Today's Embrace (30 page)

Anthony must have told Uncle Julien whether the Colonial Office wanted Peter transferred back to London. In the letter she'd written Camilla, she'd begged her to intervene with Peter's father in London to see that his son was brought back to work for the colonial secretary. It had taken nearly a year, but at last Camilla had written her, saying Anthony promised to do what he could to get them back to England.
Had Anthony mentioned something about Peter to Julien this morning in their meeting?

She made up her mind. She was going to ask Julien straight out!

She turned and came back down the steps. Perhaps now was not the best time to see Julien, with the vicious thing that had happened to Anthony, but the horror of his murder only inflamed her urgency to leave this loathsome land.

Arcilla hurried to Julien's office before her courage thawed into cowardice. Outside the door she smoothed her mussed golden hair back into its bun and rubbed color into what must look an anemic face. What a horrible day! A draft came from somewhere, and on the air wafted the smell of supper cooking on the other side of the house. The very thought of food turned her stomach.

The door to Julien's office was already open an inch, as though the latch hadn't clicked. The lamp was burning. The window behind the desk was open, and the rattan blind was drawn partway up, bringing the draft. Her fingers shook as she took hold of the door edge and pushed it open.

Julien stood by a tall table with his straight back toward her. For a moment she thought he was striking a match to light one of his square, stubby cheroots. He turned sharply, startled by her entry. It wasn't a cheroot he was lighting. It was a sheet of paper. It was burning in the big ashtray on the table, turning to gray ash. The odor of burned paper and smoke gently drifted past her nose.

He walked toward her, effectively keeping her from approaching. He motioned to a chair.

“Where's Peter?”

“In a meeting with Dr. Jameson.” She sat down, looking up at him as he towered over her, unsmiling. His black eye patch gave him a hawkish look—his one bright eye somehow impressed her with the notion of a bird of prey.

“I know it's a horrid time to bring this up, Uncle, but it's about Peter's father. He's so sick, you know. In that last letter I showed you
from Lord Bartley, he spoke of being confined mostly to his room now, in London.” Her fingers kneaded the arms of the chair. She felt she couldn't tear her eyes from his steady gaze.

“Cousin Anthony—poor Anthony—he'd promised Camilla to see that Peter and I got home for a spell to stay with Lord Bartley.”

“Peter has mentioned none of this to me.”

“He should have.” Her frustration flared. Excuses, always excuses. As though she had no right to want to take the baby and go home with Peter for a time.

“Then, naturally, Aunt Elosia wants to see Baby Charles Rogan …”

“Yes, of course she does.”

“And, well, I didn't get a chance to talk with Anthony alone about what Lord Bartley wanted.”
Because you hovered over him, not allowing it
.

“How charming of you, Arcilla, to be so worried about the ailing old father of Peter. Very generous of you, my dear.”

She felt her cheeks scorch with heat. He saw through her like an owl eying his prey at midnight.

“Peter worries about his father.” It was all she could do to keep her voice calm and civil. Julien was a scavenger!

“I know Lord Bartley well, my dear. You must not worry so about him. He wants what is best for Mother England.” Julien's lips drew back, showing his white teeth in a derisive smile.

“Ah, my poor lamb, Arcilla. How I am disappointed in your stamina. I worry about you and Peter getting on!”

She stood, trying to measure her breathing. “I want my son raised at Rookswood!”

“Of course you do. A worthy ambition on your agenda.”

He was mocking her!

“I … I wondered if Cousin Anthony had brought any new orders for Peter about serving in London in the Colonial Office.”

Why was he smiling at her like that? She always felt uncomfortable when he smiled that way. She could see no humor in the situation. And especially now with Anthony lying dead. She believed Julien considered
her a foolish child, as though he must either threaten her, or soothe her bedtime fears of darkness.

“No, Anthony did not mention any new post for Peter. Peter is needed here in Bulawayo, you see. Has Peter talked to you about returning to London soon?”

“No,” she admitted slowly. “I thought Anthony may have mentioned any future plans to you when you met with him this morning after he arrived.”

“I'm sorry, my dear, he did not. But you mustn't fret, you know. As soon as this nasty business about his death is resolved, and we deal with the Boers, you and Peter will have plenty of time to visit Rookswood with Baby Charles.” He walked to where his decanter sat on a tray, pulled the stopper, and poured himself a drink. “To British South Africa.” He emptied the jigger.

Her hands clenched, and her nostrils flared. She had the urge to fly at him like a mad, fluttering crow and peck out his eye.

“Why must Peter stay here until the murderer is found? That's the job of Harry Whipple!”

“Now, now.”

“And the Boers? I daresay if there's a war, it will last for years! And there will be a war if you and Dr. Jameson have anything to say about it.”

He turned sharply on his heel and looked at her. All mocking playfulness was washed clean from his swarthy face. Alert and determined, he approached her.

“Why did you say that?”

She saw her mistake. She had come close to giving herself away. If he discovered she was aware of their plans for a strike into Boer territory to rouse the Uitlanders—

The front door opened boldly and shut. Voices sounded. With relief she heard Darinda, then Captain Retford.

Julien took his attention from her and looked toward the doorway into the common room. He walked there and called out. “That you, Darinda? Captain Retford?” Julien stepped out of his office.

There followed an exchange of words, then the calm voice of Captain Retford took over.

Probably discussing Anthony's death … Arcilla paced, frustrated. Nothing had gone well. With Uncle Julien it never did. She was no match for his shrewd devices.

She rubbed her arms in distaste and moved about the office. He had no right to say Peter couldn't leave until the Boer situation was cleared up.

She wandered about the room until she'd ended up by the table where the large ashtray contained the ashes of the paper he had set a match to. The remains looked to have been a letter. In fact, she knew it was, because the envelope was intact on the table. He must have forgotten it was there. Her entry must have distracted him.

George Trotter, Cape Mining Fields, Capetown
, it read. Then in florid handwriting:
Sir Julien Bley, Chief Native Commissioner, Bulawayo
.

A small section of charred paper remained in the ashtray. The smudged words lazily looked up at her.

—R's and J's plans for—Uitlanders should proceed—

The voices in the common room continued. Arcilla glanced there over her shoulder. Her deft fingers quickly retrieved the section of sooty paper from the ashtray. She blew it off and slipped it down the front of her blouse. The envelope she reached for—then decided against it. No, he might remember he didn't burn it. He might look for it, and if it was gone, he would know she was aware. She moved back across the room to where she'd been sitting.

Another voice joined the discussion outside the office door. Peter! With relief she swept from the room into the hall.

Julien stood with Darinda and Captain Ryan Retford. Arcilla came up beside Peter.

“Something more has happened?” Arcilla asked.

Peter nodded. “The bungalow was searched.”

“What do you think was behind the search, Captain?” Julien was asking Retford.

“Diamonds, perhaps, Sir Julien.”

“Diamonds, Captain?”

Arcilla noticed that Darinda looked briefly surprised, then her face went blank.

“And gold, too, perhaps,” Captain Retford added.

“You think this was a common burglary of Anthony's bags, then?”

“It could have been more, I suppose. If you're thinking this is connected to Lord Brewster's murder.”

“Evidently, Captain, you do not?”

“I really couldn't say either way, sir.”

Arcilla looked at Darinda, but she remained expressionless.

Peter frowned. “Someone was dashed bold, I daresay. Entered the bungalow beneath our very noses, you say?”

“Indeed, sir,” Retford said.

“And after Harry Whipple's out with a dozen police, too,” Peter said with disdain. “It doesn't say much for our murderer being a native, then, does it?” He looked at Julien, brows raised, questioning.

“Captain Retford doesn't think it was a Ndebele,” Darinda said.

Both Julien and Peter looked at Retford for an explanation. Arcilla thought he looked a trifle reluctant. He smiled, however, and turned straight to her, knowing she was exhausted and under duress.

“I'm sorry to have to ask more questions, Mrs. Bartley, but earlier, when you were at Lord Brewster's bungalow with your brother and Miss Bley here, did you see or hear anything unusual outside the open window?”

“Open window? Oh.” Arcilla just remembered. “I'd forgotten. I thought I'd heard something outside, footsteps, or maybe just the bushes moving too much.”

“You mentioned it to Parnell Chantry and Miss Bley?”

“I did. When Parnell went to close the window, something startled him. He made the comment he thought he'd seen a figure crouching. Remember, Darinda?”

Captain Retford nodded. He looked at Peter and Sir Julien. They were sober.

“Eavesdropping?” Julien asked doubtfully.

He pondered. “I don't know what else it would be, sir. Lord Brewster's murderer wouldn't have dared hang about the bungalow. Your granddaughter, Miss Bley, said their conversation went on for thirty or forty minutes.”

“Yes, I see what you mean, Retford,” Julien stated. “Foolish, indeed, for the enemy to hang about eavesdropping for that long. Makes no sense at all.”

Arcilla waited, and when no one else commented, she turned to Peter. “Do let's go up, Peter. The baby is awake by now, and Marjit can't feed him. He must be crying, poor dear. I think I hear him.”

Peter accompanied her across the common room to the steps, and they went up together.

Arcilla thought of the scrap of paper she had. She ought to show it to Peter. She was sure it was part of the letter Anthony had brought Uncle Julien as a reprimand from Capetown.

She glanced at Peter. He was deep in his own troubling thoughts. The only problem with showing it to him was that the words on the scrap seemed to approve Julien and Dr. Jameson's plans to aid the Uitlanders, not rebuke them. Could she safely assume that from those few words? What would Peter say? He looked as though something was disturbing him. From the top of the stairs, he looked down at Captain Retford.

Dinner was served late. Parnell arrived from his bungalow looking tense.

He's probably still thinking about Anthony
, Darinda thought. He kept glancing around the table at those present.

Her grandfather had encouraged Captain Retford to stay and dine, which he accepted, confirming to her that she should follow through with the plan to spy on Retford. Darinda frowned into the amber contents of her teacup. The idea that Ryan Retford was a Boer spy still seemed ludicrous to her. Grandfather had yet to give her any solid reasons why he was convinced Retford was sympathetic to the Boer cause.

Arcilla did not come down. “She has her hands full with Charles. He's been doing an inordinate amount of fussing,” Peter said.

Darinda felt a smile tug at her lips. Even when discussing his newborn son, Peter retained a certain haughty sophistication, while Arcilla, before coming to Bulawayo, was usually a bag of giggles. Seemingly, a mismatched couple.

“The day has been extremely rough on Arcilla.”

“The poor girl,” Parnell commented of his sister.

Grandfather's lip dragged at one corner, apparently over the brotherly strain of sympathy in Parnell's tone.

“We all humor Arcilla too much. One baby is enough in this house. We have a great deal of business to attend to.”

Darinda glanced from the corner of her eye at Peter, who was sitting at the end of the long table. His shoulders drew back, but he kept silent.

The evening meal crawled by. No one appeared to have much appetite, and all reined clear of discussing Anthony's untimely death. Darinda said she had learned that Dr. Jameson sent a wire to Capetown to Lady Camilla, treating Anthony's death as a random attack from the African tribe.