Thomas Reed was so cool, it was almost as if he’d practised his responses and knew them by heart. Every question was answered but nothing of value was revealed. The old man’s ramblings were the only spontaneous moment in the entire interview.
‘Thanks for your time, Mr Reed. I know you have work to do.’ Emmanuel cut the young farmer loose. He’d find another way into the family sanctum. ‘I’ll wait here till Constable Shabalala has finished collecting statements.’
Young Reed hesitated, weighing up the risks of leaving a policeman loose on the property. ‘Farms are dangerous,’ he said. ‘Don’t wander off the paths or into the fields, Detective Cooper. For your own safety.’
‘I won’t.’ Emmanuel returned Thomas’s hard stare. Lying without blinking was a skill he’d mastered at boarding school. ‘I’m a city man born and bred.’ Reed accepted the assurance and strode to the rear steps.
The second component to being a successful liar was patience. Emmanuel gave the self-possessed farmer a full five-minute head start before tailing him. Thomas was under the shade of the monkey apple tree by the time Emmanuel had circled the porch. Movement caught his attention and he stood for a moment and watched. A rangy Zulu man crossed the dusty yard with the loping stride of a hunter. He stopped a foot or so in front of the young white
baas
and held out his empty hands in apology. Thomas moved closer, index finger pointed, body tight as a fist. The cool farmer was gone, replaced by a furious big
baas
giving orders. The Zulu man set off again, heading for the hills. It looked like he’d been sent back on the trail of something or someone.
‘Excuse me.’ Emmanuel stopped a dark-skinned maid with a wicker basket of dirty laundry balanced on her head. She too wore a pair of blue sandshoes without socks. Reed wasn’t blowing smoke about the generous handouts to the help. ‘Can you point the way to the lake?’
‘There,
inkosi
.’ The woman’s voice was quiet, her face turned to indicate a path flanked by white posts. ‘That way leads to the lake.’
‘Thanks.’ Emmanuel let her go without further questions and set off. The Little Flint garden boys and Shabalala stood talking in the kitchen garden. Shabalala ignored Emmanuel completely, a cue to all the servants that the European detective was no friend. Zulu, Pondo, English and Afrikaners alike believed that members of their own tribe were more trustworthy than outsiders. That bone-deep belief might work in Shabalala’s favour and get the gardeners talking.
Good luck, Emmanuel thought. Up till this point at least, straight answers about Amahle were in short supply no matter who you asked.
*
A wooden jetty jutted out from a small boathouse and straddled the silver water. Reflections of sky and mountain rippled in the wake of the woman plying the lake with powerful strokes. Emmanuel reached the shore moments before the ‘little madam’ emerged, exhausted and panting from her swim.
She moved to the boathouse, dried her hands on a towel and then dug a packet of cigarettes and matches from behind a fishing box. Emmanuel watched her light up and draw deep, savouring the tobacco with an almost post-coital enjoyment.
‘It’s rude to stare,’ she said and exhaled.
‘Just giving you time to enjoy your cigarette.’ He walked across the wooden planks. ‘It looked like you needed it.’
‘Does my brother know you’re talking to me?’
‘No.’ For some reason he suspected that fact might work in his favour.
‘Didn’t think so.’ She held out the crumpled packet. ‘Want one?’
‘Not right now.’
‘I thought all police detectives smoked.’
‘Most but not all.’ He presented his ID card, knowing she’d barely glance at it. Girls with blue blood and family money, even those with plain faces and sturdy limbs, divided the world into two groups: people who counted and those who did not. Detectives were servants in suits – useful but still not equal.
‘I’m Ella.’ She flicked ash onto the lake, drawing a fish to the surface. ‘You’re here about the murder.’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Amahle’s death must have been a shock.’
Ella shrugged and droplets of moisture ran down her bare arms. ‘If it was going to happen to any of the house girls it was going to happen to her.’
‘Why’s that?’ Emmanuel kept his tone casual, almost uninterested. In Ella Reed’s world Amahle was a marginal entity, a housemaid who’d come to a bad end. All madams, big or little, kept mental lists of their servants’ shortcomings. He was happy to hear every one of Ella’s gripes.
‘For starters, she had everything. A job in a nice house, food to eat and all the native men fighting over her.’ Ella pulled off her swimming cap and shook free a coil of lank brown hair. ‘Other girls would have been happy. Not her.’
‘A complainer,’ Emmanuel prompted.
‘
Ja
,’ Ella said. ‘She was always making escape plans. The Kamberg Valley wasn’t good enough. Or big enough.’
‘Fancy that.’ Emmanuel caught the resentment in Ella’s voice. Holding down a job in a European house was supposed to be the apex of a native girl’s dreams. Steady employment, leftover food, hand-me-down clothes . . . to want for more was greedy. He looked across the shimmering water to the sandstone escarpment and said, ‘What place could be better than this?’
‘Exactly.’ Ella ground her cigarette butt against the jetty railing. ‘I went to Durban Girls High and I said to her, “Cities are dirty and dangerous. Not like here in the valley where things are clean and peaceful.”’
‘She didn’t listen,’ Emmanuel said, thinking of the corpses he’d seen strewn across the French and German countryside, some with flowers growing through their rib cages, others with their eye sockets emptied by crows.
‘No. She wanted a house. A car. A business in one of the black townships. Like she could ever have those things.’ Ella returned the butt to the packet and carefully stashed the cigarettes and matches behind the fishing box: smoking was a secret pleasure. ‘She just didn’t see.’
And that, Emmanuel figured, was the beauty of dreams. The impossible was just one sleep away. ‘Empty talk,’ he said. That’s what most dreams came to, his own included. Where was the life too large to be lived in provincial South Africa, the wife he loved with fierce devotion and the children he treated with kindness because he wasn’t his own father but a better man? They were vanished wishes, long gone. Baba Kaleni had picked up the echo of a life unlived.
‘She tried to take off.’ Ella blotted water from her sturdy arms and legs with the towel. She stretched out her tanned limbs. The presence of a strange male barely registered. A blue mark tinged with purple bruised the skin of her inner thigh. The shape was too circular, too bite-sized, to be accidental. ‘Got all the way to the bus stop in town,’ Ella continued. ‘That’s what I heard.’
Emmanuel reached into his pocket, fingers automatically closing on the case notebook. Finally, a new fact to fill in the pages. Amahle Matebula was a runaway, a dreamer.
‘When was this?’ He left the notebook where it was, realising that taking notes would remind Ella of the difference between harmless gossip and an official police interview. He needed her to keep talking.
‘Winter sometime.’ She wrapped the towel around her body and tucked the loose end under her armpits to make a strapless dress. ‘I was away at university. I heard through the other servants.’
‘Are you finished for the year?’ Emmanuel asked. Most universities ran classes till the Christmas break. Ella should still be in Pietermaritzburg or Durban.
‘Got the week off. Asthma attack. Mountain air and exercise help.’
Plus the cigarettes to strengthen your weak lungs? thought Emmanuel.
Ella pushed her feet into a pair of leather sandals and took the path to the big house. White butterflies rose from a bush and scattered in the air like confetti. She brushed them aside and kept walking.
‘Any idea what Amahle was running from?’ Emmanuel asked, following.
‘God knows.’ Ella plucked a blade of grass and chewed on the sweet end. ‘Probably the wedding. If that’s what you’d call an exchange of cows.’
‘I heard she wasn’t keen on the arrangement. Did she have an eye on anyone here at work? Philani the gardener, for example?’
‘No way. He’s a common labourer. She was the chief’s daughter.’ Ella spoke of them as two different species, barely able to communicate, let alone reproduce. ‘She might have led him on but it was nothing.’
‘Led him on how?’
‘Not like that.’ Her nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘She let him do errands for her. Pick up, fetch and carry. That sort of thing.’
‘She had Philani on a string,’ Emmanuel said.
‘Of course. Men are easy that way.’ Ella slowed her pace when the big house came into view. ‘Amahle was no different from a white girl. She was having a little fun before she got married.’
Philani wanted more from the relationship. According to Chief Matebula he’d even told people that he and Amahle were betrothed. That must have been wishful thinking verging on delusion. Thwarted love was a strong motive for murder.
Emmanuel said, ‘What time did she leave on Friday, do you know?’
‘I went for a walk before she left.’ Ella frowned, trying to retrieve the memory. ‘Knock-off time is normally just around six but my mother always let Amahle go home early on payday.’
‘I see.’ Emmanuel memorised the time. ‘Amahle was paid in cash?’ That wasn’t always the rule. Some farmers doled out bars of soap or tins of sardines in lieu of actual money. Others provided small stipends boosted by food rations and gifts.
‘Of course. She had spent some of it in town.’
Emmanuel noted this with surprise. Until now, robbery had not even crossed his mind as a motive for the murder. The crime scene indicated something much more premeditated than a smash and grab.
‘Tell me about Friday,’ he said. ‘All that you can remember.’
The big house was closer now, the sunlight reflecting off the windows. Fortunately, Ella was ambling, in no hurry to get indoors.
‘Friday we went into town for a dress fitting at Mrs Anderson’s house. My mother gave Amahle half an hour to walk around while Mrs Anderson took up the hems. Next we went to Dawson’s to collect our hats for the county fair. Amahle came along to carry the boxes to the car.’ Ella stopped at the top of the lake path. ‘After that we came home and had lunch.’
‘What made you think Amahle spent her pay in town?’ Emmanuel asked.
‘When she came back to the fitting room, loose change was clanking in her pocket. It made a racket.’
‘Any idea what she bought?’
‘No, but she was smiling when she got back to Mrs Anderson’s so it must have been something good.’
‘Was she carrying anything?’ Emmanuel persisted.
‘No,’ Ella said. ‘Nothing.’
That didn’t prove much. A pair of earrings or a necklace could easily fit into a pocket. Nothing like that was found at the crime scene or on Amahle’s body in the prelude to Zweigman’s examination. He and Shabalala would have to comb all the shops in Roselet to find out what Amahle had spent her money on. It was hard to think of an item bought for a servant’s wages that was worth killing for.
‘After lunch . . .’ Emmanuel prompted.
‘Like I said.’ Ella wound a new strand of grass around her index finger and tugged at the roots. ‘I went for a walk and got home after dark.’
‘Part of your health program,’ Emmanuel said. Four hours in the wooded hills was more of a hike than a walk.
‘
Ja.
’ She tore the grass from the red soil. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
The fresh air and exercise were obviously working. Ella’s lungs were clear of congestion and her tanned body was strong. She was convalescing beautifully.
‘Do you walk alone?’ Emmanuel asked. The love bite on her inner thigh was not self-inflicted and while its origin had no bearing on the case, he was curious. The isolated valley and scattered farms brought back memories of the long twilight hours he’d spent seeking out and then ticking off the extensive inventory of sins the
predikant
of the Dutch Reformed Church preached against during Sunday service. Maria, the preacher’s eldest daughter, topped the list of most repeated transgressions.
‘Thomas runs the farm and my mother spends all her time in the garden or the house so I go out by myself.’ Ella stripped green from the blade and tiny flakes clung to the front of her towel. ‘All the natives know I’m a Reed. I never have any trouble.’
Of course not. Harming the daughter of a white chief was an informal declaration of war against every European settler in South Africa. Swift punishment would arrive at the hands of the police or a coalition of local white farmers with guns and rope.
‘Madam . . . little madam.’ The older maid who’d appeared on the front porch to greet the Chevrolet hurried across the lawn. ‘The big madam is up. She asks for you.’
‘Tell her I’m on the way.’ Ella’s shoulders tensed and she stepped over the trimmed grass edge separating the formal gardens from the bush. A white-pebbled path led directly to the rear of the farmhouse.
‘Come and meet Mother,’ she said. Emmanuel had seen students on their way to the principal’s office for ‘six of the best’ who looked more relaxed.
‘Ella?’ a voice called from the left side of the porch. ‘Where are you?’
‘Coming.’ Ella climbed the stairs, then trudged on with joyless steps, trailing sand across the mahogany floorboards. Dirt from the lake path muddied the soles of her leather sandals and darkened her heels.
Emmanuel hesitated on the top step. If Mrs Reed was still in pyjamas and a dressing-gown the interview was off. The family lawyer – and there’d likely be more than one – would later have Mrs Reed’s words deemed inadmissible in court if there was the slightest suggestion she was pressured into talking.
He followed Ella around the corner to a stretch of sun-dappled porch. An elegant white woman sat on a wicker couch drowning in scatter cushions. She held a silk pillow on her lap like a cat and stroked the fabric. Unlike the rest of the Reeds, who were lanky-framed with brown skin and hazel eyes, this woman was petite, with black hair and skin pale as milk.
‘Where have you been?’ Her bright blue eyes narrowed. ‘Running in the hills like a native again?’