The Angels Weep (30 page)

At last Ralph broke the brotherly embrace and held Jordan off
at arm’s length to study him.

‘Always the dandy,’ Ralph teased him, and ruffled
his thick fashionably dressed golden curls.

No amount of brotherly familiarity could dim the fact that
Jordan was still one of the most handsome men that Ralph had ever
met. No, he was more than handsome, he was beautiful, and his
evident pleasure at seeing Ralph heightened the glow of his skin
and the lively sparkle of green behind his long curved fringe of
lashes. As always, his younger brother’s charisma and
gentle nature recaptivated Ralph.

‘And you,’ Jordan laughed, ‘you look so hard
and brown and lean, what on earth happened to that prosperous
paunch?’

‘I left it on the road from Matabeleland.’

‘Matabeleland!’ Jordan’s expression changed.
‘Then you’ll have brought the terrible news with
you.’ Jordan hurried to the leather-topped desk. ‘The
telegraph line has been down for over a week, this is the first
message to come through. I finished decoding it not an hour
ago.’

He handed Ralph the flimsy, and he scanned it swiftly. The
translation was written in Jordan’s fair hand between the
lines of teleprinting. The addressee was ‘Jove’, Mr
Rhodes’ private code name, and it was from General Mungo St
John in his capacity as acting Administrator of Matabeleland in
the absence of Doctor Jameson.

While he feigned astonishment and shock at the first
paragraph, Ralph ran his eye swiftly down the remaining text. It
was a rare opportunity to read a decoded BSA Company report; the
fact that Jordan had handed it to him was a measure of his
agitation.

There were lists of police strengths and dispositions,
summaries of monies held and dispensed, administrative
requisitions, recommendations for trading-licences, and the
roster of mineral claims filed in Bulawayo. Ralph passed the
sheet back to his brother with a suitably solemn expression.

At the head of the roster of new claims, he had seen a block
of forty square miles registered in the name of Wankie Coal
Mining Company. That was the name that he and Harry Mellow had
agreed upon for their company, and Ralph glowed with satisfaction
that did not show on his face. Harry must have got the women and
Jonathan safely back to Bulawayo, and he had wasted no time in
filing the claims. Once again Ralph congratulated himself on his
choice of partner and brother-in-law. The only prickle of
uncertainty was the rider to the roster that St John had
sent.

Advise soonest Company policy regarding coal and base metals
claims – register 198 in favour of Wankie Coal Mining Co.
held in abeyance pending clarification.

The claims were filed but not yet confirmed; however, Ralph
would have to worry about that later. Right now, he had to
concentrate on Jordan’s apprehensions.

‘Papa is right in the path of this thing, this
rinderpest. He has worked so hard all his life, and had such
rotten luck – oh Ralph, it can’t happen to him, not
again.’ Jordan stopped as another thought occurred to him.
‘And you, too. How many bullock teams did you have in
Matabeleland, Ralph?’

‘None.’

‘None? I don’t understand.’

‘I sold every last ox and wagon to the
Zeederbergs.’

Jordan stared at him. ‘When?’ he asked at
last.

‘Yesterday.’

‘When did you leave Bulawayo, Ralph?’

‘What has that got to do with it?’ Ralph
demanded.

‘The telegraph lines – they were cut, you know,
deliberately. In four places.’

‘Extraordinary, who would have done a thing like
that?’

‘I don’t even dare to ask.’ Jordan shook his
head. ‘And on second thoughts, I don’t want to know
when you left Bulawayo, or whether or not Papa sold his stock as
suddenly as you did yours.’

‘Come on, Jordan, I’ll take you to lunch at the
club. A bottle of bubbly will console you for belonging to a
family of rogues and for working for another.’

The Kimberley Club had a most undistinguished façade.
Since its foundation, it had been enlarged twice, and the
additions were glaringly apparent, unbaked Kimberley brick
abutting upon galvanized iron and finally fired redbrick. The
iron roof was unpainted, but there were strange little touches of
pretension, the white picket fence, the front door glazed in
Venetian glass.

Until a man had become a member, he could not consider himself
truly to have arrived in South Africa. Membership was so prized
that Barney Barnato, who despite his millions had been
steadfastly blackballed, was finally tempted to sell out his
diamond holdings to Mr Rhodes only after he had been promised the
coveted membership as part of the deal. Even then, with the pen
in his hand, Barnato had hesitated over signing the contract.

‘How do I know they still won’t chuck me out
again, as soon as I’ve signed?’

‘My dear fellow, we will make you a life
governor,’ Mr Rhodes assured him, offering the final plum
that was irresistible to the little slum-born Cockney.

On his first night as a member of the club, Barnato strode up
to the long bar dressed like a theatrical impresario, and ordered
a round of drinks for all, then flashed a magnificent ten-carat
blue-white diamond ring on his third finger.

‘What do you gents think of that, hey?’

One of the members studied it for a moment, and remarked,
‘Clashes awfully with the colour of your fingernails, old
boy.’ Then ignoring the proffered drink, he sauntered
through to the billiard room, and everybody except Barney Barnato
and the barman trooped out after him. It was that kind of
club.

Ralph’s and Jordan’s own membership had been
assured as soon as they came of age. For not only was their
father a founder member and a life governor, but he was also a
holder of the Queen’s commission and a gentleman. These
things counted at the Kimberley Club ahead of vulgar wealth. The
porter greeted the brothers by name, and put their cards up on
the ‘in’ board. The barman behind the long bar poured
Jordan a pink gin and Indian tonic, without being ordered, though
he turned to Ralph apologetically.

‘We don’t see you often enough, Mr Ralph. Is it
still Glenlivet whisky, sir, water and no ice?’

In the dining-room they both ordered from the carving trolley,
juicy young lamb, with the subtle taste of the Karroo herbs on
which it had barely been weaned, served with parsleyed baby new
potatoes. Jordan declined the champagne that Ralph suggested.

‘I am a working man,’ he smiled, ‘my tastes
are simpler than yours, something like Château Margaux
‘73 would suit me better.’

The twenty-year-old claret cost four times more than any
champagne on the wine list.

‘By God!’ said Ralph ruefully. ‘Under that
urban veneer, you are a true Ballantyne, after all.’

‘And you must be neck-deep in filthy lucre after that
timely sale. It’s my brotherly duty to help you get rid of
it.’

‘Fire sale price,’ Ralph demurred, but nodded in
appreciation of the claret. They ate in contented silence for a
few minutes, then Ralph picked up his glass.

‘What does Mr Rhodes think of the coal deposits that
Harry and I pegged?’ he asked mildly, pretending to study
the ruby lights in the wine, but watching his brother’s
reaction.

He saw the corners of Jordan’s mouth quiver with
surprise, saw his eyes flare with some other emotion which he
could not read before it was masked, then Jordan lifted a pink
morsel of the lamb on the silver fork, chewed it fastidiously and
swallowed before he asked:

‘Coal?’

‘Yes, coal!’ Ralph agreed. ‘Harry Mellow and
I pegged a huge deposit of high-grade coal in northern
Matabeleland – haven’t you seen the filing yet?
Hasn’t the Board approved the register? You must know about
it, Jordan.’

‘What a fine wine this is.’ Jordan inhaled the
bouquet. ‘A big, spicy perfume.’

‘Oh, of course, the telegraph line has been down. You
haven’t received it yet?’

‘Ralph, I happen to know through my spies,’ Jordan
said carefully, and Ralph leaned closer to him, ‘that the
club secretary has just received a twenty-pound Stilton from
Fortnum’s. It should be perfect after the
voyage.’

‘Jordan.’ Ralph stared at him, but Jordan would
not look up.

‘You know I can’t say anything,’ he
whispered miserably, so instead they ate the Stilton on water
biscuits and accompanied it with a port from the cask that was
not listed on the wine card, its existence known only to the
privileged members.

At last Jordan took the gold hunter from his fob pocket.

‘I should be getting back, Mr Rhodes and I are leaving
for London at noon tomorrow. There is a great deal to do before
we go.’

However, as they stepped out of the front door of the club,
Ralph took his brother’s elbow firmly and steered him into
De Beers Road, lulling him with a flow of family gossip until
they were opposite a pretty redbrick cottage almost hidden by dog
roses, its diamond-paned windows curtained with frilled lace, and
its demure little sign on the gate:

Before Jordan had realized what his brother was about, Ralph
had lifted the latch of the gate and was leading him down the
walk. Ralph felt that on top of good food and wine, the company
of one of the young ladies whom Diamond Lil chose with such taste
and care to ornament Rose Cottage could not fail to soften and
relax the tongue of even such a loyal servant as Jordan into
indiscreet comment on his master’s affairs.

Jordan took one pace beyond the gate, before he pulled back
from Ralph’s grasp with unnecessary violence.

‘Where are you going?’ he demanded. He had gone as
pale as though a mamba had crossed the path at his feet.
‘Do you know what this place is?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Ralph nodded. ‘It’s the
only whorehouse I know of where a doctor checks the goods on
offer at least once a week.’

‘Ralph, you can’t go in there.’

‘Oh, come now, Jordie,’ Ralph smiled, and took his
arm again. ‘It’s me, your brother Ralph. You
don’t have to put on a show. A salty young bachelor like
you, by God, I’ll bet there is a plaque on the wall above
every bed in there with your name on it—’ He stopped,
as he recognized Jordan’s real consternation. ‘What
is it, Jordie?’ For once Ralph was uncertain of himself.
‘Don’t tell me you have never had your cuff turned
back for you by one of Lil’s seamstresses?’

‘I have never set foot in that place.’ Jordan
shook his head vehemently. He had gone pale and his lips
trembled. ‘And nor should you, Ralph. You are a married
man!’

‘Oh Lord, Jordie, don’t be daft, lad. Even a solid
diet of caviar and champagne can pall after a while. A hunk of
country ham and a jug of rough cider makes a nice
change.’

‘That’s your business,’ Jordan flashed at
him. ‘And I don’t propose to stand in the street in
front of this – this institution, discussing it.’

He turned on his heel and strode away down the sidewalk a
half-dozen paces before looking back over his shoulder.

‘You would do better to consult your lawyer about your
damned coal than—’ Jordan broke off with a stricken
expression, clearly horrified by his indiscretion, then he
hurried away towards Market Square.

Ralph’s jaw hardened, his eyes went cold and hard as
polished emeralds. He had got his hint from Jordan, and it
hadn’t cost him the price of one of Diamond Lil’s
fancy girls either. The lace curtain in the front window of Rose
Cottage lifted, and a pretty dark-eyed lass with a creamy oval
face and soft red mouth smiled out at him, shaking her ringlets
in invitation to enter.

‘Sit on it, dearie,’ Ralph told her grimly.
‘And keep it warm for me. I’ll be back
later.’

He ground out the half-smoked Romeo y Julieta under his heel,
and strode away towards Aaron Fagan’s office building.

A
aron Fagan
called them the ‘wolf pack’.

‘Mr Rhodes keeps them chained in specially constructed
kennels, but lets them run every now and then, just to get a
little taste of human flesh.’

They did not look particularly lupine. There were four of
them, soberly dressed men whose ages ranged from late thirties to
mid-fifties.

Aaron introduced each of them individually, and then
collectively. ‘These gentlemen are the De Beers Company
permanent legal advisers. I think I am correct in saying that
they also act on behalf of the British South Africa
Company?’

‘That is correct, Mr Fagan,’ said the senior
counsellor, and his colleagues arranged themselves down the
opposite side of the long table. Each of them placed his pigskin
folder of papers neatly in front of him, and then, like a
rehearsed vaudeville team, they looked up in unison. It was only
then that Ralph recognized the wolf-like glitter in their
eyes.

‘In what way can we be of assistance?’

‘My client is seeking clarification of the mining laws
promulgated by the BSA Company,’ Aaron replied, and two
hours later Ralph was groping desperately through a maze of
jargon and convoluted legal side-roads as he tried to follow the
discussion, and his irritation was becoming increasingly
obvious.

Aaron made a silent plea for patience, and with an effort
Ralph stopped the angry words reaching his lips, instead he
hunched further down in his chair, and in a deliberately boorish
gesture of defiance, he placed one boot on the polished table top
amongst the scattered legal papers and crossed his other ankle on
top of it.