Chapter 3: Mariner’s Wharf continued

Fiona’s last statement hung in the air between us, charged with an intensity that was hard to ignore. Her gaze was steady and her voice calm but with an edge of determination that made me realize this wasn’t idle speculation or some passing curiosity. She believed what she was saying, and she was waiting for me to take her seriously.

I leaned back in my chair, trying to digest her words and figure out where this was going. “Prove it?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty bold claim, Fiona. What makes you so sure he did?”

Her lips tightened, and she glanced around the restaurant again, making sure no one was paying us any attention. The light streaming through the east-facing window illuminated her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the flicker of something guarded in her expression.

“Let’s just say I have ... reasons to believe he might have,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “And if I’m right, what he left behind could change everything we know about his journey.”

My curiosity was officially piqued. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What exactly are we talking about here? Treasure? Maps? A secret stash of Elizabethan snacks?”

That earned me a half-smile, though it faded quickly. “Not treasure, Roy. Well, not in the way you’re thinking. It’s something much more valuable. Something historical.”

“Like what?”

“Roy,” she said, tilting her head, “have you ever heard of the Star of Assisi? Or maybe the Estrella de Asís?”

“No, not really. What is it?”

She leaned forward, her eyes bright. “It’s an artefact — probably a jewel of some kind — tied to St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of Italy. You know, the one known for his love of nature and animals?”

I nodded. I wasn’t exactly a saint expert, but St. Francis was one name that stuck, probably because of all the paintings and statues I’d seen over the years, and the song; The prayer of St Francis of Assisi, we sang in Sunday School and church services.

“Well,” she continued, her voice softening like she was letting me in on a secret, “the story goes that it might have come from a church in Assisi, maybe even one dedicated to St Francis. Some accounts say it was a relic, others think it was part of a decoration, shaped like a star and encrusted with gemstones. Either way, it’s valuable — historically and materially.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And it ended up here? In the Cape?”

She hesitated, her fingers tracing the edge of her empty Coke can. For a moment, I thought she might back out of telling me. But then she squared her shoulders and met my eyes.

“Another Coke?” I asked. She shook her head.

“No, thanks, Roy. I’m good. But to get back to our discussion. You see. That’s the thing,” she said, her voice lowering further. I had to lean in just to hear her.

“It was on a Spanish ship back in the late 16th century, likely heading to Spain after being taken from Italy during one of those endless wars. Then, along came Sir Francis Drake — or Drake, as most people call him. He plundered the ship, and among the loot was this artefact, which the Spanish captain called the Estrella de Asís in his logs. I suspect he left it in a cave of some sort, high up on the Cape mountains.”

“Why should Drake leave it here?”

“Because he thought the Star to be cursed. He thought his misfortunes in losing all his ships of his fleet and getting the Golden Hind stuck on a reef was the doing of the Star. So, he left it behind ... Most likely here in the Cape.”

I sat back, processing. “It can be anywhere. If he left it here at all,” I replied. “And you think this artefact — if it exists — is in one of the caves around here? It can be in any of the plus minus one hundred caves in the Peninsula alone. Not counting the rest of the caves along the south coast or even the west coast.”

Fiona nodded, her expression deadly serious. “I don’t just think, Roy. I know. But finding it won’t be easy. That’s why I need someone who knows this area — someone who can help me navigate the terrain and the caves.”

“Wait a second,” I said, holding up a hand. “You’re asking me to help you search for a mythical Star of, what did you call it ... the Star of Assisi, supposedly hidden by Sir Francis Drake over four centuries ago?”

Her lips curved into a small, wry smile. “When you say it like that, it sounds crazy.”

“That’s because it is crazy,” I replied, though I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. “But I’ll admit — it’s also intriguing. You’ve got my attention, Fiona. What’s the plan?”

Her smile widened, and for the first time since she’d brought up the subject, a glint of excitement replaced the worry in her eyes. “First, we narrow down the possibilities. Then, we start exploring.”

“How are we going to narrow it down?”

“I have Drake’s Journal, and the letters he wrote to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the First of England. I’ll let you read it and ease your mind.”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “You really are something else, Fiona.”

“You’ll thank me when we make history,” she shot back, her confidence returning in full force. “Or at least when you get to say you were part of an adventure worth telling.”

“Fair enough,” I said, raising my Coke can in a mock toast. “To history. And whatever madness you’re about to drag me into.”

The atmosphere at Mariner’s Wharf buzzed softly with the clinking of glasses and muted conversations as we sat back, savouring the remnants of our meal. Just as I was about to suggest dessert, Fiona’s cell phone chimed, breaking the cosy rhythm. She glanced at the screen, frowned, and declined the call.

Moments later, it rang again, the insistent tone drawing a few sidelong glances from neighbouring tables. Fiona let out an audible sigh, her irritation visible as she answered.

“What?” she said sharply, her voice low enough to avoid causing a scene but tight with annoyance. “I’m busy with colleagues...” She paused, listening to the response. Her jaw tightened. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m done, but that could be a while still.” Another pause. “I said I’ll call you.”

Her tone was clipped now, her free hand resting tensely on the table as though bracing for what she knew would come next.

“It can be two hours, maybe three.” There was another silence as the caller spoke, and Fiona’s face hardened. “No. It’s not costing you money! Unlike you, we are academics who know how to act in a polite way, or show respect and courtesy to another person. Bye.” She pressed the screen to disconnect, placing the phone face down on the table with a huff.

“What was that all about?” I asked, curiosity piqued by the intensity of the exchange.

She rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “My commissioning benefactor,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “He thinks he can call me for a progress report any time of day. I hate it!” To emphasize her frustration, she slapped her flat hand against the tabletop. The sound echoed slightly, drawing a brief look from the next table. “OOo!” she added, shaking her hand as if the slap had stung.

“Commissioning benefactor? What’s that?”

She sighed. “He wants me to find the artefact for him, so he’s financing the expedition.”

“Wow!” I said, leaning forward. “You’re getting paid to find this Star thingamajig?”

“Not much,” she replied, her tone dismissive. “I had to take leave from UP, so he pays me my salary plus ten percent of the artefact’s value.”

“And here I thought you were just interested in the artefact for historical purposes.”

“I am!” she retorted, her ice blue eyes flashing. “But I’ve been under the impression for a while now that this guy just wants the artefact for himself. I don’t think he’s planning to share it with the scientific world.”

“Who is he?” I asked, lowering my voice. “Or is it a secret?”

She shook her head. “No secret. It’s Alan Anderson.”

I blinked. “The billionaire shipping magnate?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward now, lowering her voice. “Roy, I feel like he’s going to double-cross me. I don’t know why, but I just have this gut feeling.”

“Then pull out while you can,” I said instinctively, my tone gentle.

Her expression tightened. “I can’t. I’m already committed.”

I studied her for a moment, her hands gripping the edges of the table like she was trying to steady herself. The tension in her words hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the cheerful buzz of the surrounding restaurant.

“When can I see the documents you spoke of?” I asked, leaning slightly forward, intrigued by the prospect of finally seeing the evidence that had drawn Fiona into this adventure.

“Any time,” she replied with a small smile. “I don’t want to sound cliché, but you can follow me back to my accommodation, and I’ll show them to you.”

I hesitated, wanting to make sure she was comfortable with the idea.

“Are you okay with that, Fiona? We can meet somewhere else if that would make you feel better...”

Her eyes widened slightly, and she let out a soft laugh. “Mister Roy Reasor! I am good with that,” she said, her cheeks colouring faintly as she playfully retorted. “Besides, if you’re going to help me look for the cave, we’re going to be bumping into each other a lot. So...” She left the sentence hanging, a sly grin tugging at her lips.

“Okay, I’m good with that,” I said, nodding. “Now, dessert?”

“Phew!” Fiona leaned back, patting her stomach dramatically. “That snoek and chips was plenty. Thanks, Roy, but I’ll take a rain check if you don’t mind.”

“Perfect with me,” I said with a grin.

“Then let’s go.” She pushed back her chair and stood, brushing her hands down her sides as if to smooth invisible creases.

I followed her lead, and together we walked to the exit. On the way, we made a brief stop by the trash can outside, each of us disposing of our empty clamshells, paper napkins, Coke cans and plastic cutlery. The salty breeze from the harbour tickled my face as we stepped out onto the pavement. The scents of fried fish and briny seawater mingled in the crisp midday air, creating an oddly comforting aroma.

We reached our cars, parked side by side in the small lot. As we unlocked the doors, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Fiona asked, glancing over at me with a curious smile.

“Just the thought of us driving out of here like how rich and ignorant people do,” I said, gesturing between her car and mine, “each driving in our own car, heading to the same place.”

She laughed, the sound light and carefree, blending with the faint murmur of waves lapping against the dock. “Well, that’s one way to look at it. Shall we go?”

With a playful nod, we both slid into our respective cars. I started my engine, watching as she did the same, and we pulled out of the parking lot in tandem, the soft purr of the engines almost in sync as we turned onto the road. Whatever lay ahead — documents, caves, or Alan Anderson’s schemes — it felt like the beginning of something big. My instinct smelling an adventure for something as elusive as the Holy Grail.

Guest house in Bergvliet.

Fiona led me to a small side street, so narrow that two cars could barely pass one another in the tree-lined road. This was Cape Town. Here, the streets were so confined it felt like when a cat crossed the street, its tail was still on one side when its front paws touched the opposite pavement. Yet the houses were well-kept, exuding the quiet confidence of a middle-to-high-income neighbourhood.

She stopped at a gate in Gumtree Road, and it slid open with a soft hum. She drove in and parked to the side of a white double garage door. The driveway was small, enough to fit maybe four cars at most. To avoid blocking the garage, I pulled up on the left side. Some guest house owners could be a little uptight about parking arrangements.

“I hope no one will mind me parking here,” I said as Fiona rounded the back of her Land Rover.

“Nah ... They won’t care. I’m the only guest here at the moment. Now, follow me,” she said, leading the way.

We took a path around the left side of the big two-story house, passing a sparkling pool that shimmered under the midday sun. The double sliding doors near the patio and pool deck led into her quarters. Down a short hallway, she paused at a door, fished a key out of her handbag, and unlocked it.

“Step into my parlour...” she said with a sly grin.

“ ... said the spider to the fly,” I finished, chuckling as I followed her inside.

The room was cosy and bright, featuring a large double bed dressed in crisp white bedding with decorative floral throw pillows. The soft beige walls gave it a warm and inviting atmosphere. A white bench with a floral-themed sign sat at the foot of the bed, adding a touch of charm.

On either side of the bed were matching white bedside tables with elegantly curved legs, each topped with a lamp for ambient lighting. Ornamental mirrors with intricate frames hung above the tables, catching the afternoon light that streamed through a wide window. The white Roman shade was partially drawn, framing a view of lush greenery outside.

The ceiling’s white painted exposed wooden beams lent the space a rustic yet refined character. In one corner, a compact dresser with open shelving and a decorative tray provided extra storage, and the adjoining en-suite bathroom was visible through an open doorway, its clean tiles gleaming under the overhead light.

The air smelled faintly of lavender and fresh linen, a comforting scent that seemed to match the understated elegance of the room.

“And?” Fiona asked, her expression somewhere between expectant and defensive. “Not the most luxurious of rooms, but it’ll do for me...”

“On the contrary, my dear Watson, it’s perfect,” I said with a smile. “Cosy, comfortable. Honestly, it feels like the kind of place you’d want to escape to.”

She softened at my words, her smile warming. “Why, thank you, Sherlock. Make yourself at home while I go and dig up those documents for you to see I’m not totally cuckoo!”

While Fiona rummaged through one of her briefcases — she had three, each as meticulously organized as a lawyer’s arsenal — I wandered over to the wide sliding glass door. The garden outside caught my eye, its lushness calling to me. Winter’s crisp grip was unmistakable, but the space exuded a quiet warmth. The flowerbeds were works of art, each one a deliberate brush stroke in a living canvas. Some winter blooms, brave against the cold, added splashes of colour that softened the season’s austerity.

Beyond the garden’s borders, medium-sized trees and well-tended shrubs framed the view. Rising over their tops were the majestic peaks of the Steenberg and Constantia mountains. Their slopes, dark green and dense with life, bore testament to the nourishing winter rains that had soaked the region. I could almost smell the damp earth and foliage through the glass, a grounding reminder of nature’s resilience.

To the side of the pool, an assortment of garden chairs and tables stood ready, their arrangement as intentional as the flowerbeds. It was the sort of scene you’d expect from a travel magazine, promising afternoons of idle conversation and warm drinks against a cool breeze.