Viljoen drew up to Kirstens Garage and pointed across the road at the Imp Inn. “Go and have a coffee and order one for me. I’ll fill the tank and ask around.”
He rejoined Preston in the hotel lounge five minutes later.
“There’s one lawyer,” he said as he sipped his coffee. “He’s an Anglo, name of Benson. His office is right there across the street, two doors from the garage, and he’ll probably be in this morning. Let’s go.”
Mr. Benson was in, and when Viljoen flashed a card in a plastic wallet at Benson’s secretary, the effect was immediate. She spoke in Afrikaans into an intercom and they were shown without delay into the office of Benson, a friendly and rubicund man in a tan suit. He greeted them both in Afrikaans. Viljoen replied in his heavily accented English.
“This is Mr. John Preston. He has come from London, England. He wishes to ask you some questions.”
Benson bade them be seated and resumed his chair behind the desk. “Please,” he said,
“anything I can do.”
“Can you tell me how old you are?” asked Preston.
Benson gazed at him in amazement. “All the way from London to ask how old I am?
As a matter of fact, I’m fifty-three.”
“So in 1946 you would have been twelve?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me, please, who was the lawyer here in Duiwelskloof in that year?”
“Certainly. My father, Cedric Benson.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. He’s over eighty and he handed the business over to me fifteen years ago. But he’s pretty spry.”
“Would it be possible to talk to him?”
For answer Benson reached for a telephone and dialed a number. His father must have answered, for the son explained there were visitors, one from London, who would like to talk to him. He replaced the receiver.
“He lives about six miles away, but he still drives, to the terror of all other road users.
He says he’ll be here directly.”
“In the interim,” asked Preston, “could you consult your files for the year 1946 and see if you, or rather your father, executed the will of a local farmer, one Laurens Marais, who died in January of that year?”
“I’ll try,” said Benson Junior. “Of course, this Mr. Marais may have been with a lawyer from Pietersburg. But local people tended to stay local in those days. The 1946 box must be around somewhere. Excuse me.”
He left the office. The secretary served coffee. Ten minutes later there were voices in the outer office. The two Bensons entered together, the son carrying a dusty cardboard box. The old man had a fuzz of white hair and looked as alert as a young kestrel. After the introductions Preston explained his problem.
Without a word the older Benson took the chair behind the desk, forcing his son to draw up another one. Old Benson placed glasses on his nose and gazed at the visitors over them. “I remember Laurens Marais,” he said. “And yes, we did handle his will when he died. I did so myself.”
The son passed him a dusty and faded document tied in pink ribbon. The old man blew the dust off it, untied the ribbon, and spread it out. He began to read it silently.
“Ah yes, I remember it now. He was a widower. Lived alone. Had one son, Jan. A tragic case. The boy had just come back from the Second World War. Laurens Marais was going down to Cape Town to visit him when he died. Tragic.”
“Can you tell me about the bequests?” asked Preston.
“Everything to the son,” said Benson simply. “Farm, house, equipment, contents of house. Oh, the usual small bequests in money to the native farmworkers, the foreman—
that sort of thing.”
“Any other bequests—anything of a personal nature?” persisted Preston.
“Humph. One here. ‘And to my old and good friend Joop Van Rensberg my ivory chess set in memory of the many contented evenings we spent playing together at the farm.’ That’s all.”
“Was the son back home in South Africa when the father died?” asked Preston.
“Must have been. Old Laurens was going down to see him. A long trip in those days.
No airliners then. One went by train.”
“Did you handle the sale of the farm and the other property, Mr. Benson?”
“The auctioneers did the sale, right out at the farm. It went to the Van Zyls. They bought the lot. All that land belongs to Bertie Van Zyl now. But I was there as chief executor of the will.”
“Were there any personal memorabilia that did not sell?” asked Preston.
The old man furrowed his brow. “Not much. It all went. Oh, I recall there was a photograph album. It had no commercial value. I believe I gave it to Mr. Van Rensberg.“
“Who was he?”
“The schoolmaster,” cut in the son. “He taught me until I went to Merensky High. He ran the old farm school until they built the primary school. Then he retired and stayed here in Duiwelskloof.”
“Is he still alive?”
“No, he died about ten years ago,” said the older Benson. “I went to the funeral.”
“But there was a daughter,” said his son helpfully. “Cissy. She was at Merensky with me. Must be the same age.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“Certainly. She married, years ago. A sawmill owner out on the Tzaneen road.”
“One last question”—Preston addressed himself to the old man—“why did you sell the property? Didn’t the son want it?”
“Apparently not,” said the old man. “He was in the Wynberg Military Hospital at the time. He sent me a cable. I got his address from the military authorities and they vouched for his identity. His cable asked me to dispose of the entire estate and cable the money to him.”
“He did not come for the funeral?”
“No time. January is our summer in South Africa. In those days there were few morgue facilities. Bodies had to be buried without delay. In fact I don’t think he ever returned at all. Understandable. With his father gone, there was nothing to come back for.”
“Where is Laurens Marais buried?”
“In the graveyard up on the hill,” said Benson Senior. “Is that all? Then I’ll be off to my lunch.”
The climate east and west of the mountains at Duiwelskloof varies dramatically. West of the range the rainfall in the Mootseki is about twenty inches a year. East of the range the great clouds beat up from the Indian Ocean, drift across Mozambique and the Kruger Park, and butt into the mountains, whose eastern slopes are drenched with eighty inches of rain a year. On this side the industry comes from the forests of blue gum trees. Six miles up the Tzaneen road Viljoen and Preston found the sawmill of Mr. du Plessis. It was his wife, the schoolmaster’s daughter, who opened the door; she was a plump, apple-cheeked woman of about fifty with flour on her hands and apron. She was in the throes of baking.
She listened to their problem intently, then shook her head. “I remember as a small girl going out to the farm, and my father playing chess with farmer Marais,” she said. “That would have been about 1944 or 1945. I recall the ivory chess set, but not the album.”
“When your father died, did you not inherit his effects?” asked Preston.
“No,” said Mrs. du Plessis. “You see, my mother died in 1955, leaving Daddy a widower. I looked after him myself until I married in 1958, when I was twenty-three.
After that, he couldn’t cope. His house was always a mess. I tried to keep going to cook and clean for him. But when the children came, it was too much.
“Then in 1960 his sister, my aunt, was widowed in her turn. She had lived at Pietersburg. It made sense for her to come and stay with my father and look after him. So she did. When he died I had already asked him to leave it all to her—the house, furniture, and so forth.”
“What happened to your aunt?” asked Preston.
“Oh, she still lives there. It’s a modest bungalow just behind the Imp Inn back in Duiwelskloof.”
She agreed to accompany them. Her aunt, Mrs. Winter, a bright, sparrowlike lady with blue-rinsed hair, was at home. When she had heard what they had to say, she went to a closet and pulled out a flat box. “Poor Joop
