‘That means…?’

‘He hasn’t inherited it. Of course yer little Conor might drop dead from a heart attack at fifty, I didn’t check that. But no schizophrenia. He’s fine.’

The sense of shocking relief was like diving into a cold pool in hot weather. Simon exhaled, and said: ‘Thanks, Angus. And?’

‘It’s also good news. It was pretty damn unlikely that Miguel could have fathered a child, anyway, because of his congenital problems. But now we have proof. Little Miss Martinez is indeed the daughter of David Martinez. 99.99 percent sure. That’s as good as it gets. And neither David or his daughter carry any of the markers of…the Cagots. He is Basque, so is his daughter.’

He stammered, ‘OK, well…Well thank you – for doing all this.’

‘Ach. Think nothing!’ Angus said, rather wistfully. ‘OK, I better go. Send my big love to David and Amy, when you give them the news…Tell ’em I like the name they chose. Maybe we’ll meet again soon. See ya.’

The call ended.

Simon slipped the phone into his pocket, and walked outside. Amy and David were sitting in plastic chairs, by the riverbank; a scene of tranquil contentment.

The journalist felt a gladness, a lifting of his spirit. Yet the happiness was twinned with a pang of abiding and persistent remorse. As it always was, as it always would be. Conor was going to be OK; but Tim would always be dead. The harmony of life would never change: the sonorous bass tone of grief, and the purling treble of love.

He took a plastic seat by David. Who turned.

‘Suzie’s gone to the supermarket…with Conor. More wine I think.’

‘OK.’

David continued: ‘The package. I saw it. From Angus?’

‘Yes.’

A pause.

‘So?’

‘She’s yours. Just as you said. You said you were sure.’

David nodded.

‘I just wanted to make really sure. Not that I would love her any the less. She is my daughter. But…medically, we needed to know. What about Conor? Is he…?’

‘Cool. He’s fine. Clean bill.’

‘Good. That’s really good.’

‘Yeah…’

They fell silent. Amy was up and playing with her little girl; the blonde-haired two year old was giggling, jumping up and down, and pointing at the birds in the trees across the river.

‘Funny thing is,’ said Simon, quietly. ‘Your daughter…she actually looks English. Of all things. She’s got her grandmother’s genes…’

‘And she’s half Jewish and a quarter Basque. I guess she is the bright future of the world! And all she can say right now is – Daddy go shopshop.’ David leaned over, and called to his little girl. ‘Eloise Martinez, be nice to your mother. She’s teaching you about trees…’

Eloise smiled.

The breeze was soft in the riverine trees; the air was warm yet fresh with forest scents. David lifted his wineglass, and tilted it at the horizon, as if he was toasting the Pyrenees themselves.

‘Of course this means…they really have died out. The Cagots. The poor Caqueux. They have disappeared forever.’ He raised the glass higher. ‘And now only the mountains remember.’

Simon nodded, and drank his juice, and gazed at the babbling water of the young River Adour. The scene was beautiful, and wistful, and serene. The river was racing jubilantly through the greenwoods, to the distant sea. It reminded him of a laughing little girl: running towards the waiting arms of her mother.

Acknowledgements

I would like to express my gratitude to everyone who helped in my Namibian research: especially the people at Canon Lodge, Namib Desert Lodge, Luderitz Nest, and Klein-aus-Vista. Extraordinary places all. The staff of EHRA, who showed me the stirring Damara landscapes of the Namibian desert elephants, were invaluably helpful.

Thanks are likewise due to Mark Kurlansky and Paddy Woodworth for their highly informative books on Basque culture, everyone in Zugarramurdi in Navarre, the scientists of Stanford University’s Human Diversity Genome Project (which closed, amidst controversy, in the 1990s), and the Dominican monks of the Priory of La Tourette.

My editors, Josh Kendall in New York, and Jane Johnson in London, have been patient, assiduous and insightful over many months: I am vastly grateful to them; I am similarly grateful to Eugenie Furniss, my agent at William Morris, and Jay Mandel at WME New York.

Finally, I want to thank Marie-Pierre Manet Beauzac, who allowed me into her house in Tarbes, in southern France, and revealed her remarkable ancestry.

This book is for Marie: the last of the Cagots.

About The Author

Tom Knox is the pseudonym of the author Sean Thomas. Born in England, he has travelled the world writing for many different newspapers and magazines, including The Times, the Guardian, and the Daily Mail. He lives in London.

To find out more about Tom Knox and The Marks of Cain, visit: www.tomknoxbooks.com