Treasure Up in Smoke

by David Williams

  Assuming there remained some rational beings on the island ready to accept a chap’s account of his innocence before exacting summary retribution on a guiltless stranger, human habitation equipped with a telephone was what Peregrine most sought. The probability that the pig was someone’s bizarre pet had already occurred to him: the creature behaved more like a dog than a farmyard outcast, and anyone who had developed an affection for it almost had to have a better than average sense of compassion.

  What semblance of a path had existed beside the fence had ceased abruptly at the point where the pig was taking its ease. The character of the plantation had altered too. On the other side of the wire maturing canes had been standing, rank upon rank. Here, after penetrating some yards beyond the vicinity of the fence – and the pig had done just this – one came upon lines of cane planted nearly twice the distance apart with a different, squatter crop growing in between the rows.

  Peregrine had no immediate idea what the short, spreading, small-leafed plants might be. Each was topped by a bud showing yellow at the extremity. Simply, he registered that this was a better husbanded area than the one he had left – all the spare ground had been recently turned over and the pipes of what he recognized as a rudimentary trickle irrigation system were much in evidence.

  The pig stirred, blinked at Peregrine, and lumbered to its feet. It shook its head vigorously from side to side as though to attest the sterling recuperative value of forty winks. It next made quick progress into – rather than simply up to – the nearest of the bushy green plants, stretched its short neck as though in flabby emulation of a wolf baying at the moon, and with a heave from its rear quarters succeeded in biting off the yellowing bud at the crown. Still standing inside the bush it devoted itself to the evidently pleasurable task of noisy mastication. Peregrine had fallen in with a flower-eating pig.

  Over the next few minutes it became clear that further reliance on the quadruped for guidance could be abandoned. She moved from plant to plant repeating the budcapturing ritual. This had been her goal – not to return to some doting owner who would provide as sustenance the slops and common fodder that suited the tastes of ordinary pigs.

  Peregrine glanced both ways along the line of shrubs the pig was systematically debudding. He then broke from the cover of the sugar cane across to the next row. The pig gave her departing companion a look that might easily have been intended as incredulous, before returning her full attention to the serious business on hand. She seemed to be signifying that if he was spurning the veritable Eden of succulent greenery to which she had led him, then he was no longer any concern of hers.

  After traversing a dozen or so of the shrub lanes, Peregrine began to wonder whether he might not be on a fruitless course, penetrating into the heart of some vast plantation. It was while he was considering retracing his steps to the fence, and following this in the hope of coming upon a gate and pathway, that he heard the noise of an internal combustion engine coming to life only a little way ahead. He dived across into the next row of canes, crouched low, and carefully parted the foliage that screened him.

  The view was clear across some fifty yards of grassy scrub to a long, squat building served by a railway line that snaked up from a pair of tall gates some distance to the left. But it was the human activity that fixed Peregrine’s attention – and immediately raised his hopes for proper sanctuary.

  Figures were clustered around two large tractors in the foreground while others were scampering in and out of the open door at the end of the building, feeding the smoking interior of a steel incinerator outside with highly combustible material. Several more members of the industrious little work force were pushing flat rail wagons from one of the two buffered sidings that terminated the line. And what so encouraged Peregrine about the whole scene was that all the figures were white-habited nuns – persons who would have neither the means nor the inclination to hurl spears at him.

  The engine Peregrine had heard earlier belonged to one of the tractors which, under the competent control of a diminutive nun, now began to move off across his line of sight towing a twin-bladed hoe. Another nun was clambering on to the driving seat of the second tractor while two others hitched a hoe behind. This task completed, the two scurried over to a manually-operated inspection trolley parked on the railway line, mounted it so that they faced one another, and began propelling it towards the gates by in turn depressing and lifting its operating bars. The little vehicle progressed along the line at a quite surprising speed and to the evident enjoyment of its chattering occupants who looked and behaved as though they were astride a mobile see-saw.

  The second tractor emitted several back-fires, then proceeded erratically to follow the tracks of the first, past the belching furnace.

  The nuns on the trolley dismounted on reaching the gates, unlocked these, and fixed them open before returning to the marshalling area, propelling their singular conveyance with the same gusto they had demonstrated earlier.

  It was the darting figure of the evidently oldest member of the group that Peregrine was most anxious to observe. A large bunch of keys dangled from her waist and she was clearly in charge – some of the time issuing orders, and the rest gliding about busily to assist at the tasks her minions were performing. It was her age as much as her authority that prompted Peregrine to single her out. He hoped that when the others had completed their work they might depart, leaving her alone and more easily approachable.

  For although the fugitive was confident he could surrender himself with equanimity here in a civilized community, there remained the embarrassment of his appearance. The single undergarment in which he had made his escape was now very much the worse for wear; not to put too fine a point on it, the thing was in tatters – and no fit raiment in which to enter the sheltered lives of a whole bevy of young nuns.

  It was while Peregrine continued to delay his appearance in the hope of a reduced audience that the unexpected happened. The nuns were, indeed, dispersing, more in answer to a summoning bell than because their work was over. After herding her flock away from what they were doing – they formed up in twos and made off towards the rear of the building – Sister Helena (for it was she who had been supervising) consulted her watch and, after a moment’s hesitation, began counting the flat wooden packing cases that the pair from the trolley had later turned to stacking on a rail wagon. While she was doing this – her back to the open door – a man’s head poked out from behind the threshold.

  The newcomer surveyed the scene and then – confirming he was as much an interloper as Peregrine – raced swiftly to the limited shelter of the trolley car. Peregrine immediately recognized the man who was clad in dark shirt and trousers and a black beret pulled down over his ears; he was clutching a small canvas bag: white tennis shoes assisted his surreptitious movements but detracted somewhat from the otherwise apparent attempt at a shadowy camouflaged appearance.

  Sister Helena glanced behind her as though conscious of some other’s presence. Seeing no one, she continued her count and began straightening a stack of boxes. While she was thus engaged the dark figure broke from cover and made a not very stylish but reasonably timed sprint for the very clump of sugar canes in which Peregrine was concealed.

  The fifty-yard dash went unobserved by the preoccupied nun who looked up at the sound – but too late for the sight – of the man’s dive into the covering foliage.

  ‘Mr McLush, isn’t it?’ said Peregrine with a formality hardly justified by the nature of the occasion. ‘What are you doing here?’

  CHAPTER XII

  Sir Archibald Rees rose from his seat at the table in the white-walled Council Room of Government House. Mark Treasure had just entered and was surprised to find the Governor still clad in the denim boiler suit he had been wearing when they had first met earlier – although he had discarded the peaked cap somewhere along the way. Perhaps the man imagined the clothes added a Churchillian flavour to his appearance – in truth, ‘they made him look like an engin
e-driver.

  ‘We are in a difficult situation,’ said Rees. ‘This is Chief Inspector Small who’s in charge of the Police Force,’ he added without making it clear whether this was intended as amplification of his first observation.

  In contrast to his name, Eric Small was a robust, amiable-looking Englishman with a country face, like a happy apple. He extended a large hand to Treasure, who discerned a touch of West Country in the baritone greeting. He also noted the Distinguished Service Medal amongst the ribbons on the khaki uniform jacket. ‘How d’you do, sir – or rather, glad to see you again.’ Treasure affected surprise. ‘No, I didn’t expect you’d remember me. We only met briefly the last time – a year ago it was. You were the guest speaker at a Police Federation dinner – very witty too, if I may say so.’

  Treasure recalled the occasion but not the face. ‘How kind of you. But how did you come to be there?’

  Rees broke in with a touch of impatience. ‘Do sit down, both of you. Small was seconded to us six months ago.’

  Treasure did as he was bidden, nodding to Mongo Joyce whom he had met shortly after his arrival an hour before.

  It was eleven o’clock. The Treasures had been transported to Government House – conspicuously – in the back of the police Land-Rover. Mr Brown had been left to find his own way to the hotel, and had seemed grateful rather than disaccommodated at the prospect.

  It was Lady Rees and her daughter who had first received the guests with – in the circumstances – a creditable display of ceremony. Treasure had been relieved at their joint and firmly expressed belief in Peregrine’s innocence, and also at the intelligence that Archie Rees was about to make a special broadcast which would include the same sentiment.

  They had been in time to hear the Governor’s statement declaring a day of mourning, cancelling the carnival, and suggesting that people should remain quietly at home. The reference to Peregrine had been oblique. Joseph O’Hara’s assassin, the speaker reported, had not yet been identified. The police and others were adjured not to mistreat any suspects.

  Rees had appeared shortly after the broadcast accompanied by the Chief Minister. The two had asked to be excused for some private consultation, but Treasure had been invited to join them at eleven.

  The Governor cleared his throat. ‘If I might come to the point, Mr Treasure. We all of us accept that Gore could hardly have been responsible for the murder, but in the circumstances . . . the so-called witnesses, and so on . . .’

  Treasure interrupted to relieve the embarrassment. ‘I understand, and of course the chap has a lot of explaining to do, but first we have to find him – and I trust in one piece.’

  ‘He’ll be looked after, don’t worry.’ This was Mongo Joyce. ‘People got a bit hot under the collar earlier – they’ve calmed down now.’

  Treasure hoped he was right. ‘Who do you think did do the murder?’

  Rees answered, ‘A vagrant, a thief. . .’

  ‘We can’t exclude voodoo,’ the Chief Minister interrupted. ‘Anyway, it was the work of a very sick mind.’

  ‘Which excludes Gore.’ Treasure was anxious to make this point as often as possible. The others nodded. ‘I assume the death of Mr O’Hara means that any commercial discussions will eventually be held with his heir. I gather his brother . . .’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Treasure, they will be held with the elected Government of the island.’ Joyce spoke quietly but firmly.

  ‘I should explain,’ put in the Governor, ‘we’ve just had a telephone conversation with Paul O’Hara. He has Mr Dogwall with him . . .’

  ‘The Sunfun chap?’ Treasure made no attempt to cover his surprise.

  ‘Correct.’ Rees looked disconcerted, but continued hurriedly. ‘He explained certain plans which the Chief Minister found unacceptable.’ Rees hesitated. ‘I must say I support Mr Joyce in his attitude . . .’

  ‘What the Governor means is that Paul O’Hara is not taking on the mantle of Joe – no way. Aloysius Babington was speaking as a Carleon . . . for the people.’ Joyce had not raised the pitch of his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’ Treasure was genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Father Babington is our senior resident priest,’ Rees offered without emotion. ‘At a Mass attended by nearly a thousand islanders this morning he denounced Joe O’Hara for betraying the people and the country. He called for an end to what he named the O’Hara dynasty, and a boycott of the Treaty Ceremony. It really was an unnerving harangue – but courageous in its way.’

  ‘And right. Father Babington is right – more than ever now that Joe’s gone,’ Joyce put in with acerbity.

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t know Joe was dead. At least . . .’ The Governor paused theatrically, then shook his head sharply as though to dismiss the unthinkable. ‘It’s true, Mr Treasure, that the passing of Joe O’Hara most certainly opens the way for a more . . . er . . . a more constitutional approach to the island’s affairs. We cannot overlook the symbolic nature of the beheading. The date and . . . Er . . . so on.’

  ‘Did the priest say in what way the late Mr O’Hara was betraying the people?’ Treasure had an uneasy feeling that his own presence might somehow be involved.

  ‘He didn’t need to, Mr Treasure.’ This was Joyce again. ‘Enough of us knew he intended to sell out to Dogwall.’

  ‘Including young Gore, I gather,’ the Governor added, perhaps by way of indicating that Peregrine had not been entirely forgotten.

  Treasure ignored the reference to his assistant. He looked towards the Chief Minister. ‘That would have been no more in my interest than the island’s. Even so, did it deserve a kind of papal denunciation?’

  It was the Governor who answered. ‘The situation may not be as clear-cut as the Chief Minister here is suggesting. I doubt Babington intended in any sense to align himself with what we might call the constitutionalists. His approach would be pragmatic . . .’

  Joyce smiled sourly. ‘I’m not suggesting that Aloysius Babington was speaking in support of independence for KCI. He doesn’t think along those lines – not yet. Right now he’s more concerned stopping causes than dealing with effects.’

  ‘Causes big enough to lead to murder – or a symbolic execution?’ Treasure glanced at the Governor.

  Inspector Small stirred himself. ‘We don’t know yet how Mr O’Hara lost his life, but I’ll stake my reputation it wasn’t through having his head cut off.’ .

  Sir Archibald Rees nodded – apparently in vigorous agreement.

  Aloysius Babington sat staring at his hands in the study of the Presbytery. He had washed only minutes before making the telephone call to the convent; he resisted the compulsion to do so again. What was done was done. The blood that had been on his hands he could picture there still; no ritual cleansing would erase it.

  Did he feel remorse? He had asked himself that question a dozen times in the last few hours. The strangely dispassionate answer came to him again: certainly he felt grief, but there was no sense of guilt. What he had done he would do again if circumstances and his own conscience dictated such a course. It was his function to serve the will of God and to protect the people. For so long he had been at one with Joe O’Hara in these worthy aims. Now he would mourn Joe’s loss to the end of his days – and steel himself to see that the friend he had considered misguided had not died in vain.

  He had already fulfilled Joe’s wishes in one respect. His orders to the convent had been to destroy the crop by ploughing in and to burn what was in store. Paul O’Hara’s telephone call had not altered this decision. The priest had made one apparent concession to the first blustering, then pleading O’Hara. He had sanctioned the immediate collection of cigars ready for shipment. There had always been a contingency plan – and supply – against an emergency: Sister Helena knew what had to be done.

  Thus Babington had kept faith with what had been last agreed with Joe over the cigar business. What he could not credit was Paul’s assertion that Joe had never intended to take the
Sunfun project any further. If this was so, why had Joe protested the opposite in this very room the day before? Paul called in his brother’s strategy to ensure that no one – including Babington – could give away his real intention. The priest reluctantly accepted there were some grounds for the contention remembering how he had inadvertently leaked Joe’s earlier confidence to Mongo Joyce. Was it possible his friend had not considered him worthy as a confidant – at least outside the confessional? If only . . .

  Babington dismissed a premise too heartbreaking even to consider. Paul was wrong – worse, he was lying in his account of what had come out during the argument he had had with his brother the night before. An alternative conclusion was unthinkable in terms of the priest’s own actions – unthinkable and unforgivable. In any event there must be no further delay in pursuing his next considered course. There were circumstances in which the secrecy of the confessional could serve to protect the wrongdoer to no purpose.

  Father Aloysius Babington prepared to leave for the police station.

  Molly Treasure was not given to inactivity when there was a part available for the playing. Sipping coffee with Debby and Mrs Dogwall in the faded elegance of the drawing-room at Government House had no attraction compared to the plan of action she had just proposed. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ she asked firmly. ‘Peregrine is bound to know the Morse code,’ she continued, and then as though to dismiss the self-doubt that immediately assailed her she added, ‘Even I know the Morse code.’

  Mrs Dogwall nodded enthusiastically. ‘I think it’s a tewific idea, Mrs Tweasure. Poor Pewegwine, he’s out there somewhere thinking the whole world’s against him.’

  Molly smiled approvingly. The woman might look common but clearly her heart was in the right place.

  Debby Rees wished that Mrs Dogwall had not happened along in time to be included in the Peregrine Gore rescue operation but the situation had to be accepted. ‘He’s bound to be somewhere on the west of the island. If you think it’ll work we can be mobile in ten minutes,’ she offered, limping towards the door. ‘It’s too frustrating sitting here.’