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
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
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