The Diamond Hunter Read online

  He had a whole night to get his story right, calm himself and have a plan for tomorrow morning when James was found and they would have no choice but to place Clementine in the care of one of the last remaining members of her blood family.

  A day ago Joseph One-Shoe might have claimed he’d experienced the worst shock of his life. Before he’d unearthed Sirius, it was the early death of a distant cousin in a hunting accident that had scarred the young Zenzele. The shock and grief from watching his cousin die from the wound were lasting; the business of being a man, providing for the village, suddenly felt real and dangerous, and he felt he had lost his innocence that day. Sirius had brought a dawning of a different kind. Watching the fall of James Knight, however, trumped them both. The relative who had come with his sneering expression and oily words had just stolen something more precious than any diamond from the Zulu.

  He had gone looking for his friend but had melted into the shadows after seeing him being accosted by the visitor, as he had no right to interfere with family business. And so he had watched and followed. He could hear their angry exchange. Understood that this man from England had come to offer them passage back there, to give them a home and particularly to help give Clementine a proper life. With this, Joseph agreed. Allowing her mother’s family to help raise her made sense to a man who came from a tribe where everyone looked out for the youngsters. The men obviously disliked each other but James, drunk again, was being obstinate and deliberately perverse.

  And then it unfolded so quickly that Joseph had to replay in his mind what he’d witnessed. James had struck the first blow, and despite warning had continued to poke and prod at the Englishman, baiting him. Watching from nearby, his skin already his best defence, Joseph had been shrouded by the dark; even when the man looked up wildly, terrified, he would never have been able to pick out Joseph. He’d scanned for anyone lurking, found no one and believed himself alone.

  Joseph grasped it was not intentional murder but James had cried out. Had the man not heard it?

  Now crouched over the only man he loved, he accepted that James was dead. He had expelled his final breath in Joseph’s arms. By lighting a match from the box the visitor had cast aside in his panic, he could see the pallor of death. He wasn’t sure how to feel; Joseph could only touch the numbing sense of loss right now, for him and especially for Clementine. As he cradled his friend’s head, sweeping back the lock of thick, dark hair that had fallen across his handsome face, Joseph was already resigned to the futility of raising the alarm that the newcomer had killed James Knight.

  Nevertheless, the uncle had released the most important person in this whole sorry story from the future she would have had if she had remained under the care of her father. He would put Miss Clementine’s life ahead of her dead parents. Now she had a chance of freedom and a far brighter future, if he could protect the lie that he could already tell was in the making.

  With tears tracing a guilty path down his cheeks, Joseph One-Shoe hefted his dead friend over one shoulder. He couldn’t bring to mind whose claim this was but it was particularly deep, so the fall had been long. Mercifully, there was a ladder, and with James’s lifeless fingers drumming against the back of his thighs, Joseph One-Shoe made the ascent with the heaviest of hearts that his silence was going to help one family member get away with the death of another.

  Reggie slowed and shortened his stride, so by the time he arrived at the township he was almost strolling. He hoped only he knew how contrived his casual air was. Reaching into his pockets, he remembered he’d smoked his last cigarette and suddenly yearned for some calming tobacco.

  James was dead. The man who had stood in the way of his bringing little Clementine home to the bosom of her family was gone. Reggie now had a very real chance of wiping all the family’s debt in a single transaction. The idea sparkled like the diamond that he hoped would be the saviour of the Grant family and its empire.

  While he couldn’t produce the jolly whistle that he wished he might achieve for its effect, he managed to arrive at the grand entrance of the Kimberley Club, its multicoloured leadlight double doors opening to him like a lover’s safe embrace.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Grant.’

  He was impressed that the servants already knew his name. ‘Nice night,’ he replied in a jaunty tone. ‘I walked right around the town – it’s quite a busy place of an evening.’

  ‘Certainly is, sir. Best to avoid the Big Hole at night, sir. Too many dangers.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it . . . er, Godfrey, is it?’

  ‘Godfrey, yes, sir. Will you be taking a nightcap, sir?’

  ‘I’m a fraction weary. Maybe someone could send some brandy to my suite – enough for a couple of nips? I might do some reading.’ He was amazed at how normal he sounded, given he’d just effectively killed a man.

  ‘Of course, sir. I’ll have that sent to your suite at once. Enjoy your evening.’

  He tucked some money into Godfrey’s palm – far more than perhaps was wise, but it never hurt to insure against a loose tongue.

  ‘Sleep soundly, sir,’ Godfrey said, pocketing the money.

  Sleep itself felt unachievable right now. He crossed the black and white chequered tiles with a pounding heart and the churning thought that a police whistle would go up any moment and a burly hand would grasp his shoulder.

  Neither occurred. He heard no disturbance in the quiet streets other than the happy sound of crickets chirruping. Reggie sipped his cognac – a bounteous half-decanter of some of France’s finest had been delivered, on Godfrey’s instruction, no doubt – as he repeatedly replayed the scene in his mind.

  It was an accident. He hadn’t set out to hurt James. James had pushed him too far, sneered too often, insulted him too much.

  Nevertheless, you are heartlessly going to take his child and steal his diamonds, a voice argued.

  And he had nothing to assert that could dispute both of those facts.

  Amazing himself with his nerveless calm, the next morning Reggie indulged in another splendidly cooked breakfast beneath the cool verandah of the Kimberley Club. He’d sent his suit for cleaning and his shoes for polishing, and was dressed in paler linen so he could present the image of a man taking a break from his business dealings.

  He had his gaze firmly fixed on a novel called Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, about the improbable sighting of a sea monster. He preferred the pace of the adventure story to the more plodding drama of the Dickens novel he had also brought along.

  ‘What are you nose-deep in there, Grant?’ It was the gentleman staying across from his suite. They’d passed a polite time of day but he hadn’t thought the man knew his name.

  Glad to be interrupted and to test out just how normally he could behave, he dredged up the perfect grin and showed him the book’s cover.

  The newcomer nodded appreciatively. ‘I do like good illustrations,’ he remarked, taking the book and flipping through a few of the leaves.

  ‘I had to order it from Paris.’

  ‘Good story?’

  ‘Just starting, really.’ He tried to be sure his voice was steady, confident now that people would be looking for him. ‘You’re very welcome to read it while we’re here.’ He wanted to give a strong impression that he was in no tearing rush.

  His neighbour nodded. ‘I might. Thank you.’ He lifted his pale hat and moved on.

  They would come soon. James would have been discovered soon after dawn; Reggie had been told most of the diggers got going at first light to avoid the worst of the day’s heat. It was Reggie’s contention that James was already on a slab in the local morgue, if there was one. He returned to his book.

  ‘Morning, Grant.’

  He looked up, trying his best to appear as though he’d been interrupted. ‘Ah, hello again.’ It was the fellow from the previous day. ‘I was just thinking it was time I headed out.’

  ‘Breakfast already done? Good grief, man. Couldn’t you sleep?’

  �
�Not really. Today I’m meeting family I haven’t seen for a couple of years. Very much looking forward to it – to seeing my niece, in particular.’

  ‘Your family are diggers?’

  ‘My sister died out here. I’ve come to visit her husband and their child.’ He gave a sad gust of a sigh. ‘Actually, I’m hoping to persuade them to come home with me.’

  ‘Has he had much luck, this brother-in-law of yours?’

  Reggie shook his head. ‘No. Fallen on hard times, as I understand it. Another reason I’m out from England. Extend the family hand of generosity, bring them home, put a new roof over their heads, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Most magnanimous,’ the passer-by remarked.

  Reggie effected an embarrassed shrug. ‘The Grant family way.’

  The man grinned. ‘I hope your day goes splendidly, then. I gather there’s been a bit of a ruckus up at the Big Hole.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ He held his breath.

  ‘Something about a body.’

  ‘Heavens! Who?’

  ‘Er, coffee and scrambled eggs,’ the man said to a passing waiter, and then waved his morning paper towards Reggie. ‘All I heard was it was a drunken digger, found by one of the Africans. No doubt it will all come out over the course of the day. Nothing new about that, though, is there? Will barely cause a ripple, I’m sure.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Reggie remarked, feeling his hopes rise. ‘Well, I had better start my day. See you this evening, perhaps, Plume?’

  ‘Maybe not. I’m off to Barkly West today to look at some of the alluvial diggings. Might continue on from there.’

  ‘Then I’ll say farewell. I hope to be on my way tomorrow with my brother-in-law and niece in tow.’

  ‘That soon?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure our conversation will be brief. James will either agree or not. I can’t fight him.’

  Plume shook his hand. ‘You’re a good man, Grant. We must meet again in England. I should be back in a few months.’

  ‘See you at my club.’ He felt his spirits soar as he uttered those words. Now he sounded like a real gentleman. ‘Come and have dinner some time at the Travellers Club on the Mall.’

  Plume looked impressed. ‘Excellent. Travel safely, Grant. I just saw Fry in the reception. Be careful of that one. Heart of a heathen.’

  Reggie had no idea what his companion was talking about but let Perkins depart without further query. Feeling calmed that he’d laid two paths with reliable men should he require an alibi, he turned to gather up his book, notepad and fountain pen, only to hear someone clearing their throat.

  The club manager regarded him with a darting gaze. ‘Mr Grant.’ He seemed embarrassed, and hurried along a hovering waiter so they could be alone.

  ‘Yes?’ He hoped his frown looked innocent and suitably puzzled.

  ‘Er, Mr Grant, sir. This is slightly awkward but Detective Fry is in the foyer.’

  ‘Detective?’

  ‘He’s our senior policeman here,’ the manager said.

  ‘To see me?’ He sounded appropriately confounded.

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. A word of warning, sir. Detective Fry and justice do not necessarily walk the same path.’ He touched his nose gently in the universal sign language of keeping something private.

  ‘Did he say what this is about?’ Reggie asked, picking up his things.

  ‘Best let him explain.’

  ‘Right . . . well.’ He gave a flustered sigh. ‘Lead the way.’

  They walked in frigid silence to the foyer, where a man in a dark uniform was waiting. He stood a head taller than Reggie, who prided himself on his height. The detective’s luxuriant moustache twitched as he saw them approach.

  ‘Mr Reginald Grant?’ He didn’t wait for confirmation. ‘I’m Detective Fry. My apologies for interrupting you.’ He didn’t look at all apologetic, Reggie noted.

  ‘Er, shall we go in here?’ the hotel manager offered, quickly ushering both men into the deserted billiards room. ‘It’s more private.’ He closed the swinging double doors and stood to one side.

  The room felt vast around him but Reggie avoided looking at the taxidermied heads that hung upon the walls. Their dead eyes nevertheless seemed to stare directly at him, accusingly. They were like a jury, ready to pronounce the murderer guilty.

  ‘What’s this about, Fry?’ He was glad to hear his own tone of indignation and irritation. It was pitch-perfect.

  ‘It’s not pleasant news, sir.’ The words were formal; the tone felt unsympathetic.

  Reggie looked into a face deeply scarred by smallpox and a throat that wobbled like a turkey’s gobbler. ‘Is it my stepmother, Mrs Grant?’ He sounded appropriately broken. ‘I . . . I was hoping to get back . . .’

  ‘This is a local matter.’ He sounded heartless now. ‘I’m aggrieved to tell you that your brother-in-law, Mr James Knight, was unfortunately found dead this morning at the Big Hole.’

  It was real.

  Amazingly, it was as though he was comprehending this fact for the first time and it didn’t require much acting. Reggie stared at the policeman. He shifted his gaze to the hotel manager, who dipped his eyes out of respect.

  ‘That can’t be right,’ he choked out.

  ‘It is, sir. One of the diggers found his body and alerted us. Although, as you’re the closest adult next of kin, I would be obliged if you would formally identify his body.’

  ‘But I was supposed to meet him today!’ His words squeezed out as if he were in pain. ‘He and Clementine were coming home with me. It’s why I’m here, man!’

  ‘Brandy, please,’ Fry snapped at the manager, who moved immediately. ‘Mr Knight was not well, sir. I gather he had never fully recovered from the death of his wife, and the barman at one of the locals has confirmed he was well into his cups by the time he left the saloon.’ He cleared his throat and his turkey neck waggled. ‘Actually, Mr Grant, he was abusive, behaving badly. We believe he was very deeply intoxicated and wandered up to the Big Hole and . . .’

  ‘And what?’

  The brandy arrived in a balloon glass on a silver tray.

  ‘Drink it, sir,’ the policeman urged.

  Reggie obliged. It helped. He must have blanched. His hand even shook when he reached for the glass.

  ‘Your niece is of prime concern.’

  ‘She comes home with me. I’m all she’s got. I shall take full responsibility for Clementine.’

  The detective’s face relaxed and Reggie realised it was Clementine the authorities had been anxious about, and that he had just presented their most-hoped-for solution. And there he’d been believing he might have a fight on his hands but he could now sense the relief like a fourth person in the room, sighing – just short of applauding.

  ‘That’s good to know, Mr Grant.’

  ‘Where is Clementine now? Does she know?’

  ‘She has been told. I don’t know if you’re aware of this but I am assured that she is very close to a Zulu they call Joseph One-Shoe.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve seen them. They lived like family, that trio. I have asked One-Shoe to bring Clementine to the police station.’

  ‘Good. Is that where we’re going now?’

  ‘My driver’s waiting.’

  Reggie didn’t finish the brandy, replacing the glass on the tray and thanking the club manager with a nod. ‘Lead the way, Detective Fry.’

  It didn’t take him long to recognise James. He was laid out on a table in what could only be described as a makeshift morgue. It was connected to the police station, which he realised comprised little more than some cobbled-together corrugated iron. He worked hard not to show his bafflement at the surroundings and schooled his features to appear grave. He even managed to tremble as the sheet was pulled back to reveal the slackened features of the brother-in-law he loathed. He turned away from the shrunken version of the man whose looks he’d once envied with a feigned sigh of sad disgust.

  ‘Yes, that’s James Knight,’ he said. He was glad the body showed no evi
dent signs of a struggle; there was no wound that he could see.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Grant.’ Detective Fry nodded and returned the sheet across the corpse’s face.

  ‘He didn’t suffer, did he?’

  ‘He must have fallen and hit the rocks at the bottom. Our doctor said it would likely have been instant or very quick. Mr Knight was profoundly intoxicated, so it would not be wrong to assume the poor wretch knew nothing about it.’

  Reggie nodded with relief, his expression sombre, composed. ‘This is most distressing, as there is a child involved.’ He needed to move to the pertinent matter swiftly.

  ‘Do you need some time with . . .?’ Fry nodded at the corpse.

  ‘No. But thank you. What happens next?’ he asked wearily. ‘For Clementine, I mean. She is my most important responsibility, now that she’s officially an orphan.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Quite true. In fact, she may already be here.’

  Reggie gave a pained but barely perceptible shrug as though feeling helpless at such a state of affairs.

  ‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Grant.’ Detective Fry held the door open for Reggie. ‘Er, about the burial?’

  ‘Whatever arrangements can be made, I’d be grateful. I’ll organise payment to your funeral parlour. You do have one, I presume?’

  ‘All can be arranged, sir.’

  ‘Fine. Bill the Kimberley Club and I’ll leave instructions for payment.’

  The detective stopped walking. ‘You’re not staying?’

  ‘No, no. It’s far too upsetting. My father died, and my sister not long after. Now James. I must head straight back to England as Clementine’s grandmother is gravely ill. Besides, I don’t believe Clementine would benefit from seeing her remaining parent buried atop the other, do you?’