CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CAPE TOWN

Sunday, 26th January

Isabelle spent a week in Cape Town, now a sprawling city beneath the mountains, with impressive buildings and a bustling community. In the mornings she visited all the landmarks Suzanne had written about, from the Castle of Good Hope to Gallow’s Hill where her friend Adriaan van Dijk had taught her to shoot. The afternoons she spent making plans for her journey to Stellenbosch and Franschhoek, where Louise, Gilles and their son Théodore had lived two centuries before.

But there was a restlessness in Cape Town, a sense of things being unsettled. Two weeks previously, Sir Philip Wodehouse had taken over as the new Governor of the Cape Colony. His appointment was unpopular, relations between the Boers – the descendants of the original Dutch settlers – and the British were poor, there had been a series of skirmishes between the displaced Khoi population, and the new immigrants from India sailing into Natal were not being welcomed. The atmosphere was charged, as if even the slightest spark might make the whole city explode.

There were two incidents that added to Isabelle’s general sense of disquiet. First, she was sure that, several times, she had seen the same man looking up at her hotel window: loitering in the shadows, a broad-brimmed hat obscuring his face, watching. He always wore a battered jacket and long leather waistcoat, knee-length black boots. After the third time, she went down to the lobby to report her concerns to the manager. A weasel-faced man, with suspicious eyes and brusque manner, he dismissed her concerns.

‘There are any number of drosters hanging about the town, scoundrels with no appetite for work,’ he said, his breath stinking of yesterday’s brandy.

‘Droster?’

‘It’s the old name for outlaws who used to live in the hills. Villains, Black and coloured, runaway slaves, cattle thieves. These days they hang about the town menacing decent folk.’

‘But this man appears to be watching my window.’

The manager snorted. ‘I’m sure he is not, why would he? He’ll be on the look-out for any foreigner stupid enough to carry their valuables in plain sight.’

Isabelle tried to forget about it and dismissed the ineffectual manager from her mind. But two days later, when she returned after a tiresome morning trying to deposit funds at the Cape of Good Hope Bank, a private institution recommended by her London solicitors, she found her door standing open. The maid had serviced her room earlier and Isabelle knew she had not left the door unlatched.

‘Hallo?’ she said in Afrikaans. Tentatively, she stepped inside. ‘Is anyone here?’

The room was empty. Isabelle exhaled with relief, hung her bag over the arm of the chair, removed her hat and her gloves, then looked around. At first glance, everything looked in order. But then she noticed that the papers on her desk were not quite where they should be. The first draft of a letter was no longer on the top and the top drawer of the bureau was not quite shut. Her father’s bible was still on her bedside table, but it was now facing the wrong way. Her notebook was still where she had left it, but she could see her handkerchiefs and stockings had been disturbed. She was relieved that she always took Minou’s journal with her, but the thought of some unknown person handling her personal possessions turned her stomach.

Furious, she stormed down to the lobby and once more demanded to see the manager.

‘I am telling you that someone has been in my room,’ she insisted, refusing to allow him to dismiss her complaint this time. ‘Items have been moved.’

Chewing a match in the corner of his mouth, he narrowed his eyes.

‘Has anything been taken, Miss Lepard?’ he said slyly, stressing the word ‘miss’.

‘Well, no. But that is not the point.’

‘To be clear, you are not accusing members of my staff of acting improperly?’

‘I have already said not. All the same, someone has been in my room, searching through my belongings.’

The manager held her gaze. Isabelle refused to look away. Finally, he turned and pulled a piece of paper across the counter.

‘I will make a note of your complaint,’ he said, making it clear that he considered her protestations a waste of his time.

‘Mind that you do!’

Frustrated, Isabelle turned on her heel and returned to her room.

That night, her last in Cape Town, she pushed a chair against the door and wedged it beneath the handle. She had Suzanne’s dagger in her possession which she hid under her pillow, but she still slept badly. Every noise made her jump, every creak of the landing floorboard had her senses on high alert. She tried to tell herself she was imagining things, but she was glad when the morning came.