Today's Embrace (25 page)

“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.

The news of Lord Anthony Brewster's murder reached Government House with a thunderous crack. Sir Julien Bley was dressed for dinner, and Sir Peter Bartley began searching for Arcilla. Arcilla, who Darinda was most worried would become hysterical, had surprised her. After Arcilla's initial shock, she had turned a sickly white, but she merely sat down slowly and uttered not a word until Captain Retford returned with Peter, Sir Julien, and a handful of the Company police. At once they secured the area and began a meticulous search of the compound grounds and bungalows, though it wasn't clear what they were looking for. Darinda thought that whatever was used to strike the deadly blow must have been carried away.

They gathered in the drawing room with Sir Julien in command of the Bulawayo police. As the detailed interrogation began, Captain Retford entered quietly with Julien's chief police sergeant, Mr. Harry Whipple, a young and rather brutish man with broad features and blond hair. He was wide across the chest and shoulders, which gave her the impression he was a fighter or a wrestler. His pale, watery eyes were bold, sometimes disrespectful in the way she caught him watching her and Arcilla.

“We've found the weapon that bashed his lordship's head in, Sir Julien,” Harry Whipple boasted. “Got blood on it too. Here it is, sir.”

Darinda was careful not to wince as Whipple produced a sturdy section of hardwood that looked solid enough to crush rock. Arcilla made a sickening sound, revealing her horror, as expected. A look of
satisfaction showed on Harry Whipple's face, as though he enjoyed her feminine shriek. He squared his shoulders, cleared his throat and said, too gravely, “My apology, Mrs. Chantry.”

“Never mind the theatrics, Whipple,” Sir Julien dictated. “Where did you find it?” Julien asked.

“We followed the tracks to where the murder looks to have happened, Mr. Bley. Looked like Lord Brewster was jumped by more'n one, knocked down, and struck from behind before he could get up.”

“Do you agree, Ryan?” Sir Julien's one good eye swerved to Captain Retford.

Ryan stood apart from Harry Whipple near two Rhodesian policemen and three armed Shona. The Shona police were despised by the Ndebele, who thought of them as former slaves. Using Shona to lord it over the Ndebele had cultivated resentment, but Whipple insisted he trusted only Shona, and Sir Julien let him have his way. Another handful of Company police were outside.

“The footprints were such that one can't be sure, sir.”

“Really, Retford,” Whipple said with a laugh. “It does appear there was more than one who met his lordship. You said so yourself.”

“True enough, Harry, concerning the number of footprints, but it looked as though they were placed intentionally, after the fact.”

Whipple scowled thoughtfully. “Maybe, Retford, but you admit they were bare feet, not boots. That tells me all I need to know.”

“Go on, Ryan,” Sir Julien said.

“The prints looked deliberately placed, sir.”

Julien's black brows shot up. “You don't think the Ndebele are involved in this?”

“I'm not suggesting they weren't. You know what I think about Major Willet's wounds, sir. But in Lord Brewster's case, there's an unnatural look to those footprints. I think they were intended to be noticed.”

Darinda scowled. “But you did think the same person or persons killed Major Willet?”

Captain Retford looked across the room at her. “An assegai was
used. And the major's death took place near the Matopos. But in this present case, sir,” and he looked back at Julien, “no Ndebele warrior would jump a man from behind and use a club. That has the white man's feel to it.”