“I’d noticed. Many miles, you say? In truth, it was a mere twenty. A half day’s ride, though over difficult terrain. Anyone attempting it would be hoping to spend the night under secure cover. In a land crawling with Boer, wild animals and thugs like me. The cabin was still in good condition because it was essential to many people on many sides of the conflict. It’s a vast country, and the besieging forces around Kimberley were spread out over many miles. They had been much reduced by the calling up of troops to support the confrontation of the Ninth Regiment. Our lot.”

He shrugged. “I guessed some unlucky messenger who thought he could outrun the Boer had been detained, captured . . . killed, most likely. If he was a member of the Kimberley Light Horse, he was an enemy of the Dutchmen. It seemed reasonable. Apart, that is, from the puzzle of the horse. The Light Horse used scrawny but deep-chested native-bred horses not dissimilar to the Boers’ own mounts. Sure-footed, fast and made of whipcord. This black was a pedigree beauty. Wouldn’t have survived a day as a dispatch nag. It was a rich lady’s riding-out-on-a-Sunday-morning horse. So the rider was an unknown quantity. I took it on myself to deal with him, whoever he was.

“I gave the horse a closer inspection while I was waiting for Abel and Herbert to get themselves up from the river. It was restive. A lot of eye rolling and prancing about, and Ratty and Syd were finding it hard to control. Herbert took one look and murmured something soft to it. And it calmed down. Using sign language—he always had more words for the horses than humans—he drew my attention to the condition of the saddle which it was still bearing. I nodded to say I’d noticed. Someone had slashed it up with a sharp knife, poked out the padding, slit seams.

“Corporal Jessup was in position on the knoll. Ratty, the Fox and Herbert had dealt with the horses and were standing about, pistols at the ready. I signalled to them to hold back—I was going in with Lieutenant Hardy. We paused outside the door, listening and sniffing. Hearing nothing, smelling something foul.

“We went into a perfect routine for entering an enemy-held premises. In a second we were inside and covering every inch of the room with our pistols. After the brilliant sunlight, it was cripplingly dark and it was some time before we could make out what had been going on. The first thing that struck me was the stench. If you could blend fury, fear and pain into one hellish cocktail and release it into the atmosphere you’d have something approaching the stink.