Death by Tradition: Fiji Islands Mysteries 2

by B. M. Allsopp

  ‘It’s unlikely, but…’

  ‘Others can handle the routine crimes. You can take your leave in June and relax.’

  ‘Honestly, Melissa, my main worry is that you’ll never come if you postpone your trip now. Some emergency with one of us will just keep cropping up.’ His despair shocked her. She couldn’t think of anything to say, and they were both silent for moments.

  Finally she broke the silence, her will crumbling. ‘I just want to make it easy for you, honey.’

  ‘I know, but you’re not. Listen, today was the first day, Melissa. Who knows what we’ll uncover tomorrow? You could cancel your flight, then we solve the case on Wednesday. By then that flight will be full and you won’t be able to come anyway. Wouldn’t that be silly?’

  ‘Crazy,’ she agreed. ‘I get the feeling you’re bulldozing me, but… Okay, let’s see what tomorrow brings.’

  She wasn’t sure how that call didn’t go as she had planned. She was just the faintest bit resentful of the way he wouldn’t talk everything through. Former boyfriends had displayed this same reluctance, but she’d thought Joe was different. But he sounded so despondent, even fearful, that she ended up complying with what he wanted. She didn’t think that was a good pattern to build a long-term relationship on.

  As her mother often said, she could choose to make the best of the situation, or she could choose to make the worst of it. She couldn’t control what happened. She knew she wanted to give her future with Joe a chance, so she committed to leave for Fiji on Thursday and make the best of whatever she found there.

  TUESDAY

  12

  The Fiji Regiment Club stood near the top of the hill, which rose behind the Albert Oval and the Suva government buildings and courts. Some felt the Regiment Club overlooked these buildings metaphorically as well as literally, the military having toppled more than one government in Fiji’s decades of independence from Britain. Horseman had been at the club before as a guest of a Fiji Rugby Union director. As he drove up the long curving drive from the gate, the fig trees seemed even larger, their foliage denser than he remembered. The graceful colonial building, deep verandahs shaded by sweeping eaves, was not at all military in character, but suggested an elite domesticity besieged by the forces of nature and ever so slowly succumbing.

  His right leg was behaving today; he was relieved that he didn’t limp up the steps. The doorman recognised him.

  ‘Ni sa bula, Josefa Horseman. Welcome to the Regiment Club.’ He grasped the polished brass handle and opened the door with a flourish. ‘Ratu Osea has already arrived and is waiting for you on the back verandah.’

  An elderly waiter, his hair pure white, escorted Horseman through the timber-panelled rooms to the back verandah. This side of the building was elevated above the slope, the surrounding trees not so oppressive. A slight breeze freshened the hot air. The light tracery of foliage filtered the light but did not obscure the sparkle of Suva Bay, dark blue this sunny morning. From this vantage point, Suva looked a picture-perfect little South Pacific port. He was delighted that the city could look so beautiful despite its flaws.

  ‘Here is Ratu Osea,’ the waiter announced. The older man seated at the cane table rose and held out his hand. Like Horseman, he was middle height for a Fijian and strongly built. His lined face was serious, and he looked at Horseman intently as he greeted him. His hand was large, lean, and dry, his shake firm and prolonged.

  ‘Vinaka vakalevu for making yourself available, Ratu Osea.’

  The chief smiled slightly. ‘Not at all. I’m pleased to meet you, Josefa Horseman, as any Fijian would be. We all wish we could play rugby like you. It’s my civic duty to help the police, especially in such an unheard-of crime at Tanoa. Let’s sit down.’

  ‘Vinaka, Ratu. This is certainly a beautiful outlook.’

  ‘Io, we see Suva at its best from here.’ The chief did not appear to be in any hurry. Horseman would let him set the pace.

  Horseman had done his homework. Ratu Osea Matanitu had entered the Fiji Infantry Regiment after the elite Queen Victoria School on the east coast of Viti Levu. He served on United Nations peace-keeping missions from Sinai to Kosovo, rising to the rank of major, and was then appointed military attaché to the Fiji Embassy in Washington D.C. His was a surprisingly cosmopolitan career for a man who then retired to live in a remote highlands village.

  The waiter disturbed the chief’s reverie, if that’s what it was, by serving them morning tea. A Victorian-looking silver service, polished to its gleaming best, was laid on their table: teapot, hot water jug, sugar basin, milk jug. While the waiter poured tea, a young lad set out white china crockery emblazoned in faded gold with the regimental coat-of-arms. He reappeared with a tray of predictable hot savouries. Horseman didn’t mind predictable at all; he nodded and the boy served him curry puffs and sausage rolls. Horseman waited for the chief to start. At first it seemed he wasn’t going to eat anything. Horseman, his appetite assailed by the fragrant steam, fretted. Silently, he offered the chief the milk jug.

  ‘Vinaka, I don’t take milk. Please go ahead.’ The chief sipped his tea, returned the cup to its saucer carefully. Then, to Horseman’s relief, he picked up a sausage roll and bit into it appreciatively. ‘The Regiment does a good job at these traditional British things. I hope you agree, Inspector.’

  Horseman hastily scoffed a curry puff; light, soft and spicy. ‘Io, excellent, Ratu Osea. I am grateful for your hospitality.’

  The chief waved his gratitude aside. Perhaps now was the right time to turn to business.

  ‘I understand you were away from the village when Viliame was killed, Ratu?’

  The chief raised his eyebrows in assent. ‘Io, I drove to Suva on Friday with my headman, Ilai. Perhaps you’ve already heard about the ceremonies we’ve got planned for our special overseas visitors next weekend. They’re the descendants of Mr Weston, whom my people murdered over a hundred years ago. He was on a peace mission, you know. My people were engaged in punishing on-again off-again raids against a few villages to the west where Mr Weston was teaching the word of God. Both sides captured prisoners for meat and labour, fired houses, assaulted and killed. It’s believed our side was the instigator, but who knows the truth now?

  ‘After some years, Mr Weston was having an influence and some around him turned to Christ. His followers asked him to come and make peace with us, believing a missionary would be immune from attack. He arrived at our village, the chief received him courteously, heard his message, and talked with him for some hours before inviting him to feast with his family and stay the night. Mr Weston accepted, but was careful to eat no meat, fearing it might be human.

  ‘From the details you’re relating, I imagine that there is a written record?’

  ‘Io, Inspector. Mr Weston wrote up his journal before he left the following day. There are district officer reports too. Mr Weston was cautiously hopeful his representations had been well received. But when he set out to walk back to his home near our enemy village, he was attacked on his way, clubbed to death by warriors on my ancestor’s orders. The missionary was roasted and eaten in the normal way, but I think his flesh may have been reserved for the chiefly, who believed in the superstition that they could ingest the powerful qualities and virtues of the living person by eating his flesh.’

  The waiter now arranged scones, cream, and jam on the table and poured both men another cup of tea. The boy added a plate of fruitcake fingers and another of orange and pineapple slices. Horseman was relieved the chief helped himself to a scone, and he quickly followed suit.

  ‘Interesting, Ratu. What virtues do you think nineteenth century Fijians would have seen in Mr Weston? They overpowered him easily enough, didn’t they?’

  The chief looked at Horseman intently while eating his scone, as if assessing whether this policeman was worthy of an explanation. ‘Many clans had accepted the missionaries’ teachings by this time. It was only the remote hinterland clans of the largest islands that had not. The i
ntertribal connections would ensure that the people of my village knew this. However persistent they were in their superstitions and yes, devilish practices, they knew the missionaries’ teachings had won over other Fijians, who had stopped warring, stopped being cannibals, and were learning to read and write. And, as now, these other Fijians were more prosperous than they were. The missionaries had achieved all this without force or violence, but through prayer, the Bible, and God’s help. Don’t you think my ancestors would see this God, embodied by Mr Weston, as powerful, virtuous, and well worth eating?’

  Disconcerted, Horseman asked, ‘Do you mean the murder was a shortcut to becoming Christian, rather than a last-ditch stand to preserve their own religion?’

  ‘We can’t know how they thought really, can we? However, it seems a likely explanation to me. Whatever the case, it was a terrible crime against God. I’ve given this a lot of thought since I retired, and I feel our collective guilt has held us back ever since.’

  ‘How did you view Viliame’s proposals for village enterprises?’

  The chief now smiled slightly. ‘Ah, that young man. He was a bit of an upstart, you know, thought he knew everything. But he will be a huge loss to Tanoa. He was definitely going places and could take the other young people with him. He set up and managed the spice gardens project admirably, and it’s bringing in money now.’

  ‘And the chicken raising proposal?’

  ‘Ah, I thought we should be cautious in entering into a contract with a foreign company like Henny Penny. I know other clans have gone in for this, but my villagers like to be their own masters. That was the view of the elders. We should wait and observe how it works out elsewhere.’

  ‘Ratu, did Viliame have any enemies? Was there anyone he offended or angered?’

  The chief shook his head. ‘Not that I know of, no. Some of us thought his plans were too ambitious, too fast-moving, that he should be more patient. But he was well-liked. I think you would have liked him too, Inspector.’

  Horseman privately agreed. ‘Will you go ahead with your reconciliation ceremony next Sunday?’

  The chief shook his head sadly. ‘I can’t see how it can possibly be postponed. And it is now more important than ever. Do you see, with Viliame gone, it will be even harder for our young people to succeed. Vili led and inspired them. It’s even more important for us all to know that God has forgiven us that grievous sin of the past, through the public forgiveness of Mr Weston’s descendants.’

  ‘I see.’ Although this didn’t square with the Methodist doctrine Horseman knew, he could see the logic. It could even be of psychological benefit to the community, if managed well. Yet something wasn’t right here.

  ‘Will there be any conflict with your plans for Viliame’s funeral?’

  ‘Now, I was about to ask you about that, Inspector. Vili is in the morgue at the hospital here, is he not? Do you know when he will be released for burial?’

  ‘Not yet, Ratu Osea. I’ll be speaking to the pathologist later today. I’ll be in touch as soon as I find out. Would you consider holding Viliame’s funeral before your guests arrive on the weekend?’

  ‘It’s a sad conjunction of events, but Vili’s parents might prefer that. I’ll be going to Tanoa this afternoon and will discuss these matters with Vili’s family and Pastor Joni before I make a final decision about our reconciliation ceremony.’

  ‘How can I get in touch with you in the village, sir?’

  ‘The only way is to send a message to the Kumi police post. They’re very obliging and send a constable up with a message.’

  Horseman thought such a service was not quite within the remit of the Kumi constables, but couldn’t think of an alternative until Telecom provided a line to the village. He offered the plate of fruitcake to the chief. It looked moist and dense with raisins, sultanas, and almonds. The chief took two fingers, so Horseman followed suit again.

  ‘I extend an invitation to you and any other officers who may wish to attend the reconciliation on Sunday. Our Sunday morning service and lovo feast will also be an intrinsic part of our ceremonies.’

  ‘Vinaka vakalevu, Ratu Osea. I would like to accept. However, I myself have a guest arriving from overseas on Friday, and I won’t be able to abandon her.’

  Now the chief smiled. ‘Bring her along, she will be most welcome, Inspector.’

  ‘Vinaka, I’ll certainly try to persuade her.’

  The two men spent another five minutes paying their respects to the morning tea before parting. As Horseman shook hands, the chief’s eyes drilled into his own once more.

  13

  ‘G’day, Joe, come in. What’s kept you, mate?’ Dr Matthew Young greeted Horseman cheerily as he entered the pathologist’s domain at the back of the hospital. Singh was already there, perched on a stool at the lab bench, also looking cheerful.

  ‘Curry puffs and scones with strawberry jam. A long morning tea with Ratu Osea Matanitu at the Regiment Club. Something a bit disturbing about the man. Don’t quite know what—just something about how intense he is, especially about this reconciliation deal. He knows his stuff, researched the history of the murder, tracked down Mr Weston’s diaries.’

  ‘He sounds eccentric at least,’ Dr Young remarked.

  ‘What are you two looking so chirpy about, anyway? What have you found, Matt?’

  ‘Cause of death’s simple this time, mate, just as Dr Tavua thought. Two blows to the head with a blunt object. The murderer really wanted to make sure he was dead. But it was the first blow that killed him, pretty much instantaneously. A well-aimed blow, a lot of force and the victim taken by surprise. There are no indications of a fight or struggle. The attacker was probably hiding just off the path, waiting for the victim to come along.’

  Horseman was suspicious. His friend, the Australian chief pathologist, would not be looking so pleased with himself after such an unchallenging post mortem. ‘What’s the catch, Matt? Come clean now.’

  ‘Oh, you know me too well, Joe. It’s the weapon that’s rather interesting. It must have been very heavy, but there’s something more. Come and have a look.’ Horseman expected he would have to view Viliame’s corpse, but Dr Young ignored the body covered by a green sheet. He swivelled an oversized computer screen in Horseman’s direction. The image of the head wound was blown up, sharp and detailed.

  ‘Man, is this the new toy you told me about?’

  Dr Young patted the computer screen. ‘Sure is. Just what the doctor ordered, too.’

  ‘The police labs could do with these, sir.’ Singh said.

  ‘Absolutely, but how? Not within the power of a humble detective inspector, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Don’t get off the track! Take a look here, mate.’

  Horseman obediently followed the red arrow the pathologist was moving around the screen, tracing the extent of the wound, where the hair had been clipped back close to the skin.

  ‘What do you see?’ Dr Young prompted. ‘Don’t look at Susie now, she’s under instructions not to tell you.’

  Horseman peered closely at the horrific wound. Then he saw past the discolouration, the fatal distortion of the skull, the bone fragments mashed into skin and flesh. He saw a pattern surrounding the pulp of the worst damage. First a broken zigzag, then some wavy scallops, and outside those, a row of small circles. The rows were broken, but it was definitely a pattern engraved, no, imprinted on skin and flesh.

  ‘It looks like traditional Fijian decoration. Could be on pottery or masi, bark cloth, or…carving.’

  ‘Getting warm, Joe.’

  ‘I get it now! The weapon must be a Fijian object, carved in detail. Mightn’t have been a weapon, just something heavy that could be used as one. Wood or stone? There must have been fragments, Matt. You’ve seen them, you’d better tell me.’

  ‘Okay, you went as far as you could, mate. I’ll buy you a beer tonight.’

  Singh laughed. ‘Put him out of his misery, doctor.’

  ‘It’s wood, hard and dense. M
y guess would be dakua or vesi. There was scarcely any splintering, just a few tiny fragments. We’ll get it identified.’

  ‘You know your Fijian native timbers, Matt! I’m impressed,’ Horseman said.

  ‘Google, mate. Get up to date!’ Dr Young winked at Singh. ‘Now, look at this.’

  At the tap of a key, the image morphed to a display of several weapons. Horseman recognised them as nineteenth century Fijian war clubs. He’d seen this group in a glass case several times at the Fiji Museum.

  ‘Susie and I think something like the top left could be a candidate. Do you agree?’

  Horseman’s interest became excitement. ‘Yes, I do. You can see those three patterns, in the same order. The others don’t have anything like the same detail. I remember now, the plain clubs are deadly weapons of war, but the more elaborate one is a chief’s ceremonial club, isn’t it?’

  ‘Exactly. Before you get too excited now, let’s go to the Fiji Museum and talk to the experts.’

  Horseman grinned. ‘I was lucky to score a police car this morning, guys. We can all go in that.’

  ***

  The Fiji Museum, like the Regiment Club, looked threatened by encroaching vegetation. In front, the Thurston Gardens acres were haphazardly tended, the gravel paths now mostly grass. The verandah was twice the depth of that at the Regiment Club. Horseman recalled with a smile many rugby parties held here in the past: fundraisers, balls, and dinners, lit by candles and paper lanterns. It was a special spot. These days, the Board preferred the air-conditioned uniformity of hotel function rooms.

  Dr Sailasi Erasito was waiting for them in the lofty room housing Fijian artefacts from precolonial times. Horseman’s favourites were the replicas of the war canoes and sailing craft that dominated the room. There were no originals left. These brilliant boats had vanished from Fiji waters, but survived as the emblem on the Fiji Police badge.