The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series) Read online

  Simon had covered some 250 yards before he realised that he had taken no bearing on the side street into which Jenkins had been thrust. He had no way of knowing which of the many turnings he should take. He stopped at one corner, his chest heaving, unsure whether to waste precious time by delving into its shadows, when he caught the eye of a small ragged urchin who beckoned to him. Should he follow? Could it be a trap? Simon shook his head in frustration. This was no time to ponder. He had to take the risk. The boy was difficult to keep in sight because he was able to weave more skilfully through the crowd, but Simon hung on until, eventually, the lad stopped and, with wide eyes, pointed down an alleyway. Simon looked behind him towards the hotel, attempting to gauge the distance covered, but one multi-storeyed, overhanging building looked much like another to him. With a nod to the boy, he ran down the turning.

  There was an immediate opening to the right. It seemed to be a carpet shop, for brightly woven floor coverings were stacked all around and were hanging from the ceiling, yet the place seemed completely empty - and strangely quiet. Until, that is, there came a high-pitched scream of pain and then a crash from behind a low doorway, half concealed by vertical strings of beads.

  Tearing the beads apart, Simon sprang through the opening. The scene within was inanimate just for the moment, as though the players were performing a tableau and had stopped to milk applause. Jenkins was standing with his back to a wall, his once-white cotton jacket wrapped round his left forearm, which was thrust forward, as though in a mediating gesture. Yet his frown and the gleam in his black eyes betrayed that he had no intention of mediating. Further proof lay at his feet, where one of the Hindus was lying completely still, his eyes and tongue protruding from a head that was twisted unnaturally. In one hand he still gripped a length of narrow black cord, clearly a garrotte. Blood poured from Jenkins’s left shoulder. The other two men were standing before him, garrottes dangling from loops around their wrists and knives in their hands. One of the blades was bloodstained.

  The two men whirled round on Simon’s entry. Jenkins looked across and beamed. ‘Sorry I was a bit late, bach sir,’ he said. ‘Glad you’ve dropped in, though. Mind what you’re doin’ now. These lads are a bit rough, look you.’ It was clear that, if Jenkins had been drunk before, he was not now. For him, action and danger had always induced sobriety far quicker than cold water and the lashing of a sergeant major’s tongue.

  The taller of the two Thugs gestured to the other and then to Jenkins. The smaller nodded. Then the first turned and began to walk softly towards Simon, limping a little, his knife held low. He was dressed all in black, the colour of his loose garments matching his eyes.

  Simon looked at the blade of the knife and felt his mouth grow dry. He took an involuntary step backwards.

  Then the voice of Jenkins, anxious now and almost mellifluous in its urgent Welshness, broke in. ‘Don’t ’ang about in ’ere, bach. I can ’andle these two. See if you can find a Peeler, eh?’

  Simon came back to his senses before that old demon of fear had time to take hold. The Thug was now quite close, the knife still held low and his other hand stretched out in balance, as he trod forward slowly like a cat, his slippered feet making no noise. In desperation, Simon looked round for some kind of weapon. The room, it seemed, was a store place for the carpet stocks. From the corner of his eye Simon saw Jenkins edge between two piles of carpet and, as he did so, begin removing a green glass bottle from his back trouser pocket. He had no time to record more, for the Hindu stalking him now made his move, springing forward, the knife drawn back for a series of thrusts.

  In turn, Simon danced back - straight into a stack of Afghan rugs. They caught him behind the knees and sent him sprawling, so saving his life, for as he fell, he threw out a despairing hand. This caught the edge of a deep-pile carpet which was hanging on display along a line strung from the ceiling, and Simon’s fingers clutched it, bringing down line and carpet. The heavy fabric crashed on to the Thug, knocking him off balance and sending his knife spinning across the earthen floor. Immediately, Simon threw himself at the figure struggling beneath the carpet, sending both of them crashing down. The Hindu was momentarily winded as Simon landed on top of him but he fought like a trapped tiger, wrapping both hands round the Englishman’s neck and then slipping one end of the garrotte cord under Simon’s throat. As he did so, Simon pulled back his head and then sent his forehead crashing into the Indian’s nose. The crack as the bridge shattered was closely followed by another, as a beer bottle was brought down sharply on to the man’s head, knocking away his turban and sending a stream of blood from his broken nose into Simon’s eyes, momentarily blinding him.

  It took perhaps twenty seconds before Simon could wipe the blood away and regain his vision. Blinking, half fearing what he would see, he looked around. Close to him, Jenkins was perched on the edge of a pile of rugs. His head was back and perspiration was pouring down his face. But his eyes were closed in an expression of divine ecstasy as he drank from the now-opened beer bottle, which protruded from under his great moustache as though it had been wedged there as a permanent fixture. Of the two Thugs there was no sign, although their comrade still lay where he had fallen.

  ‘Good God,’ exclaimed Simon. ‘Where have they gone?’

  Continuing to drink, Jenkins opened his eyes and waved his hand to Simon. Then, with a great sigh, he put down the empty bottle and wiped the back of his hand across his moustache. ‘Sorry, bach sir. I needed that, see. Though just as well I ’ad it in my back pocket, isn’t it? I always say that a feller should carry a bottle o’ booze in ’is back pocket. You never know when you are goin’ to need it . . . one way or the other, that is.’

  ‘Oh do shut up, 352. If you hadn’t been drinking we wouldn’t have got into this mess in the first place. Now tell me. What happened?’

  ‘Ah well, look you, when I pulled out me secret weapon - this fine but alas now very dead bottle of Indian pale ale - and when you cleverly pulled that carpet thing down on to ’is mate, my chap turned round and hoofed it.’ Jenkins spread a large palm across his face and flicked away the perspiration with his fingers. ‘I thought you ’ad probably knocked off your bloke with your ’ead, like . . .’ A huge beam spread across the Welshman’s face. ‘An’ I must say, bach sir, what a great dirty fighter you’re turnin’ out to be. Nobody would think you was an officer, see.’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, just tell me what happened.’

  ‘Well, like I said, I thought you ’ad finished off your man, but, just to be sure, I clouted ’im one across the turban with me bottle - though not too ’ard, see, because I didn’t want to break it, did I? But it looks like I should ’ave ’it ’im ’arder, because no sooner ’ad I opened the top an’ taken the first gulp than ’e was off like an eel, the perisher, trailin’ blood all over the place.’

  Simon gestured to the dead Thug by the wall. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Ah yes, ’im. Well, when they sort of pushed me into ’ere, I let on that I was more drunk than I was, see.’ Jenkins frowned earnestly. ‘Though I never really was very drunk, see, sir. I just ’ad a couple o’ jars with some lads from the Buffs I met when I was tryin’ to find me way back to the ’otel. I was never really—’

  ‘Oh yes you were. But just get on with it.’

  ‘Very well. So I pretended to stagger a bit an’ ’alf fell over. Then they tried to get me up an’ was feelin’ inside me jacket for me wallet, while one feller started to put this black string stuff round me gullet.’ He blinked for a moment. ‘Cor, that didn’t ’alf ’urt, I’ll tell you. So I kicked one chap in the ballookers, threw the feller with the string over me shoulder - I was worried about me beer bottle then, I can tell yer - and the third one came at me with a knife. Got me in the shoulder, see, just ’ere.’ He pointed to where the blood had congealed on to his shirt. ‘Luckily it wasn’t much, so I was able to get ’old of ’im . . .’ he paused, as though in some embarrassment, ‘an’ . . . er . . . just break ’is
neck, see. I think ’e’s a bit dead now. But he shouldn’t ’ave knifed me, look you. I don’t like fellers who fight with knives.’

  Jenkins sat back with an air of indignation and drained the last dregs from the bottle before throwing it away. Then he looked at the floor and spoke shyly. ‘Sorry, bach sir, for all the inconvenience, like. But I’m very grateful, see, for you comin’ after me an’ all. I might ’ave ’ad a bit of trouble seein’ off three of ’em.’ He looked up, with the air of a terrier who had run after a rabbit and returned very, very wet.

  ‘Don’t mention it, I’m sure.’ Simon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Here we are, stuck in this strange city. You have gone off and got blindingly drunk, killed a local inhabitant and wrecked a carpet shop. No one will believe they were Thugs because the state always claims that they’ve been stamped out. I’m glad you’re sorry, because we will probably be thrown into jail any minute now.’

  Jenkins screwed up his face. ‘Yes, well, I don’t think it was completely my fault, see. I wasn’t interfering with those fellers in their black nighties, now was I . . .’

  Lecture delivered, Simon relented. ‘Of course you weren’t. Let me think.’ He rose to his feet. ‘To be honest, I don’t quite know what to do about it. We could go to the police, of course, but whichever way you look at it, we’ve killed a man and there he is. Mind you, there don’t seem to be any witnesses. Which is strange in itself.’ He looked around. ‘Where the hell are the people who own this shop - if that’s what it is? Why is it all so quiet and empty?’

  ‘P’raps they’re part of the plot. These bastards knew where to take me, look you.’

  ‘True. Either way, we’d better get out of here, because I don’t want trouble with the army. That shoulder needs attention anyway—’ Simon held up his hand. Just beyond the beaded curtain they heard the sound of a soft footfall. In an instant, Jenkins had leapt to his feet and was silently moving to the edge of the doorway. Then he plunged through, and when he returned, he was holding by the ear the urchin who had pointed the way for Simon. The boy made no attempt to escape but regarded Simon with large luminous eyes.

  ‘Let him go,’ said Simon. ‘He saw you taken and showed me the way.’

  ‘Did you now, young feller.’ Jenkins’s face broke into one of his expansive grins, so that his black moustache seemed to stretch from ear to ear. ‘Well, I regard that as neighbourly. Thank you very much, bach. ’Ere, let’s shake.’

  The boy looked at the huge outstretched hand without expression. Jenkins seized his matchstick-thin arm and shook the tiny hand. ‘Well done, bach.’ Slowly a smile spread across the boy’s face as his arm was pumped.

  ‘All right,’ said Simon. ‘Let’s go.’ He put his hand on the urchin’s shoulder and pointed to the body on the floor. ‘Do you speak English?’

  The boy remained expressionless. Then he opened his mouth and pointed inside.

  ‘Oh, the poor little devil’s dumb. Here.’ Simon reached into his pocket and pressed several rupees into the tiny palm. Then he indicated the body again, put his fingers to his lips and slowly shook his head from side to side. ‘Understand?’ he asked.

  This time the urchin, his fingers clenched tightly around the coins, nodded vigorously.

  ‘Good. Let’s be off. Put your jacket on, 352. We don’t want you dripping blood on the carpets and attracting attention.’

  The three of them walked through the outer room and then into the alleyway. Once in the main street, the urchin slipped away and was gone in a flash, like a trout returned to a stream. The two men walked as nonchalantly as they could back to the hotel, where, once in Simon’s room - Jenkins had the one next door - Simon helped the Welshman off with his shirt and examined the wound.

  ‘Hmm. You’re right. It is only a flesh wound.’ He began gently washing the incision with soda water, poured on a little iodine and applied a gauze pad to the wound with a clumsily bound bandage. ‘There, keep your hand in your pocket so as not to open the wound again. That should fix you up until we can see a doctor. Which reminds me: did you get the tickets? When do we sail?’

  ‘Ah, sorry, bach sir. I quite forgot about all that, with all the fuss an’ all. Yes, two tickets for London and we sail in six days’ time. Through this Suez Canal place, which should be somethin’ to tell your folks back home. Ah, I forgot again. Two letters for you as well.’

  He fumbled inside his jacket and produced the tickets and two envelopes. Simon checked the tickets. ‘Damn. I had hoped that we could be on our way within a couple of days. You’re sure there was nothing sooner through the Canal?’

  Jenkins shook his head. ‘Goodness, lucky to get on board at all, look you.’

  ‘All right. Well, I think we both deserve a whisky. See if you can get the boy to bring us two here.’ Jenkins beamed and was gone and Simon looked at the two envelopes. The first, addressed to ‘Captain S. Fonthill, Queen’s Own Corps of Guides, Afghanistan’, bore the distinctive, boldly sloped handwriting of his mother. The second, made of coarse paper, carried an indecipherable postmark and was merely addressed to him ‘Care of the British Army, India’. He did not recognise the simple hand. He laid it to one side and, dutifully, read his mother’s letter first.

  He had written to her from Kabul, explaining that he and Jenkins had resigned from the army and that they were on their way home, although he had given no estimated date for their arrival. This was just as well, because the pair had then become involved with General Roberts’s epic march on Kandahar, smuggling the plucky war correspondent Alice Griffith with them across the mountains. Alice . . . ah, Alice! He shook his head and continued reading. Predictably - and here he smiled - Charlotte Fonthill was ‘shocked, no, astonished’ at his decision to resign and urged him to reconsider. She demanded to know the reason behind the decision (Simon had only hinted at his dissatisfaction with the army staff) and why he was buying out ‘this servant person’ whom he was bringing home with him. She was not at all sure that there would be room for Jenkins in their house, although ‘your father believes it will be quite possible to fit him in - despite the fact that Papa, of course, knows nothing about the running of this establishment . . .’ They were both well, and she closed not with affection, of course, but ‘sincerely’.

  Simon smiled again and turned to the other envelope. Looking again at the postmark, he made out the words ‘Cape Colony’. He tore open the envelope and scanned the single sheet of paper, ruled as though torn from a child’s exercise book. The letter was undated. Anxiously, he read:Dear Simon,

  I do not know if this letter will ever reach you but I am in desparate trouble and can only turn to you. I cannot write you a long story but Papa came to this place after the break-up of our farm in Zululand. He hoped to dig diamonds. He sent for me to come here and help him but when I came here Papa was gone and a Big Man has the house and says that he is Papa’s partner and Papa is away on business but he keeps me here and is not nice. Papa has been away a long time and this Big Man is bad to me and hurts me and there is no law here. I have smuggled this out to post and pray it will reach you somehow. Oh Simon you remember that I helped you once. Can you help me now?

  Your freind Nandi

  Simon looked up and stared hard at the wall of the room. But he saw nothing of the whitewashed plasterwork, only the vision of an exquisitely small coffee-coloured face, flashing a smile with tiny white teeth in sun-dappled shade. Nandi, with her warm trust of everyone, Nandi, who loved her country with as much passion as any jingo did England but who would not harm a soul. Nandi, whose courage was hidden behind a sweet gentleness. Nandi, who was now being—

  He clenched his fists in an agony of frustrated anger and then looked again at the head of the paper, where she had scrawled, in her schoolgirl hand, ‘5 Currey Street, Kimberley’. Kimberley? He frowned. He had never heard of it - or had he? Something about diamonds came into his mind. But where the hell in the vast Cape Territory could it be? And how long ago had she penned this cri de coeur? He bit his thumb as he tri
ed to grapple with the logistics of reaching her, but his efforts to concentrate were ruined by the memories which, unbidden, came rushing back.

  This half-cast Zulu girl, daughter of John Dunn, a white hunter who had made his home in Zululand and become a trusted induna or chief to King Cetswayo, had helped them both escape from Ulundi, the Zulu capital, where they had been imprisoned by the King at the beginning of the Anglo-Zulu War. Then, with Alice Griffith’s connivance, Nandi had intervened at the last minute at a court martial brought against Simon by Colonel Ralph Covington. Her evidence had saved him from being shot for the false charges of cowardice and desertion. Simon had half fallen in love with her - despite his growing feelings for Alice - and Jenkins, he knew, had always been completely enamoured of this fey, brave girl. There was no question but that they should go now to her aid. But where the hell was she, and would they be too late?

  His brain was still seething when Jenkins returned, beaming and carrying two large tumblers. Resourceful as always, he had found precious ice from somewhere.

  ‘Oh, not bad news, I hope?’

  ‘The worst. Here. Read for yourself.’ He threw the letter down on to the table.

  Jenkins put down the tumblers and picked up the notepaper. His brow immediately furrowed and his lips moved silently as he tried to follow the words.

  Simon stood and retrieved the letter. ‘Sorry, 352. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘No. No. It’s all right. It’s just the big words, look you.’ But he made no attempt to take back the letter and Simon began to read it aloud. At the reference to Nandi being hurt, Jenkins let out a cry of anguish and snatched the letter back, finishing it himself. When he looked up at Simon, there were tears in his eyes.