Chapter Four

ISA WOKE UP feeling disoriented. She struggled upright from amid the welter of pillows and grabbed for the alarm clock, suddenly panicked that she had missed her appointment with Mr Darling. But it was only eight A.M.

She padded barefoot to the back window and drew away the drapes to find that it had stopped raining and the sky was a watery blue. Isa looked up at the corner window on the top floor of the small apartment block across the street. She almost expected to see the same figure staring at her from the window but all she saw was a lofty ceiling and some brightly coloured curtains tucked to the side. In the light of day her apprehensions of the night before seemed silly.

Her suitcase lay open, its contents spilling out in disarray. She had been so tired the previous evening that she hadn’t bothered unpacking but had simply grabbed her toiletries and nightdress after a quick shower in the tiny attached bathroom. But this morning she felt like taking a proper bath.

There was another bathroom farther along the passage, and like every other room in the house, it was sumptuous. Wheat-coloured Egyptian-cotton towels were stacked neatly on top of each other on the seat of a wicker chair. Highly scented oils in silver-stoppered glass bottles were arranged on the washing table.

Isa sank into the hot water. But as she lay looking at Alette’s silk robe hooked to the back of the door, she realized she felt like an intruder. She could never see herself living here. Alette’s presence was so strong.

She wasn’t sure what to wear and finally settled on a grey suit with black pumps: elegant, reserved. Mourning. The solicitor would expect that. She glanced at her watch. She was going to have to hurry.

Quickly she walked down the two flights of stairs. In the hallway she hesitated: the rear door was slightly open. She could have sworn it was closed when she arrived last night. But maybe she was mistaken. This was the one room in the house she had not yet explored. She leaned her shoulder against the door and pushed it fully open, almost tripping over a pair of mud-caked Wellingtons parked right inside the door.

As she expected, it was the kitchen cum dining room. Or rather office. Upstairs, in Alette’s bedroom, was an exquisite, antique Regency writing desk of Coromandel wood inlaid with ivory, but it was clear that Alette had used this sturdy dining table as her real place of work. On top of the table were a closed laptop computer, stacks of papers, in- and- out- trays, a box of tissues and a telephone. An iron gimbal swung from a butcher’s hook dangling from the ceiling. Inside the window hung a wind chime, its five chimes deadened by a thin, silver restraining chain wrapped around their base.

Isa rifled through the papers on the table. They all seemed to be letters that Alette was planning to send out to her clients: a small, select group of extremely wealthy people. Alette ran a tiny but very lucrative business of ‘interpreting the future’: fortune-telling, not to put too fine a point on it. It was all done in very good taste: no crystal balls and gypsy head-scarves, only a lightly scented piece of notepaper forwarded once a month to some very exclusive London addresses. Alette had been quite cynical about the whole enterprise. ‘I tell many of them only what they want to hear,’ she used to say. ‘That’s what they pay me for. They won’t thank me for anything else and they can’t handle anything else, anyway.’ Alette was a pragmatist, always had been. Isa remembered Alette as a young girl, reading the tea leaves for the blue-haired ladies of her mother’s knitting bee. ‘Do you really believe in all that stuff?’ Isa had asked her. Alette had answered: ‘It’s not whether I believe; it’s whether they do.’

Isa was aware that there were people who, although admiring of Alette’s business instincts and razor-fine intuition, dismissed her as a master manipulator. Isa knew there was more to it than that. Alette had a gift. Isa had seen it at work. Catching sight of it was like witnessing that fleeting moment when flint strikes fire from stone.

Isa pushed the letters to one side and turned away from the table. All these people would have to be contacted and informed of Alette’s death. Or maybe they already knew. She’d have to ask Mr Darling about it.

She stepped into the kitchen area and opened the yellow fridge. There was a champagne bottle, half-full, with a ragged piece of paper towel stuck into its neck, and on the bottom shelf a Marks & Spencer ready-prepared dish still untouched in its original wrapping: duck a l’orange and well past the sell-by date stamped on the cover. Next to it was a tray of chocolates. One of the chocolates had been bitten in half and then discarded. The sight of the food was disturbing, but still she felt herself smile. The discarded piece of chocolate looked like a hard toffee. Alette had preferred soft centres.

She straightened. She’d have to get rid of the food, but there was no time for it now. She wasn’t sure how long it would take her to reach Mr Darling’s office and she’d rather be early than late. Hoisting her handbag over her shoulder, she picked up her coat and headed for the entrance hall. As she stepped outside she carefully shut the front door and made sure to lock both the top and bottom locks.

She managed to hail a cab almost immediately. The cab driver identified her accent without any trouble and took it upon himself to point out the sights as they drove down the Embankment. Isa dutifully nodded as he gestured at the cobwebby outlines of the Albert and Chelsea bridges, the Oxo Tower, and the supremely ugly South Bank Centre. At any other time she would have enjoyed the tour, replied to the taxi driver’s comments with more kindness and interest, but the tension inside her was rising. Up till now she had not thought too much about the upcoming meeting; had not allowed herself to speculate on what could be so sensitive that Mr Darling would not discuss it with her on the phone. But she was just about to find out.

Once inside the warren of tiny streets close to St. Paul’s Cathedral, traffic stalled. When the cab driver finally deposited her at the entrance to a stone building, the time of her appointment was less than five minutes away. Although the facade of the building was imposing and although Isa knew that Alette would make sure of the very best legal representation, the long, dingy corridors leading to Mr Darling’s door were unimpressive. The occupants of this building were obviously united in their distaste of any ostentatious display of wealth and influence: a kind of inverse snobbery that nevertheless made a very definite statement.

Mr Darling’s office itself was positively Dickensian in its decor, with flocked wallpaper and tired curtains edged with grime. Mr Darling, though, was a surprise. Tall, tanned and blond, he looked like an Australian surfer. His smile was easy and he used it often. His manner as he offered her a seat and a cup of coffee was decidedly laid-back despite the public school accent and meticulous phrasing. After asking her a few polite questions about her trip, he opened the drawer and took out a thick file in a green folder.

Isa had half expected him to read the will out loud to her, as in a detective story, but he merely handed her a slim document threaded through on the spine with a blue ribbon. ‘You can read this later at your leisure,’ he informed her, ‘and then, if you have any questions I shall be happy to answer them. In short, I can tell you that Mrs Temple left you all of her possessions. You are her sole heir. It is a not inconsiderable estate, even without the house. She’s made some very shrewd investments over the years and she recently sold all her shares in her former husband’s company.’

‘She first came to my office three months ago. She was very insistent that the will be drawn up as soon as possible. I do not want to upset you, Miss de Witt, but she seemed to think that there would very soon be call for the existence of such a document. It’s almost as if she had a … premonition.’ He grimaced slightly, as though he had uttered a remark in poor taste.

‘Certainly in bad weather, yes. And the road conditions were exceptionally poor that night. Fog. Ice on the road.’

‘I happen to know,’ he replied unexpectedly. She told me she had … business … to discuss with her former husband. Mr Temple was visiting his mother at the time and she drove out to the north coast of Devon to meet with him.’

The barely discernible hesitation before he uttered the word ‘business’, made her wonder, but then he continued, his voice suddenly brisk. ‘In any event, Mrs Temple left very detailed instructions for her funeral, which, I assure you, I have followed to the letter. She stipulated that she wanted to be cremated and she wished to be buried along with…’—he paused and picked up a sheet of paper from which he read painstakingly, ‘two African idols—a male and a female figure—carved from Cape Stinkwood, dating from the late nineteenth century.’ Mr Darling lowered the paper and looked at Isa. ‘She left the carvings in my possession when she came in to sign the will. I kept them in my safe.’

Isa leaned forward. ‘These figures, were they very smooth, very polished, both about twenty inches high?’

‘Yes.’ Isa did not elaborate but she remembered them well. They were made from a very tough wood; darkly patinated by the touch of many hands over many, many years. The two dolls represented ‘spirit marriage partners.’ They had been a gift to Alette from Siena, Alette’s former nanny. Siena had explained that they were symbols of the perfect union between man and woman and of a love that happens only once in life. Isa had been present when Siena had given Alette the little idols. And after all these years she was still able to recall the cool gloom of Siena’s room; the smell of the Zambuk ointment that Siena used to rub on her body. Siena handing Alette the wooden carvings. The skin of Siena’s hands so black it seemed almost blue but her palms pink as a rose. She also remembered vividly, and with embarrassment, her jealousy as Siena handed the dolls to Alette while she, Isa, stood by, receiving nothing. Many years later Alette would give the dolls to Justin as her wedding gift.

She opened her eyes to see Mr Darling looking at her rather anxiously. She’d better watch it. The man already thought she was unbalanced.

‘You should also take this with you.’ He withdrew an oversize manila envelope and handed it to her. As she took it from him, she could feel the outline of something square and hard against her fingers.

‘What is it?’ She withdrew the contents: a large book covered in fake leather and a brass box.

‘It’s the, um, ashes.’ He gestured awkwardly at the box. ‘And this—he tapped the cover of the album—‘is the funeral book. I thought you might like to have it.’

She opened the book. The names were unfamiliar to her. The remarks in the comments column seemed awkward and self-conscious: ‘We’ll miss her’, ‘A darling girl’, ‘May she rest in peace.’ On the very last line someone had printed in block letters: ‘PRECIOUS DUST’. The words were unaccompanied by a signature.

She closed the album carefully. ‘You said there was an unusual clause in the will, which you needed to discuss with me in person.’

‘Yes.’ He seemed reluctant to continue. When he spoke his voice was hesitant. ‘Miss de Witt, I have to stress that you are not legally obliged to follow the instructions set out in this clause. If you decide against it, it will in no way affect your status as the heir. You will still receive the full inheritance. This last clause is in the form of a request. But Mrs Temple seemed very sure that you would accede to her wishes.’

He opened the green folder again and took out another, medium-sized, manila envelope from it. ‘Once a week, for the next three weeks, I am supposed to give you one of these.’ He slid the envelope across to her. Her name was printed in the centre of the envelope and at the top right-hand corner were the words: First Envelope.

‘No, please.’ He stopped her as she made to open it. ‘I myself have no knowledge of the contents and Mrs Temple was adamant that the information within should be strictly between you and her.’ He rubbed his hands together in a Pontius Pilate gesture, as though to absolve himself of all responsibility.

Isa looked at the envelope in her hands. Alette had certainly made sure that no one else would be able to open it. Not even her solicitor. The flap was not only sealed with blue wax, but the wax held in place a label on which Alette had signed her name. Anyone opening the letter would automatically tear through the signature.

She looked back at Lionel Darling. ‘Why not give me all the envelopes now? I’m leaving for South Africa again as soon as I’ve found an estate agent to take care of the house and—’

‘Unfortunately, that would create somewhat of a problem. Mrs Temple stipulated that you were to receive the envelopes one by one in the order specified. She also indicated that she would like you to remain in London for the next month. She said it would simplify the entire process. Although, if you absolutely had to return to South Africa, she seemed to think that you might still manage to follow the instructions—or rather requests—contained within these letters.’

Isa stared at him. ‘Well …’ her voice faded. She fingered the envelope. ‘Maybe I should read it first.’

‘Yes, I suspect that would be best. No doubt the letter will clear up everything. But as I said, she seemed very sure that you would comply with her wishes?’ The solicitor’s voice ended in a question, leaving the observation hanging in the air.

THE COFFEE SHOP was crowded and overheated. Steam pearled down the inside of the dirty windows. The only empty table was squashed into a corner next to a coat stand weighed down by countless coats and jackets.

But even in an unglamorous little place like this, they knew how to serve a good cup of tea. Isa sipped the warm liquid slowly. In front of her on the table was the still-sealed manila envelope. She was reluctant to open it.

She finished her tea and looked into the cup. She wondered what Alette would have made of the pattern of tea leaves at the bottom. Surely that cluster of leaves clinging to the side formed an anchor—or was it an hourglass? What did the hourglass stand for again? Imminent peril or some such nonsense. Maybe it was an anchor after all.

It was no use anyway. The cup had almost perpendicular sides, which made it unsuitable for leaf reading. She replaced it in its saucer and pushed it to the far side of the table. It was time to face the envelope.

She slid her forefinger underneath the flap and the waxed seal split and broke and Alette’s signature deteriorated into two fragments. Isa placed her hand inside and drew out the sheaf of papers fastened with a simple paper clip.

The letter was written in Alette’s sloping hand and started off without an address or date at the top:

Dear Isabelle,

First, the ashes. I hope you’re not totally spooked, but this is what I’d like you to do. Take the urn or vase or whatever it is they use, and when you return to South Africa, take me with you. I want to go home; really home. I crave a truly blue sky. I don’t want the sun to shine, I want it to burn. I long for a landscape that is wild, not manicured. Please strew my ashes on the farm—in the cleft of the great Yoni stone—you remember: Siena’s secret place.

Oh, Isabelle. Where to begin? I am going to ask a favour of you: a big one and you probably won’t like what I’m asking, but hear me out, please.

My life over the past three years has been a horror. Actually, make that five years, because the story really starts on my wedding day. You remember that day, don’t you? White veils and lace and Justin looking so handsome.

I had such high hopes, Isabelle. I thought I had finally found a man who truly understood me; who loved me for who I am. A man to grow old by my side, someone who can go the distance.

But things started to go wrong almost immediately. Justin became insanely possessive. His jealousy was a fearful thing. I was under constant surveillance: he was always checking to find out where I was, calling me from his office obsessively. If he couldn’t get hold of me right away, he’d start calling my friends and clients. He was smothering me; sometimes it felt as though he was sucking the very oxygen from the air. If I so much as looked at another man he flew into terrible rages. He was convinced I was being unfaithful. Now, you know me, Isabelle. I’m the first to admit that I haven’t been very—well, constant in my relationships with men. Love ‘em and Leave ‘em Alette, right? But not with Justin. With Justin it was different. I really can’t blame myself for the breakup of this one.

Justin became immensely critical of everything I did. He belittled my interests, ridiculed all the things I love. During our courtship he had often quizzed me about my fascination with mysticism, but with a kind of affectionate amusement, or so I thought. Now all of a sudden he made me feel like a kook, a flake of the worst kind. And then there was the garden. It became a tremendous bone of contention. For some reason, which is beyond me, he found my love of gardening immensely irritating. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. This is all trivial, petty stuff: the kind of irritations that plague every marriage. But you don’t know what it’s like, Isabelle: a constant barrage of criticism, a relentless assault on everything you hold dear. I started feeling worthless, a failure. The person I used to turn to for comfort had become the source of my deepest distress. I can’t begin to explain to you what it did to my self-perception and the world I’ve created for myself.

The situation went from bad to worse. Justin would set arbitrary rules, which I was not supposed to break. I was not allowed to move as much as a picture out of its place without his approval. I was not allowed to wear the colour green any longer. He censored my reading. When I listened to a CD from our collection, I had to replace it exactly where I found it. If I was in breach of a rule he would become enraged and refuse to speak to me for days. When he entered the room, I had to stop whatever I was doing and give him my full attention immediately. He even interrupted my sleep and would wake me on purpose if I slept too soundly. I was constantly exhausted and becoming disorganized. Even my memory became impaired. And I became so lonely. Justin forced me to cut my ties with my friends. And finally he made sure I gave up my business. He wanted me completely isolated.

Isabelle, you know me as someone who can give as good as I get. But one day I woke up and realized that I had turned into a person I did not recognize at all. The sad truth of it was that I had become a willing participant in Justin’s mind games. I had enabled him to do to me exactly what he wanted and was even trying to find excuses for his behaviour by being critical of myself. I had allowed myself to become a victim.

I had to get out.

So I asked for a divorce. He refused, of course. He couldn’t actually stop me from leaving, but he promised he’d make sure I would be financially ruined and tied up with lawyers for years to come. He also threatened to wash our dirty laundry in the tabloids. You can imagine the interest there’d be in Justin Temple’s story.

But I had one foolproof way of freeing myself. When I realized there was no other way I’d be able to escape, I threatened Justin with the one thing in the world he could not afford. And so, he let me go. I’ll tell you his secret later on, Isabelle. It is very much an integral part of the favour I will be asking of you. By the time you receive the third envelope, you will understand exactly what it is all about.

Escape. It felt so wonderful to move out of the apartment and into my own home. Getting reacquainted with the old Alette. Going about my business, reaching out to the world again. But I had rejoiced much too soon.

The nightmare started again. Justin refused to accept that he would be unable to win me back. But whereas he had battered me with criticism while we were married, now he was killing me with kindness.

Imagine waking up in the morning and finding not one, not two, but twenty romantic cards shoved through the mailbox in the front door. The envelopes have no stamps on them, so you know they must be hand-delivered. Every card has a sentimental message and a plea for forgiveness.

Imagine having lunch with a friend in a restaurant and a smiling maître d’ brings a bottle of Krug champagne to the table: compliments of Mr Temple. Oh, and he also asked to have a crème brûlée prepared for your dessert. Actually the menu does not feature crème brûlée, but the restaurant understands from Mr Temple that it is your favourite dessert and of course they’ll be happy to prepare it specially.

Imagine returning to your home and finding a repairman on a ladder outside your house, attending to a leaking gutter. And when you ask him how he comes to be there, he replies that Mr Temple had arranged it and is also taking care of the bill.

The next morning you open the door to find that every single flower in the garden has been picked and arranged into a lovely bouquet, which is lying on your doorstep, fastened with a gorgeous bow. Beautiful, no? But the garden is denuded, not one single bud is left. So you go to the police station and tell the absurdly young desk constable that you are feeling harassed. And he looks at the flowers in your arms and says, ‘We can hardly arrest someone for sending you flowers, ma’am.’

Justin is so clever. He is terrorising me, but he knows it will be very difficult for me to convince anyone that his motives are malignant. This new behaviour of his is just another way of exercising control over me. His constant attention is intruding into my life, keeping me from returning to an ordinary existence. The never-ending intrusions are a subtle way of assuring me that he remains a presence in my life. Things would be quiet for a while, and then just as I would start to relax, something small and not at all threatening would remind me that he’s still out there. I’d return to the car and there would be a red rose under my windshield wiper. Or I’d receive in the mail the latest book on some or other topic in which he knew I’d be interested. These are not expressions of love, Isabelle. They are expressions of a terrible anger. Sometimes I wish he would rather explode into violence—threaten me with physical harm—beat me. I want bruises, scars, something tangible to prove to the world what kind of man he is and the evil game he is playing. Instead I get chocolate, flowers, a string quartet on my doorstep. And the sick feeling that his hold on me will never ease.

Obsession is a terrible thing. Do you remember that day we saw the flamingo and the eagle? You remember: that day we visited the Etosha desert and we saw those hundreds and hundreds of flamingos taking flight—one moment dragging their wings through the water and the next moment turning into a pink-and-white cloud.

You remember how beautiful that was? And then there was this one bird. She couldn’t take flight because a fish eagle had spotted her as his prey and was hovering just above her. Just high enough to allow her to leave the water, to flap her wings a few times—but not high enough to allow her to fully take flight. And this beautiful bird would almost become airborne and then crash back into the water. Again and again it happened. Again and again. Until, finally, the bird was so exhausted that it put up no fight when the eagle came in for the kill. I feel like that bird, Isabelle. I can never get away. I can never free myself.

I live with a kind of free-floating anxiety. I can’t explain why, but I feel threatened. I feel as though I’m being watched, as though I have no privacy left, as though Justin knows my every move. Maybe I’m becoming paranoid. Maybe this sense that I need to be eternally vigilant is impairing my judgment. But that, you see, is the real horror. Justin has succeeded in making even a normal environment feel hostile. Seemingly insignificant things now make me wonder and worry. When I return to my house, I think: did I leave on that outside light? When I look out of the window I hesitate: is there someone watching behind that tree?

Why haven’t I ever told you about this, you ask.

I couldn’t. The entire situation made me feel ashamed. And I’m used to taking care of you, not the other way around.

Justin keeps telling me how much he loves me, but love does not behave this way. No tears from him when I’m no longer around. And as I write this, I know death is close. The feeling is so strong: the strongest feeling I’ve ever had.

But then it will be my turn.

I want to leave him a little keepsake. Something for him to always remember me by. Justin made me his captive; now he will find out what it feels like to be rendered helpless, to lose everything that gives you a sense of control in your life. But in order to succeed I need your help, Isabelle. I will explain exactly how, in this and in the following two letters you will be receiving.

I don’t know how much I told you about Justin’s business affairs, about Temple Sullivan, his company. When Justin and I first met, it was still a pretty shaky concern, but over the past few years the company has gone from strength to strength. Temple Sullivan is tiny compared to the other pharmaceutical giants, but its fortunes have skyrocketed because of Taumex.

Taumex represents the most important development in the fight against Alzheimer’s. Not only can it arrest the development of Alzheimer’s to a remarkable degree, but it also has the potential to stave off the onset of the disease altogether. Temple Sullivan holds the patent for Taumex. In the U.S. a patent is valid for seventeen years from date of grant and in Europe it is valid for twenty years from date of application. It took Justin eleven years to steer Taumex through the clinical trials, which means that he has approximately seven years left in which to make a profit. Holding the patent for Taumex is a license to print money and it is the cornerstone of Justin’s success. It also holds the seeds of his downfall. You see, Justin made the mistake of putting all his eggs into one basket. Temple Sullivan is not a diversified company: this makes it vulnerable.

My plan is this: over the next three to four weeks you and I will orchestrate an offensive against the company, which will cause its stock price to fall dramatically—to such an extent that Justin will be removed as CEO. I give you my word that the drug itself is not the target: it’s Justin I’m after.

Justin is a driven man. He has always felt the need to prove himself. His father was disapproving and critical and I won’t even begin to tell you about his mother. A cold-hearted bitch if ever there was one. She hates me and I truly detest her. Between the two of them, his parents did a bang-up job in assuring that Justin fears failure above all else.

Your first assignment will be simple. We are going to start a rumour. It’s easy: here’s how.

I want you to call three brokers—you’ll find their names and the houses they work for at the end of this letter. Call them and tell them that you have some inside information on the company. Don’t give your real name. You can use any name you feel like, of course, but it would be nice if you would identify yourself as Sophia. (Don’t ask: private joke.) Tell them that Justin has been experiencing supply problems for quite some time now. This, by the way, happens to be true. One of the ingredients for the drug is sourced in Madagascar—there really is no alternative source available. Justin has had some run-ins with the local officials and there are a host of other problems.

Keep in mind that in England, British Telecom offers a service that allows you to find out the number of the last person who called. Obviously, you don’t want this to happen. There is a way to get around this, though, so make sure that when you place your calls to the brokers, you enter 141 before dialling the number. This ensures that if these men should try using the call-back service, they will be unable to trace you.

The three men I want you to call will be sceptical and probably won’t act on what you have to tell them. However, they will act when later they read a report on this in the financial pages. Thereafter, when Sophia calls again, they will be sure to pay attention.

You will notice that I’ve enclosed two smaller envelopes under cover of this letter, addressed to Dan Harrison of the Financial Times and Martin Penfield of the London Post respectively. The Financial Times probably won’t print the story until after they’ve done some investigating of their own—but when they do, they’ll find that the story pans out. Next time they will act more speedily on information coming from Sophia. As for the Post, Martin Penfield is an aggressive editor and I’m sure he’ll run the story on the basis of the information I’m sending him. We can expect a quick turnaround from his paper. In the letters to Penfield and Harrison, I’m referring them to Simon Fromm, a former employee of Justin’s. He and Justin had a tremendous row a year ago and he’s still holding a grudge. With enough persuasion, he’ll open up and confirm the rumour.

Temple Sullivan’s stock price is likely to dip—but not by much—and will then most likely recover. But we will have drawn attention to the company and at present that’s all that is necessary.

Next week we will turn up the heat.

I’m not insane, in case you’re wondering. George Herbert said, ‘Yet Lord, instruct us so to die, that all these dyings may be life in death.’ Well, Herbert was deeply religious and I’m not, and revenge is not the most noble of motives, but with your help my dying can be life in death. The balance of power was always with Justin during our relationship. Now it will change. Revenge is an immensely empowering emotion, and Justin can’t get to me. How do you punish a ghost?

Isabelle, this is me talking. Not some crazy woman. You’re my cousin. Blood of my blood. I love you like a sister. If I’ve hurt you with my attitude towards Eric, I’m sorry. I still think he used you, but you loved him and I accept that. Please, please do this for me. I have suffered.

I’ve always watched out for you, ever since you came to the farm—so quiet and angry. I’ve looked after you, watched over you. In return I’ve always been able to count on you. I know I can count on you now. You’ll do this for me, won’t you.

Won’t you?

Come on, Isabelle. I dare you.

FOUR