But the delectable roast lamb with roast potatoes and pumpkin, green peas, and cauliflower was slightly spoiled by Dirk. We weren’t as relaxed and appreciative as we should have been. True, we talked a lot about how lucky the two Theron boys had been to inherit a mortgage-free farm each when their parents had died in a boating accident and what a good idea it was to build a bridge over the river that separated the two farms. And about how lucky it was that the terrific thunderstorm last night had held off until the bridge opening party was well and truly over. But there was a sense of urgency that made us chew our food quicker than we should have. It wasn’t like dour Dirk to miss church — he was an elder and it was expected of him, and he would have routed Rina out to go with him, so it did look as if he hadn’t made it home last night. Had he taken a rest in the almost dry riverbed, passed out, and been swept away by the rapidly rising water that the storm produced? It seemed unlikely. Even if he had been drunk enough to sleep in the riverbed, surely the torrential rain, not to mention the thunder and lightning, would have wakened him in time for him to crawl out. We needed to get going and solve the mystery.
So there we were, making our way gingerly along the slippery track. Steve, my black cocker spaniel, rapidly becoming a brown dog, was leading the party, ears trailing in the mud and busy nose seeking scents with evident enjoyment, though what they would be after the rain I couldn’t imagine. Mary came next and then me, Jean and George bringing up the rear. Each with our own thoughts. I was thinking about Dirk, that big, strong, bearded man who rejoiced in being an Afrikaner and who refused to speak English. He treated all new newcomers as interloping foreigners, referring to them as “the Englishman” or “the Jew” or even “the Greek” (if they happened to be Portuguese). A complete contrast to his younger brother Hans, who was twelve years his junior and who had escaped from the farm and gone to university, in Johannesburg of all places. Why couldn’t he have gone to Stellenbosch and taken his degree in Afrikaans? It was beyond Dirk’s comprehension, and he gave Hansie as hard a time as he could. But it didn’t seem to worry Hans. He had decided that there was more to the world than the Ceres Valley and he intended at least to be aware of it. He took a degree in mechanical engineering at Wits and might never have come back, but he was presented with a farm, albeit a poor one, and he accepted the challenge of turning it into a good one with enthusiasm. In Joh’burg he had met a lovely tall blonde named Lisa who was a final year B.Sc. student, majoring in botany. They had fallen in love and married. Fortunately Lisa was not enamored of city life and looked forward to having some land to grow the plants she loved. They were a happy couple, and as Wits was my alma mater, too, we had plenty to talk about and we became close friends. Mary was fond of both Lisa and Rina. Dirk was the odd man out. And now he was missing.
We came round a curve and were in sight of the bridge. The pool where yesterday children had been happily splashing was now at least two feet deeper, but there was still a vestige of beach. It was clear from the debris on the banks that it had at one stage been nearly four feet deeper than that. Steve was running about and barking excitedly at a big rock in the pool.
“Look,” said Mary, “the big rock’s come adrift from the bank and rolled into the pool. Gosh, there were children climbing all over it yesterday — somebody might have been hurt if it had come loose then.”
We all clambered down to the tiny strip of beach and examined the rock and where it had come from. It was a big, roughly spherical boulder about four feet in diameter that had been lodged in the bank for many years, three or four feet above the beach. From the top of the rock to the footpath on the top of the bank was maybe another four feet. The annual risings of the river had gradually washed away some of the clay from under it, and last night’s wash must have been the last straw. Its center of gravity must have moved over the edge, the wet earth behind it had lost its grip, and away it had rolled. It hadn’t rolled very far; the soft bottom of the river had stopped it only a yard or so from the water’s edge.
Steve seemed to be fascinated by it. He jumped into the water and swam all round it, then came out, shook himself all over us, and sat staring at it. I waded in until the water was uncomfortably close to the top of my boots and prodded around with my stick. I felt something firm but yielding and prayed that it might be a rotted willow log. Reversing my stick, I managed to hook something up just long enough to see that it was a man’s hand.
I went back to land smartly. “There is a man under that rock.”
“Not possible,” said George. “What combination of circumstances could result in a man being under a rock that must have come adrift at the height of the storm?”
His walking stick didn’t have a crook on it, so I offered him mine but he declined. Mary and Jean thought we should try to roll the rock off the body, but George pointed out that if indeed there was a body under the rock it was a police matter and he and Jean should stand guard while Mary and I went to tell Rina and summon the police at the same time.
Mary and I climbed up the bank and set off through another orchard towards Rina’s house, Mary leading. “Poor Rina,” I said. “Whatever will she do without Dirk?”
“I expect she’ll get used to the idea once she stops dancing for joy.”
It wasn’t the reply I expected. “Is that what wives do when their husbands have fatal accidents?”
“It is if their husbands happen to be chauvinist pigs who treat them like dirt and beat them when they fail to produce babies.”
“That doesn’t sound like Dirk. I know he is, was, a bigoted, humorless man, but as far as Rina was concerned he was a great big cuddly bear. Wasn’t he?”
She slowed her step until I caught up with her, turned, and gave me one of those loving smiles that make life worthwhile. “You are the big softie. You are my three-monkeys man, you see no evil in anyone. You don’t hear the gossip either, do you?”
“Country people like to gossip — I take no notice of it. I heard a rumor that Hansie was having an affair with Rina. That’s ridiculous.”
“Of course it’s ridiculous. And malicious. And who do you think started it? None other than big brother himself.”
“But why?”
“Why indeed. You didn’t know Dirk very well did you?”
“No, he wasn’t the sort of man you could get to know. He only liked to talk about rugby. He was a good rugby player.”
“He was a hard, rough player. He was a beast. He hated Rina because she didn’t produce a child and that reflected on him. There’s nothing wrong with Rina, and he knew it.”
Oh my God, I thought. I hadn’t realized how bad things were between Dirk and Rina, but I knew he was something of a thorn in Hansie’s side. Supposing... I must warn Mary. But that brown-haired, hazel-eyed love of my life wasn’t stupid.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, “but if something happened last night, and if they were somehow caught up in it, they certainly were not guilty of murder.”
“I couldn’t really believe that any of the three were, but something bizarre happened last night. I certainly won’t say anything to anybody that might make things look bad for Rina.”
We could see her now, pottering in her garden, snipping deadheads off roses that were still throwing a few late blooms. She looked worn out with worry, but she took the news calmly enough and I left her sitting on a garden bench with Mary and went into the house to phone. I took off my muddy boots at the back door and went first to the laundry, an enclosed piece of the back verandah, to wash the mud off my hands. There was a large dirty linen wicker basket there, and I couldn’t resist lifting the lid to look in. It was full of wet, muddy clothes. Women’s clothes. I wasn’t surprised.