CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

STELLENBOSCH

They arrived in Stellenbosch at dusk. The air was still warm and, save for the constant whine of mosquitos, it was quiet.

Nestled in a fertile valley below the Stellenbosch mountains on the banks of the Eerste River, the temperate climate and the resources allocated to build a settlement here, meant that the Cape’s second town was thriving. It was already functioning independently of the Colony. Adriaan had told her it had its own magistrate, as well as a church, a school and a newly established theological seminary. The main street boasted a few fine houses with verandah-trailing bougainvillea and lines of oak trees planted on Van der Stel’s orders to provide shade.

‘We will go straight to the drostdij,’ Adriaan said. ‘The holding cells are there and the landdrost is expecting us. Once our investigations are over, we will stay overnight, and return to the Colony in the morning.’

Suzanne felt a flutter of nerves.

They dismounted and led their horses across the narrow footbridge connecting the street to the little island in the river where Van der Stel had first set up camp, and their soldier escorts handed them into the care of a groom. Adriaan and Suzanne brushed the dust and sand from their clothes before going inside the impressive building to present themselves to the magistrate, Pieter Odendaal. A florid fellow of some five-and-thirty years with whom Adriaan was acquainted, he appeared puffed up with the importance of his own position.

Within a quarter-hour of their arrival, Adriaan and Suzanne were walking through the courthouse to the holding cells. She felt saddle sore and dirty from the journey.

‘In truth, we have little need of cells,’ Odendaal said with a measure of self-satisfaction. ‘We have no trouble here. A stable community of hard-working Dutchmen, no sailors to disturb the peace, few conflicts with the tribesmen.’

‘A model town,’ Suzanne observed, wondering at the absence of women in his description.

Odendaal looked sharply at her, as if suspecting a criticism.

‘If it pleases you,’ she continued, as meekly as she could stomach, ‘on what charge is the man being held?’

‘Affray, in the first instance. Brawling in a tavern, damage to property and persons. When we brought him in, we discovered several items that could only have been acquired in trading with Khoi.’

Remembering how Adriaan had explained that only the VOC itself was permitted to trade directly with the local people, Suzanne nodded.

‘I think perhaps . . .’ Odendaal said to Adriaan, ‘the young lady should return to the house. The gaol is hardly a suitable place for female sensitivities.’

‘I am quite—’

Adriaan interrupted her. ‘Juffrouw Joubert is the only one who can identify the villain. We need to be certain if justice is to be done.’

Odendaal looked unconvinced, but he raised his hand. ‘As you wish.’

He led them down three steps into a small internal courtyard, contained on all sides by a high brick wall with shards of pottery set along the top. On the far side, there was a squat straw-and-brick building with no windows. Two torches flamed beside the door, sending distorted shadows up and along the walls.

Taking one of the torches, Odendaal shot the bolt and led them inside.

Suzanne instantly put her kerchief over her mouth and nose. The air was foetid and hot. Ahead of them was a large iron grille, fixed floor to ceiling, leading to the area where prisoners were kept. She saw metal cages either side of a corridor and chains affixed to the walls, shackles for wrists and for ankles.

Odendaal took a large ring of keys from his belt, unlocked the grille, ushered them through, then secured it behind him. He held the torch up to reveal a huddled heap of filthy clothing in the corner of a cell. Suzanne peered into the flickering gloom. Was this the man who had menaced Judith, who had put a knife into her side? He looked no threat at all.

Odendaal banged on the iron bars. ‘Get up, Eltorp. You have visitors.’

The man did not stir. Then, with a lazy insolence, he raised himself on an elbow and glared towards them. Instinctively, Suzanne shrank back. His face was bruised and one of his eyes was swollen shut, a mane of black hair hung down either side of his bearded face. A villain, no doubt, but could she be certain he was the man who had walked past her window that first night holding a knife to Driek’s neck?

Adriaan looked at her, the question in his eyes.

Suzanne shook her head. ‘I cannot see clearly enough.’

‘Get up, man!’ Odendaal shouted.

This time, the prisoner complied. Though his clothes hung like rags, stained and stinking of the cell, there was something threatening in the way he moved. Waves of hatred, of violence, seemed to emanate from him.

He gave a mock bow. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Suzanne jolted. It was the same voice, overheard in the darkness, she would swear to that.

‘Enough of your impertinence,’ the landdrost said. ‘Speak when you are spoken to, otherwise hold your tongue.’

‘No, let him speak,’ she said.

Eltorp sneered. ‘My, my, you’ve brought me a lady to sweeten my days.’

‘Enough!’

Odendaal banged on the bars again, but Suzanne had heard enough. ‘It is him,’ she whispered to Adriaan.

‘Certain?’

Suzanne nodded. ‘I am.’

Eltorp pointed at the landdrost. ‘You have no right to hold me all this time. No right at all.’

Odendaal laughed. ‘I have every right. You’ve been bartering illegally, no point denying it.’

‘No worse than any half a dozen other men around here. Why not give me a flogging, and be done with it? Waste of VOC hospitality keeping me in victuals these past days.’

‘It will go better for you if you cooperate, Eltorp,’ Odendaal warned, his colour rising.

Eltorp came closer. Instinctively, Suzanne took another step back. She knew the bars were secure, but she did not want to be within spitting distance.

The prisoner looked at the magistrate, leered at Suzanne – sizing her up as if she was a doxy for sale – then addressed himself to Van Dijk.

‘I cannot see why my paltry dealings would be of interest to such a fine gentleman like yourself, but to please my dear friend . . .’

‘Get on with it!’

Adriaan put his hand on Odendaal’s arm. ‘I’m listening, Eltorp.’

Eltorp cleared his throat. ‘The landdrost here, has persuaded himself that I have been a naughty boy. That is to say, that I have been bartering pelts directly from the Khoi in return for . . . well, he hasn’t seen fit to furnish me with that information.’

‘Four quagga pelts, Eltorp. You had them on you when you were arrested.’

Suzanne saw Eltorp’s eyes flicker between the two men, assessing how his performance was going down.

‘I am a plain man,’ he wheedled. ‘I may not have all the book learning you gentlemen do, but I know my rights as a free citizen of the Colony.’ He jerked his head towards Odendaal. ‘I’ve told him until I’m blue in the face that all my transactions, shall we call them, were with a white man, not a heathen. He came from further up-country, from Olifantshoek, he said.’ He fixed the magistrate with an insolent look and tapped the side of his head. ‘Sawdust between the ears.’

‘I am warning you . . .’ Odendaal snapped. ‘I will come in there and flog you myself.’

Eltorp crossed his heart. ‘It’s God’s own truth.’

Adriaan cut in. ‘There are no farms that far east.’

‘I do not know if the trader was speaking the truth,’ Eltorp retorted, ‘but that’s what he told me. And he was here in Stellenbosch, as certain as I stand before you now. I happened to have a pistol I no longer had the need of – I have a perfectly good musket, bought fair and square, before you ask – and he had four fine quagga skins that I thought would suit me just fine. So, we came to terms. A perfectly honest trade between two white gentlemen, nothing prohibited by the venerable VOC.’

‘What was his name?’ Odendaal asked, ‘this illusory trader who appeared from nowhere?’

‘In matters of business, a man’s word is his bond.’ Eltorp laughed, a cruel bark that sent a shiver down Suzanne’s spine. ‘A handshake was all I needed, not a name. I’m not going to be paying house calls.’

‘I don’t believe he ever existed,’ Odendaal said, turning to Adriaan. But Suzanne could see he was taking the story seriously.

‘Describe the man,’ Adriaan said.

‘Well, he was about your height, mijnheer, and about your girth. Twice the age of my friend the magistrate here. Sixty years or so.’

‘Are you sure?’ Suzanne asked, unable to help herself.

For the first time, Eltorp appeared to stop and think. ‘Yes, though he did not carry himself like a man in his autumn years. It was only the lines on his face that spoke to his age.’

Odendaal threw up his hands in frustration. ‘You could be describing anyone. Half the men in the Colony.’

A sly look came over Eltorp’s face. ‘Ah, but there was something special. Something worth a sip of clean water, perhaps?’

Adriaan looked around and saw a barrel on the wall with a wooden cup beside it. He half filled it and passed it through the bars to Eltorp, who savoured it as if it was vintage wine.

‘Get on with it, Eltorp,’ Odendaal growled.

Eltorp wiped his lips on the back of his filthy sleeve. ‘His hair was grey, but with a white stripe down the middle.’ He folded his arms in triumph. ‘Never seen such a thing before and I wager neither have you.’

‘Phillipe Vidal,’ Suzanne murmured under her breath, suddenly understanding the other reason Adriaan had brought her here. Except how could it be? Phillipe would be much older.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ Adriaan asked calmly. ‘More precisely where this man had come from? The tenor of his voice?’

‘He spoke Dutch, but perhaps there was an accent?’

‘What else?’

‘Isn’t that enough?’ Eltorp snapped, then his face darkened. ‘Time to end this pantomime. You have nothing against me.’

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Adriaan stepped forward.

‘Lars Eltorp, you are accused of the murder of Driek Holsteen on the night of the fourth of August in the year of our Lord 1688.’

Now Suzanne saw fear ignite Eltorp’s eyes. ‘You can’t pin that on me.’

‘Furthermore,’ Adriaan continued in the same steadfast voice, ‘you are accused of the attempted violation of a young lady that same night, and an assault upon that same innocent person on the dockside on the afternoon of the nineteenth day of August.’

Eltorp’s temper erupted. He kicked the bars, cursing and ranting. ‘There are no witnesses,’ he ranted. ‘How could the girl speak when I—’

Van Dijk pointed at him. ‘You condemn yourself from your own mouth, Eltorp. Know this. Your knife did not take her life.’

Now Eltorp started to bluster. It was pitiful. Pleading, cajoling, betraying himself by talking about the crush at the harbour, about how he had not been there, how he had never been near the girl in the grey dress.

‘I do not recall mentioning how she was attired,’ Adriaan said, with devastating calm.

‘She was nobody!’ Eltorp screamed.

Suzanne saw a look of contempt cross Adriaan’s face. ‘All of God’s children matter, especially in this instance. The woman you attempted to rape, then murder, is my wife.’

Suzanne flinched at the word as if she had been struck. Rape. For a moment, she saw another man’s cruel face looking down at her.

Eltorp laughed in disbelief, until he saw the steel in Adriaan’s eyes. Then he staggered back, his hands out in supplication. ‘Mijnheer, I had no—’

Adriaan cut him off. ‘Therefore, with the authority vested in me by Commander Van der Stel, I sentence you to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. Your carcass will be left upon the gibbet as a warning for any who would violate the rules of the Colony, to be picked bare by the crows and the vultures.’

‘No!’ Eltorp howled and started to hammer on the bars of his cell. ‘No, no, no.’

Suzanne was frozen to the spot, sickened both by the terror in Eltorp’s voice, and Adriaan’s cold determination.

‘I will stay to see the sentence carried out tomorrow, then leave the matter in your hands, landdrost.’

Suzanne felt Adriaan’s hand on her arm. For comfort, or for support, she did not know. Her legs felt hollow and her nerves wrung out. She closed her eyes to try to blot out her revulsion at the stinking cell, the horror of it all.

Without another word, Adriaan turned and steered her away, with Odendaal following in their wake. Suzanne threw a last glance at the condemned man, then left with Eltorp’s desperate shrieks of rage and terror ringing in her ears.