A Pocketful of Thieves

By R. J. (Barbara) Stuart

All is not as it seems on the El Camino to Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain. Among the thousands of pilgrims is a calculating thief who attempts to use the bustle of Holy Week to smuggle out a valuable ancient manuscript. In the tradition of the Canterbury Tales, a group of travellers and a guide journey for five days exchanging their personal backgrounds among the scenic beauty. Each has something to hide.

These colourful characters come from all walks of life and different continents. Their pilgrimage enables them to learn something of the origins of the historic walk as well as a great deal about themselves. Declan, Victoria and Liam come from Ireland; Vicky, a Canadian photographer, won the trip in a competition and decides to bring her friend Andrea along; Santie and Heila are sisters from South Africa and Georgina, a British police consultant who follows the path of the manuscript and ultimately solves the mystery in an exciting denouement. Part travelogue, part drama, this whodunit will keep the reader’s attention in a rollicking ride which encompasses an unexpected twist in the tail. The subplot will tug at the heartstrings revealing greed, duplicity and human frailty. The author walked the path described in the novel thus authenticating its portrayal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 30 Degrees South Publishers
• Release date: Oct 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781928211570

R. J. (Barbara) Stuart

Barbara Stuart was born in Zambia and grew up in the Eastern Cape. She obtained a BA from Rhodes University, a Teachers’ Diploma from UCT and an Honours degree in History from UNISA. An educationalist at heart, she taught for over thirty years, ending her full-time career as the headmistress of a prominent independent girls’ junior school in Gauteng. Barbara has written text books and reference books and now works part time for Wits University as a tutor for student teachers. She is also a qualified facilitator and life coach. She also proof-reads for an up-and-coming educational publisher. Barbara volunteers two mornings a week at a local disadvantaged public school where she teaches and runs staff workshops. Barbara is passionate about her family, education and anything historical. She is married to John and has three children and five grandchildren. Her interests include reading, travel and playing bridge. A Pocketful of Thieves is her first published novel and is the fulfilment of a lifelong ambition.

Book preview

AFRIKAANS WORDS AND TERMS

bliksem: bother

braai: barbecue

eish/ei: ouch

geestelik: ghostly

idioot: idiot

ja: yes

jammer: sorry

laager: circle

lappie: cloth

lekker: nice/good

Liewe Here: Dear God

Liewe Here, help my: Dear God, help me

Liewe wêreld/alla wêreld: goodness gracious

magtig: mighty

moenie worry nie: don’t worry

nee: no

nogal: as well

pasop: beware

sommer: just

spoor: tracks

stoep: verandah

wat gaan hier aan?: what is happening here?

wat maak ek hier?: what am I doing here?

HE WAS USED TO SHADOWS. His childhood had been filled with them. An abusive father had necessitated that he live by his wits. At school he had been academically sharp and began wheeling and dealing at an early age. He had been blessed with good physical attributes and used them at every opportunity. A sour deal had necessitated the theft of the document, but it was beneath him to sully his fingers himself.

He waited impatiently in the hired car outside a tavern in Sarria, the briefcase with the money on the seat beside him. For the fiftieth time he checked his watch. Finally he heard the sound of a motorcycle stopping behind him with a splutter. Mr X climbed briefly into the passenger seat. Without a word Mr X handed him a document in a plastic sleeve. He took it, examined it with a pencil torch and magnifying glass, grunted and nodded approvingly. It took barely a minute to make the exchange and Mr X vacated the car with the briefcase.

He took out his mobile and immediately sent an SMS to his buyer. The first step had gone smoothly. Negotiating the next few days would be tricky but he could already picture himself being accepted into the exclusive syndicate of document dealers. He was not satisfied with being on the periphery. This would show the others that he had flair and ingenuity as well as money and influence.

GEORGINA BUCHANAN, or just Georgie to most, replaced the telephone and said in a loud voice to no one in particular, Jolly good show. I need another challenge.

Are you going away again, mum? asked a hesitant voice.

Georgie looked with affection at the tow-headed youngster. She was a consultant with Interpol and travelled frequently. She put her arms around her younger son and together they contemplated the blue Mediterranean surrounding their home in Eivissa, Ibiza’s main city. Georgie and Ross, her husband, were both British. They had been high-school sweethearts but their paths had parted for several years. When they met up again, both had many stories to tell and they’d felt ready to settle down. They ran two hotels in Eivissa where Georgie did the accounts while Ross ran the day-to-day business of the establishments. Two sons completed the family, Tim being the younger. Both boys resembled their father – stocky and fair – but Tim had Georgie’s freckles and delicate skin. Her hair was auburn and she coloured easily if she was angry or afraid, then her freckles stood out like ink spots on a blank page.

Yes, wee one, I will be going away for a week.

Is it police business?

You know it is. Dad will take good care of you and Richard.

Dad can be smashing while you’re away, as long as it’s not the end of the month!

Georgie dwelled on her present life, so different from the struggle of previous years. The time spent in South Africa which taught her not to trust men too readily, the attempt to become a water-ski champion which never materialized and a devastating fall on the winter ski slopes of Saalbach which put paid to any career that was physically demanding. For the hundredth time she thanked her lucky stars that she and Ross had bumped into each other that day. They were so happy together and he understood her need to continue her police work, albeit on a part-time basis. Her years at the police academy had been her most stable before her marriage.

She loved the spectacular sunsets of the island, the mesmerizing horizon and the sound of the ocean. The warmth was such a contrast to England’s white and shivery winters. The hospitable, easy-going, vibrant islanders had accepted the family into the bosom of their culture and appreciated their speedy understanding and use of the Spanish dialect.

Her thoughts moved to the assignment ahead and she opened her laptop to learn more about the Camino de Santiago. Good Lord, she thought when she read the distance that she would be required to walk each day. I hope my back will be up to it. I’ll certainly have to get myself those walking poles to help me along.

Andrea, I have great news! exclaimed Vicky excitedly as she poured her friend a cup of coffee. Her expressive face lit up and her artistic hands fluttered and gestured, betraying her emotion.

Out with it then, came the reply. Andrea sat very still. She was always calm and composed. A trained counsellor, she was used to outpourings of emotion and extravagant gestures, especially from Vicky with her ebullient nature.

Vicky’s brown eyes shone behind tinted spectacles and her long, dark hair constantly escaped from behind her ear when she was excited, only to be immediately hooked back into place.

I’ve won a photographic competition. Vicky plonked her coffee cup down, jumped up and fetched a letter and brochure. Her small frame was, as usual, garbed in a colourful shirt-cum-kaftan. Her square, stubby fingers adorned with numerous rings gave her a bohemian look. An art teacher by profession, she was endearingly scatter-brained except where photography was concerned. I’m going to Spain. Look here, it says it’s a trip for two. Would you like to come?

She thrust the letter at Andrea who smiled broadly. That’s peachy, she exclaimed, her dimples making great indents in her cheeks. of course I’d like to come, thank you. Her steady blue eyes warmed with affection for her friend.

Vicky was unable to sit still. Do you remember the Ontario provincial competition that I saw advertised in the Toronto newspaper last fall? This is it! I won. Read this.

Andrea scanned the letter getting more and more excited. It stated that Vicky’s entry entitled ‘Dawn on Lake Ontario’ had won first prize and that the prize was a walking trip for two to Santiago de Compostela in Spain.

Andrea’s eyes widened, Neat, really neat, she said. But look, it’s less than a month away. I’ll have to ask my partner to run my practice and we’ll need visas and things, won’t we? Andrea was always more practical than her friend. Isn’t that supposed to be some sort of pilgrimage destination?

Vicky was anxious to tell her about the information she’d found on the internet while waiting for Andrea to arrive. Yes, it’s called the Way of St. James. Santiago is the Spanish for St. James. Apparently the Camino follows the path of a Roman road that took Roman armies, then Spaniards and then pilgrims across northern Spain.

How very exciting and we’ll be walking on these ancient paths? When do we go?

Let’s sort out the details now. Just think of all the pics I’ll be able to take, Vicky enthused. The relics of the Apostle James are in that cathedral, so people have made it a rallying point for Christianity. It’s simply awesome. Oh, I forgot, look what the brochure says.

She handed a colourful brochure to Andrea who read comments from pilgrims to the effect that Santiago is not necessarily the destination, but life itself. Many asserted that they had ‘found themselves ‘along the way. How profound, she mused. Below this was a map and a headline stating: ‘From Sarria to Santiago de Compostela – 111 kilometres’.

Good heavens, a hundred and eleven kilometres? That’s a mighty long way to walk and I’m certainly not fit! protested Andrea who was on the plump side.

Vicky laughed, It’s not a race and I’m going to be taking hundreds of pics. Walking will become second nature and when you’re relaxed you can do anything.

I guess that the quote suggests that if you do the walk, you would be open to whatever the universe places in front of you, agreed Andrea, her clear blue eyes looking thoughtful. I’m up for that; let’s make the arrangements!

Andrea’s circumstances were such that she was happy to accept the trip, but she was too proud to rely totally on Vicky. She immediately began calculating the financial implications. She had been divorced for twenty years and although her ex-husband had made promises, they’d never been fulfilled.

Vicky was happy for Andrea to see to the details as she was of a more practical nature; but she wondered to herself what the other travellers would be like. It’s going to be a great adventure, simply the neatest thing ever, she told herself. What she did not realize was just how prophetic those words would be.

Santie Brophy sat in a bus shelter at Santiago airport paging through a magazine in a desultory manner. She and her sister Heila were waiting for a bus to take them to Sarria where they were due to begin their pilgrimage. It had been a long day – an overnight flight from South Africa, changing planes in Madrid and now a four-hour wait for a bus. She was exhausted, her blond hair hanging in wisps to her shoulders. Her prominent widow’s peak showed darker roots. She was sticky, uncomfortable and unhappy. She wore twelve silver bracelets on her left arm and they jangled as she flipped through the pages. Her tight black jeans had careful cut-outs which, though highly fashionable, added to her dejected appearance.

She and Heila only shared one essential feature, their brown eyes. But where Santie’s were puppy-like and had an eager-to-please gleam, Heila’s were harder and could take on a stone-like quality when she was displeased. She had a slightly superior and disapproving look on her face and although she was the elder by a mere fourteen months, Santie had long since despaired of getting her to wear makeup. Her face was framed by mousy hair in dire need of a stylish cut. In her hands was a colourful guidebook on their intended route.

"Look sus, Heila said in an attempt to be cheerful. I’m not enjoying this wait any more than you. She sniffed deprecatingly. It says that this holiday is not only about walking. You can take time to explore the essence of the region, the flowers and aromas and discover more about yourself,"’ she read aloud.

"Ag, liewe wêreld! No, right at the moment I do not need to discover more about myself. It’s enough that I’m devastated about Paddy. I’m just going to try and enjoy this break. I’m grateful to you for trying to help. I don’t mean to be bad tempered. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, jammer." She apologized and snapped her lipstick case open in an attempt to repair the damage of a near-sleepless night by painting her lips bright red. Her gestures were bold and confident as though she was used to being in the limelight.

Heila cleared her throat. I don’t need to tell you that Paddy isn’t worth losing any sleep over. He’s never treated you properly or with any respect, so why are you surprised that his roving eye landed elsewhere? Let’s change the subject. Would you like a cup of coffee?

No thanks, replied Santie ungraciously. Then we’d have to find a restroom because who knows when we’re going to get to Sarria. Her invective was drowned out by the arrival of the bus – a large tourist-type vehicle with the destination marked LUGO in large letters on the outside above the driver’s cab.

Santie allowed Heila to do all the fussing and organizing of the luggage, but she did remember her manners and bestowed a dazzling smile on the driver. She murmured "Hola" before sitting down at the back of the half-empty bus.

"Sit up front, sus; you know you’re inclined to feel nauseous on narrow roads." Santie sighed and moved forward blissfully uncaring of the stares from various passengers. Her only thought right then was to get to a hotel, have a bath and wash her hair.

As the vehicle moved forward, the rain fell in sheets. The temperature dropped and Santie shivered and hugged herself into her warm fleece-lined jacket, hoping to be able to sleep. Her last thought was about what she was doing in this God-forsaken place.

Victoria Fraser gazed out of the hotel room, unseeing. Her piercing blue eyes were dull as she steeled herself against the unmerciful rain outside. The closed window caused the air to thicken, but it was preferable to the chilly wind and downpour that smudged the colours and shapes of everything in the street. The Hotel Oca on Benigno Quiroga in Sarria, was small but well appointed. The rooms were tiny and close together but comfortable enough, with both a bath and a shower.

Victoria was having second thoughts about this holiday. She had originally had the notion that a break before beginning her new career was just what she needed. Now she was not so sure. Everything about her was determined, from the set of her shoulders and her straight back to her chin which always tilted slightly upward. Her long dark hair hung to her shoulders, curling naturally. People meeting her for the first time were always struck by her air of competence and often did not bother to get to know that she also had a lively sense of humour which was not often allowed to surface. Her confident demeanour was tinged with a slight fragility. Having learned the lessons of rejection early in life she had trained herself to rely only on herself. As her career with the Dublin breweries gained momentum and her success grew, she’d been presented with the opportunity of turning her considerable talents to politics. This, Victoria was grasping with both hands and eagerly awaited the challenges ahead. What she also kept very well hidden was her vulnerability in the marriage stakes. She longed for true love which had always managed to elude her.

Shaking herself from her introspection, she shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps all will turn out for the best, she said to herself philosophically and after all, if there are other Irish people on this trip I might find some constituents who’ll vote for me.

Two doors down from Victoria sat a bespeckled young man with a detached