The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

  Several pages followed which were devoted to the hardships of evading Kavanagh and his men. William also mentioned earlier memories of his cousin in which he made it clear that, even as a boy ten years younger than himself, Kavanagh had been quite devious and was not to be trusted. Perhaps Kavanagh’s final betrayal clouded William’s recollections because, for a couple of pages at least, past and present combined in a confusing jumble of unrelated events. Reading between the lines, Holly could see that what outraged William more than anything was the complete lack of loyalty shown by one family member to another. A rift had been created that could never be bridged.

  It was unclear from the diary how long the men stayed hidden in the mountains. The next entry simply recorded their return to the beach:

  Returning with care to Grand Port we were pleasantly relieved to find our booty untouched. Of the Dancing Queen, the Serpent and the crew of both there was no sign. We could surely have used young Capstick’s strength at that time but employed our own to bury the poor laddie, a task neglected by my dear Cousin.

  Being unexpectedly marooned on the island we had little choice but to join forces with the French garrison and assist with preparations to receive the first settlers from France. The arrival of their ships ultimately provided the opportunity we had sought for so long. In 1725, by Royal Charter from King Louis the Fifteenth himself, a fine vessel and crew were made available and we eagerly took to sea as legal corsairs under the flag of France.

  There were very few entries after that. Hardly any were dated and Holly could only guess at the time span between them. The treasure spirited off the Serpent was removed from the beach to a more secure hiding place, undisclosed but apparently several miles inland. Then, this one:

  The main island of Rodrigues is a small miracle. Barren, yet softly green, rugged, yet delicate. Topped by fern and flower, grass and tree, the like of which I have never seen before. Bays and inlets in the folds of cliffs. Curious sea birds unafraid by our presence in this Garden of Eden. Reefs of coral abounding with all manner of life and colour, a beauteous display like the bursting of stars or the flash of sunshine on a barrel of the finest gemstones. Caves abound, the depths and darkness of which are well suited to our purpose. Surely here, we have found Paradise. I shall build my house on one of the smaller islands which may be reached on foot at low tide, for I am done with life at sea.

  Left on Rodrigues with two loyal followers, William seemed as disinclined as ever to keep a daily record of his life, or indeed, explain how and why he came to be there or give any reason for retiring. Entries were sporadic and dealt mainly with catastrophic events. If it hadn’t been for the fact that two were dated, William could well have been oblivious of the passage of time. The first of these was dated 1745, when William would have been sixty-four:

  16th February 1745

  A terrifying cyclone has laid waste to the island. It raged for four days. I have much work ahead to repair my shelter. A sorrier sight would be hard to find. The hills are littered with fallen trees, their great trunks snapped like tinder, branches and leaves scattered and strewn so that all is carpeted with them. The sight is depressing. It is the Will of God that my remaining water barrels have survived.

  2nd October 1745

  I have been ill with the fever these past days. This accursed place, crawling with rats and spiders, no water. What use is a man’s wealth here? How I long for home.

  Isolation was finally getting to him. One of the other men had died of natural causes, leaving William and a fellow called Tim Ainsley. The journal seldom mentioned Ainsley so Holly deduced that the two were not close. William seemed more fascinated by the dodo, which he referred to as a solitaire:

  I have observed that the solitaire has intelligence, the like of which is not apparent in other birds. However, it cannot fly. When captured, it will shed tears. Something causes it to refuse all manner of food so that it dies of starvation rather than endure captivity. Tis fine eating though, despite its appearance. Ungainly, with feet and beak not unlike a turkey and nary a feather on its rump. Today I watched another marriage. A new fledged bird came, with its parents, and was introduced to another. As many as thirty others accompanied and, after a period, all left and the two young ones remained alone.

  Suddenly, William was back on Île de France. As usual, he did not make clear how he arranged the journey. He simply mentioned a couple of hardships:

  Ile de France

  The journey took eight days and never have I been so pleased to see land. We experienced extremely foul weather and our food was soon sodden with sea water. Pushed by the winds we struck land too far north and nearly ran aground on the reef before reaching Grand Port. The sight of this place, home for so long, left me nostalgic for Ireland. I have lived fairly to other men for seven long years. A pardon could surely be arranged.

  Whether he ever sought a pardon was unclear. He never mentioned it again. Tim Ainsley drowned, an event recorded dispassionately. Likewise the fact that a marriage took place between William and a woman only referred to as ‘my wife’. By Holly’s reckoning, William was sixty-five when he married. Followed by the subsequent arrival of two daughters whose names were as ignored as his wife, and then the birth of a son called Thomas. One clue to the identity of his wife had been a laconic ‘I had thought that Thomas, at least, might carry the Maguire blood but no, he’s as brown as the other two.’

  William became totally obsessed with the developments that had taken place. In particular, of a safer harbour on the western side of the island at Port Louis. The French had decided to move the capital from Grand Port to Port Louis in 1729. William, after seven years on Rodrigues, was obviously amazed at progress. He went to great lengths to describe a fort being built on Coopers Island and into raptures over the erection of a brand new hospital. However, the new capital ceased to absorb him for too long. The journal was reduced to such notations as ‘Ducros died of the pox.’ There was one final undated entry:

  My time draws near. The past three years have been pleasant enough. Each ship brings more French settlers and I enjoy jovial company as and when I please. Word comes that Kavanagh has returned to Ireland. I will send this journal to my sister that its content may denounce the evil treachery of his ways. The map I have drawn will provide her with a not insignificant inheritance. But lest my directions fall into the wrong hands, let it be known that any who have no right to it will die a most horrible death with their spirit cursed for all eternity.

  A spidery signature followed the last entry. William Maguire presumably, having put his affairs in order, then expired. Holly turned the page. The back page of the journal, the one on which William had drawn his map, had been neatly cut out.

  Holly closed the book and put it carefully into her bedside drawer. What kind of a man had William Maguire been? Kind, cruel, certainly not forgiving. His ramblings gave no real clue to his personality. A bit on the cold side it seemed, though that could have been the way most men were back then. She could see how, having read such an account, someone like Connor Maguire would have found the challenge to find William’s treasure quite irresistible.

  Is that all there is to Connor Maguire? she wondered. Somehow, it seemed unlikely.

  FOUR

  The next morning, after a light breakfast by the pool, Holly telephoned the hire car people and asked them to collect the Mini Moke. She left the keys at reception and wandered outside to wait for Connor. Since he seemed happy enough for her to tag along with him, there didn’t appear to be much point in keeping the car. Mauritius was well served by public transport and taxis were everywhere.

  She was wearing baggy khaki trousers, a white tank top under a sleeveless jacket with four large button-down pockets, and walking boots. Camera bag slung over one shoulder, the tape recorder peeped from a breast pocket, a notepad from the other. On her head, a bright blue baseball cap with the words totally awesome embroidered in gold on the front. Small, round, wire-framed sunglasses perched atop the cap’s
peak.

  If Holly was aware that she looked like a foreign correspondent down on her luck and stranded in some war-torn third world country, it didn’t seem to bother her. She slid into the car next to Connor, pulled out her notebook and said, ‘Thanks for dinner last night. How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-two.’ He eyed her with amusement.

  Holly knew very well that he was used to being seen in the company of immaculately dressed women. It was for this precise reason that she had chosen the clothes she was wearing, believing that, since she couldn’t compete, she might as well go the other way. ‘How old were you when you made your first million?’

  She was all business this morning, adding notes against a list of prepared questions.

  ‘Twenty-six.’ He pulled out onto the road and accelerated to get ahead of an oncoming bus.

  Holly waited until he’d slowed, wrote down his answer, then carried on. ‘You’ve been married twice. Any children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think you’ll try it a third time?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Anyone in mind?’

  ‘Yeah!’ He glanced in the rear-view mirror, changed down a gear and overtook a wildly lurching lorry. Safely back on the left side of the road, he added, ‘A combination of saint, angel and earth mother would just about do it for me.’

  ‘Choose a wife with your ear, not your eye?’ Both his wives had been quite stunning.

  ‘Something like that. Next time, if there is a next time, I’ll be quite sure there is no hidden agenda.’

  She heard wryness, not bitterness. ‘Is that what went wrong?’

  ‘Is this really relevant?’ Connor’s voice was still light but tightness had crept into it.

  ‘I’m trying to find a personal angle.’

  ‘Then ask about what sport I play, what books or movies I’ve enjoyed.’

  ‘I’m getting to that.’

  He sighed. ‘My most recent ex-wife has said enough to fill your notepad. I don’t need to add anything.’

  ‘Except your side of the story.’

  ‘I’m a self-centred cad. Will that do?’

  She was making him angry. Good. Angry people were often less cautious. Holly kept her voice impersonal. ‘Pressure of work must have come into it. That and lifestyle.’

  Connor swerved to the side of the road and pulled up. The lorry, then the bus, trundled past. ‘Shit!’ He rested his wrists on the steering wheel and looked hard at her. ‘I don’t talk about it because it’s nobody else’s damned business. Get hold of her interviews. Read between the lines. Just don’t expect me to make excuses or accusations, okay?’ Throwing a look over his shoulder, he pulled back onto the road.

  Well! She’d certainly made him angry. But not inclined to discuss deeply private issues. When she thought about it, Holly realised that through both divorces Connor had kept a dignified silence. She also remembered that his last wife had remarried within a couple of months. Had she used him to further her own ends? Was it all a question of money? Holly looked over at Connor, trying to gauge his mood. Judging by his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, he probably wouldn’t welcome any speculation in that direction. She decided it might be prudent to drop the personal angle for now. ‘What happened to the map at the back of the journal?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Did you bring it with you?’

  ‘It’s in the camera bag.’

  They were travelling south from Grand Baie, towards the capital Port Louis. Holly had studied a map the night before, trying to locate places mentioned in the journal. Mahébourg was near Grand Port. There were two ways of reaching the southeast of the island. They could stay with the national highway, which would take them up through the central highlands before dropping back to sea level near the airport. From Plaisance, Mahébourg was a mere eight kilometres north. Or they could cut across on a secondary road further north and follow the coast south. They took the more direct route. Either way, it wasn’t going to take long, no more than an hour or so. She lapsed into silence, fascinated by the jagged peaks which seemed to rise almost vertically from the lush green fields of sugar cane.

  At Curepipe, the tea industry capital of Mauritius, crowds of people on the road forced them to a crawl. After five minutes, Connor wound down his window and asked a Creole man near the car what was going on.

  ‘Ah!’ The man shook his head. ‘It is a funeral.’

  ‘Must be someone important,’ Connor said. The wall of people was unbroken, a solid mass.

  ‘A young girl. She was murdered.’ The man’s shock was evident.

  ‘Did you know her?’ Connor asked in sympathy.

  Another head shake. ‘She was white. Some knew her, not many.’ He was clearly eager to talk. ‘The whole town is here. It is a disgraceful business. She was only nineteen. We come to show the family our respect.’ He waved his hand over the heads of those in front of him. ‘The cemetery is only a little way ahead. We will soon be out of your way.’

  A slimly built Indian man in a dark blue suit walked past the car, his eyes scanning the crowd, a frown on his face. Detective Sham was attending the funeral of Corrine Vitry to see who else was there. He knew that a murderer very often attended the victim’s funeral to gloat. Sham had been dismayed to see how many people had turned up for Corrine’s last ride. He supposed there was an element of curiosity over the inevitable rumours, which would account for such a crowd. Sham had his suspicions about who had murdered the girl but in this mob, whether his suspect was there or not, the chances of Sham being able to study his face seemed unlikely.

  Sure enough, as the Creole had told Connor, the funeral procession soon turned off the main road and they were able to proceed south.

  Mahébourg showed its age. Holly’s trusty guidebook informed her that the town, pronounced ‘Mayberg’ in English, was the first settlement of any size to be established in Mauritius, a fact reflected in its black basalt buildings and dated architecture. They located the Historical and Naval Museum without difficulty and Connor parked at the imposing wrought-iron gates.

  ‘Looks shut,’ Holly commented.

  Connor went to investigate. Several pedestrians stopped and spoke to him. ‘Temporarily closed for renovations,’ he announced, getting back into the car. He started the engine. ‘Bit of a pity but there’s nothing we can do about it. It was a long shot anyway.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Fancy some lunch?’

  Holly threw him a puzzled look.

  He glanced back, a question in his eyes.

  She shrugged and turned her head away.

  ‘What? What have I done now? It’s not my fault the place is shut.’

  She looked back at him. ‘How did you get to be so successful?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You’ve come all this way and just because the museum’s closed you give up and think about lunch.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s too early anyway.’

  ‘Okay. What do you suggest?’

  ‘What about Births, Deaths and Marriages?’

  ‘I’ve checked. Nothing about William but there were a succession of Maguires in this area. Mainly dead ones.’

  She should have known better. Making assumptions about Connor Maguire was not a good idea. The cheque issue for AIDS research was a case in point. Maguire might sometimes seem like an irresponsible schoolboy but he sure as hell wasn’t. Holly knew he’d have covered it before she asked the question. But she asked anyway. ‘Phone book?’

  ‘Done that as well. Found one.’

  Connor seemed to be driving aimlessly as they turned along the seafront. He stopped the car. ‘Let’s walk. Stretch our legs. Take in some sea air.’

  ‘Anywhere in particular?’ Holly fancied his intentions were more precise than they appeared. The Connor Maguires of this world were simply not that vague. And, as she was learning, this particular Connor Maguire left little to chance.

  ‘That looks a likely place for l
unch.’ He pointed across the road. ‘We can come back later.’

  The Restaurant le Phare did indeed look good. Holly noticed how closely he studied it as they passed. There was something . . . she couldn’t quite put her finger on it . . . something a bit staged about Connor’s behaviour today. But for now, since he seemed determined to explore, she might as well go along with it. ‘Mind if I tape as we go?’

  Holly threw in questions as they strolled, deliberately keeping away from sensitive personal issues. In the next hour, they walked and talked, doing a complete circuit of the town without really paying too much attention to it. Connor, like too few people being interviewed, appreciated and was good at the technique of the question-and-answer process. She liked the way he kept his responses concise. It meant she wouldn’t have to wade through hours of irrelevant waffle.

  They were back outside Restaurant le Phare.

  ‘My treat,’ Holly announced, as they walked under an archway onto the open-sided patio. A waiter hurried towards them. ‘Table for two.’

  ‘Certainly, Monsieur, Mademoiselle. Would you prefer inside or outside?’

  ‘Out –’ Holly began.

  ‘Inside,’ Connor cut in firmly.

  She was about to object but glanced inside and immediately saw his reason. The beautiful Madame Liang Song was seated at a table with two Chinese men.

  The waiter tried to steer them towards a window table but Connor chose one against the wall, literally no more than a metre from where his lunch companion from earlier in the week now sat. The two showed no sign of knowing each other.

  What’s his game? Holly felt like a pawn on a chessboard, especially when he took the seat closest to the trio, facing the door and looking out to the bay beyond. This left Holly a fine view of nothing but the back wall. How rude! If he was aware of the breach of etiquette, and, she thought, he bloody-well should be, he showed no sign of it.