He placed the folder on the table beside him, and opened the cover. There were at least fifty sheets in the folder. Most of them had been typed on the caligraph, and each was headed "Copy of original." There were "stockbrokers" buy and sell orders, for shares in De Beers and Consolidated Goldfields. The quantities of shares in the transactions were enormous, involving millions of sterling. The braking firm was Silver & Co of whom Jordan had never heard, though they purported to conduct business in Johannesburg, Kimberley and London.
Then there were copies of statements from half a dozen banks, in the different centres where Silver & Co. had offices. A dozen or -so entries on the statements had been underlined in red ink. "Transfer to Rholands -"C86,321 - 7s 9d. Transfer to Rholands - f,146,821 - 9s I Id." The name shocked him, Ralph's company, and though he did not understand why, it increased his sense of peril.
"I don't understand what this has to do with me-" He looked up at Mr. Rhodes.
"Your brother entered into a series of large bear transactions in those companies most drastically affected by the failure of Jameson's enterprise." "It would appear-" Jordan began uncertainly, and was interrupted by Mr. Rhodes.
"It would appear that he has made profits in excess of a million pounds, and that he and his agents have gone to extreme lengths to disguise and conceal these machinations." "Mr. Rhodes, why do you tell me this, why do you adopt that tone? He is my brother, but I cannot be held responsible-" Mr. Rhodes held up one hand to silence him. "Nobody has accused you of anything yet your eagerness to justify yourself is unbecoming." Then he opened the leather bound copy of Plutarch's Lives which lay on one "corner of his desk. There were three sheets of writing-paper lying between the pages. Mr. Rhodes took out the sheets, and proffered the top one to Jordan.
"Do you recognize this?" Jordan felt himself blushing agonizingly.
At that moment he hated himself for ever having written this letter.
He had done so in the terrible _" tual travail following the night spirit of Ralph's -discoveries and brutal accusation in the private pullman coach from Kimberley.
"It is the copy of a private letter that I wrote to my brother. Jordan could not lift his eyes to meet those of Mr. Rhodes. "I do not know what possessed me to keep a copy of it." A paragraph caught his eye, and he could not prevent himself re-reading his own words.
"There is nothing I would not do to convince you of my continued affection, for only now, when I seem to have forfeited it, am I truly conscious of how much your regard mean to me.." He held the sheet possessively. "This is a private and intimate communication," he said in a low voice, which shook with shame and outrage. "Apart from my brother, to whom it is addressed, nobody has the right to read it."
"You do not deny that you are the author, then?" "it would be vain of me to do so." "Indeed, it would," Mr. Rhodes agreed, and passed him the second sheet.
Jordan read on down the page in mounting bewilderment. The handwriting was his, but the words were not. So skilfully and naturally did they continue from the sentiments of the first page, however, that he found himself almost doubting his own recall. What he was reading was his own acquiescence to pass on to Ralph confidential and privileged information related to the planning and timing of Jameson's intervention in the Transvaal. "I do agree that the contemplated venture is totally outside civilized law, and this has convinced me to give you my assistance and the moral debt that I feel that I owe to you." Only then he noticed the slant and form of a letter that was not in his hand. The entire page was a skilful forgery. He shook his head wordlessly. He felt as though the fabric of his existence had been ripped through and through.
"That your conspiracy was successful, we know from the rich fruits your brother harvested," said Mr. Rhodes wearily, in the voice of a man so often betrayed that this no longer had the power to wound him. "I congratulate you, Jordan." "Where did this come from?" The page shook in Jordan's hand. "Where-" He broke off and looked up at Arnold, standing behind his master's shoulder. There was no trace of that vindictive triumph remaining, Arnold was grave and concerned and unbearably handsome.
"I see, "Jordan nodded. "It is a forgery, of course." Mr. Rhodes made an impatient gesture. "Really Jordan. Who would go to the trouble of forging bank statements that can readily be verified?" "Not the bank statements, the letter." "You agreed it was yours." "Not this page, not this-" Mr. Rhodes" expression was remote, his eyes cold and unfeeling.
"I will have the bookkeeper come up from the town office to go over the household accounts with you, and to make an inventory. You will, of course, hand over your keys to Arnold. As soon as all that has been done, I will instruct the bookkeeper to issue you a cheque for three months" salary in lieu of notice, though I am certain you will understand my reluctance to provide you with a letter of recommendation. I would be obliged if you could remove yourself and your belongings from these premises before my return from Rhodesia."
"Mr. Rhodes.--" "There is nothing further that we have to discuss." Mr. Rhodes and his entourage, Arnold amongst them, had left on the northern express for KimMberley and the Matabeleland railhead three weeks before. it had taken that long for Jordan to wind up the inventories and complete the household accounts.
Mr. Rhodes had not spoken to Jordan again after that final confrontation. Arnold had relayed two brief instructions, and Jordan had retained his dignity and resisted the temptation to hurl bootless recriminations at his triumphant rival. He had only seen Mr. Rhodes three times since that fateful evening, twice from his office window as he returned from those long aimless rides through the pine forests on the lower slopes of the mountain, and the third and final time as he climbed into the coach for the railway station.
Now, as he had been for three long weeks, Jordan was alone in the great deserted mansion. He had ordered the servants to leave early, and had personally checked the kitchens and rear areas, before locking up the doors. He moved slowly through the carpeted passageways carrying the oil-lamp in both hands. He wore the Chinese silk brocade dressing-gown that had been Mr. Rhodes" personal gift to him on his twenty-fifth birthday. He felt burned out, blackened like a forest tree after the fire has passed, leaving the hollowed-out trunk continuing to smoulder within.
He was on a pilgrimage of farewell about the great house, and the memories that it contained. He had been present from the very first days of the planning to renovate and redecorate the old building. He had spent so many hours listening to Herbert Baker and Mr. Rhodes, taking notes of their conversations and occasionally, at Mr. Rhodes" invitation, making a suggestion.
It was Jordan who had suggested the motif for the mansion, a stylized representation of the stone bird from the ancient ruins of Rhodesia, the falcon of Zimbabwe. The great raptor, the pedestal on which it perched decorated with a shark's tooth pattern, adorned the banisters of the main staircase. It was worked into the polished granite of the huge bath in Mr. Rhodes" suite, it formed a fresco around the walls of the dining-room and four replicas of the strange bird supported the corners of Mr. Rhodes" desk.