The Sea Cave

by Alan Scholefield

  Slowly, the temperatures began to drop: 104.5 . . . 104 . . . 103 . . . 102 . . . 101 . . .

  Smuts turned up the paraffin heaters slightly. Soon the temperatures stabilised at 103. The two of them sat like mother hens with the eggs for most of the night.

  And while they sat, Miriam had been dying, perhaps was already dead. Kate shivered in spite of the heat in the courtroom.

  At last Dr. Armstrad was finished with Richards. Kate was called next.

  ‘According to your earlier testimony, you were with Miss Sachs once before when she swam in the nude at the rock pools?’ His voice was coldly professional.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she say anything to you at that time about swimming at high tide?’

  ‘She said . . . well, it was a warning, really. She warned me never to swim at high tide because you couldn’t see the bottom of the pools.’

  ‘That is what I told you!’ Mr. Sachs called out. ‘I said she . . .’

  Leibowitz quietened him. The coroner turned back to Kate. ‘What would have been on the bottom?

  ‘Sea-urchins. She said the spines would give me blood-poisoning if I stood on one.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t see the bottom at night.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘About the clothes. Sergeant Van Blerk says they were about a hundred yards from the pool.’

  ‘About that.’

  ‘Do you recall seeing a scarf among Miss Sachs’ belongings?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But she had been wearing one the day before?’

  ‘Yes. As a headband.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  For the first time, she looked at Tom. He smiled and nodded.

  ‘Professor Fleischman,’ a voice called.

  There was silence for a moment and then she heard the rear door of the court open. All heads turned, for no one had yet seen the most important figure in the inquest. He came slowly down the aisle towards the box, a tall, stooped figure who walked with his head thrust forward. Kate judged him to be about sixty years old. He was thin and his head was disproportionately large for his narrow shoulders. He had a sharp face, incised with lines, and a prominent nose. His head was bald, except for tufts above his ears, and he wore heavy spectacles. His face was cast in an expression of permanent disdain.

  ‘Can you tell the court how you became involved in this matter?’ Dr. Armstrad said after they had established Professor Fleischman’s credentials.

  ‘I was approached by the deceased woman’s father.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘He was not satisfied with the results of the first inquest. He had been unable to attend, being in hospital at the time with a cardiac condition.’

  ‘And he asked you to perform a post mortem?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the findings of the first inquest?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then you know that a verdict of death by accidental drowning was handed down. Do you agree with that?’

  Professor Fleischman’s mouth turned down even further. ‘No, I do not.’ He consulted a small notebook and said, ‘The cause of death was a fracture of the hyoid bone in the neck.’

  ‘Could it have been caused by a fall?’

  ‘It can only be caused by pressure. It is commonly associated with strangling, not with a ligature, but with the hands. The fracture is caused by pressure from the thumbs.’

  In the silence, the scratching of Armstrad’s fountain pen was uncommonly loud.

  ‘Could it have been caused by a blow, say an accidental blow?’

  ‘No. I found bruising on the tissues of the neck characteristic of finger grips in strangling. A single blow would have produced massive bruising in one area. The bruising I found is of a type commonly associated with manual strangling.’

  ‘So there is nothing, in your opinion, to the theory of drowning?’

  Professor Fleischman’s cold eyes searched the court-room, seemingly, Kate thought, to discover where Dr. Richards was sitting, and then said, ‘Nothing whatsoever. There was no water in the lungs, which would have been the case if Miss Sachs had drowned.’

  ‘In the first inquest it was stated that the damage to Miss Sachs’s face and shoulders was caused by a fall onto rocks. Would you tell us your opinion?’

  ‘No fall would have caused wounds such as those. If Miss Sachs had fallen from a height sufficiently high to cause such massive discoloration and bleeding, I would have expected to find fractures of the cheek and jaw bones. This was not the case.’

  ‘What, in your opinion, caused the wounds?’

  ‘They are cuts and abrasions, not impact wounds. Miss Sachs’ face was damaged by scraping over sharp or abrasive objects which removed the top skin layer of her cheek.’

  Into Kate’s mind flashed the picture she had been so assiduously trying to erase, the raw meat of Miriam’s face: red, turning to blue and purple.

  ‘Would you like to suggest how those abrasions occurred?’

  ‘I have examined the pools where the body was found. On the farthest pool the seaward rocks are covered in mussels and limpets. Miss Sachs’ wounds could have been caused by being washed over an area of rocks with such sharp protrusions.’

  ‘Is that how you think it happened?’

  ‘Yes. I think her body was washed into the outer pool at high tide and scraped on shell-fish and sharp, rocky protrusions by the surge of the waves.’

  ‘This would mean that her body entered the rock pools from the seaward side?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘It has been stated that she might have gone for a swim, slipped, fallen and hit her head, drowned, and then been washed, first out to sea and then back again. What is your opinion?’

  ‘I have said that she could not have drowned; there was no water in her lungs. And I have stated that the wounds on her face and body were consistent, not with a fall, but with scraping on rocks.’

  ‘What does that add up to, Professor?’

  ‘It seems to me that the body was placed in the water after she had been strangled.’

  ‘In the rock pool?’

  ‘It is my opinion that the body was put into the open sea and that it was brought to the rock pools by tide and current action, and that it scraped over the outer wall as the waves pushed it forward.’

  ‘What other findings were there, Professor –?’

  ‘In cases like this it is usual to examine the sexual organs of the deceased.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  At that moment there was a scraping of chairs to Kate’s left and she turned to see Sachs and Leibowitz holding each other’s arms. At first it looked as though they were performing a grotesque dance, then she realised that Leibowitz was supporting Sachs. Slowly, he led him out of the court.

  Armstrad waited until the court had quietened, then said, ‘And what did you find?’

  Fleischman consulted his notebook. ‘I found bruising on the walls of the uterus, which is usually associated with forcible penetration.’

  ‘Had the deceased been a virgin to that time?’

  ‘No. Examination showed that she had practised regular sexual intercourse. I also found some bruising of the vagina. There was further bruising on one buttock consistent with pressure against some hard object.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, a floor, a flat rock, anything hard.’

  ‘What you are saying is that Miss Sachs had been raped?’

  ‘That is precisely what I am saying.’

  ‘Could you indicate briefly what you think occurred?’

  ‘I think Miss Sachs was raped and that during the rape she struggled. To quieten her, her assailant put his hands up to her throat and, intentionally or unintentionally, fractured the hyoid bone, causing her death. He then took the body to the cove, undressed it and placed it in the sea, hoping that it would be thought that Miss Sachs had drowned.’

  It was o
ut at last. Miriam had been murdered. Not only murdered, but raped. Professor Fleischman walked back along the aisle, head thrust forward, lips slightly twisted as though the information he’d had to impart had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

  ‘It’s a terrible thing!’ Mrs. Preller said. ‘Terrible. I told Miriam many times. I said, you must take care. But this! My God! They will hang Jonas for this. Hanging is too good. If I had my way . . .’

  A voice called, ‘Lena Lourens.’

  Mrs. Preller turned sharply. Smuts, too, swung round. Kate followed their eyes. From the back of the courtroom, where the coloured people were standing, Lena walked to the box.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ Mrs. Preller hissed at Smuts.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Mrs. Lourens, you had been to Church, is that right?’ the coroner said.

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Lena looked very black in the shadowy court. She was wearing her best dark blue frock. Kate looked at her in this unusual setting, seeing her with fresh eyes. The two missing teeth gave her a predatory, fish-like appearance, and there was a look in her eyes Kate had not seen before, a hardness, a bleakness; eyes that seemed to be full of hate.

  ‘What did you do after Church?’

  ‘I walked home.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Maybe ten o’clock.’

  The coroner looked surprised. ‘Was that not a long service?’

  ‘In my Church, we have very long services, master. Sometimes all day, too.’

  ‘I see. So you walked back along the road. What happened when you reached home?’

  ‘The house was empty.’

  ‘Your house?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Who should have been there?’

  ‘My daughter, Betty, master.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I went to Jonas’s house. But she wasn’t there, and neither was he. I know that Jonas must watch the temperatures in the incubators. If they go too high, the ostrich eggs die.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I told Mr. Smuts.’

  ‘He is the manager of Saxenburg?’

  ‘Yes, master. Mr. Smuts and Miss Kate, they go out to the shed and throw water in the incubators.’

  ‘And while they were doing this, what were you doing?’

  ‘Looking for Betty, master. Down by the beach.’

  ‘Did you find her?’

  ‘No, master.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else?’

  There was a heartbeat’s pause and then she said harshly, ‘I see Jonas.’

  Oh, God! Kate thought. This had happened while they were saving the eggs. Miriam was dying or was already dead and her body was floating on the tide.

  ‘That is . . .’ Armstrad looked down at his notes. ‘That is Jonas Koopman?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘He was by the rocks.’

  ‘Fishing?’

  ‘No, master. He was coming out from the water.’

  ‘But he was dressed?’

  ‘Yes, but he was wet on his trousers.’

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘No, master. He did not see me.’

  ‘You didn’t ask him where your daughter was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I am afraid for Jonas.’

  ‘You’re afraid of Jonas Koopman? You were afraid he might hurt you?’

  ‘He can cut people with a knife.’

  ‘We won’t go into that. You didn’t find your daughter on the beach, so where did you find her?’

  ‘In my house.’

  ‘In bed, where you expected to find her the first time, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Do you know where she had been?’

  Lena looked down as she answered and was inaudible. Sergeant Van Blerk rose from the front row and bent his head to listen to her.

  ‘She says her daughter had been outside relieving herself.’

  ‘I see. Where is your daughter now?’

  ‘She is sick, master. With her auntie in Caledon.’

  ‘I have one more thing to ask you. You went to the police with this information of your own decision?’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘I mean, no one forced you, no one even knew what you had seen. You just decided to go to the police, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Then I must ask you why you didn’t go at the time of the first inquest?’

  ‘I was afraid, master.’

  ‘Afraid? Of the police?’

  ‘Of Jonas, master.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs. Lourens.’

  *

  Above the fishing harbour on a low cliff path there was a small, white-washed cairn with a stone cross at the top. On a brass plaque were the words, ‘In memory of the men, women and children who perished in the ship Helmsdale when she struck the India Reef on the evening of 15 October, 1879. “For those in peril on the sea.”’

  Tom read the words aloud, then wrote them in his notebook.

  ‘The place was called Prellersdorp before that,’ Kate said.

  ‘I prefer Helmsdale.’

  He was a different man from the one who had faced her at lunch. He had not referred again to their conversation. Instead, he was coolly professional.

  ‘That’s the India Reef.’ She pointed to a line of white water. The wind was still blowing hard, as it had been throughout the inquest, and now in late afternoon they could see the waves strike the reef and shoot up into the air.

  The inquest had ended just before three-thirty with a verdict of murder, as had been expected. Groups of people had stood in the hot wind under the gum trees, discussing it for a long time, but slowly they had dispersed, most already looking forward to the next instalment in a month or so, when Jonas would be brought before the local magistrate at a preparatory examination of a charge of murder.

  Kate had taken Tom and shown him where the body had been found – she had not gone down onto the beach with him – and now they were walking along the cliff path to the ostrich houses. She showed him the derelict exteriors of several and then they stopped at the Berranges’.

  ‘My God!’ he said, turning into the overgrown drive. ‘Stock-broker Tudor, all the way from Surrey. You wouldn’t be surprised if you saw this place outside Guildford or Reigate, but here . . .’

  She followed him unwillingly. It was late afternoon and the windows were sheets of red mirror as they reflected the sinking sun.

  ‘I’d like to get into one of these places, to see what the innards are like,’ he said. ‘I read some old newspaper articles about them before I left the office. The owners spent money like water: marble stair-cases, oak panelling, walls of mountain stone.’ He tried the front door, then wandered towards the back.

  ‘They’re all locked up,’ Kate said.

  At the back door, he said, ‘This lock looks relatively new.’ He tried the handle. Kate remembered that Charles had used a key. This time, to her surprise, the door opened.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  ‘I hate these places.’

  ‘Don’t be a baby.’ He took her hand and drew her in.

  They walked through the ruined rooms downstairs. ‘Isn’t it sad?’ he said. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  ‘Tom, I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Just ten more minutes, then I could use a drink, and so could you, I should think, after the inquest.’ He began to climb the stairs, still holding her hand. ‘By the way, I forgot to congratulate you on the efficient way you gave your evidence. I’d wager that’s the first time a Helmsdale court has heard an Edinburgh accent.’

  They reached the first floor.

  ‘Someone’s been here.’ He pointed at footmarks in the dust. She thought she could recognise her own. They led directly to Charles’s special room and Tom opened the door. ‘Good God! Someone
’s been using this place. Look.’ He indicated the empty wine bottle, which Charles and Kate had shared. The room still bore the evidence of their struggle.

  She took her hand from his and went back to the door. ‘This place gives me the shivers. Berrangé, the man who owned it, shot himself when the feather business collapsed.’

  ‘Berrangé? That sounds French.’

  ‘It is. They say he shot himself on the tennis-court. Apparently he was a fastidious man and didn’t want to get blood on the carpets.’

  Again he was professional, and made notes.

  They went down the stairs and out into the garden.

  ‘How are you getting on with Charles?’ he said.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘See a lot of him?’

  ‘He comes back most week-ends.’

  They returned along the cliffs into town. ‘I must write my piece and telephone it to Cape Town,’ he said.

  ‘And I must be getting back.’

  ‘No, no! Mrs. Preller released you from school for the entire evening. Don’t worry, I’m not going to molest you.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘No buts. I’ll book the call and we can have a drink while I’m working. Then dinner.’

  He had a large, old-fashioned and rather spartan room overlooking the main street. On a table against one wall was a portable Underwood typewriter. He took a tray from the room-service waiter and closed the door. ‘Tom Collinses, to remind you of the ship.’ He put the tray on the table and turned to her. Then he bent and kissed her. She could taste the warmth of his mouth. She had longed for such a kiss, but instead of relaxing into his embrace she twisted away and said lightly, ‘I thought you weren’t going to molest me.’

  ‘I lied!’

  As she picked up her drink she noticed that her hand was shaking. ‘Keep your mind on your work,’ she said.

  He looked at her for a moment and then nodded and sat down. ‘Cheers. Here’s to love.’ There was a bitter edge to the toast but she pretended not to hear it and held up her glass.

  He turned a piece of paper into the machine and began to type. She watched him from the window. This was what she had always wanted: just to be with him. She had wanted to be with him in his house in Cape Town; had wanted to furnish it for him, create a home for him, have his children. She had wanted to travel with him and sit in hotel rooms like this with him when he worked. And now she was with him, and nothing was right. He was huge in the small, hard-backed chair, yet all his actions, typing, changing the paper, were delicate and precise. He was completely absorbed in what he was doing. She leant against the window-sill, feeling the warm wind ruffle her hair, aware of the small town coming to the end of this hot, windy and exceptional day, and thought how she would like to go up to him and put her arms around his neck and make love to him on the narrow bed under the window and let the warm wind cool their sticky bodies when it was over. She had never loved him as much as she did at that moment.