shilling shares were held by the Ladyburg Farmers Bank. Thank you very much, said Mark, returning the file to the girl while avoiding her frank gaze. Could I see the file for Ladyburg Farmers Bank please?
She brought it promptly.
The one million one-pound shares of the Ladyburg Farmers Bank were owned by three men, all of them Directors of the Company.
Dirk Courtney: Ronald Beresford Pye: Dennis Petersen: Mark frowned, the web was tangled and intricately woven, the same names again and again. He wrote the names into his notebook. My name is Marion, what's yours? Mark, Mark Anders. Mark, that's a strong romantic name. Have you read Julius Caesar? Mark Antony was such a strong romantic character. Yes, agreed Mark. He was. How much do I owe you for the search fee? , oh, I'll just forget about that. No, look don't do that, I want to pay. All right then, if you want to.
At the door he paused. Thanks. he said shyly. You were very kind. Oh it's a pleasure. If there's anything else, well, you know my name and where to find me. Then suddenly and unaccountably, she blushed scarlet. To hide it, she turned away with the files. When she looked again, he was gone, and she sighed, holding the files to her plump little bosom.
Mark found the accounts of the old man's estate filed with the Master of the Court almost contemptuously under the heading Intestate Estates less than 100 pounds.
on the credit side were listed two rifles and a shotgun, four trek oxen and scotch-cart, sold at public auction to realize eighty-four pounds sixteen shillings. On the debit side were legal and commission fees accruing to one Dennis Petersen, and costs of winding up the estate.
The total was one hundred and twenty-seven pounds; the account had been in deficit, a distribution had been made and the estate closed. John Archibald Anders had gone, and left hardly a ripple behind him, not even the three thousand pounds he had been paid for Andersland.
Mark hefted his pack again and went out into the brilliant sunlight of afternoon. A water cart was moving slowly down Main Street drawn by two oxen, its sprinklers pouring fine jets of water into the roadway to lay the thick dust.
Mark paused and inhaled the smell of water on dry earth, and looked across the street at the towering building of the Ladyburg Farmers Bank.
For a brief moment, he touched the idea of crossing and entering, demanding of the men in there what had made the old man change his firm resolve to die and be buried on Andersland, how the money had been paid to him, and what he had done with it.
But the idea passed swiftly. The men who worked in that building were creatures of a different breed from the penniless grandson of an illiterate hard-scrabble farmer.
There were orders in society, unseen barriers which a man could not cross, even if he had a university diploma, a military medal for gallantry and an honourable discharge from the army.
That building was the shrine of wealth and power and influence, where dwelt men like giants, like gods. The likes of Mark Anders did not barge in there demanding answers to unimportant questions about an old man of no account. Intestate estate less than 100 pounds, Mark whispered aloud, and set off across town, towards the clanking, buffing sounds of the railway goods yard. Yes, agreed the station master, Piet Greyling was a mainline loco driver, and his son fired for him, but they threw in their time months ago, back in 1919, both of them. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. No, I don't know where they were headed, just too damned happy to see them go, I guess. Oh, yes, now I come to think on it, the son did say something about they were going up to Rhodesia. Going to buy a farm, or something, and the man chuckled. Buy a farm! With what, I wonder, wishes and dreams, not on the salary of a loco driver or fireman. The board room of the Ladyburg Farmers Bank occupied half of the top floor of the building; one set of floor-to ceiling windows faced eastwards to catch the cool sea breeze on hot summer days, the other windows faced the tall escarpment. This made a fine backdrop to the town, and gave an interesting aspect to the huge room with its high ornately plastered ceiling where dancing white cherubs bearing bunches of grapes were suspended upsidedown, frozen in their endless jollification.
The walls were panelled in dark mahogany that set off the green velvet curtaining with golden corded edges.
The carpet was green also, and thick enough to muffle the hoofs of a cavalry charge. The board room table was of marble with golden ormolu work, vine leaves and nude female figures clambering up the legs, playing harps or dancing demurely.
At one end of the table, a man stood respectfully, a man with the short neck and heavy shoulders of a wrestler. The seat of his khaki breeches was shiny from the saddle, and his boots were dusty from hard riding. He twisted the rim of a slouch hat nervously between his fingers.
Opposite where he stood at the far end of the marble table, another man slouched elegantly in the leather- padded chair. Even seated, it was clear that he was a big man, the shoulders under the expensive British broadcloth were wide and powerful.
However, his head was nicely balanced on these shoulders, a glorious head of lustrous but skilfully barbered hair, dark curls that extended low down on to his cheeks into magnificent sideboards. The strong smoothly shaven chin had the jut and set of a man accustomed to command, a wide determined mouth and perfect white teeth with which he now nibbled thoughtfully at his lower lip. A small frown formed a bird's foot at the bridge of his nose, between the dark intelligent eyes, and one carefully manicured fist supported his chin as he listened quietly. Anyway, I thought you might like to know, mr Courtney, the speaker ended lamely, and shuffled his dusty boots on the thick carpet. For a long moment there was silence. The man glanced uneasily at the other two gentlemen who flanked Dirk Courtney, but then flicked back to the central figure.
Dirk Courtney dropped his hand into his lap, and the frown cleared. I suspect you did the right thing, Hobday. He smiled slightly, a smile that enhanced his powerful good looks. You can rest in the antechamber. The clerk there will find refreshment for you, but I will want to talk to you again. . . Yes, sir, Mr Courtney, sir-'The man crossed to the door with alacrity, and as it closed behind him the two men flanking Dirk Courtney burst out together. I told you at the time something like this would happen, But you told us he had been killed. I never liked the idea. Oh, I thought it was going too far this time They spoke across each other, quick breathless outbursts while Dirk Courtney sat with an enigmatic halfsmile hovering on his lips, examining with attention the diamond on the little finger of his right hand, turning the big white stone to catch the light from the windows so that it flicked spots of brilliant light across the ceiling high above where he sat.
After a few minutes, the two of them faltered into silence, and Dirk Courtney looked up politely. Have you both finished? I found that most helpful, constructive, imaginative. He looked from one to the other expectantly, and then when they were silent he went on, Unfortunately, you are not in possession of all the facts, Here is some more news for you. He arrived in town this morning, and he went straight to the Land Deeds, from there to the Register
