Iron Zulu Read online

  “Cobblefield and McCafferty were Britain’s leading African anthropologist and geologist. Both were involved in the Zulu conflicts.”

  Chief Zwelethu’s deep voice silenced the room. “But the Zulu are here to talk to the great mother, not fight with her.”

  “Please, Chief Zwelethu, understand that we do not suspect you,” the baron said. “We, too, seek an end to the conflict between our people.”

  “We need to focus on who could carry out this kind of an attack,” Sinclair added.

  The Duke replied, “Well, then, if not the chief, has anyone asked about his son’s whereabouts?”

  Chief Zwelethu laughed. “Is this what you call English hospitality? Accusing my son?”

  Owethu’s shoulders slumped and my heart did the same. How could they think such things? My new friend was fascinating, and I knew I’d just scratched the surface of who Owethu was inside, but I was certain he was an honorable man, not an assassin. So many questions and no answers. Listening to the bickering in the next room, it didn’t sound like they had any answers, either. Genevieve shook her head as concern chased her smile away. The tension pouring out of the room, sounded like war might break out at any moment.

  The three of us continued to hover outside the room. I wanted to storm in like I had last year when the order decided who would replace the baron in the Iron Templar, and put them all in their place, but I don’t think I would silence the room like before. Instead, I’d be the spark that would light the powder keg.

  Finn stepped around the corner and stopped when he saw us. He shook his head as he walked up. “Now what are you scamps doing here? Go on, back upstairs before someone sees yah.”

  I pointed toward the room and whispered, “We’re curious about what’s going on.”

  “Trouble that’s what. You know what curiosity did to the cat. You best leave this one alone, laddy.”

  “Okay, we will,” I said as we shuffled toward the stairs.

  I turned as Finn walked into the room and heard him say, “Pardon the interruption, gentlemen, but my Lord, I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

  Still at the bottom of the stairs when they began to file out of the room, we rushed upstairs. Once back in the blue room, Genevieve spun around and said, “I, for one, am not giving up. Trouble means we’re on the right track.”

  Owethu nodded.

  I started to protest, to remind everyone that people were dying, but the words choked up in my throat when I looked at Genevieve. She wouldn’t like a guy who’d back down in the face of danger. Besides, I was a knight. Sort of. If people were dying, then it was my duty to stop whoever was doing it. “So, what do we do?”

  She propped her hands on her waist. “We need to figure out who is next.”

  Calling on the skills my father had taught me, I said, “Then we must find the common thread between them. We have two victims. Lord Cobblefield, an African explorer and anthropologist, and Professor McCafferty, a geologist. Your father said both men had been involved in the Zulu Wars.”

  Genevieve’s hand went to her chin and the other supported her elbow, the same stance her father often made. “There has to be something else. Tomorrow at Eton, see if you can find out if any other people might be connected to Africa.”

  Owethu’s shoulders slumped. “I do not think I will go tomorrow. The students will have heard about the murders.”

  He was right. They’d be merciless. Even those who ordinarily weren’t mean, would walk down other hallways, or press against the walls on seeing Owethu.

  “I have an idea.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “And Owethu, I think it will help our standing at school.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE CHALLENGE

  At Eton the next day, Owethu and I walked through one of the large carved archways. We passed Thad Blackthorne and couple of my classmates. They rushed off, so I knew the game was afoot.

  “A quarter says they ran off to get Richard,” I said.

  Owethu looked puzzled.

  “American money, you know, like a Shilling.”

  Owethu nodded but didn’t have the same sense of glee that I did. I hadn’t told him what I was planning, although Genevieve didn’t let me leave the breakfast table until I told her. At first, she didn’t look amused, but after explaining everything, she couldn’t help but showing her excitement as the light filled her eyes.

  “Come on, we need to be somewhere more public for this encounter.”

  I grabbed Owethu by the arm and we darted off for The Cloisters, the tails of our coats streaming behind us. Inside, we found throngs of students getting ready for class. Everyone turned and stared at us as we entered. I immediately thought of the encounter with the pirate armada. As in those skies, we were surrounded. Outnumbered. Trapped. Only this time, I had them right where I wanted.

  I smiled and nodded to Owethu. His puzzled expression joined with his unease of being the center of attention. I wanted to tell him what was about to happen, but I needed his reactions to be genuine. I took a deep breath. I was ready. Now, I just needed our opponents.

  Richard, Blackthorne, and three other noble-born sauntered into the hall, like kings. They each locked eyes on us. As they crossed the room, Richard paused to say hello to some students sitting nearby, and waved to those too far away. With each step toward us, their smug smiles grew.

  Blackthorne stopped in front of me. “I’m surprised, colonist, that you’d still stand next to this savage, given his father’s nighttime activities.”

  I spoke up so the whole room could hear. “Chief Zwelethu is a great warrior, as is his son, Owethu.” I put my hand on Owethu’s shoulder. “You should apologize, Blackthorne. All of you should apologize.” I didn’t know if the chieftain could fight or not, but this wasn’t a time for facts. I was a Sky Raider, and this was my battlefield.

  The entire hall of students erupted in one unifying “O-o-o-o.”

  “Scotland Yard told my father they think it’s a Zulu, given the poisoned used.” Richard kept his gaze on me. I couldn’t tell if he was ignoring Owethu on purpose, or just focused on my words.

  Owethu grabbed Richard’s coat sleeve and pushed him around until they faced each other. “We do not poison our enemies. If I wanted to kill you, I would do it with an Iklwa.”

  A gasp rippled through the crowd. Every student had heard tales of the fearsome Zulu short spear created by Shaka, to wage war on his enemies.

  Richard yanked his arm back and brushed it off. “I would kill you first with a sword.”

  I stepped between them. “You’re right! We need a duel.” Both Owethu and Richard pulled back. I think they thought I was serious. “I propose a test of wits.”

  The students cheered. One called for a game of riddles. Two others boys announced a wrestling match, and when a third cried out for a math problem, I raised my hand. The room fell silent.

  “I suggest a hunt.” I walked into the middle of the crowd. “For missing treasure.”

  The cheering got louder.

  Richard’s eyes narrowed, but he curled his lip in contempt. “I know. Last week, a painting was removed from the Lupton’s Tower. Discover its whereabouts within the hour and be declared the winner. He nodded to Blackthorne.

  I shook my head. “No. Undoubtedly you already know where it is.”

  Richard sneered, but it quickly faded. “Well, we can’t trust you to choose something. How do we know this whole thing isn’t a setup?”

  “We have not set this up,” I boasted. Which technically, wasn’t true. I was setting all this up, but not just to best Richard. That was a bonus. By the end of the day, everyone would know Owethu like I did, and maybe we’d find the next victim.

  “There’s no way to prove that,” Blackthorne said.

  I had to think of something, and quick. “Well then, we’ll just have someone else choose the treasure.”

  “I suggest Thad–”

  I cut Richard off. “Of course you would.” The crowd of students, stone silent,
were hooked on my every word. “No, it has to be someone independent. Someone to make the hunt fair. Even the odds.” I looked at Richard and Blackthorne. “Something I’m not certain y’all are familiar with.”

  The crowd hissed.

  “So,” I said jumping up on a nearby table, “I turn it over to the group of you.” I pointed my finger at the crowd. “As Aristotle said, ‘At his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice, he is the worst’. What say you, good men? What has gone missing that must be found?”

  The room remained silent. I wasn’t sure if my speech hit its mark, but then Lord Carter’s son spoke up. I didn’t know him well, but he’d never given me trouble. “I heard the Head Master talking about the Cricket Trophy in Master McCafferty’s workshop. It was missing. Apparently he’d been making repairs to the base before he was killed.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd of students like a whirlwind. The trophy was the prize we’d won over our greatest rivals at Harrow School.

  “Then it’s settled. A game of wits to find the Cricket Trophy.”

  My classmates erupted in cheers again. Lord Carter’s son stood up on a chair and rallied others to him. “The teams are Alexander and Owethu, and Richard and Thad. The rules are simple. You have one hour to find the trophy. Ask anyone a question; but you can’t ask for help in finding it.”

  “Agreed,” I said with a chuckle.

  Richard and Blackthorne, now stoic, nodded, and the crowd roared. Richard backhanded Blackthorne’s shoulder, “Come on, Thad. I know just where to start looking.” They ran off and half the students followed.

  I turned to Owethu. “Why don’t we start in the workshop, since that’s its last location.”

  “Good idea.”

  The door squeaked as I pushed open McCafferty’s office. No one had been allowed in after Scotland Yard took over. Several students who had followed us, pressed their faces against the glass, but no one else entered. Inside, nothing had been moved. The chairs remained toppled over, a small table lay on its side, with the shattered remains of a tea set scattered around the floor.

  I tried not to focus on the where the professor had fallen, but I couldn’t take my eyes off that spot on the floor.

  “It sat above the fire?” Owethu walked over to the mantle above the fireplace. He studied the area. His focus pulled me from the where Professor McCafferty had died to the perfect oval left by the trophy in the light layer of dust. Two other trophies sat on the shelf but looked untouched. Just the one had been taken. The most valuable one.

  While Owethu studied the mantle, I took a moment to search for more clues about why he died, and who might be next. I checked the drawers and all the papers on his desk. I don’t know what I was looking for, a note, or maybe, a Templar cross.

  “Normally, I’d say someone from the Harrow School might have taken it, but then why didn’t Master McCafferty tell someone it was missing?”

  “Agreed. It was a tall man with thin feet.”

  I spun around on my heel. “How do you know that?”

  “I see it.”

  I stared at Owethu, who still stood close to the fireplace, trying to see what he saw. “I don’t see it,” I said as I walked over to him.

  Owethu leaned over and pointed to the marble step in front of the fireplace. “Tracks.” Outlined in soot, a footprint on the stone. He continued. “See? They are long; so he is tall. They are thin, so he is not a large man.”

  Amazed by Owethu’s deductions, I asked, “How do you know it’s a man?”

  “The shape. The women of your land have strange footprints with a tiny heel.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. His logic was flawless. To him, it was like reading a book on the ground. I thought about how my father would analyze the marks on a parchment to determine its age. Studying how the paper had weathered, the binding, or the way the ink had been applied. Owethu was a genius, not a savage.

  I lifted my foot and looked at the sole of my own shoe. It had a distinctive guitar shape, nothing like the footprint on the ground. “Well, it isn’t a student. We all wear this same loafer.” I crouched down and stared at the footprint. Owethu left my side, but I wanted to see if there was anything else I could add to our information. Maybe he favored one leg, or had cane. I searched for a mark, but saw nothing.

  “Alexander, come here. I found his trail.” I rushed over and Owethu pointed to another black mark. “He favors his left side.”

  I nodded, wishing I’d been the one to see this. “So, how does this tell us where the trophy is now?”

  “We track the prints.”

  Owethu tore out of the lab and I ran behind him. The students watching us turned and chased us. Our fervor ignited their anticipation. As we all followed Owethu, I heard them call other students to follow, and several yelled, “They’ve found it!”

  We hadn’t yet. But all we had to do was track those shoeprints. They would surely lead us to the culprit who had the trophy. My mind raced over all the Masters at Eton who might fit Owethu’s description, as well as the people who worked here. Fortunately, it was a short list: three teachers, a librarian, and one of the groundskeepers.

  Owethu stopped, knelt down, and ran his fingertips over the ground. He then smelled his fingers and looked off toward the building on our right. “That way,” he pointed.

  We ran toward the library, past the statue of Henry VI. Glancing over my shoulder, the crowd had swelled, and now half the school ran behind us. As we entered the library, Owethu stopped. I paused right behind him, but the students, caught up in the excitement, crashed into each other.

  Owethu pointed. “He changed direction.”

  I walked around and looked at the floor for another clue. Owethu joined me and the entourage of students formed a semi-circle around us, watching and waiting.

  “The soot is fading. We will lose the trail soon,” Owethu said.

  “That’s okay, I think it’s here.”

  Two librarians rushed over and pushed their way through the gaggle of students. The first, his mustache twirled to fine points, said, “You are disrupting the library. I demand to know the meaning of this gathering!”

  A voice from the crowd called out. “They’re solving a crime!”

  The librarians spun around and said in a loud whisper, “Who said that?”

  I stepped forward, “Sir, allow me to explain.”

  A murmur rippled from the back of the crowd and the students parted to make way. Richard and Blackthorne entered with the other half of the student body. “Just a simple game of wits,” the Duke’s son said. “Apparently Alexander and his friends were also able to figure out that the trophy was here in the library.”

  The man shook his head and spun his fingers on his mustache. “I object, Your Grace. This institution would never be involved in a crime.”

  The assistant librarian twitched. His foot shifted as he said, “All of you … you need to break this up and return to your studies.”

  The man matched Owethu’s description: thin, almost frail. And tall. His gangliness made me wonder if he could even be a criminal. He looked more like a bookworm, which made me rethink why the statue had been taken in the first place. Maybe it had been recovered? I looked down. The man’s narrow feet stuck out several inches from his trousers. It was him. He was the culprit.

  My heart pounded. I had the answer. Well, half of it.

  Richard, standing there, looked so smug, as if he owned the room. The problem was, he did. I knew he was up to something. He was too certain of himself, maybe even who had taken the trophy. But I was not going to let Mr. Perfect win. I needed to find the trophy—the actual prize—and I had to act before my adversary.

  Like Captain Baldarich, I stepped forward to claim the room. “He’s right, no crime has been committed,” I said, looking directly at Richard, who scowled at me. I continued, “We are just here to locate the Cricket trophy … as a matter of honor, sir. And return it to its rightful place.”


  The head librarian twisted his mustache. “Mister Armitage, you are making less sense than your classmates. Explain yourself.”

  “Allow me,” Richard said, stepping in front of me. “You see, the colonist here, is about to tell you that Mr. Scuttlebore was seen leaving Master McCafferty’s study. And now I say, he is going to tell us where he hid the trophy.”

  “This is preposterous,” said Scuttlebore as he wagged his finger. “These allegations are completely unfounded!”

  A chorus of whispers swept through the students around us. Richard’s crooked grin was for me, but my attention went to Owethu, who used the distraction to scan the room for the trophy. He spotted something, and his eyes narrowed. I followed his gaze to a black smudge at the base of a cabinet, and he turned to me with large smile crossing his face. I raised my hand and the room went silent. “We do not accuse you, sir. I know where the trophy is … and the reason you recovered it.”

  Richard spun around, and glared at me with burning eyes. I could tell he didn’t have a clue where the trophy was. I crossed the room, and Richard charged over to the librarian like he was going to rip the information from him, but I addressed the students. My real judges.

  “Owethu, will you please reveal the trophy using your amazing skills of deduction.”

  “I would be happy to, Alexander.”

  Owethu knelt down and studied the ground. He got really low, and held his ear just above the floor as if it had something to say. Then he proudly moved to the cabinet door. Mr. Scuttlebore tried to rush forward, but the students blocked him long enough for Owethu to throw open the doors, revealing the trophy. The students cheered as Owethu raised it in triumph.

  Everyone turned toward Mr. Scuttlebore who screeched, “I did not steal it!”

  “He’s right.” The crowd went silent and turned back to me. “The shelf in the professor’s study was dusty, but this trophy sat on the dust, and when it was moved, there was dust underneath.”

  “So?” one of my classmates shouted.

  Richard looked at me and shook his head. “It means the trophy had been put there recently, lending credibility that it was Master McCafferty who took the trophy and Mr. Scuttlebore who returned it.”