing. She climbed the steps which had been the scene of so many welcomes and which still retained something of their old warmth and surveyed the ruins. Then stepping adroitly between her old friends she made her way to her bedroom and began to dig in the ashes.

As the sound of the horn reached him Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon scrambled out of the river and disappeared into the trees. He stumbled through the undergrowth and five minutes later found himself at the foot of a cliff. He could go no further. Behind him the yelps of the hounds grew more insistent on the far side of the river. The Colonel listened breathlessly for a moment and then turned and searched for somewhere to hide. He found it in an overhang of rock. Crawling inside he found himself in some sort of cave, dark and deep and with a narrow entrance. If only I could block it up, he thought and the next moment, with a presence of mind that had come rather late in life, he was out in the sunlight and struggling with a thorn bush which resolutely defied his efforts to pull it up by the roots. Below him the sound of the pack seemed closer and spurred on by this indication of danger, the Colonel hauled the bush out of the ground, a feat which had it not been for his wife’s corsets would certainly have ruptured him. He crawled back into the hole and dragged the thorn bush behind him. That ought to keep them out, he thought grimly, crouching in the darkness oblivious to the paintings of other hunts that glimmered from the walls of the cave.

On the river bank Konstabel Els and the hounds sniffed the air. There was nothing to indicate which way their quarry had gone. Els wondered what he would have done had he been in the Colonel’s shoes and came to the conclusion that he would have headed into the thick bush on the far side of the river. Urging his nag forward, Els waded into the water and with the hounds swarming around him crossed over. A few minutes later the leading hounds had picked up the trail and were following a line through the trees. Els pushed on after them and came out into the open to find the pack giving tongue round a thorn bush which appeared to be growing in the most unlikely fashion from inside a cave. Els dismounted and considered the situation while the Dobermann Pinschers snarled and the foxhounds greeted their old master with a friendliness that was not reciprocated. With reckless disregard for life and limb Els waded into the pack and peered into the thorn bush. A moment later his “Gone to earth” echoed from the cliff face.

In his burrow Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon recognized the call and the voice had something familiar about it. Hope surged in his breast. If Harbinger was outside, he was safe. He started to push the thorn bush forward to crawl out but was instantly dissuaded by three Dobermanns who threw themselves into the gap with bared teeth. The Colonel hauled the thorn bush back and tried shouting but his words were drowned by the noise of the pack.

Outside Konstabel Els sat on a rock and lit a cigarette. He was in no hurry. Can’t shoot him, he thought recalling the MFH’s adamant veto on the shooting of foxes; what I need is a terrier. Els began to cast about for a suitable substitute. Presently he was scrambling among the rocks on one side of the cliff. It was hot work and the sun was up and it took Els half an hour to find what he was looking for. In the end he grabbed a large snake that was sunning itself on a ledge and holding it by the tail made his way back to the earth. The dogs backed away and Els dropped the snake into the thorn bush with a snigger and watched it slither into the darkness. A moment later a convulsive shudder shook the thorn bush to be followed by a scream as the corseted Colonel erupted from his burrow and hurtled across the scree and into the trees. “Gone away,” yelled Els and watched with a smile as the hounds surged after him. Silly bugger, he thought, he ought to know grass snakes are harmless. Screams and snarls from the bushes marked the end of the hunt and Els pushed his way among the dogs and took out his knife.

To Kommandant van Heerden jogging back to White Ladies the sight that greeted him was full of a poignancy he would never forget. It put him in mind of the heroines in the books of the author whose portrait had once adorned the wall of the dining room. True, Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon was no slender girl and the magic that clung to her was wholly black, but these discrepancies were as nothing to the vision of tragic grief she presented. The Kommandant left the horse at the gate and crossed the gravel to her side. Only then did Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon raise her tinted head.

“It’s buried…” she began, tears ravaging her lovely features. Kommandant van Heerden looked down at the corpse beside her feet and shook his head.

“Not Berry, Daphne. Boy,” he murmured. But Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon was obviously too far gone in grief to hear.

“My precious treasure …” she shrieked and threw herself down to scrabble in the ashes. The Kommandant knelt beside her and shook his head again sadly.

“They’ve gone for good, my darling,” he whispered and was astonished at the fresh paroxysm of grief that racked her body. Cursing himself for the lack of tact that had made him use an endearment at a time like this, he took her hand in his.

“They’ve gone to a better world,” he said gazing into her deep grey eyes. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon thrust him away imperiously.

“You’re lying,” she cried, “they can’t have. They’re all I’ve got,” and disregarding her delicate hands she dug into the rubble. Beside her, overcome by emotion, the Kommandant knelt and watched.

He was still maintaining his steadfast vigil when Els rode up on his nag waving something.

“I’ve got it. I’ve got it,” he shouted triumphantly and dismounted. Kommandant van Heerden regarded him bleakly through eyes dimmed by tears and motioned him away. But Els lacked the Kommandant’s sense of occasion. He ran up the steps into the ruins eagerly and waved something in the Kommandant’s face.

“Look at that. Isn’t it a fine one?” he shouted. Kommandant van Heerden shut his eyes in horror.

“For God’s sake, Els, there’s a time and a place …” he shouted dementedly but Els was already daubing his cheeks and forehead.

“You’re blooded,” he shouted, “you’re blooded.”

The Kommandant rose frantically to his feet.

“You swine,” he screamed, “You filthy swine.”

“I thought you’d like the brush,” Els said in a puzzled tone of voice. It was obvious that he was cut to the quick by the Kommandant’s rejection of his offering. So it appeared was Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon. As the Kommandant turned to make his apologies for Konstabel Els’ appalling lapse of taste, the Colonel’s widow struggled to her feet.

“It’s mine, you thief,” she screamed and lunged at Els furiously. “You had no right to take it, I want it back,” a claim whose justice the Kommandant had to admit while deploring the fact that Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon should want to make it.

“Give it to her,” he shouted at Els, “it’s hers by right,” but before Els could proffer his ghastly souvenir, Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, evidently intent on more practical reparation for the loss of her conjugal rights, had hurled herself on the konstabel and was tearing at his trousers.

“Dear God,” bawled the Kommandant as Els fell back into the ashes.

“Help,” screamed Els evidently imbued with the same suspicion as to her intentions.

“It’s mine,” shrieked Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, clawing at Els’ pants. Kommandant van Heerden shut his eyes and tried to shut out too the screams from Els.

“That it should come to this,” he thought and was trying to reconcile this new evidence of feminine fury with that gentle image of Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon he had nurtured in the past when with a shriek of triumph the Colonel’s widow got to her feet. The Kommandant opened his eyes and stared at the strange object in her hand. It was not, he was thankful to note, what he had expected. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s hand held a dark lump of metal in whose misshapen surface there gleamed here and there large brilliant stones. Twisted and melted though they were, the Kommandant could still recognize traces of Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s bijouterie. Clutching the great ingot to her breast she looked once more the woman he had known.

“My darlings,” she shrieked, her voice radiant with frenetic gaiety, “my precious darlings.”

The Kommandant turned sternly to Els who was still lying prone and shaken by his recent experience.

“How many times have I told you not to nick things?” he demanded. Els smiled weakly and got to his feet.

“I was only looking after them,” he said by way of explanation.

The Kommandant turned away and followed Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon down the steps.

“Have you a car?” he asked solicitously. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon shook her head.

“Then I’ll send for a taxi,” said the Kommandant.

A fresh pallor blanched Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s face.

“You’ve got to be joking,” she muttered before collapsing in a dead faint in his arms.

“Poor thing,” thought the Kommandant, “it’s all been too much for her.” He picked her up and carried her gently over to a Saracen. As he lowered her to the floor he noticed that she still clutched the nugget in her limp hand.

“The British bulldog.” he thought and closed the door.

When the police convoy finally left White Ladies Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon had revived sufficiently to sit up. She was still obviously stunned by the change in her fortunes and the Kommandant tactfully didn’t bring the subject up. Instead he busied himself with some paperwork and ran over in his mind things he had still to do.

He had left Sergeant Breitenbach with a small body of men to guard the scene of the crime and had arranged for photographs of the cache of high-explosives and detonators in the harness room to be supplied to the press. He would write up a full report on the affair for the Commissioner of Police and forward a copy to
BOSS
and he would announce to the press that another revolutionary conspiracy to overthrow the Republic had been nipped in the bud. He might even hold a press conference. In the end he decided not to on the grounds that journalists were a breed of men who didn’t make the job of the police in South Africa any easier and he saw no reason why they should rely on him for their information. He had, in any case, more important matters to worry about than public opinion.