Peter suppressed an instinctive frown and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin before answering. Hopefully it may have picked up a wee skerrick of sauce. Good, he could save it for afters. “Not doctor, Mr Wallace. Just plain Peter Wilks at present.”
A puzzled frown came to the face of their host. “I am sorry Peter. I was led to believe you had been granted a doctorate and were lecturing in Australia.” That was a very tender subject to bring up, but Mr Wallace had such a polite and friendly smile, that he was instantly suspicious.
“No, not yet. I am waiting for the paperwork to wind its way through University channels back in Britain. In the meantime, I was invited to run a few subjects at one of your higher education institutions in Australia, as part of an exchange program.” That was an excellently non informative answer that avoided all mention of Bartleby’s rhinoceros impression and its woeful consequences.
“Really. I’m sure they’re pleased to have such an eminent and distinguished guest. Which one is the fortunate institution?”
Peter gave a smile in return for this slickly smooth compliment, it would seem that Mr Wallace was used to greasing academics. “I am privileged to be at Skaze University. Have you heard of it? It’s in Queensland on the Gold Coast.” Peter felt he gave back as good as he got, though he could have sworn that Mr Wallace’s eyelids twitched at the mention of Skaze.
“A little. I have heard it has a singular reputation, though not as much as my alma mater, Sydney University. I went there some years ago and was awarded honours in fine arts. What courses are you looking after?”
Peter had a fragment of the Mr Wallace mystery answered. The decor on the cruiser screamed real style and taste and that input was obviously his. As to Wallace’s elevation of Sydney University above Skaze, well Peter had been in the Aussie academic scene long enough to pick up the overt hierarchy. Sydney considered itself the local equal to the Oxbridge combination and as such well above the newcomer Skaze. “I’ve been asked to do two – one on medieval commerce and trade and the second on the Crusades.”
At that answer Mr Wallace’s eyelids flickered once more. Lampie appeared to be suddenly, utterly and completely absorbed by her pastry, while Sid watched the exchange with hawk like interest. Peter tried to figure out why that answer had gained such a curious set of reactions. If he hadn’t heard the warning bells before now, these reactions would have had them ringing wildly.
While Peter was trying to figure out his error, Mr Wallace performed his own ritual of genteel lip dabbing, while his eyes displayed a clear interest and a hint of mild amusement. “Fascinating, absolutely fascinating subject, the Crusades. Devout men and women inspired by sermons to travel so far, undergoing privations and suffering all for their faith. My, my, so much devotion, so much violence. Those twin passions pushed man to create amazing works of art. I feel that nothing could provide a better example than the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. I was struck by the beautiful carved Romanesque arches at the entrance. All that elegance in architecture, to commemorate the bloody sacking of the city in ten ninety nine.”
Wallace bestowed on them a whimsical smile and Peter had to agree with that assessment. The pinnacle of Christian faith in Jerusalem was stunning, for so many reasons. Now why did Wallace pick on that particular area? Was it his fine arts education or was it to do with the Deception Bay site, or again could it be general interest and playing the good host? Peter gave an outer smile of gratitude for this display of interest and knowledge while inside his Skaze enhanced paranoia wound up another notch.
“Back to my original question about the site. I have heard glowing reports from Sidney here,” Mr Wallace flicked a smile and a few fingers towards his devoted acolyte, sitting across the table, “about your excavation, but there seems to be some debate regarding its date and origin. Would you be able to give us your opinion Peter?”
The lobster and cognac cream taste of the mini meal vanished, replaced by dry ashen sand. Once more Peter resorted to his napkin wiping ritual to buy some time. “Ahh Mr Wallace, you have struck a very vulnerable nerve. I fear archaeologists in the media and fiction often spout dates and cultures very readily. Unfortunately, after investigation and further research, such early pronouncements are rarely correct.” Peter hoped that got them off the hook but no, Wallace gave a faint smile and ‘rephrased’ the request.
“Sidney, here, believes the site to be Spanish in origin and has told me that the journal discovered would confirm that.”
Oh that was clever, very well manipulated. Peter gave his own bland smile and refused to look towards a very happy Sid. His old mate was acting like a puppy with a fresh bone. This was between Mr Wallace and him. The man was nothing if not a consummate fisher of details. “Well, it is possible for my colleague Mr Brydges to be right, although I feel all the finds tend to point more to a very early Portuguese site. As to the journal, I haven’t had the opportunity to examine it, so as yet it can neither confirm nor negate our opinions.” That answer he hoped gave enough to satisfy curiosity with sufficient hint of a deeper importance. Wallace had already picked up the Portuguese-Dutch controversy during the site inspection. Peter had tried to warn Lampie to be circumspect, but the message appeared to have been lost in translation and she’d bubbled along giving unneeded clarification to Sid’s flights of fancy.
Mr Wallace gave a more generous smile and nodded. Peter knew their host wasn’t finished yet. “I see, so the current thought is early and European. Could it be someone else apart from the Spanish or Portuguese?”
Oh flip, flipper and flipping hell, how could he have guessed! Peter put on his most mask-like smile and paused to figure out a useful evasion. Luckily he was trumped. Lampie put down her fork with a loud clink and spoke up in a clear firm voice. “Excuse me Mr Wallace, there’s a third option.”
Peter crossed his fingers under the table and whispered a silent pray that Lampie hadn’t figured it all out, or was about to spill the beans. Their host, however, swung his attention straight to her, bestowing on her a very kindly fatherly regard. “Mr Wallace, the earliest discovery of Australia is still a matter of debate. Some historians think a Frenchman, Binot Paulmyer, Sieur de Gonneville, may have been the true discoverer of Australia. In 1503 he left on an expedition of exploration and claimed to have found a wild land six weeks sail east of the Cape of Good Hope.”
The whole table stared at Lampie more or less in the manner of ‘if a fish had spoken’. Apart from a murmured ‘thank you’, she had said nothing all through the dinner. Her only input so far was to curb Sid’s frequent errors of etiquette, a trait that had peaked Peter’s interest, when it wasn’t engaged in fending off booby trap questions from Wallace. With the tables’ attention riveted on her, Lampie continued pointing towards the display area they’d passed through. “That chart you have on the wall, it could almost depict the Sieur de Gonneville voyage. So Mr Wallace, our site could be French.”
Their host slipped from frowning concentration to a teeth flashing smile and stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “That is what I so adore about history. Debate about events and objects is always shifting and changing.”
Peter eased out a very quiet sigh of relief. For a moment he’d thought it was all lost. Now having gained that reprieve thanks to Lampie, he decided to go on the offensive. “Mr Wallace, I must commend you. This is truly a divine dinner, worthy of these most sumptuous surroundings. I would not have thought to find such an interesting collection of art in the middle of the rugged Kimberleys!” Peter ignored the pointed glare from his old Aussie mate. He could lay on the compliments as well as anyone, and he needed some kind of background for distrusting Wallace, apart plain old fashioned suspicion, circumstance and an instant rapport with Sid.
Their host gave the slightest nod of appreciation and graced them with one more of his well practiced smiles. “My chef will appreciate the accolade. As to my little yacht, as a man grows older he tires of travelling without a few creature comforts. This ship serves as bo
th my home away from home and my corporate office.”
That would be right, the luxury of corporate tax breaks for the poverty stricken executive – if only that were so for a lowly academic. Peter had to resign himself that his limit of nautical excess was more like a row boat on the Thames, two sandwiches and a thermos of tea. As for this vessel, it went a long way past minor creature comforts. Filling a cruiser with expensive antiques spoke of a formidable amount of money.
“As to our fortunate presence here, that was no more than luck. I was travelling to Indonesia for business and happened to be passing. The skipper of my cruiser informed me of Mr Brydge’s distress call and, since my crew was available, we came to the rescue.”
Sid nodded and put his oar in before Peter could move on to the next part of his cautious questioning. “It was lucky for us when you came by Mr Wallace. Fenton has a ferocious reputation around here as a site ripper and smuggler.”
Peter tried not to glare, blink in shock or give any other obvious sign that Sid had lost his marbles or that his old Aussie mate didn’t speak for all of them. He was certain luck had little to do with the cruiser’s arrival nor did he think that Sid understood how much he’d just given away. Lampie had said Blinky was one of Sid’s best friends, so with friends like that where did that place Sid?
Mr Wallace continued to smile and waved off the comment as if it was just an every day occurrence. Sid, still in the frenzy of obsequiousness, tapped on the side of a glass and everyone’s eyes swung down the table. Peter stifled the incipient groan. Oh no not speech time! Why now? He was just beginning to get somewhere! “Firstly, on behalf of our expedition, I would like to thank Mr Wallace for his timely arrival!”
As expected, that received a round of polite claps from Peter and Lampie. Sid, although the proposer, enthusiastically clapped away like a soviet party apparatchik, applauding a speech by Stalin. “I reckon, without Mr Wallace’s help, that weasel Fenton could have made life bloody difficult and ruined a major site!”
Once more, a polite round of clapping. Peter watched his old Aussie mate carefully. Sid’s eyes had that manic gleam again, as if he’d been on a serious ‘herbal’ bender. Instinct told him Sid was angling for something, most probably patronage. Wallace was undoubtedly well off and no archaeologist worth his salt would miss the opportunity to try for a cash injection. Peter hoped that was all, unless Sid was suffering one of his delusions of grandeur, like the ones that used to periodically sweep over him in Canberra. If that was the case, then it was man the lifeboats!
Considerations of Sid’s current mental state had to be put aside since their excavation leader loudly cleared his throat and continued. “During the tour today, Mr Wallace was very impressed with our achievements and has made a very generous offer to support this excavation. In light of the visit from Blinky Fenton and the possibilities of this site I’ve accepted!”
Well that was expected. Peter suppressed any urge to frown and, like a party functionary, wore the official smile and clapped politely. He wasn’t looking forward to the next few days. Wallace’s ‘assistants’ were going to be with them a little longer. Welcome to the sunny atmosphere of Luft Stalag Deception Bay. Mind it could have its advantages – fewer crocodiles for a start. Lampie, sitting opposite him, was less than impressed. From what he could see she was wavering between shock and anger.
Sid, as expected, was either ignoring the fragile environment or was totally ignorant of it and had launched into the next part of his presentation. “Due to the difficulties we’ve had recently, and the threats to the site, I’ve become concerned about the security of our discoveries. I’m sure the rest of the team feels the same.”
Sid gave Lampie and Peter a nod and attempted a sincere smile. Peter felt a twinge of anxiety, the warning signs of old Sid o’ Canberra were returning. Yes, security was a wee bit lax, what with everyone and his dog wanting to trample all over the ‘secret site’. May as well tag a sign on Google maps, he’d offer to do it if he could get to a computer.
Sid took their silence as clear assent and happily nodding, burbled on. “Great, so Mr Wallace has made a very kind offer. We can use his cruiser as the lock up until the excavation is finished and, as the first and most important piece, I’ve asked him to mind the lacquer box and journal!”
Sid bent down and placed the said box on the table. Under the dining room lights it shone with a singular intensity. The directional spotlights picked up each fleck of gold and mother of pearl. It was truly magnificent and all conversation or complaint stuttered to a halt as everyone gazed down at it. For one, Peter was too choked to speak. To an outsider it may have looked like a combination of gratitude and relief, with teary eyes and the rest. It wasn’t – he was blinking furiously and holding the napkin up to his face, so that it saved him from reaching across the table and biting out Sid’s throat in best primate fashion. Peter knew exactly what Sid really intended by asking Mr Wallace to ‘safeguard’ the box, and it certainly wasn’t to protect it from ‘rippers and scavengers’, no, not in the least. Sid, true to past form, had pulled the inevitable fast one. It would appear that their contract had entered dead letter region and there was little Peter could do. Another certainty settled into his belly, sick and sour to the taste as indigestible as a rock. Betrayal!
While Sid and Wallace were discussing the plan for tomorrow, Peter excused himself with claims of stomach cramp and gained directions to the ‘head’, the loo in sailing terms. He waved off Lampie’s concern and staggered off down the corridor. Once out of sight, he breathed a sigh of relief and quietly checked each door. A few were cabin accommodation, though pretty palatial compared to Lampie’s ketch. The first interesting room was a very large office with two computer screens and a similar spread of exquisite art. Next to that was another room stacked full of boxes. Peter slipped in. Oh flipping hell, talk about getting lucky!
Some might think that boxes were, well boxes, and to a certain extent that was true, except for boxes and packaging for art and fragile antiques. And with these came an entirely new level of packing paranoia, that left a couple of hefty lads and the local moving van far behind. Shipping a Rembrandt didn’t just involve a few pieces of bubble wrap and some adhesive tape. That kind of cavalier attitude led to terminally expensive damages claims, well-fed lawyers, and endless litigation. To Peter the cabin exuded the same kind feeling as the freight dock at the British Museum, lots of carefully wrapped objects sealed in heavy layers of foam and waterproof covers. He cautiously pried open one of the smaller boxes, and found several small carved stone cylinder seals. They could have been either Assyrian or Babylonian. This wasn’t really his field, but he recalled a few like this in the ancient middle-eastern section of the Ashmolean Museum. Feeling only slightly guilty he pulled out his mobile and snapped a few images of the items before slipped one into his pocket and resealed the box.
From the quantity, this had to be a very fine collection, a mansion or museum’s worth at least. So unless Mr Wallace was in the habit of moving all his choice pieces everywhere he went, this served a different purpose and Peter suspected he knew exactly what that was. The cruiser was for display yes, correct, but not only, for Mr Wallace – it also served as his mobile showroom. Mr Wallace knew history and fine art and had extremely good taste. He had to, if he was a dealer in pricy and slightly ‘iffy’ antiquities. This also explained the heavily armed and multi-talented assistants.
From his periodical sojourns at excavations in the Levantine, Peter knew quite a tad about ‘antiquities dealers’. Their reputations for rapacious practices were legendary. Any item was fair game. One estimate was that seventy percent of all pieces on the market either were stolen or ripped from a site illegally. Nothing that Peter had found so far, helped lend credence to Wallace’s position as an altruistic passerby. Rather it provided conclusive evidence that his arrival and the rest of the performance was far from a fortunate happenstance. The whole situation smacked of days of planning, possibly even longer – only the
arrival of Blinky had set it off earlier than anticipated. Damn and flipping hell!
This put Sid’s machinations in an entirely new, and glaring, light. So far, since Peter had been at the dig site, he’d only had five minutes internet access via Lampie’s ketch just before they left, barely enough time to check any emails and certainly not near enough for any Wallace related research. Now that he thought about it, it did seem strange that his Aussie mate, who in past times had been known to have difficulties just switching on a computer, suddenly was using one so much that he had been monopolising the Deception Bay internet connection.
If only there was some alternate internet source? Give him twenty minutes and he’d clear up most of this confusion. Frustrated with being thrust back into the pre internet days, Peter closed the door, walked back up to the dining room and quietly took his seat in time for the serving of dessert.
The proclaimed course arrived and by now Peter’s stomach was churning so badly with anger, he found it difficult to both smile and eat at the same time. Picking up his spoon, he considered its merits as a Sid disembowelling device. Perhaps if he sharpened one edge?
His consideration of diverse methods for Sid immolation was swept aside as their host engaged Lampie in conversation.
“Mlle Yvette Lampierre je dois avouer une certaine confusion lorsque j'ai été informé de cette aventure il a été surpris de découvrir que la fille de Jean Renaud Lampierre n'était pas responsable de cette expédition?
Peter took a sip of the accompanying wine, which according to the hovering ‘assistant’ was a Barossa valley sauterne, and quickly ran through a rough translation in his mind while trying to look blankly disinterested. If he’d got the modern french correct, Wallace’s question ran something like this:
Miss Yvette Lampierre, I must confess/admit to some confusion when I was informed about this venture. I was surprised to find that the daughter of Jean Renaud Lampierre was not in charge/responsible for/of this expedition?
Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery) Page 31