The Diamond Hunter Read online

  Time had no effect here, Clem decided. She could string together ten lifetimes and all that would have happened in the Karoo would be that the dust blew here or there. Perhaps only another Ice Age could affect it, she thought, not at all intimidated by the lonely vastness of the scenery that unnerved so many.

  No, she and her adventurous parents had made a bone-shaking journey on an ox wagon all those years ago. It made her think of Joseph travelling on foot, leaving behind his tribe, everything that was familiar, everyone he loved, for the good of his people. She blinked as she thought about Joseph making the trek to the original alluvial deposits at Barkly West on foot, with no boot at all. He was the true adventurer.

  Clem raised her eyes to the sky. The blue of it was so deep it felt heavy, like a solid bolt of cloth drawn tight across the dome of the earth. She hadn’t remembered the African sky being so single-minded but she could smell the promise of rain and imagined that somewhere, clouds were gathering.

  It had rained on the day they had arrived at the community near the river. Tent flaps, bothered by the winds, had snapped and complained while women’s hair was wrenched free from pins and bonnets. Maybe heaven’s tears would fall today, like a nod in the mirror to yesteryear, as she returned to Africa?

  There was a gentle knock at her door and she roused herself from her musings, pulling on her jacket and checking nothing had been left out of her carpet bag. John would organise the unloading of her trunk. From the moment he knocked, the landscape began to change: from rusted brown to a first hint of green that suggested life and community, before buildings began to ease into sight. The engine driver pulled hard on the whistle, its joyful screech heralding the arrival of another trainload of passengers out of the desert and into the township of Kimberley.

  The door opened and John looked in. ‘All ready, Miss Grant?’

  ‘Excited,’ she answered. ‘What a wonderful journey, John – thank you.’

  ‘All part of realising Mr Rhodes’s dream to have a red line on the map from the Cape to Cairo, Miss Grant.’ He politely touched his cap with his finger.

  ‘Let’s hope Cecil Rhodes doesn’t stop dreaming, John.’

  ‘Indeed – I should quite like to see Cairo by train, Miss Grant.’ He winked. ‘Let me help you off and organise for your trunk to be delivered. It’s the Queen’s Hotel, am I right?’

  ‘Correct,’ she replied, following him into the corridor, where other excited travellers were gathering.

  She moved to the front of the throng being disgorged onto the platform. Amid the billowing steam and the slow hiss of the train calming down after its lengthy journey, she gave a final smile to her attendant, knowing he’d be delighted by the contents of the envelope she’d left for him. ‘Thank you for all your care.’

  She was quick to put distance between them, suddenly eager to escape the confines of the railway station and reach the soil of Kimberley again. Nevertheless, Clem knew she should pause for a moment and appreciate this enormous building and the huge platform she stood on.

  The station was built from stone the colour of the earth that had once clung to the diamonds they mined. It was extraordinary that railway lines had reached all the way here from Cape Town over the mountain ranges. The Big Hole was now formally known as the Kimberley Mine and was owned almost entirely by one corporation, the De Beers Consolidated Mines Limited.

  If Rhodes, its founder, had known about Sirius, she couldn’t imagine what he’d have done to acquire it.

  She passed by the whitewashed arched windows to walk through the tall curved doors. It was hard to place exactly where she stood. It struck her as more of a small bustling city, with sprawling streets that wandered off into residential suburbs. Massive migration had clearly taken place as mining operations searched for those funnels of glittering wealth.

  And that wealth showed. The carriage ride to her hotel passed public gardens, their verdant lawns and bright floral displays surprising for a town located in a vast desert. She asked the driver to take her on a tour of the town. There was a bowls green with manicured grass like velvet and people strolling about a proud clubhouse dressed in whites. The carriage drove past football fields and cricket pitches and even a gymnasium. The wind-ravaged wilderness that was once roughly designated as the Kimberley Turf Club had now been properly enclosed as a racecourse, complete with grandstand. Clementine wished her father could see it.

  They finally drew up alongside a double-storey brick building, with the verandahs familiar to her from childhood curving around both levels.

  ‘Welcome to the Queen’s Hotel.’ The desk clerk beamed at her. ‘We’re very busy this week, Miss Grant, but our owner insisted that we offer you our best room.’

  ‘I don’t believe I know your owner,’ she admitted, signing the guest book.

  ‘Er . . .’ He frowned, checking a large book. ‘Ah, yes, we received a telegram from a Mr William Axford. I gather he knows the owner, and no doubt a request was made.’

  Will diligently wrote to her once a fortnight and had obviously become used to her silence, it seemed, for he addressed her as if they were having an ongoing conversation. But he’d obviously found out through other means of the timing of her journey to Kimberley. Milton probably. She had kept him on and he’d turned out to be extremely loyal and no doubt had her interests at heart in sharing this information with Will. She couldn’t help but smile.

  He had been looking into her plans to offer insurance to the diamond trade and they were now well advanced, awaiting her decision. He would not make a move without her – perhaps for fear of being accused of stealing the idea. Dear Will, you really are the honourable sort, she thought. Her fury had certainly cooled over her lonely Christmas in the north and had continued to settle over the winter until she had set sail for the Cape at the end of January. Had she been too hasty? The clerk interrupted the thought.

  ‘And there’s a letter for you, Miss Grant.’

  She frowned, took it from him and immediately recognised Uncle Reggie’s hand.

  34

  As Clem impatiently awaited the arrival of her trunk, she sat down at the small desk near the window in her room. Reaching for the ivory letter opener, she noted that the stamps were from Italy. Curiously, she realised she was pleased to finally hear from him, as there had always been a small nag of doubt that Reggie might have decided to hurry along his own death. That was another sorrow that she lay at Will’s door: she wouldn’t be able to spend the time Reggie had left by his side. They’d always talked of taking a grand tour together and it was something he’d become more insistent upon last year.

  She slit the top of the envelope and unfolded the sheets of paper with a sense of anticipation. Clementine felt a tug in her chest to hear his familiar voice in her mind as she read.

  My darling Clem,

  I write this to you from Elba, feeling every inch like Napoleon in exile. I am certain that I walk around this Tuscan island with a similar feeling of disgust, except in my case it is self-loathing as I have brought this all down on myself. I could mount several persuasive arguments, of course, but when I boil it all down to its purest form, I realise that would not assuage the anguish I have caused you.

  I am not trying to be conciliatory. Please understand this. I have well and truly relinquished hope that I might mend the past in order to have a future with you. It is possible you have even done me a favour by forcing me to see myself as I truly am for the first time in my life. I am not ashamed, though, Clem, because in that reflection I do not see a bad man but simply a lonely one who wanted to earn the respect of the family that had ostracised him. I did not choose to be my father’s son, and I tried daily to live up to his ideals. Your grandmother despised me for the sole reason that I was his child and not hers. I understood. I really rather admired her by the end, and we had found common ground in our shared love of your mother and thus our absolute love and commitment to you, growing up too far away from us.

  Your beautiful mother was the
one Grant who loved me wholly and I found in you the mirror image of her, but you are more impressive than Louisa, Clem. You are strong in ways that she was weak. I think you are the best incarnation of this family’s traits, and it is obvious that your father’s effervescence and loyalty run through your veins too. You are the best of all of us, Clem, and so I continue to hate myself for letting you down, while convincing myself that my secrecy was for the right reasons.

  If this letter can aspire to one achievement, it is to bring you the peace of knowing that I did not kill your father. I am not a violent man. I learned early on that my brain is much smarter than my fists and I would rather argue my way out of a confrontation than fight my way through it. I don’t believe for a moment that your father was a violent man either. On that night, however, he was fuelled by liquor that combined all his sorrow and defeat together with his joy at the diamond strike into a mix of something most of us may never understand. It became fury and I – the Grant in front of him – represented everything in the world at which he was furious.

  As you lay your lovely head on your pillow each night, my darling, be assured that your father died of the injuries from his fall. I did not help him in that moment because I truly knew he couldn’t be helped and, yes, if I bare my soul to you, it is fair to admit that in those few pounding heartbeats of shock after he fell, I realised your life would be better without him. Forgive me. I had given a sworn promise to your grandmother that I would bring you home to her, at any cost, so she could give you the life your mother would have wanted for you. It was obvious on that terrible night that your father was never going to give such a life, would never let us see you or honour your mother’s hopes for you. Your grandmother did not want to die without embracing you once again. I should have gone for help – yes – but I was convinced he would have been dead by the time I returned. Nevertheless, I feel only regret that I didn’t act more honourably.

  If you’re wondering, I learned through Will Axford that you have travelled to Africa and I was not surprised to hear it.

  I have decided that tomorrow I shall leave my self-exile in Elba. I don’t know how long I have but I don’t want this to be my final resting place. I would like to visit all those cities we used to dream about travelling to together. I want to honour that and at least leave my footprints in those places, and I shall imagine you on my arm making me feel proud and lucky as you have always done.

  I am not afraid of dying, Clem. When the end comes, I think I might even be glad because there isn’t much left to live for, but it will be your face in my mind and your name whispered on my final breath.

  Stay safe, darling girl. And only marry when you find someone utterly worthy of you.

  Yours always, Uncle Reg

  She struggled to read his final paragraph because her trembling hands were making the thin paper shudder. The tremor continued until her body was shaking with fresh despair.

  A demon in her mind argued that Uncle Reggie was still trying to manipulate her from afar, but instinct told her otherwise. No, Uncle Reggie’s style was to pretend all was well. If he was trying to achieve anything other than to send her his love and let her know he was at peace, he would have boasted of all the wonderful sights he’d seen, his plans for where he might go next, his ideas for the Grant business. He would be aiming, through positivity and affection, to set her grudge aside – to impress her, distract her and draw her back into his arms. No, this was a different Uncle Reg: not so much contrite as resigned and accepting of her decision. He was saying the goodbye he hadn’t yet had the chance to give her, in case there would be no other opportunity.

  She might hate what he’d done but it could never take away the fact that she had loved him for most of her life. Here was yet another beloved lost to her.

  Was she a curse on all who loved her?

  Because of her decision, Uncle Reg would travel and die quietly in a place where no one would know him. No one would feel anything about his passing or would bear witness wherever they buried him. She might never hear of his death. The trembling intensified. Could she allow this to happen?

  The telephone in her room jangled, making her jump, as the question loomed in her mind. She brushed away tears and took a deep breath to find her composure and steady her voice.

  ‘Hello, Clementine Grant.’

  ‘Ah, Miss Grant, this is Neville Moreton of De Beers here, calling from the Kimberley Club. You wrote to me?’

  ‘Yes! Mr Moreton. Thank you for remembering I was arriving today.’

  ‘Well, I’ll get straight to it, Miss Grant, as I’m sure you’re eager. The bad news is that Mr One-Shoe is no longer in Kimberley, as I understand it.’

  It felt as though her world were collapsing. That she might not find Joseph had always been likely, but she’d clung to one tiny glittering hope that their deep connection would mean she’d surely sense the change in the stars if he returned to his homeland. This was not something she would ever say aloud for fear of sounding like a lunatic; it was not something she could entirely explain to herself. But deep down she’d never accepted that he was dead.

  The walls of the hotel room seemed to be closing in. The demon in her mind spoke as shadows darkened around her. No family, no lover, no marriage prospect, no best friend, no one in your life you can truly trust any more.

  ‘Miss Grant?’ Moreton’s voice banished the shadows and the room appeared normal again, its four-poster bed filling most of it, the pillows plump and the thick white linen starched and ironed so not a crease was visible. She could smell the potpourri, scented with cinnamon and anise. All her senses were intact. She must control her fears, she told herself. Focus!

  ‘Er, yes, my apologies, Mr Moreton. My thoughts are scattered,’ she admitted.

  ‘I do understand, my dear. I know it must be a dreadful disappointment to you after making such a long journey.’

  ‘Mr Moreton, can we meet?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been cooped up in a train for days.’

  ‘Well, of course. Er, would you be happy for me to call at your hotel, Miss Grant? We can have a pot of coffee on the verandah.’

  ‘Perfect. What time would be convenient for you?’

  She imagined him looking at his fob watch. ‘Shall we say eleven-thirty?’

  ‘That sounds ideal.’

  ‘I’m sorry I cannot invite you to the club, Miss Grant. Gentlemen only, I’m afraid.’

  The porter conveniently delivered her trunk just as she was hanging up the telephone. The butler who followed shortly after was given instructions for unpacking and handling her possessions. Both men were tipped well.

  She lingered at the dressing table to tidy her hair, not that she could ever do much with her wayward twists of coppery blonde that dodged her pins and slipped out of her hands. She had no intention of changing, having taken pains to dress appropriately for Kimberley early that morning. Glad to be in the colonies, she was able to give up her tiny waist and follow the more sensible fashion of the bell-shaped, tea-gown style. She was comfortable in light cotton, which she was sure would be seen at the seaside this coming English summer. It was perfect for the relentlessly hot days she would have to acclimatise to. She used to run around the bare earth – few pavements then – barefoot, like an untamed child. Her father had found it funny. Then she’d gone through a phase of wearing only one shoe, taking great delight in appalling Mrs Carruthers; Clem had insisted that if it was fine for Joseph, why not her? She smiled at her reflection, remembering now that she’d asked her father to refer to her as Clementine One-Shoe.

  With her memories circling, Clem couldn’t wait another moment within those four walls. She still had forty minutes before she needed to meet Moreton and so she decided to take a tour around the town on foot, if only to get away from the letter staring at her from the desk and the dark hulk of the telephone that had brought only more sad news.

  In Kimberley nothing appeared as it had been and yet everything still felt
familiar. The landscape looked wildly different with proper buildings but the air tasted as she remembered: hot, dry, crunchy from the dust all around. No more smells of latrines, though, or of dirty men. She had passed people in the hotel who wore perfume and eau de toilette. Clem had seen shanties on the fringe of Kimberley as the train drew in, so it seemed the black population lived rough while a miniature British town was growing up in their midst.

  The population had changed drastically, of course, and so had the traffic – the horse and carriage, particularly the Gibson stagecoach, was now the norm rather than the exception. Dozens gathered outside the various hotels; their drivers smoked, chatted, waiting to be summoned. They clustered in their greatest number outside the Grand Hotel. She remembered it as a one-storey building, but it now swept upwards to three. It looked burnished in the sun, its brick still bright and gleaming, a rusty red back drop for the horde of black stagecoaches that were using it as a stagepost.

  Clem became lost more than once due to the haphazard way the town had grown. No longer were there shops of the emporium style that aimed to sell everything a person could need. Now they specialised, and she was struck by the novelty of a store offering just ladies’ shoes. If only her poor mother could see this, she thought.

  The vast Kimberley sky, however, had not changed. It remained azuline lightened only marginally at its edges. The early morning had started out cloudless, with nothing to interrupt her gaze, but now she could see clouds building on the horizon. This was the rainy season; that didn’t change either. And Clementine remembered all too well how this big dome of blue above her could, and most likely would, look entirely different within a few hours.

  As she walked, she began to feel more conflicted; she wanted this meeting with Mr Moreton and yet she feared what he might have to say. Don’t overthink – act, she told herself, surprised that it was one of Uncle Reggie’s gems of advice that would come to her in this moment.