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Disguise work was one of the many aspects of being an operative in the field that wrapped Lightfoot in utter delight. It didn’t matter whether he was donning itchy mutton-chop whiskers made of baked wool or peppering his hair with Johnson’s baby powder to give him a seasoned air. Every time Lightfoot prepared for an undercover operation he would go back to his child self on Halloween as he metamorphosed into a character. It was all rather theatrical.
However, as he got to working on his disguise in front of the mirror on the morning of the sixth, Lightfoot realised there would be no need for camouflage, prosthetics or fake beards on this occasion. He had only been in the Colony for a few weeks, all of which were spent in the slums of Cape Town. His work hadn’t afforded him the opportunity to visit the affluent suburbs yet, therefore, a complete alteration in appearance was unnecessary. All that was required for this job was a change of hair colour and a sharp double-edged razor.
He had already switched his hair from honey brown to onyx the previous evening with synthetic dye from the October House-issued kit he always travelled with. It had been messier than the last time he had dyed his hair with the product while on an assignment in Rome. Black smudges were smeared on surfaces of his private room he hadn’t known he’d touched. Luckily, he was residing in a scummy flophouse on Daweks street, where the city edged into the forests, Lion’s Rump, and whatever lay beyond.
Naturally, Aqib didn’t have much of a budget for the freelance gig, so the dosshouse had to do until Lightfoot was assigned to more jobs from the October House.
Lightfoot had to think positively of the situation. At least he was fortunate enough to have had Aqib secure him a private room when he arrived at Die Kombuis — the name of the flophouse. Many of the lodgers who walked through the flimsy doors were allocated rooms they would share between five or ten other men, often labourers, sailors or such company.
Lightfoot’s bedroom was all splintered floorboards and cracked plaster. It was barely large enough to fit his linen duffel bag and kit, but it would do.
Hopefully those of the elite circles he was about to penetrate never latched on to the truth of where he was staying throughout the duration of the job, and hopefully those in the flophouse wouldn’t wag tongues. If word was to dribble back to the October House, he’d be finished. The House had ears and eyes everywhere.
Lightfoot let out an exasperated sigh as he stood up from the table where the mirror was placed and pulled a brass bowl from underneath the iron bed. On the floor next to it was the navy-blue copy of The Cape of Good Hope Official Handbook Aqib had provided him with the day he arrived in the Colony. Of course the House would find out. He had shaken hands with Hades when he acquiesced to Aqib’s job.
He dropped the brass bowl onto the table and filled it with water from a dirty tin jug. The water sloshed onto the table and dripped through the thin cracks in the wood.
Sitting down on the stool once more, his elbows came to rest on the table as he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. An image of Birdie in the alleyway crossed his mind, followed by one of Aqib dropping the docket into his hands. Lightfoot had to concentrate. History had already been written. In a strange, nearly macabre way, that made things more fun. The scar on his lower back throbbed.
Yes, it was probable that the October House would find out about his attempt at moonlighting. But there was also a tenable chance — if a ludicrously diminutive one — that the organisation would never find out, or if they did, could turn a blind eye. Regardless of the eventual outcome, Lightfoot had to do a damned good job at stealing the diamond. He opened his eyes and stared at the reflection in the mirror of the loose documents from the docket spread over the rough woollen blanket on the bed. The illustration of the paragon of all jewels caught his eye instantly.
The Star of South Africa — a white diamond nearly forty-eight carats heavy. According to the notes from the docket Lightfoot had memorised, the weighty beast was originally found along the banks of the Orange River in 1869 by a young Griqua shepherd. It found its way into the hands of burly Afrikaans farmer Schalk van Niekerk who bought the Star for 500 sheep, 10 oxen and one horse, but managed to wrangle a startling 11,200 pounds from the Lilienfield Brothers when he eagerly sold it to them. The Hopetown natives were about to send the diamond over to England in 1880 to be placed on exhibition in a museum, or so Lightfoot assumed. But a certain British businessman and mining magnate made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Not only did said businessman acquire the Star for a whopping 25,000 pounds, but according to the documents in the file, he was planning on making a trip to visit Great Britain with the intention of selling the diamond to the Countess of Dudley for a revolting 40,000 pounds. That man was none other than Cecil John Rhodes. Aqib hadn’t exaggerated when he informed Lightfoot the job entailed stealing from the richest magnate in the Colony.
Mister Rhodes was holding a party at the Grand Hotel in Cape Town in nine days. In ten, he would be leaving for Great Britain with the Star. The party was Lightfoot’s one and only chance to obtain the jewel unnoticed. His ticket into the event had currently left a manor in the suburb of Rondebosch, according to one of his sources. All Lightfoot had to do was find the young gentleman and tip his chambermaid two shillings when next he saw her.
Lightfoot ran a hand over his beard, and for a moment quailed at the thought of what he had to do next. But one couldn’t grow attached to facial hair, no matter how impressive it was. It was a part of the job. And there was Santorini money to be made. Lightfoot wasn’t about to wait around for his ticket out of the Colony.
He removed the bar of shaving soap from its paper wrapping, dipped it in the water of the brass bowl, and got to work.
* * *
Lightfoot found the young gentleman perched on a flat concrete bench in the shade of trees flanking Oak Avenue in the Company’s Garden. Harley-Electron Devonshire appeared to be struggling to light a cigarette. From the distance Lightfoot kept from him, he could see the young man’s hands shook. The match wouldn’t catch light and eventually snapped. Harley’s face contorted into an exasperated scowl. The entire scene made Lightfoot laugh.
He’d been in a foul mood since leaving Die Kombuis and arriving at the Devonshire manor in Rondebosch, only to be told by Vera, his chambermaid contact, that she wasn’t aware of where Harley had departed to. Not only did Lightfoot feel naked and exposed without his beard, he had also been given no clue as to where the boy had gone. It was only when Vera had introduced Lightfoot to another chambermaid behind the conservatory in the back garden, a dalcop of note named Dorcas, that he was given an indication of where the heir to a mining fortune may have been. Harley apparently only had one friend, a lad named Theodore from another uppity family who also referred to Rondebosch as home. This had come as no surprise to Lightfoot, who had frequently been told by Vera since their agreement to work together that Harley was, for lack of a better phrase, a spoiled dollop of a man.
The next logical step had been to locate Theodore’s home, however, finding the residence was Lightfoot’s next challenge, as neither chambermaid knew exactly where the boy lived. The thought of all the tribulations Lightfoot had endured that morning just to find the brat in the Company’s Garden made his blood boil. He didn’t want to meditate on it. What mattered was that he’d ultimately tracked down Harley… with a far lighter coin pouch than what he had when he’d left the flophouse earlier that day. Extracting information was almost as expensive as a visit to the cemetery.
Harley hunched over and with his elbows digging into the flesh of his knees, rested his face in his hands. He shoulders quivered. Lightfoot was inclined to believe there was more on the lad’s mind than simply not being able to light his cigarette. He turned from the scene unfolding in front of him and tapped his silver-plated cane lightly on the grass. Watching Harley sob made him uncomfortable, suddenly feeling more like a filthy peeper than an operative doing his job. Rather, his eyes came to rest on a statue of Jan van Riebeek that had been decorated a blotchy white by pigeons over the decades. From his newly bought Gillespie brushed cotton coat, Lightfoot removed the Cape of Good Hope Official Handbook and flicked through the creased pages. The handbook contained usual information a visitor or immigrant would need when arriving in South Africa for the first time — a history of the Cape, a list of cities, towns and physical aspects of the Colony, articles on wild game and Ostrich farming, occupation and hosiery advertisements. It also happened to have an illustration within its pages drawn by none other than the son of mining magnate John Devonshire and heir to his fortune, who wept on the park bench. It was almost as though it was written in the stars for Lightfoot to accept the freelance job.
Lightfoot had gone through hell tracking Harley down. The date of the party was looming close. It wasn’t his fault the young heir seemed to be having a bad day. Lightfoot didn’t have the time or patience to worry about peoples’ feelings. Work was work, and a diamond needed to be stolen.
Chapter Eight
Finding page 96 where Harley’s illustration was printed, Lightfoot tucked his index finger into the book as a place holder. He strode out from his spot behind the tree and made a beeline for Harley.
As he approached, he was able to take in more details than he had before. The heir’s clothes were immaculate. A testament to his pedigree. Even the straw hat lying beside him on the bench seemed to be woven with strands of pure gold. Harley’s face was still obscured by his hands, but by then Lightfoot had already arrived at the conclusion that he’d look like any other member of the elite he had dealt with in the past. It didn’t matter in which continent or country the well-heeled resided, they all had the same look to them — bored and uninterested with slightly dulled features pinched together like the anus of a bloodhound.
It was a pity. Lightfoot had hoped for something more than a bracket-face on the diamond job. Besides disguise work, another aspect he thoroughly enjoyed about his industry was getting to interact and spy on beautiful men on various missions. It didn’t happen on every job, but the times Lightfoot found himself face-to-face with a well-built son of Priam — even if said gentleman had his hands gripped around Lightfoot’s throat during a scuffle — were times he cherished. He was a spy for the October House. When else would he get to engage with individuals he found appealing?
Ignoring the slight sense of disappointment lingering in the back of his mind, Lightfoot slipped his silver-plated cane between his left arm and side to allow for his right hand to snake into the pocket of his coat and removed a fresh box of matches. He slid the box open, picked one out and lit the head. He paused mere centimetres from the heir and brought the match to his hidden face. Harley still held the cigarette between his fingers.
“Allow me,” Lightfoot said, impressed at how his impersonation of Asher’s accent came out as close to perfection. Aqib hadn’t specified many details when it came to the description on the character sheet in the docket for the role that Lightfoot had to portray for the operation. All it said were the following words –
Occupation: Bank Officer at the Standard Bank of South Africa
At first, Lightfoot thought his offer to light Harley’s cigarette went by unnoticed. Then, with the tired pace of a fisherman returning home from the docks of Table Bay, the young heir dropped his hands to his knees, sat up straight and rolled his head upwards to face Lightfoot as he –
Sweet Mary, mother of God.
