“Tell the English lord,” said Hassan to Sammy, “that these buildings were a mission station of the Christians, who abandoned them more than twenty years ago. When I came here I found them empty.”
“Indeed,” I answered, “and what were the names of those who dwelt in them?”
“I never heard,” said Hassan; “they had been gone a long while when I came.”
Then we went up to the house, and for the next hour and more were engaged with our baggage which was piled in a heap in what had been the garden and in unpacking and pitching two tents for the hunters which I caused to be placed immediately in front of the rooms that were assigned to us. Those rooms were remarkable in their way. Mine had evidently been a sitting chamber, as I judged from some much broken articles of furniture, that appeared to be of American make. That which Stephen occupied had once served as a sleeping-place, for the bedstead of iron still remained there. Also there were a hanging bookcase, now fallen, and some tattered remnants of books. One of these, that oddly enough was well-preserved, perhaps because the white ants or other creatures did not like the taste of its morocco binding, was a Keble’s Christian Year, on the title-page of which was written, “To my dearest Elizabeth on her birthday, from her husband.” I took the liberty to put it in my pocket. On the wall, moreover, still hung the small watercolour picture of a very pretty young woman with fair hair and blue eyes, in the corner of which picture was written in the same handwriting as that in the book, “Elizabeth, aged twenty.” This also I annexed, thinking that it might come in useful as a piece of evidence.
“Looks as if the owners of this place had left it in a hurry, Quatermain,” said Stephen.
“That’s it, my boy. Or perhaps they didn’t leave; perhaps they stopped here.”
“Murdered?”
I nodded and said, “I dare say friend Hassan could tell us something about the matter. Meanwhile as supper isn’t ready yet, let us have a look at that church while it is light.”
We walked through the palm and orange grove to where the building stood finely placed upon a mound. It was well-constructed of a kind of coral rock, and a glance showed us that it had been gutted by fire; the discoloured walls told their own tale. The interior was now full of shrubs and creepers, and an ugly, yellowish snake glided from what had been the stone altar. Without, the graveyard was enclosed by a broken wall, only we could see no trace of graves. Near the gateway, however, was a rough mound.
“If we could dig into that,” I said, “I expect we should find the bones of the people who inhabited this place. Does that suggest anything to you, Stephen?”