by JRL Anderson
‘Yes, sir. It was Mr Quenenden, and I remember the man himself, because I used to go to my father’s office after school, and if I met Mr Quenenden he always talked nicely to me.’
‘Why did you join the police?’
‘We have a special unit called the Police Command Training Unit, which you enter by competitive examination. I took the exam and came eighth out of the whole country. The training course lasts three years, and I did an extra year to qualify as an interpreter in some of the Ga river languages. When you have trained you serve for a short time as a constable, to gain practical experience, but after three months you are promoted Senior Constable, and if you do all right after a year as Senior Constable you can get accelerated promotion to sergeant. Then you can specialise in some particular branch of police work, or carry on with general duties, with good prospects of promotion up to Senior Inspector. After that it is up to you.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I decided to specialise, sir.’
‘In what particular branch?’
‘The Police Intelligence Service.’
I didn’t know what to make of this. It looked as if Mr Sessini was ready to trust me only up to a point, and that he had sent an effective spy with me. On the other hand he may not have had much choice in looking for a good interpreter of the Ga river speech, and I liked the boy himself – he seemed frank and open, and was obviously intelligent.
We were travelling fast, making, with the current, a good six knots. The river here was about 300 yards wide, still a young river with well over 1,000 miles to go before it found its way to the Atlantic. On each bank dense bush came to the water’s edge. We were enclosed by forest, but the sunlit waterway that stretched ahead of us was wide enough to prevent any sense of oppression from the bush. The paddlers had a rhythmic pattern of movement, swaying forward and back together as if held on a string. Their paddle-blades made no splash as they entered the water, they seemed rather to stroke it, but there was real power behind each stroke. There were six paddlers, but in fact a crew of seven, six to paddle, and their captain, sitting right aft at the extreme stern of the canoe, to steer. He steered with a paddle, giving the blade a flick now and then to keep the canoe on course. When we had to negotiate a bend he used his paddle more like a rudder, holding the blade at an angle against the water to get the required degree of turn. You could see that this needed considerable strength, and sometimes the veins on the back of his hands stood out as he exerted arms, wrists and fingers to force the heavy canoe to go where he wanted it to go. He did not keep us in mid-stream, but always nearer to one bank or the other, presumably to get maximum advantage from the current. How he knew when to cross from one side towards the other was baffling, for the river and the unbroken lines of bush seemed unchanging, and to offer no guiding marks. But he had known the river all his life, and what to me seemed just a line of bush to him was a constantly-varying pattern of distinct trees, vines and shrubs.
Sergeant Taskalu and I sat forrard of the steersman in a sort of open compartment covered with a canopy of matting made from some bush vine. For us, the curving bottom of the canoe was planked, so that we could recline on comfortable cushions. Ahead of us sat the paddlers on what looked to me uncomfortably narrow thwarts, but they didn’t seem to be uncomfortable. The design of canoe and thwarts was age-old, tradition no doubt reflecting the needs of the men who had made and used canoes on the river through the centuries.
‘Did Mr Sessini explain to you why I have come to this part of your country?’ I asked the sergeant.
‘He said that you were a high officer of the British police and were looking for evidence to bring the murderer of Mr Quenenden – our own Mr Quenenden, sir – to justice. He said that the British police had found a link between the murder of Mr Quenenden and a plot to defraud the Mpugan State. In Mpuga, sir, of course that would be our business, but Mr Sessini said that in the circumstances, since all the evidence has come from England, it would be best for us to help you. That is why I am here. He said that you could tell me far more about the case than he could, and that it would be up to me to find out how to help you.’
That sounded like frankness, anyway. Newton Blaize and the English garden where Mr Quenenden had been murdered seemed very far away as I began to tell the story to my young African helper. ‘It is a long story and we think it started many years ago in the old Colonial days, when this part of the Ga territory was in Mr Quenenden’s district. There was a coffee-planter called Meredith Boscombe, who had a plantation some fifteen miles below the Mission station that we shall pass today.’
‘I know of him,’ the sergeant said unexpectedly. ‘He married an East Indian woman and a few weeks afterwards she was drowned when a canoe upset in crossing the river. My mother’s uncle lived in a village near the crossing place, and he saw it happen. He told my mother of it, and it made her sad – so soon after marriage. My uncle has also talked of it to me. Mr Quenenden, the man you are speaking of, held an inquiry in the village, and my mother’s uncle was one of the men who told him what had happened.’
‘The village is on the far side of the river from the Boscombe plantation, and the river is wider there than it is here. The villagers told Mr Quenenden what they thought they had seen to happen, but we believe that the overturning of that canoe was no accident, but the work of the man who later murdered Mr Quenenden. We also think that young Mrs Boscombe was shot before she fell in the river – it was quite near the bank, and a man with a gun among the trees could not have been seen from across the river. It may never be possible to prove this – it was all many years ago – but we think that is what happened.’
Sergeant Taskalu was keenly interested now. ‘But why?’ he asked.
‘I can only tell you what we think. We believe that the man concerned is called Robert Purbeck, and that he was a junior forestry officer employed by the old Colonial Government at the time.’
‘I have never heard the name.’
‘There is no reason why you should. He had a training in geology as well as agriculture, and we think that he found evidence of valuable minerals on what was then Mr Boscombe’s estate. We think that he wished to acquire these minerals for himself, and that he tried to kill Boscombe to get him out of the way. In fact he killed Mrs Boscombe – her husband was doubtless saved because the canoe overturned – but that murder served the killer’s purpose just as well, for Boscombe was heartbroken, went back to England, and has never returned to Mpuga.’
‘What happened to the mineral rights? There are no minerals worked here now, indeed none that I have ever heard of.’
‘That is the point. The killer of Mrs Boscombe thought he knew where he could find riches, but he was wrong. He was right in thinking that they lay somewhere on Mr Boscombe’s land, but wrong in where he looked. Then came independence, and the killer returned to England, to get a new job and to wait for an opportunity to collect the riches that he knew to be somewhere in this Ga territory. The opportunity did not come for years – not until Mr Quenenden, who was a fine botanist and went on with his work on African plants after his retirement, discovered that a particular variety of a rare local flower will grow only in places where these rich minerals lie. He was murdered for his discovery.’
‘What are they, these minerals?’
‘Diamonds. It may be that Mpuga will turn out to be even richer in diamonds than Tanganyika after the great strike made by Williamson a generation ago.’
*
The young sergeant’s eyes were diamond-bright with excitement. Whatever police training he had had, it was a good one. ‘And you think that the murderer has come to try to find the diamonds before our Government knows about them?’
‘Yes, it would have been useless simply passing our information to your Government, partly because it is still incomplete, partly because if news of the discovery got out the murderer would not have come back here, and probably we should never get sufficient evidence to convict him.’
‘I
see that. How can you be sure that he is here?’
‘We can’t be sure, but we are fairly certain. He disappeared from England after arranging with his employers to make a business trip to the United States. He even got letters to them posted in the United States – not difficult, if you pay some member of the crew of an aircraft or ship to post them for you, or you may send them to some acquaintance in the States. We learned from the US police that he had never been to the hotel where he said he had written the letters. We think it probable that he came to Africa instead.’
‘How are we going to look for him? Ought we not to have a larger police party?’
‘I think I know where he is – he will be camping somewhere near the site of Mr Boscombe’s old bungalow. Whether there is anything left of the house I don’t know, but he will be either in what remains of the house or near it.’
‘It seems a big risk for just two of us to look for him.’
‘I don’t think so. You see, he has difficulties, too. Prospecting for diamonds without any sort of licence is highly illegal, and he will almost certainly be on his own, anxious to pick up a good stock of diamonds quickly, and get out. He is a geologist, remember, and everything about him suggests that he will be working on his own. He could scarcely fail to notice a search by helicopters, or on the ground by a big police party, and he’d be off at once. If need be, could you get help from Ilginaro?’
‘Yes, but I should have to get a message to the police post first. I could get help more quickly from my mother’s people. They are very loyal to the Government – and they are good fighters.’
X
The Mission Station
WE WERE ABOUT an hour’s paddling from the Mission station, and I had to work out what to do. What I had told the sergeant was fine as far as it went, but I alone knew how much of it was inference and guesswork. I had one card with which I hoped that I might yet be able to trump Robert Purbeck’s hand – the knowledge that the box of earth which seemed to have clinched Quenenden’s views about the nature of his adamantifera plants had been sent to him by Father Simpson at the Mission. I believed Purbeck to have stolen the earth with the pots he had taken from Mr Quenenden’s greenhouse, and probably to have taken whatever was left of the tea-chest as well. I hoped that Quenenden had removed the consignment label on opening the case. He had been so secretive about all his work on adamantifera that it would have been in character if he had. Purbeck, with his geologist’s training, could analyse the earth, and probably discover the strata or type of soil producing it. But it would take him time to locate the precise spot, and then he would have to dig. If, as I thought likely, he did all the digging himself, working, perhaps, only at night, that would take time, too. If I could find Father Simpson at the Mission he should be able to tell me directly where to go. I doubted if he would have any knowledge of diamonds – my guess was that he had an interest in botany, knew Quenenden’s work and perhaps even knew Quenenden himself, and was helping him simply as a fellow botanist.
I told Sergeant Taskalu that it was just possible that we might still know more about the location of the diamonds than the man we were hunting, and I explained the tactful inquiries that I – officially another horticulturist and friend of the late Eustace Quenenden – hoped to make at the Mission. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ he asked.
‘Why not? You are travelling with me as my servant – or perhaps we’d better make it my interpreter. Would it not be normal for us to be together?’
‘Normal, certainly. But there are people at the Mission who know that I am a policeman. Father Simpson, who largely founded the Mission station and has been there ever since, is one of them. I told you that my mother kept in touch with the Mission. She was very pleased when I passed so high in the police exam, and took me with her on a visit to the station to tell them all about it.’
This was a problem. I did not want to turn up with a police escort. For all I knew Purbeck himself might be in touch with the Mission, and any hint of police interest in the place might be fatal to our plans for catching him.
‘It was good police work to think of that,’ I told the sergeant. ‘I’m sure you are right. If there are people at the Mission who know you are a policeman, it would be better for you not to come there with me. We could put you ashore a mile or so above the Mission station, and pick you up again afterwards.’
‘It would be better for me to wait with the paddlers, I think. Some of the Mission people would know me if I introduced myself, but no one is likely to recognise me among a group of paddlers. I’d be happier to be close at hand – who knows, you might need me?’
*
Having settled this between ourselves, Sergeant Taskalu explained to the captain of the paddlers that I wished to land at the Mission station, but that he would remain with the crew. The captain knew that the canoe was on Government business because it had been hired by the police at Ilginaro. What his passengers did was no concern of his, but it was as well that he should understand what we wanted. Then the sergeant asked me if I could describe the strange diamond-bearing flower. I had traced the drawing from the Quenenden Flora, and I had the tracing in my pocketbook. I showed it to him. ‘This is the only picture I have, and it is a pity it is not in colour. But you can see the shape of the stems, leaves and flowers well enough. The flowers are small and tightly packed, and for the most part they are pure white. Others have slight differences in shading at the base of their petals – those are the important ones.’
‘I know of this plant – in the language of my mother’s people it is called “seslili”,’ he said. ‘You are right in saying that it is rare. I have never seen it growing, but I have seen the flowers in a bride’s headdress. There are many stories about it among the river people. It is held to be a magical plant, and can bring good luck or bad luck according to how and when it is found. There was an old wise man who was a friend of my mother’s uncle, and he would give advice on seeking and gathering it. The bride I saw would have gone to him for advice before daring to wear it at her wedding.’
‘Mr Quenenden was a great expert in the local languages. It wouldn’t surprise me if he first heard of the plant by learning of the legends about it. Nor would it surprise me if its ability to point to diamonds was a carefully guarded secret in the folklore of the forests. More probably, the knowledge once known was lost, and all that remained was belief in the magical properties of the plant. It would not be the first time that modern science has rediscovered what was known to primitive man.’
‘It is all possible. There are stories among my mother’s people that there was once a great Ga empire, with richly dressed kings and queens. They are said to have been eaten up by a swarm of locusts, leaving only the poorest forest people as their descendants. I do not know if any of this is true.’
‘Why not? There is much that is still unknown about African history. The swarm of locusts sounds like a folk myth that explains some catastrophe. You are very well educated in the culture of the Ga peoples.’
‘They are partly my own people, sir, and I have always been interested in them. And I had to learn much about them when I did my interpreter’s course.’
*
The Mission station was a much more substantial establishment than I had imagined. There were wooden quays built out from the riverside to form a harbour, and two of the quays were equipped with cranes for loading and unloading goods. The place was thronged with canoes and other craft, including two big powered barges. A little away from the river, in a clearing behind the harbour, was what looked like a small town of white-painted wooden buildings. Sergeant Taskalu explained that various skills useful to the river and forest people were taught at the Mission schools, and that the place had become an important trading centre for forest products. ‘All that is separate from the religious side,’ he said. ‘Before the Mission came there was little outlet for trade by the forest people. The river has always been used for transport, but goods mostly passed through this region beca
use there were no harbours and no roads. The Mission has done much to make life better. There is a road now, not always a good road, but usable at most times of the year, from here to Fort Edward. Trade helps to support the Mission’s work, but it is run to benefit the people. I have always thought that Father Simpson is a good man. My mother also thinks so.’
*
Longshoremen on the Ga river seem much like those on any other waterfront. Although there is no obvious lookout, expert eyes observe the approach of any strange craft, and by some form of telepathy the port authorities are made aware of its arrival. I suppose the little canopy over our canoe indicated that she carried a passenger or passengers of substance, and perhaps the keen-sighted Ga rivermen needed no binoculars to tell them that I was a European. At any rate a small reception committee was waiting for us as we made for a wooden pier without a crane – the passenger pier, I learned later.
Sergeant Taskalu tactfully demoted himself from our canopied compartment as we approached, and went forrard to join the paddlers. The bow paddler threw a line to the group of people on the pier, and our captain threw another line from the stern. Both were expertly caught, and the canoe drawn neatly to the foot of a flight of steps. As I got out to walk up the steps an elderly, thin European, with a mass of silver hair, came hurrying along the pier to greet me. ‘Welcome to the Mission,’ he said. ‘I am Father Simpson, and it will give me the greatest pleasure if you will join us in the midday meal we are about to have. If your men will paddle round the pier to the quay along the bank, I’ll see that food is sent out to them.’
‘That is most handsome of you,’ I said. ‘I have heard of your Mission in England, and finding myself in this region of the Ga I was determined to visit you. I may add that I have no right to expect such hospitality.’