Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery)

by Gregory House

  However…

  However, there was this slight snag to that. It involved his doctoral thesis and Doctor Augustus Clement Danforth Wallingham OBE, Vice Chancellor of Portlee University. Good old Augustus had invited him for a congratulatory session in the staff club and over a very small glass of single malt had casually mentioned that while Peter was over here, if he had occasion, the VC of his alma mater would appreciate an odd letter home, just filling him in on the usual happenings of Skaze University. Then Peter had dubious benefit of reminiscence from the exalted doctor, about how he spent quite a bit of time in friendly competition, you know in a collegiate fashion with his old friend Dr Adams, while they where at university together and please give his kind regards and so on. Then a jolly little piece on how much he was looking forward to handing his chair on to the esteemed Dr Adams at the conclusion of his custodianship. Finally the evening concluded with a friendly handshake and the assurance that the difficulties with his thesis would shortly sort themselves out by the time he finished his placement.

  To those unattuned to the subtle nuances of academic double speak, that was a blatant admission that the two VC’s loathed each other and competition hadn’t quite reached the level of poison or duel, but wasn’t far off. And if Peter wanted his doctorate then he’d better bloody well sniff around and find out as much as possible about his rival or he needn’t bother coming back.

  So what was he to do? Going back meant no doctorate. Even if he managed to transfer university, no one was going to accept his work after the ‘Bartleby rhinoceros incident’, unless it came attached with a donation large enough to suspend short term memory. His family didn’t have anything like that kind of clout and although he was intimately familiar with Fiona, it hadn’t progressed to the point of an announcement in the Times social columns. Reality left little choice. He really needed that doctorate in medieval history to get any kind of job that would allow him to engage in his twin passions, reconstruction archeology and Real Ale, and of course not forgetting his other dominating obsession, Fiona. But for now he was mired in suspicion and academic espionage instead of sun, sand, surf and bikinis.

  Since that fateful barbeque, he’d maintained a precarious existence. Committees, as promised, had been pure hell and so far he’d avoided all the usual traps by intensively researching the Skaze University guidelines and procedures. It’d saved him so far, but had the unfortunate side effect that this was convincing his fellow commerce faculty members that he was, indeed, a skilled infiltrator of Wallingham’s, the spy that Adam’s was so concerned about. So Peter now led the kind of existence he’d had occasion to study, a day in the life of Stalinist Russia where every word and action was weighted and scrutinized for hidden meaning or opportunity. It was very much a ‘damned if you do and damned if you don’t’ situation. While he may enjoy the Le Carre novels, he really didn’t like living one

  Having made what preparations he could, which meant a rapid skim over his committee attendances and brief review of all the last month’s faculty memos, he took the long walk to the Vice Chancellor’s office. Every step felt like it was the path to Madame Guillotine. Surprisingly, the wait outside Dr Adams office was brief. He’d barely taken his seat on the sleekly modern leather sofa before the great man’s secretary escorted him into the inner sanctum.

  At last he got to meet the venerated hero of the Commerce faculty, Lord of the domain of Skaze. Now Peter wasn’t a fool. Given the hint from the day of the Dean’s barbeque, he’d researched Dr Adams assiduously, going over all his decisions and pronouncements. It had been very enlightening. There where pages and pages of photos of the good doctor giving speeches, making announcements, opening conferences, conferring awards and so on. It was a little difficult to sort out the distinction between university business and the myriad social functions, so perhaps there wasn’t one. What quickly became apparent was that Dr Adams liked being seen and heard. Even more interesting was his choice of photo companions. At all the events, without exception, he was always pictured with one or more attractive young girls in their late teens, early twenties age group, all classed in the bright cover girl sub set, always with his hand placed in fatherly benevolent manner on the shoulder or clasped in a welcome grip and the recipient of one of his generous smiles.

  Those shots spoke volumes. The articles and write ups told a different tale. Though not by any lurid exposé, as would be expected from the photos. No, not from Dr Adams. Each piece could have been scripted by the VC’s press office. All were universally imbued with gushing praise on the great man’s words of wisdom or foresight of vision. Peter felt a distinct chill climb up his spine as he read through them. They reminded him too much of Pravda writing about the daily achievements of our great leader, Comrade Stalin. Australia wasn’t a ‘worker’s paradise’ of the style of say North Korea and at least possessed a nominally free press, even if Rupert owned most of it like he did back home in Blighty. So, for anyone as prominent as Adams to avoid even a hint of criticism, indicated an excessively healthy grip on the collective nuts of a considerable number of editors. A subdued tone was even present in the student council paper, usually the hotbed of outrage and slander towards the administration. You’d think Dr Adams was the perfect target. No such luck. It could only muster up the odd mild reproof. What was this? Was he some later day St Theresa, or the new Kennedy?

  He walked into the plushy appointed room like a Christian to the lions. Damn, Peter wished he was Russell Crowe.

  A friendly, suave voice invited him towards the more personal space of the office. “Peter, do come in. I’ve heard excellent reports of your lectures. So good of you to see me at such short notice. Have a seat.”

  The great man stood up and presented a welcoming handshake and friendly smile, before that fatherly manner gently escorted him towards a large modernist glass and marble coffee table, artfully surrounded by four Mies van der Rohe chairs. One was already occupied so Peter slipped into his proffered perch and gave a nod of greeting to Adam’s prior guest, a crisply dressed gentleman who had watched his approach with all the patient anticipation of a shark.

  Adams deftly regained his chair and assumed a pose of welcoming engagement. That must have taken some practice. Peter found the chair incredibly uncomfortable. If he relaxed he felt like he was going to tip over while if he leant forward it was unbalancing. He noted the open drinks cabinet, and the pair of tumblers half full of amber fluid on the coffee table. His highly trained noise told him the rest, single malt Islay, the one filtered through peat and seaweed. Hmmm tasty. It took great restraint not to salivate on the Persian carpet.

  “Peter, I hope you have settled into our little community. Professor Charlton is impressed with your diligence and you seem to be hitting it off well with our students.”

  Well that at least spelt out who was his designated watcher. Peter mumbled a quiet thank you and ran off the usual phrases of ‘pleased to be here’, ‘responsive dedicated students’, ‘cooperative and friendly colleagues’, ‘experienced leadership’ and the rest of the guff. Adams continued to smile benevolently as the praises rolled over him.

  “Good, good. Well let me introduce Ken Dodworthy.” Adams gave a relaxed wave to the other gentleman on Peter’s right, who responded with a short nod and a stare of singular intensity.

  “Ken is a great supporter of Skaze. He was recently on our Council, heading the investments committee, and has been kind enough to assist our regional partnerships program.”

  Peter tried his best to look like a pleased academic, chuffed with being in such exalted company, while he mentally translated the introduction. Dodworthy was a favoured ‘friend,’ an influential one with connections, while Peter didn’t merit the offer of a glass of water.

  “His company is managing a development project up in the hinterland of the Sunshine Coast and requires some expert specialist services for site evaluation.”

  Peter gave another polite nod while the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attent
ion. What the hell did this have to do with him?

  The Vice Chancellor continued his pleasantly modulated explanation. “Ken holds our colleagues at Skaze in high esteem, so we’ve been asked to take on the contract work, and since it concerns a bit of archeological and historical research, I needed to look no further than your excellent qualifications and experience. That is, Peter, if you’ve got the time and you’re interested? If you take it on, I can promise you the whole hearted support of the university.”

  It took barely a moment’s hesitation, which he hoped looked like studied reflection before Peter acquiesced to the invitation. Shaking hands all round he was quickly whisked out of the office by the magically appearing secretary and simultaneously presented with a very slim folder.

  And that was that, and definitely no scotch!

  Peter was out of the building and onto the concourse before he let slip the mask of benign acceptance. A couple of passing students turned to stare as he pummeled an innocent gum tree. What the hell was he going to do? Only an imbecile couldn’t see that Adam’s had handed him a ticking parcel. So why now and whatever around here needed an archeologist? Momentarily he was lost, until inspiration literally hit him over the head. The bloody gum tree, affronted at his disrespect, shed a hefty branch that almost beaned him. At the last instant he realised his peril and jumped aside, straight into the thicket of some spiky leaved shrub. Damned dangerous this indigenous flora. Was everything in this country trying to get him? Then the gears cranked into action. When dealing with a local problem like this he needed a local solution, and both the gum tree and the Grevillea twigged him onto the right track. Time to go and talk to a local expert.

  As with most modern institutions, Skaze was divided into different faculty buildings. Their placement on the ground plan was usually reflective of the amount of influence on the University Council. Law and Commerce Studies respectively got the best spots facing each other on the Quadrangle, within easy stroll of the admin offices, the library and most importantly the University Club, the quiet haunt of academics, favoured students and visiting ‘consultants’. Further off were the lesser departments like Medicine and Health Services, while tucked away over by the utilities building was Property and Sustainable Development. Peter always wondered about that name. He’d walked into one of their lectures by accident during his first week. It took most of the lecture to realise their concept of sustainable development was a bit different to the one he’d heard about back home. A rather more in the vein of ‘rip, gouge and plunder’ though with the useful application of modern accounting software to keep a running tally minute by minute, if the client was one of those voyeur types who liked to chart the passage of destruction.

  Anyway, getting back to the physical layout of status. Medieval alchemists would love this, it was so in keeping with their philosophy of the ‘world spheres’.

  So as above, so as below

  Their idea was that the patterns of the heavenly hierarchy were a mirror of those of the earth or in fact those in hell. Well here it was certainly so, the Lords of departments had the thrones in the top floor with the best view of the lake and gardens, fussed over by personal secretaries, while minions of lesser importance occupied the lower niches. The bottom rank of course was the least favoured and most put upon positions and, if they had a dungeon or dank cellar, that’s where miserable sweating denizens would be incarcerated, except for their obligatory several hours’ treadmill service.

  This dungeon equivalent was where Peter was heading, the south eastern most corner, gifted with a startlingly original view, straight over the delightfully tarred services road, past the chain lock security fence to the fascinatingly blank brick wall of the utilities compound. A quiet knock on a leaflet covered door got him a cheery invite into the cell.

  “G’day Pete. Great to see ya. Pull up a pew an’ have a slurp of this!”

  His host was sitting behind a desk piled high with folders, leaving only enough clear space for a pair of size nine boots casually tapping to some unheard beat. The rest of the figure was clearly visible, a thickset body negligently clothed in an old footy jumper and tatty jeans, leaning back into a straining chair. To complete the image of university dissonance, the ‘lecturer’ was holding a small coffee cup enveloped in a hand large enough to pop a football.

  “Just pour it out from that thermos on the shelf,” came the happy injunction.

  Peter did as instructed and dumping another pile of folders onto the floor to join their companions, took up the spare seat indicated by a waved hand. Then watching the expectant grin, he cautiously looked at his glass. The liquid inside had the consistency of lightly watered syrup, slightly green in tinge, as it lazily swirled around, leaving trailing residues on the upper slopes until it slowly oozed back. A short exploratory sniff told him that Freddie had once more tried for that original blend of rocket fuel with a fresh hint of mint. Daring the loss of a few thousand brain cells and an equal proportion of taste buds, he gulped down the aromatic offering. Nothing but a refreshing herbal taste for the first few seconds, then… “AWWWWWWHHHHH CHHHHRRRIISSSSSSTTTT!”

  “Breath, Pete. It helps to get the full flavour.” That informative instruction percolated past the shocked assault on his brain cells as he gasped for oxygen. He was glad he was sitting down. The floor was closer that way.

  “Sorry mate. Forgot to tell you this is sipping liquor.” A broad white smile hove into view, as a massive hand reached down to help him back into the chair.

  “Flipping hell, Freddie, you did that deliberately!” That’s what he hoped he’d said. His tongue and mouth still felt numb and unresponsive so it may have sounded a touch blurry.

  “Well yeah, but it was fun. I was getting bored today.”

  “What? Wouldn’t anyone rise to the baiting in your tutes?” That came out a tad better. The numbness was fading. Peter very, very carefully eased another small sip between his lips. Yes, definitely mint flavoured.

  “Naw. Had a class of sustainable entrepreneurs. Fuck me ragged, what a humourless bunch of suck arses. Wouldn’t trust them to set up a garage sale.”

  Peter nodded sympathetically, though not too hard in case his head fell off. Ahh, the suffering a lecturer had to endure, students dumber than a bag of hammers and with as much sense of humour as a Presbyterian undertaker.

  “Well I’m here to liven up your day. What can you tell me about this?” Peter tossed over Adam’s slim folder.

  Despite his size and forbidding appearance Freddie Harrison was a real gem. Peter had literally tripped over him in the bar one night. After a heavy session, the recumbent figure had groaned, rolled over and clutched his leg, asking for a lift to some unpronounceable take away. Considering that he was in the throes of a massive paranoid episode due to the barbeque, he surprised himself by readily complying and was introduced to the finest and spiciest Thai food on the Gold Coast. The other revelation was that Lady Fate had given him a cheeky grin. Freddie was another pariah of the Skaze institution, though in his case he was very much untouchable and not just because he was koori, the aboriginals’ name for themselves. No that was a minor factor, Freddie was a man of unique and irreplaceable skills. Academically he had, when soberer, an insightful intellect capable of cutting through the thickest bullshit. But more essential to his grudging retention by Skaze was his singular talent, leading the university Rugby team in an unparalleled string of victories. For the past several years they had trampled UQ, bulldozed Cook and giving vent to interstate rivalry, stomped the University of Sydney.

  So for the greater good and glory of Skaze, Freddie’s many idiosyncrasies had to be endured, though that didn’t stop the pretty meanness that shoved him to the nethermost region of Hades. The considerable side benefit was that Freddie’s extra curricular hobbies went unnoticed, the pursuit of the finest absinthe, that infamous French liquor that according to legend, was imbibed by many famous artists and under its influence inspired both van Gogh and Picasso’s particular styles. Pet
er wasn’t sure about the veracity of those stories, but if he kept knocking back this current blend, he’d no doubt see exploding cubist heads and yellow washed skies as well.

  Freddie casually flipped through the brief collection of papers while his heavy dark eyebrows twitched like a semaphore in the grip of St Vitius dance. It didn’t take long for him to finish his review. He shook his head and handed back the folder. “Christ Pete, how the hell did you get this one? Adams must really want your guts.”

  Peter just shrugged. Over a couple of samplings of various versions of absinthe derivative, he’d let slip the tale of the bathroom. Freddie had been most amused. He’d even fallen off his seat and rolled around on the ground howling with laughter at the story of the Dean of Commerce and his new kitchen. Peter hadn’t though it was that funny, but Freddie had just smirked and promised a revealing tale later.

  “So any suggestions what to do with this?”

  “Well for a start do a bit of research on the ‘Limberlost Terrace’. Any internet trawl should come up with a wack of stuff, though I reckon you’ll find it a bit far out.”

  Peter slumped in his seat. That’d be right – they were going to send him to the other side of the state. “How many days drive is it?”

  Freddie frowned at the reply and waved his hands dismissively. “No, no matey. It’s only three to four hours drive north from here. I meant that Gympie and Limberlost attract some pretty freaky ideas from all kinds a loopo’s. No wonder you’ve been given this. It’s been kicking around the faculty for weeks. No one’s been brave enough to touch it, even for the money ol’ dodgy Dodworthy was offering.”