Going back outside, he walked slowly around the buildings, unable to comprehend such benevolence.
Offcuts of wood, chunks of beam and broken crates had been discarded at the treeline and closing the distance, he realised there was more detritus behind. Nails spilled on to the jungle floor from an upturned box and wooden poles had been stacked against the thick trunk of a tree. Picking his way through the mess, he pressed deeper into the jungle, finding sheets of tattered sailcloth and then a badly damaged yawl.
It was concealed by massive leaves, and he would have walked right by it except that a few had fallen away, revealing the wooden hull beneath. Tearing free the remaining leaves, he inspected the boat. The seats had been ripped out to make room for a huge triangular frame, which must have fallen over. Arent could still see the nails where it had wrenched away from the hull, smashing one entire side of the yawl.
The frame had taken up the entire boat, but there was nothing to suggest what its purpose might have been.
He stared at it for a few minutes, before walking back to the huts.
Thirsty, he returned to the well and took another drink, spotting a sword hilt poking out of the mud. It came free with a satisfying plop, revealing a broken blade. He washed it in the pail, finding very little of interest. It was made of steel and had a basket handle, two sharp edges and a pointy end. Like all swords it was great for killing and terrible for shaving. It didn’t tell him anything about the people who’d built the huts, except that they didn’t take very good care of their weapons. The edges were chipped and rust had eaten through the blade. That’s why it had snapped so cleanly. The best way to kill a man with this would be to hope he tripped on it and hit his head on a rock.
He listened to the jungle rustle. This was the second badly made weapon he’d seen in the last few days. At least this had a proper blade unlike the leper’s dagger. That had basically been a shard of thin metal and a wooden handle. It was almost …
‘Decorative …’ he said slowly, as his thoughts bumped into a very large idea.
Old Tom had told Sara, Creesjie and Lia that it would leave a dagger under the governor general’s bunk for them to kill him with, and the leper had made sure Arent got a good look at the blade. Why?
The beautiful thing about fear this large is that nobody will look beyond it. Vos had said that when he tried to kill him. The chamberlain had carved the Mark of Old Tom on the wood knowing there wouldn’t be any questions asked once it was found. What if somebody was trusting the same thinking to disguise the dagger’s true nature? Aye, it wasn’t much of a weapon, but don’t worry about that because it belongs to a demon. You’ve seen its servant holding it, after all.
But what if the dagger wasn’t the murder weapon?
Realistically, it couldn’t be. The cabin had been locked. Nobody had entered after the governor general had gone to bed. The only person who could have done it was Jacobi Drecht, but he was a professional soldier. If he’d killed the governor general, he’d have used a real weapon. He wouldn’t have trusted the leper’s dagger to do the job. Nobody would have. And they hadn’t.
It was decoration.
An idea came, then another, and another, and another. How did you kill somebody without entering their cabin? What weapon could do it? Who’d wield it?
‘It can’t be …’ he said out loud, as the answers arrived in a dizzying rush. ‘It can’t be …’
78
Sara placed Henri’s lifeless hand on his chest.
This was the carpenter’s mate who’d first told her about Bosey when they boarded. A piece of exploding hull had smashed into his chest, crushing everything inside. He’d drawn breath long enough to be placed in a yawl and brought to the island by his mates, but there was no healing this sort of injury. The best she could do was offer comfort, as she had to Bosey on the docks.
Getting to her feet, Sara wiped away the pebbles that had collected on her skirt and stared around the cave, sorrow opening a hole in her heart. Nearly everybody who’d been brought here had died. Those few who survived wailed in agony, begging for their loved ones. Some would die soon, others would linger. Neither had anything to do with Sara, who’d accomplished everything she could with what she had available.
God had His own plans for these people. She could only pray they were merciful. After everything they’d been through, they deserved that much, at least.
Unable to bear the suffering any longer, she stepped into the grey rain and across the shoal to the water’s edge, standing just beyond the reaching fingers of surf. Behind her, above the ridge, the trees rustled, bringing a shiver of dread.
This was Old Tom’s island, and it had brought them here for some terrible purpose. Whatever its secret, it was likely waiting for them in that jungle, and yet Arent had disappeared inside as if taking himself to the market.
She’d never met a braver man. Not that he’d accepted her compliment. There wasn’t courage in doing what was necessary, he’d said.
She sighed. It wasn’t going to be easy loving a man like that.
Kneeling down, Sara washed her hands in the sea and stared at the distant wreck of the Saardam. The huge crack down the middle had widened, exposing the cargo hold within. Planks were tumbling from its sides into the water and seabirds whirled above it, like crows circling a dead cow.
A yawl was returning filled with casks of treasure. They’d been bringing them over for hours, loading them in a pile under the treeline, a little further down from the other supplies. Even from here she could see the chalices and chains, golden plates, jewels and jewellery. Surely, this was the secret cargo her husband had instructed Reynier van Schooten to bring aboard quietly.
Van Schooten, she remembered with a start.
She hadn’t seen the chief merchant since the mutiny. He hadn’t been in the cave, or on the lifeboat. She looked along the coast anxiously, but the bodies had been piled under a sheet, awaiting burial. Every so often, the ocean would deliver fresh dead, the push and pull of the surf giving their limbs a strange, twitching life. No doubt Van Schooten would wash up eventually.
Sara watched the musketeers drag the yawl up the beach and unload a dozen crates on to the beach, carelessly spilling gold coins, ornate plates, necklaces, diamonds and rubies. The musketeers laughed and left them there. Who would bother stealing them, they jested.
Grunting, they picked up a crate and carried it towards the camp, leaving the rest unguarded.
Sara stared at the piled-high treasure.
This was the same sort of treasure Vos had been trying to hide when Arent confronted him. The chamberlain must have stolen it from her husband – that’s why he admitted to been a thief when accused, even though he hadn’t stolen The Folly.
But why did her husband have it? He was a merchant. He traded spices for gold. He didn’t barter for chalices and plates, no matter how valuable they were.
Sara walked over and examined the pile. Picking up plates and cups, she inspected them for markings. Sure enough, she found the crest of the Dijksma family, just as she had on the objects Vos had stolen.
But there were more crests among them.
Tugging an ornate sword from its sheath, she discovered the crest of a lion holding a sword and arrows, a banner flying overhead proclaiming Honor et Ars in Latin.
‘Honour and cunning,’ she muttered. This was the herald of the de Haviland family. Surely, it was no coincidence Emily de Haviland had been aboard the Saardam.
She kept digging, finding coats of arms belonging to the Van de Ceulens and the Bos family. These were all families Pieter Fletcher had saved from Old Tom’s evil.