Today's Embrace (28 page)

The moon had risen over Bulawayo from the foreboding Matopos Hills. Sharply etched branches and the tops of distant thorn trees on the veld showed black in the bone white moonlit world that lay spread out before her. On the far side of the clearing, a candle glowed in a bungalow window. A small dim light … from bungalow thirteen.

Her memory was nudged—
Number thirteen is vacant
.

Hadn't there'd been some meandering discussion at lunch about putting Anthony there? Arcilla had said something about thirteen being larger and more comfortable. Someone had joked about its “luxury.” Then someone else—was it Peter, she couldn't remember—had suggested it was too isolated, requiring a long walk to Government House each morning and evening for meals and meetings, and that Anthony had recently developed some sort of heart condition.

Darinda vaguely thought how sad that Camilla must be told about her husband, and when Evy arrived, she would find out that her father, whom she'd only recently come to know, was dead.

Darinda stoically stared off toward the flickering light in bungalow thirteen, refusing to allow the pain of others to depress her.

The breeze danced about her like a satyr.

Yes, thirteen was vacant. In fact, Parnell had jested that he was so alone in bungalow twelve that he hesitated to go out at night for fear of prowling lions.

Then what was a light doing in the window?

If Captain Retford was a Boer spy, might he have gone to that vacant bungalow tonight for a clandestine meeting with the other man in the Company getting information for President Kruger? How many other such meetings had been there? Had Parnell ever noticed that little light flickering?

Although Retford had known he was to escort her back to Government House, Julien had been with her discussing matters, and Captain Retford may have thought he had enough time to meet with his contact. What better time for a meeting than when Julien and Harry Whipple were gathering troopers to ride off to question the local induna? Sometimes the secrets were best kept right under the noses of those who sought them. Grandfather was right.

She glanced round about her again, assured that Ryan was nowhere at hand, and rallied her determination. If she was going to serve the Company, this was an opportune time to begin.

She brushed her fingers against her pistol, confident she could use it if she needed to protect herself, but equally confident such would not be necessary with the honorable Captain Retford.

The evening was so quiet that Darinda could hear the faint sweep of wind on the brush near the creek. The grasses quivered. Perhaps an animal crept along on silent paws to quench its thirst, or a python slithered by, hoping for some small creature to appear. Some men were like
that: they could swallow up the vulnerable and say, “I have done no wrong. A man must eat any way he can.”

She must stop listening to Dr. Jakob van Buren, allowing his beliefs to take root in her mind.

She started along the path toward the distant bungalows, watching her steps as she went. The moonlight slanting over the hills shone onto the thatched bungalow roofs, turning them into a golden amber while the shadows of trees swayed on the walls.

She approached bungalow thirteen. No wonder Parnell thought it lonely down here at the end of the row of huts. From the back of the bungalow, a slope went down to the watercourse. She could hear the water rippling over stones.

She came near the side window. The candlelight glowed. She drew yet closer, cupping her ear and listening. There were no voices, only murmurs from the wind.

She drew quietly away and backed … into something.

“Good evening, Miss Bley.”

Captain Ryan Retford's voice caused her to whirl around.

His gaze dropped to her hand as she clutched her gun. Embarrassed, she quickly returned it to the holster.

In the silver moonlight she could see he was displeased.

“You're kind of easy with that .45, Miss Bley. Let's hope you keep a clear head when you're startled.”

Her face burned. “You mean when a man sneaks up behind me after a murder's taken place.”

“My apology, Miss Bley. Sorry I frightened you. You do well to be on guard. I heard someone and circled around to see who it was. What are you doing down here?”

Very casual indeed. “I saw a light in the window. I thought it was a candle. Since thirteen is empty I wondered.”

She eyed him. He looked quite handsome in the moonlight in his uniform. What would he think if he knew his superior had confided in
her that he was suspected of being a Boer spy? He looked so British, so apparently loyal to Her Majesty's throne that it crossed her mind that Grandfather Julien must be wrong.

“Don't you think, Captain, we should have a look inside the bungalow to make certain no one is hiding there? I mean, wouldn't it be quite clever of Anthony's murderer to hide in a vacant bungalow while the Company police are out searching for him? Then, while everyone is preoccupied elsewhere, he could simply slip off unseen.”

“Yes, quite clever of him, if that were the case. However, I'll need to confess, Miss Bley, that this is my bungalow.”

Startled, she stared at him. “Yours?”

He smiled. “Mine. As of four o'clock this afternoon. Your grandfather's orders. I came here to have a look about while you were meeting with Sir Julien.”

She looked at him a long moment. She could let the matter drop, but … “Do you mind if I have a look inside? I was so sure I heard voices.”

He paused, then smiled. “Not unless I talk to myself. But if you don't mind being late for dinner in the pleasant surroundings of Government House, Miss Bley, then I'll not hurry you. Welcome inside Lucky Thirteen.”

Did he know she had not really heard voices? She went up the steps onto the screened porch, and he followed. He reached over and opened the door. Darinda entered. The bungalow was nearly identical to the one Anthony had been given, except it looked larger.

“The builders must have gotten carried away on this one,” he said lightly when she commented on it being larger.

She looked toward the window facing the path, where the candle glowed and flickered.

“The lamp was out of oil,” he said, following her gaze.

He walked over to the window, opened it to let some breeze in, and moved the candle to another table. “No one else wanted this bungalow, so when Sir Julien asked me, I grabbed it up. I'm not one to turn down
a comfortable bed just because it's assigned the number thirteen.” He smiled and turned to look at her.

Darinda was watching him curiously. He must have noticed, for he looked as though he was wondering what she was thinking. For an awkward moment they stood facing each other.

She didn't know what to say. She glanced toward a closed door. She must be bold; she wasn't the kind to blush and withdraw. She walked daringly across the room, opened the door, and stepped into the small bedroom. It was too dark to see. To her surprise, Captain Retford came up behind her with the candle, and the room came into view. There was nothing of particular interest, certainly no spy. The small closet stood open and empty. She took the candle from him without meeting his eyes, walked in, stooped, and looked under the bed. Nothing. Feeling a bit foolish, she got up and walked past him into the main room.

“A very adequate bungalow,” she said, her cheeks burning as she set the candle down on a small table.

“Quite pleasant, and much quieter than the barracks.” A smile in his voice.

He must think she was daft.

“My grandfather asked you to stay here?” She tried to keep too much curiosity from her tone. She turned to look over at him.

Perhaps his hair was the color of sand, she decided. It contrasted well with his tanned skin and flinty blue eyes.

“He wanted me to be within closer call.”

So he could keep an eye on him, no doubt.

Captain Retford stood looking the perfect soldier, and it was only by chance that she noticed the flicker of something like wry humor in his eyes.

She gave him a cool appraisal and turned away. She wasn't doing well at all in thawing the ice between them. How could she ever expect to learn his secrets when he was on guard? As long as it was “Captain Retford” and “Miss Bley,” what could develop?

“Well,” she said airily, taking in a breath and moving easily about
the room. “The mystery of voices and lights in the window is solved, at least.”

“And no bodies under the bed, either.”

She turned sharply to look at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't have made light of it after Lord Brewster's death.”

He had mistaken her quick turn in his direction as offense over his jest, assuming her pain over losing Anthony. Little did he know her true feelings, or that they had argued hotly just before his death.

“You need not apologize,” she said flatly. “I didn't have a lot of affection for Anthony Brewster. And not only that, Captain, but I benefit from his death.” She turned and looked at him again evenly to see his reaction to her blunt honesty. Now, why was she doing this? She was risking alienating him further.

To her surprise—or was it relief?—he did not look shocked or disapproving.

“I had a terrible argument with him on the path about my inheritance,” she confessed, still gauging his response. Would he be repulsed? Would he sympathize?

In her brief pause the bungalow creaked in the wind.

“Why would you be telling me this?”

She shrugged and walked about slowly, thoughtfully, touching things cautiously, as though she might get burned.

“I don't know …” She honestly didn't. She looked up. He watched her. “I suppose you're bound to find out,” she said. “So will Harry Whipple. I was one of the last people to see Anthony before he was murdered.”

He gave a nod. “When did you meet him on the path?”

She considered. “It must have been around 5:30. About an hour before I found him under the tree. I told him he had no right to control the diamond business after my grandfather died.”

“You need not tell me what was discussed, Miss Bley.”

“I don't mind. I told him that I was the rightful blood heiress
because I'm a Bley.” She couldn't tell what was moving through his mind. “He didn't like what I said. I didn't think he would, but it was truthful.” Her eyes sought his.

“You'll need to tell Sir Julien about this,” Retford said. “I would advise you not to go to Whipple.”

That interested her. “Then you don't like him, either?”

“I don't know about that, but I wouldn't trust him if he thought he could get something for himself out of an unpleasant situation. You'll admit, Miss Bley, yours is a unique and unpleasant situation. But don't be alarmed. I can't see you bashing his lordship on the head when he turned his back to you, and I don't think anyone else would, either.”

She walked over to the open window and interlaced her fingers tightly, wondering why she had admitted this to Ryan. This is not what she had come here for. There was no need to have mentioned her meeting with Anthony. No one else knew about it.

Captain Retford walked up. His next words surprised her. “I already know much of what you're not telling me, Miss Bley.”

She studied his face, trying to make sense of what he'd said. “You knew I'd met Anthony? But how?”

“I didn't know you'd argued with Lord Brewster. I did understand about your strained relationship with him.”

She delicately lifted her eyebrows.

“It's hardly a secret you two were at loggerheads,” he explained. “You let your opinion be known on Rhodes's pioneer trek to Fort Salisbury.”

“Did I? Was I that transparent?” She offered a rueful smile.

“You've made it clear, I think, that Lord Brewster stood between you and your desire to assume headship over the family diamond enterprise. So your argument with him this afternoon would not be considered surprising.”

She thought about that a moment, then walked away, stopping to rest her hands on the back of a chair.

“What is curious to me, however, is why you came back to his
bungalow,” he said. “I understand he went on to keep an appointment with someone. Just who that individual was, no one appears to know. You'd already told him what you thought, so why didn't you just return to Government House?”

She hesitated. Her fingers dug deeply into the soft backing of the chair. She'd come back to find the letter the Capetown authority had sent her grandfather regarding his plans for the expedition to the Matopos. She suspected it was a sharp reprimand, and she'd wanted to read it for herself. Anthony had insisted on meeting alone with her grandfather upon his arrival with that letter. She'd been looking in the table drawer for it and hadn't gotten far in the search when Arcilla had interrupted her.

Silence settled. “I had wanted to talk with him again,” she said. “I was going to wait for his return.” Did he accept that explanation?

She turned to look at him. She changed the subject: “Do you think it was a native who killed him?”

“If it wasn't, then perhaps it was one of us, Miss Bley.”

The breeze through the open window caused the candle flame to flicker, its light growing uncertain.

“Parnell believes the indunas are on the verge of sending their impis to attack us.”

“They may like to, but their shields were burned, their assegais broken in two. They've no weapons that would stand against our Maxim guns. They know that and are not that foolish.”

She agreed. She thought of the ngangas. “Arcilla is worried about happenings in the house. Witchcraft—do you believe in such things?”

“In the sense that it can be diabolical, yes, I believe there is some power behind it, and that evil spirits are real. I do agree with Parnell Chantry that the indunas feel they have grievances against us. I'm hoping we can work with Dr. Jakob to solve some of those problems. If I were in control here at Bulawayo, I'd ask the men to send their wives and children to Fort Salisbury until tempers cool down over the cattle issue.”