Riotous Assembly (7 page)

Jonathan Hazelstone’s musings on his next sermon had taken his mind off the tragic
death of Fivepence. He had just decided on the title, “The Rhinos of Wrath are Whiter than
the Horses of Destruction”, for a peroration on the evils of alcohol and was drying
himself after his bath when he remembered he had left his clothes in the
bathing-pavilion. Still groggy from the effects of the brandy he wandered
absent-mindedly downstairs wearing the bathing-cap and wrapped only in a voluminous
towel. On the steps of the front door he stopped and took a deep breath of cool night air.
Headlights were moving slowly down the drive.

“Visitors,” he thought to himself. “Mustn’t be caught like this,” and wrapping the towel
more firmly round himself trotted across the drive and disappeared behind the privet
hedge as Kommandant van Heerden’s convoy approached the house. He went into the
bathing-pavilion and a moment later came out again feeling worse than ever. The smell of
Old Rhino Skin in the pavilion sent a wave of nausea over him. Standing on the edge of the
swimming-pool, he uttered a silent prayer to the Almighty to help him by no matter what
drastic methods to avoid the repetition of his wickedness, and a moment later the
Bishop of Barotseland plunged through the moon’s reflected image into the cool water of
the bath. He swam the length of the pool underwater, surfaced momentarily and then swam
back and forth along the bottom of the swimming-pool and as he swam it seemed to the Bishop
that the Lord was calling to him. Faintly, very faintly it was true, but with a
distinctness he had never before experienced he heard through his bathing-cap the voice
of the Lord, “Jonathan Hazelstone, I know you are there. I don’t want any resistance. Give
yourself up quietly,” and six feet beneath the surface of the water the Right Reverend
Jonathan Hazelstone knew for the first time that he was truly destined for great things. The
call he had waited so long to hear had come at last. He turned on his back and gave himself
up quietly and without any resistance to meditation under the night sky. He knew now
that he had been forgiven his lapse of the afternoon.

“O Lord, thou knowest I was provoked,” he murmured, as he floated on the still surface
of the pool, and a sense of peace, sweet forgiving peace, descended on him as he
prayed.

 Peace had not descended on the rest of Jacaranda House. Ringed by one hundred
armed men who crouched in the shadows of the garden fingering the triggers of their Sten
guns, by sixty-nine German guard dogs snarling and slobbering for a kill and by five
Saracen armoured cars which had been driven heedlessly over flowerbeds and lawns to take
up their positions, Jacaranda House stood silent and unanswering.

Kommandant van Heerden decided to have one more go at getting the brute out without
trouble. The very last thing he wanted was another gun-battle. He peered out of the
turret and raised the loudhailer again.

“Jonathan Hazelstone, I am giving you one last chance,” his voice amplified a hundred
times boomed into the night. “If you come out quietly you will be safe. If not, I am coming
in to get you.”

 The Bishop of Barotseland, lying on his back meditating quietly and staring
up into the night sky where a great bird drifted slowly above him, heard the words more
distinctly than before. God manifested Himself in many mysterious ways, he knew, but
vultures he had never thought of. Now the Almighty had spoken again and more clearly, much
more clearly.

The first part of the message had been quite unequivocal. “Come out quietly and you
will be saved,” but the second part had been much less easy to interpret; “If not, I am
coming in to get you.” Jonathan Hazelstone swam to the edge of the pool and climbed out
quietly as instructed. Then pausing to look back at the water to see if the Lord had even
begun to get in to fetch him out, he noticed the vulture turn and flap horribly away over
the blue gums.

“He chased me down the nights and down the days,” he murmured incorrectly,
remembering the Hound of Heaven, and he knew that he had been witness that night not only
to the voice of God but to his shape as well. If God could come as Doves and Hounds why not as
a Vulture? And murmuring another poem his grandfather had taught him as a child, one
which he had never understood until these last few minutes, he began to dry himself.

 “The harbingers are come. See, see their mark;

Black is their colour, and behold my head.

But must they have my brain? Must they dispark

Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred?

Must dulnesse turn me to a clod?

Yet have they left me. Thou art still my God.”

 It was called “The Forerunners”, by George Herbert, and while old Sir Theophilus
had revised it by changing white to black in the second line, and had assumed that
“sparkling notions” referred to his murderous haha, the Bishop now saw that it applied
perfectly to the vulture and was grateful to note that the harbinger had indeed left him.
With a silent prayer to the Lord to assume a less ominous form in future, the Bishop of
Barotseland entered the pavilion to fetch his clothes.

 Fifty yards away Kommandant van Heerden was making up his mind to give the order
to storm the house, when Miss Hazelstone appeared in the main entrance.

“There’s no need to shout,” she said demurely. “There is a bell, you know.”

The Kommandant wasn’t in the mood for lessons in etiquette. “I’ve come for your
brother,” he shouted.

“I’m afraid he’s busy just at the moment. You’ll have to wait. You can come in if you wipe
your boots and promise not to knock anything over.”

The Kommandant could imagine just how busy Jonathan Hazelstone must be and he had every
intention of knocking things over if he had to come into the house. He glanced uneasily
at the windows on the upper floor.

“What is he so busy about?” as though there was any need to ask.

Miss Hazelstone didn’t like the Kommandant’s tone of voice. “He’s about his ablutions,”
she snapped, and was about to turn away when she remembered the breakage. “About that Ming…”
she began. With a slam of the turret-top Kommandant van Heerden disappeared. From
inside the armoured car came the muffled sound of his voice.

“Don’t talk to me about the Ming,” he yelled. “You go in and tell your brother to unblute
the fucking thing and come out with his hands up.”

Miss Hazelstone had stood as much as she could take. “How dare you speak to me like that,”
she snarled. “I’ll do no such thing,” and turned to re-enter the house.

“Then I will,” screamed the Kommandant, and ordered his men into the house. “Get the
bastard,” he yelled, and waited for the roar of the deadly Ming. He waited in vain. The men
and dogs pouring over Miss Hazelstone’s prostrate body encountered no further
resistance. The Dobermann, knowing now what lack of foresight it had shown by disputing
its patch of lawn with Konstabel Els, lay on the drawing-room floor pretending to be a
rug. Around it policemen and dogs charged, searching the house for their quarry. There was
no human obstacle to the policemen who dashed upstairs and along corridors into
bedrooms in search of the killer. Disconsolate, they reported to the Kommandant who was
still cowering in the Saracen.

“He’s not there,” they yelled.

“Are you absolutely certain?” he asked before opening the lid. They were, and the
Kommandant clambered out. He knew there was only one thing left to do, one slim chance of
capturing Jonathan Hazelstone that night.

“The dogs,” he ordered frantically. “Bring the tracker dogs,” and dashed
despairingly into the house and up the stairs followed by the pack of breathless and
eager Alsatians. The pink floral bedroom was just as the Kommandant had seen it last -
with the notable exception of the naked man. Grabbing the bedspread from the bed he held
it out to the dogs to smell. As the dogs sniffed the cloth and passed off down the corridor
they read its message loud and clear. The thing reeked of Old Rhino Skin brandy. Ignoring
the odour of bath salts on the stairs the dogs bounded down into the hall and out on to the
drive. A moment later they had picked up the trail Konstabel Els had left and were off
across the Park towards the blockhouse.

 Behind them in the privacy of the pavilion the Bishop of Barotseland was
having some difficulty in getting dressed. For one thing his clothes seemed to have
wrapped themselves round some heavy metallic object and when at last the Bishop had
disentangled the thing and had carried it out into the moonlight to see what it was, he
was so distressed by its associations with the murder of Fivepence that in his agitation
he dropped it and the great gun splashed into the pool and disappeared. Consoling himself
with the thought that it could do no more harm down there, he went back into the pavilion to
put on the rest of his clothes.

He had some more difficulty with his trousers. There was something large and heavy in
his back pocket, and it took him some time to get it out.

“Ah well.” he said to himself as he struggled to pull the revolver loose, “these things
are sent to try us,” and was trying to imagine how on earth the weapon could have found its
way into his trouser pocket when he became aware that he was no longer alone.

 With the departure of the dogs in pursuit of Konstabel Els, Kommandant van
Heerden found himself with time on his hands. His mood of melancholy had returned with the
disappearance of the murderer and, not wishing to share what promised to be his lonely
vigil with an irate and unpredictable Miss Hazelstone, he left his hostess still
recovering from the novel experience of being used as a doormat by two hundred
hobnailed boots and two hundred and seventy-six paws and wandered miserably out into
the garden. As the Kommandant sauntered about the lawn viciously kicking the pieces of
Sir Theophilus’ shattered bust, he came near to cursing the great hero of his yesteryears for
having spawned the line of progeny that had brought his career crashing to the ground as
effectively as they had the bust of Sir Theophilus himself.

He was just considering what the Viceroy would have done had he found himself in a
similar situation when his attention was drawn to one of the blue gums. An odd sort of
knocking and ripping sound was coming from its trunk. Kommandant van Heerden peered into
the gloom. Something strange was moving there. By bending down so that the creature was
silhouetted against the orange glow that coloured the night sky, the Kommandant could
make out its shape. In imitation of a woodpecker, the great vulture hung to the trunk of
the tree and contented itself with scraps of the late Zulu cook.

For the second time that night the vulture brought a message to a watcher in the garden
of Jacaranda House, but if the Bishop of Barotseland had mistaken the bird for the shape
of God, Kommandant van Heerden made no such error. What he had seen of the scavenger’s
hooked profile reminded him too closely for comfort of several prisoners in Piemburg
gaol who would welcome his arrival there with just such relish. The Kommandant shuddered
and turned hastily away from this vision of his future. And as he turned away he heard a
loud splash coming from the back of the house. Loud splashes played no part in the régime he
had imposed on Jacaranda Park. There was something, he felt, positively sinister in loud
splashes at this time of night, a view which was evidently shared by the vulture which
flapped away from its hors d’oeuvres to see if its next course was going to be something
drowned.

Kommandant van Heerden followed it less optimistically and found himself beside a
privet hedge on the other side of which he could hear something going about some grim
business. Whatever was busy behind the hedge was reciting to itself as it worked, work
which necessitated the dropping of large heavy objects, weighted no doubt, into deep
water. The Kommandant couldn’t hear much of the song because from behind him across the
Park there came the sound of running feet and a slobbering and snuffling noise which gained
intensity from moment to moment. He glanced over his shoulder and saw racing towards
him the pack of tracker dogs and dozens of policemen. A few seconds later they were on him
and, pinned to the hedge, he watched the tide of animals and men wash past him and round the
corner. He sighed with relief and followed in their wake.

 The Bishop of Barotseland was less fortunate. His poor hearing and the fact that
he was still wearing the bathing-cap prevented him hearing the approach of the dogs. One
moment he was standing by the pool looking down at the revolver, and reciting from his
grandfather’s favourite poem, and the next he was engulfed in dogs. Muzzles raised, fangs
bared, with slobbering jowls they came, and the Bishop, overwhelmed by their rush, fell
backwards into the swimming-pool, still clutching the revolver. As he went he
involuntarily pulled the trigger and a single shot disappeared harmlessly into the
night sky. The Bishop surfaced in the middle of the pool and looked around him. The sight
was not one to reassure him. The pool was filled with struggling Alsatians and, as he
watched, others launched themselves from the edges and joined the hordes already in the
water. A particularly ferocious hound just in front of him opened its mouth and the
Bishop had just enough time to take a gulp of air and disappear before the dog bit him. He
swam the length underwater and surfaced. A dog snapped at him and he swam back. Above him
paws thrashed the water into foam as the Bishop pondered this new manifestation of the
Almighty. Evidently he had not got out of the pool quietly enough the first time, and God
had come in to get him in the shape of dozens of dogs and he was just wondering how this
collective appearance could be reconciled with the notion that God was one and
indivisible when his arm was seized and he was dragged out of the pool by several
policemen. Thankful for this deliverance and too bewildered to wonder how policemen
fitted into this spectacle of divinity he stared back at the water. Hardly a foot of
the surface of the pool was free of dogs.