The Map of Bones, page 33
She knew he was lying, for there was too much at stake now. He had been following her for several weeks.
‘Give it to me. Slowly, now.’
Instinctively, her grasp tightened on Minou’s journal and the precious papers contained inside. After all that she had endured, Isabelle refused to surrender it. But now his fingers were pinching at her shoulder, driving into the muscle hard and fierce, through the cotton of her shirt. Her grip could not hold. The journal fell down onto the dirt and burst open, scattering the Will and other papers into the dust of the graveyard.
‘Did you follow me from Cape Town?’ she asked, in hesitant Afrikaans – ‘kitchen Dutch’, as the English called it.
He did not answer.
Isabelle had Suzanne’s knife concealed in her boot. When he leant down to pick up the papers, she whipped out the dagger. If she could disable him, if only for a moment, she might steal the journal back and run.
But he had anticipated such an attack and shifted his weight sideways. She was aware, just before it connected with the side of her head, of the downward strike of his arm, and a glimpse of his black hair, divided by a seam of white. Then an explosion of pain as the pistol made contact. She felt the seep of blood on her temple, the heat of it, then nothing.
In her last seconds of consciousness, Isabelle grieved to think this was how the story would end. In a forgotten corner of a graveyard on the other side of the world.
This is the day of my death.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
When she came to, Isabelle found she was lying on a bed, beneath a white sheet in a white room, dreaming of colour. Caught between sleeping and waking.
She lifted a cautious hand to her head. Though she could feel the split skin on her temple, and the ridge of the blow, there was no fresh blood. In a swoop of despair, she remembered how Minou’s journal had fallen down onto the red soil. That was the last thing she remembered.
She opened her eyes, surfacing from a place of shadows to a world of harsh light. The space was unremarkable and unfamiliar, but it was a typical room in a Cape Dutch homestead. White walls, plain but for a piece of embroidery with verses from the Bible on the wall. Bare-board floors, a chest of drawers and a nightstand made of stinkwood.
Isabelle sat up, sending her head spinning. She took stock. She was robust and strong, not a feeble creature addicted to sal volatile. She swung her legs off the bed, wiggled her toes, then felt the wooden floor through her stockinged feet, relieved that everything seemed to be in working order. Her white shirt and her riding skirt were stained with dust, but someone had removed her boots and placed them at the foot of the bed. She saw her leather hat was hanging from a hook on the back of the wooden door.
Slowly, she took stock of the room, taking in every tiny detail. There was a brass tray with an earthenware jug on the chest of drawers. She went to investigate and found, beneath the cloth, local wine the colour of cherries, a piece of white bread and strips of dried beef.
Isabelle did not understand. Was she prisoner or guest?
Still a little unsteady on her feet, she moved to the door and found it locked. Then she heard a chattering of starlings outside. She put on her boots, then walked to the window. A small square frame with thin metal bars on the inside.
To keep her in or to keep others out?
She reached through the bars and pushed open the rough glass. The sky at dusk in the Cape was the same as it was in Languedoc. White, with a wash of pink as the sun set behind the mountains. She could just make out the chapel, with its thatched roof and peak-arched windows either side of the arched wooden door. The sight of it gave her hope, for at least she was still within the boundaries of the town. If the man meant to kill her, surely he would have taken her up into the mountains? Away from prying eyes.
Isabelle could make out the fruit orchards, too, Cape damsel and damask plums, sweet saffron pears and apples hanging from the trees. The rise and fall of girls’ voices playing a skipping game, communicating in a mixture of Afrikaans and English, no French, the legacy of years of struggle for control of this stolen land. Further away, she could make out the plangent singing of the men coming home from the fields.
She decided she must have been unconscious for six or seven hours at least. Her feeling of relief was fleeting. Quickly, it gave way to anger at what she had lost: Minou’s journal, and the precious Will and Testament, which had been in her family for hundreds of years. Isabelle could almost hear the voices of her ancestors calling to her across the centuries.
Then, her despair at the loss of the documents turned to fear.
If he had not killed her yet, it could only be because there was something more he wanted from her. She wished she had been quicker in the graveyard, more alert. She remembered reaching to scrape the lichen from the stone, then the feel of the cold muzzle of the gun and the sound of his pitiless voice. She’d managed to draw her knife, but only grazed his hand. It was not enough. She wondered if John was looking for her? When he went to the graveyard and found her missing, surely he would have tried to find her?
The light was fading from the sky. The still air was filled with the whining and the buzzing of insects. Through the bars, Isabelle watched the children being taken inside and pinpricks of light appearing in every house as candles and lamps were lit. Though she was tired, she kept vigil at the window, drinking only a little of the smooth Cape wine. She could not afford to dull her senses.
The bell in its solitary white tower marked the passing hours. Nine o’clock, then ten. Outside, darkness fell and the mountains faded into shadow. On Victoria Street and the criss-cross of smaller roads and alleyways, the flames in the houses were being extinguished one by one. Franschhoek was evidently a town that went to bed at dusk and rose with the sun.
It was not until past two o’clock, when Isabelle was battling sleep and the throbbing in her head had started again, that she heard a sound from inside the house. The creak of the floorboards on the other side of the door, someone walking carefully, as if trying not to be heard.
Although she’d had hours to decide what to do, it was instinct that took over now. Isabelle grabbed the wine jug and slipped behind the door. She listened to the rattle of a key being pushed into the lock, then the clunk of the catch as it gave. The door slowly opened inwards.
She could not see clearly, but she glimpsed the streak of white hair in the dark and smelt the leather of the man’s jacket. This time she would not be bested. The instant he was within reach, she launched the earthenware jug at the height of his head. In the poor light, she misjudged, striking only a glancing blow. Though the man staggered, he did not fall.
Isabelle launched herself towards the open door, intending to try to get past, but he was faster. He grabbed her wrist and pushed her backwards into the room, clamping a hand over her mouth.
‘Be quiet, you little fool! You’ll get us both killed.’
Immediately, she was still. It was a different voice. Speaking English, not Afrikaans. And in the moonlight filtering through the window, she could see his right hand. No half-missing finger.
Seeming to trust her not to run, the man released her and took a step away.
‘Forgive me,’ she said in English. ‘I thought you were him.’
Now, in the silver shadows, Isabelle could see his face. He was shorter than her attacker in the graveyard and his black hair was longer, though split through by the same twist of white.
‘You do look like him, though.’
‘Yes.’
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t speak.
‘Why am I here?’
He held up his hand. ‘We have to go.’
Isabelle shook her head. ‘Not until you tell me who you are.’
‘We—’ He hesitated. ‘I saw what happened in the graveyard. I’ve had to wait until now. He is my brother.’
Isabelle froze, not knowing whether she should trust this man or not.
‘We do not see eye to eye. He has firm opinions and, well, once he has made his mind up, he cannot be swayed . . .’ His words tailed off. He glanced to the door and seemed restless to be gone.
‘Whose house is this?’ she asked.
‘It belongs to our mother. She is all but bedridden. None of this is her fault.’ He briefly touched her arm. ‘Please, come with me. I will answer all your questions once we are safely away from Franschhoek.’
‘Where is your brother now?’
‘Drinking, as is his custom. Once he starts, he cannot stop. But he will be back at any moment. It is late. We must leave.’
Isabelle hesitated. ‘And if I don’t come with you?’
The man looked directly at her and she saw the determination – concern, too – in his eyes. ‘Then I fear he will kill you.’
The calm statement convinced her more than any entreaty or fierce persuasion could have done. She had no idea what was happening, but better surely to take her chance with this stranger than to remain here, waiting for what the dawn might bring?
Isabelle took her hat from the back of the door. ‘Will you tell me your name?’ she whispered, as she followed him along the dark corridor and towards a door at the rear of the house.
He put his finger to his lips.
‘Will you at least tell me where we are going?’
He hesitated, then answered. ‘To the old stone bridge across the ford. The others are waiting there.’
‘What others? What bridge? I don’t understand.’
‘Jan Joubertsgat,’ he replied, as if surprised she didn’t know. ‘It is where Jan Joubert died.’ He turned. ‘Isn’t that why you are here?’
Isabelle stopped dead. ‘You know who I am?’
Unexpectedly, the man smiled. ‘Of course,’ he said, unhooking the latch and pushing open the front door. ‘Everyone knows who you are.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
JAN JOUBERTSGAT
Saturday, 1st March
Isabelle followed her rescuer silently out onto the road.
‘Is this Dirkie Uys Street?’
‘It is.’
It crossed her mind that she should try to leave a message for John, telling him she was all right. Hadn’t he said he was going to secure them rooms here? She was sure he would be out of his mind with worry. But, just as quickly as the thought had come, she dismissed the idea. She had no idea where, precisely, John had intended them to stay.
Perhaps she should make a run for it? How could she be sure this man and his brother were not in league together? She only had his word that he meant her no harm. But instinct told her that he was to be trusted. And despite all that had happened to her, Isabelle felt alert and alive, curious to know what was going to happen. Wasn’t this what she had been looking for? The truth of her family history? She would learn nothing by being timid.
‘How far is it?’ she asked.
‘It will take us two hours on foot.’
Isabelle looked down at her boots, at the uncompromising back of the man striding in front of her, then stopped. ‘I am not going a step further until you tell me your name. And why we are going to Joubertsgat.’
In the delicate light from the new moon, she thought she saw the amusement in his eyes.
‘You are very forthright.’
‘A woman has to be.’
He gave a short laugh and slowed his pace, though he did not stop.
Isabelle hesitated, then ran to catch him up. ‘Well?’
‘Joubertsgat – or Joubert’s Bridge – is a stone bridge over a kloof in the Franschhoek pass, built nearly forty years ago. It was so called because a frontiersman by the name of Jan Joubert died there when the shaft of his wagon broke.’
‘What does that have to do with me?’
‘You are a Joubert, are you not?’
Isabelle sighed. ‘I am not part of that family—’
He held up his hand. ‘Yes, I know. You are not descended from our Joubert family in the Cape, but you are a Joubert all the same.’
In a rush, everything made sense. Of course, Isabelle had known from the moment she had seen her assailant’s hair in the graveyard. And this man had the same white streak, too. It was just that, in her concussed state, her thoughts had been dulled.
‘As are you,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Xavier Joubert Barenton. My brother, whose acquaintance I regret you have already made, is Andries.’
‘Barenton.’ Isabelle caught her breath. ‘It is you I have come to find.’
‘I know.’
‘You do?’ She frowned. ‘Why did your brother attack me? I have given him no cause.’
‘He believes you have come to make a claim on his land.’
‘His land?’
‘He is my elder by five years, so Andries inherited the farm when our father died.’
‘I have said or done nothing to give him that impression,’ Isabelle protested. ‘I have never written to him, nor had a conversation with him. He has been following me,’ she said, suddenly angry. ‘I saw him outside my hotel in Cape Town, then again in Stellenbosch. He stole our horses in Klein Bethlehem.’
‘I can only apologise.’
‘Could I not talk to him? Persuade him of my good intentions?’
‘Once an idea is fixed in my brother’s mind, it is impossible to shift. He had an accident some years ago, fell into a ravine and hurt his head. He was not expected to live. He did survive, but was never the same. He became obsessed with the farm and believed everyone was plotting to take it away from him. Even our mother is afraid of him.’
‘And you?’
‘I keep out of his way,’ Xavier replied in a level voice. ‘Unless I am given no alternative.’
‘Like rescuing me.’
‘Quite.’
‘How did you know what had happened?’
‘Word reached me.’
Isabelle saw they had now come to the outskirts of the town. Ahead, a path wound silver up into the mountains, a ghostly white beneath the thin moon.
‘You should save your breath,’ he said. ‘We have a hard climb ahead of us.’
‘But where are we going?’
‘To find what you seek, I think. Louise’s account of her time in the Cape. I hid it so my brother would not find it.’
Isabelle felt a shiver go down her spine. ‘Louise’s diary,’ she whispered, and focused with renewed energy on the climb ahead.
Andries Barenton hurled the jug at the wall. He had been away longer than he had intended, then come back to find the woman gone.
‘Where is she?’ he shouted at his mother, a shrivelled woman cowering in a wheeled chair.
‘I don’t know! I heard nothing,’ she whimpered.
Andries grabbed her arm. ‘Who unlocked the door, then, you tell me that?’
The old woman shrank back even further into her chair. ‘Who is she?’ she whispered.
‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I asked you to watch over her and you have failed.’
‘I fell asleep,’ she protested, but her excuses only enraged him further. She felt silent. She had been on the receiving end of his fury too many times not to read the signs. ‘I do not know how she got the key. Did you leave it in the lock?’
‘Of course I did not,’ he shouted, though in his inebriated state he realised he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he had left the key in the lock and she had worked it loose? ‘Go back to bed,’ he spat, striding towards the door. ‘You’re no use to me.’
‘Where are you going?’ she cried. ‘Don’t do anything you’ll regret, son.’ She held up her worn hands, as if to protect herself. ‘I don’t want you to get into any trouble.’
Andries gave a bitter laugh. ‘It is a bit late for that, Mother dearest.’ Then, with a lightning change of mood, he suddenly leant down and patted her on the cheek. She flinched, fearing a blow.
‘Go to bed,’ he said, almost tender now. ‘There is nothing for you to worry about.’
His dark mood returned the instant he was back in the street. He knew his anger at his mother was mostly anger at himself.
Andries blamed himself for his indecision. He should have killed the woman when he’d had the chance. It was only because it had been broad daylight when he found her in the graveyard that he had decided to take her instead to his mother’s house in the centre of the town. His intention had been to wait until night and deal with her then. But one thing had led to another, and he stayed drinking with his friends for longer than he had intended, secure in the knowledge that the Will was now in his possession. Andries had considered burning it – if it didn’t exist, then how could it be used against him – but something had held him back.
But now the woman had escaped. She could testify against him, speak of his attack on her person and the theft of her possessions. She was English and the administration would therefore take her word over his.
He had to find her and silence her.
Standing beneath the thinnest of new moons, a little unsteady on his feet, Andries tried to decide what to do. The wine had dulled his senses. He put his fingers to his temples and pressed, as if he could force his thoughts into order.
‘The man who was with her,’ he muttered, as a plan started to form. Perhaps her guide had somehow found her and set her free? Perhaps he had seen them in the graveyard and followed them to his mother’s house?
Andries began to feel more hopeful. It would be a simple matter to investigate the few boarding houses with stables in the town. He was a hunter. If he could find the horses, then he could find the man.
‘Is it much further?’ Isabelle asked. Her head was pounding and her legs felt like water.
‘They will be waiting for us with food and drink. You can rest then.’
All these things sounded good to Isabelle – rest, drink and food – though she was still none the wiser as to why they were climbing to Joubertsgat at all.
‘Who are we going to meet? I am trusting you, should you not return the compliment?’
He hesitated, then answered: ‘My wife.’
‘You have a wife?’
