The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

  Holly sipped her scotch. Quinn obviously respected Maguire and she, in turn, respected her father’s opinions. Perhaps it was time for another chat.

  How about Justin Parker? Nice enough in a diffident kind of way. That might just be a normal English reserve. Two things about him bothered her: the copy of William’s map and how he was connected to Madame Liang.

  She’d call Quinn in the morning, she decided, finishing her drink.

  Staring upwards, waiting for sleep, Holly ruefully concluded that the decision to call her father was the only positive outcome of her wool-gathering.

  She woke at six thirty, twelve thirty in Sydney, and immediately phoned Quinn on his direct line, hoping he was not having one of his regular Thursday business lunches that seemed to run from midday until anywhere up to midnight. He answered on the second ring.

  ‘Longford-Jones.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Hello Smee. How’s it going?’

  ‘I’m getting the story, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Good. Keep at it.’

  ‘I need some more information.’

  ‘What sort?’ Quinn sounded guarded.

  ‘Jesus, Quinn. I’m not asking you to divulge state secrets.’

  The silence coming down the line had a profound depth. Quinn wasn’t saying a damned thing and yet Holly could hear him loud and clear. ‘Come on, Quinn. Don’t expect me to believe that Maguire is involved with security matters. He’s too well known.’

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Big Shot.’

  Holly didn’t need her father’s conspiracies. She told him about the map. ‘The bloody thing hasn’t been seen for over a hundred years and now your mate, Maguire, has the original and some Pommie boffin comes up with a copy. So what I need to know, Quinn, if it’s not too much trouble, is just how cautious I have to be of Connor Maguire?’

  More silence. Quinn was not normally this reticent. Then, ‘You don’t have to be cautious of Maguire. Trust me.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘Isn’t that what you asked?’

  ‘Dammit, Quinn . . .’

  ‘Why are you so worked up about this?’

  So she told him about the attack. ‘Bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

  But he wasn’t listening to her question. ‘Are you okay, sweetheart?’

  ‘Shaken, not stirred. I’ll live.’

  ‘Holly!’ Quinn sounded genuinely miserable, a rare emotion for him. ‘Should I send someone else?’

  ‘Only if I croak,’ she said cruelly.

  ‘Jesus, sweetheart! Don’t joke about this.’

  ‘You’re not exactly helping,’ she ground out. ‘You know something I don’t. Connor Maguire is behaving like a half-baked James Bond over here and all you can say is to trust him.’

  Quinn rarely played the heavy-handed father. He had always shown respect for Holly’s right to make her own decisions. ‘You’re there to cover a treasure hunt. Do not, under any circumstances, involve yourself in anything else. Do I make myself clear?’

  The outburst certainly got Holly’s attention. ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  ‘I mean it, Holly.’ He indulged in some noisy breathing, a sure sign of agitation, though he might have been trying to resurrect a cigar, hard to say. Whatever, it restored him to something approaching normal. ‘Besides, if anything happened to you, your bloody mother would kill me.’

  Holly laughed and promised to behave. She was glad he couldn’t see her crossed fingers. ‘Could one of the researchers do something for me?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Check up on a Justin Parker. He’s from Claverton, just outside Bath in England. Also try to find out if Oxford University has a research project on the go to do with DNA twinning. I’m not certain my dodo man is all he says. Get Mrs Hammond to e-mail anything you find out. Don’t fax it. Parker is staying at the Merville.’

  ‘Is this Parker connected with the university?’

  ‘I’m assuming he is. He let something slip about Oxford.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll get someone on it.’

  ‘Thanks, Quinn. How’s Mum?’

  They spoke for several more minutes. After his initial authoritarian display, Holly’s father seemed content to go along with her own judgment. She knew that he doted on her and would never knowingly place her in danger. He accepted, as features editors responsible for sending journalists around the world to cover all sorts of stories had to, that accidents did happen. A reporter might just be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happened more often than people realised. Journalists were shot at, beaten up or imprisoned. They died in plane crashes. They picked up all manner of exotic illnesses, especially those with gastrointestinal leanings, or the broad range of little darlings carried by that highly specialised and indiscriminate killer, the mosquito. News correspondents were regularly arrested or taken hostage. Only the previous year, two well-known reporters had been executed in China.

  Several years ago, Holly had spent six days in a Guatemala hospital with blackwater fever. She’d had a close encounter with an armed elephant poacher in Zambia, been on board a helicopter when it needed to make an emergency landing on a storm-battered oil rig in the North Sea and, earlier this year, when she couldn’t have cared less because of her misery over Dennis, narrowly avoided being swept away by an avalanche in the Italian Alps. All part of a day’s work. Danger went with the territory. Journalists the world over tended to display a studied nonchalance when it came to the question of their own safety. Once caught up in the business of getting the best possible story, personal security became a secondary consideration.

  Whatever Quinn thought Connor Maguire was up to, and however newsworthy his real agenda turned out to be, her brief was clear. Stick with the treasure hunt. For as long as Maguire spent at least part of his time on that particular quest, Holly would oblige. If anything else just happened to come her way . . . well . . . provided she was in no real danger, what Quinn didn’t know until she hit him with the finished story wouldn’t hurt him.

  She looked at the bedside clock. Just gone seven. Connor was collecting her at nine. Quick shower, an hour or so on the computer, then off to meet an Afro-Irish psychic nun. That should be enough for most people.

  Connor was late. He looked distracted and had a nasty scratch along one cheek. ‘Sorry again.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  He ran a hand through his hair. It was also scratched, as was his arm. ‘Did you know that bougainvillea can be positively vindictive?’ The grin came easily. ‘Especially when you try to run through them.’

  ‘Any particular reason why you tried?’

  ‘They were there. Jump in, we’re running late.’

  ‘You don’t say!’

  Connor ignored the light-hearted sarcasm but couldn’t resist a dig of his own. ‘You know, I’m getting kind of used to that gear you wear.’

  Holly was wearing the same army-style trousers and shirt she’d worn to Mahébourg two days earlier. ‘Good,’ she responded succinctly. ‘It’s my best party outfit.’

  They both laughed.

  She waited until they were on the road. ‘You want to tell me about it?’

  He glanced at her. ‘There was a man in my room last night.’

  ‘Lucky old you,’ Holly cut in. ‘If that’s what turns you on.’

  ‘If you want me to tell you then stop interrupting.’

  ‘I think we’ll leave this out of the article,’ Holly continued, trying not to laugh. ‘Kind of ruins the image.’

  He flashed a quick grin. ‘Have you quite finished?’ When she nodded, he continued. ‘He’d come in through the window. I’m not sure if he was someone who saw an opportunity and went for it or if he was looking for something specific.’

  ‘The map?’

  ‘Perhaps, but only you and Kathleen know I’ve got it. My camera, a gold pen and some other bits and pieces were in a pillowcase on the bed but, as I walked in, he was ripping the
lining out of my suitcase.’

  ‘Sounds remarkably similar to what happened at the hotel.’

  ‘The same thought crossed my mind. He was cool enough, didn’t panic. Just legged it through the window and disappeared.’

  ‘And you chased him?’

  Connor gave a shrug. ‘Tried to. The bloody bougainvillea got in the way.’

  ‘Did you get a look at him?’

  ‘Only for a split second. He was African, that’s all I can say for certain.’

  ‘African or Creole?’

  ‘Definitely African.’

  ‘He had to be searching for the map. Bloody lucky you had it with you.’ Holly remembered Aroon’s note.

  Connor must have read her mind. ‘He didn’t find the note.’

  Her thoughts changed direction. ‘What if your uninvited guest was after something completely different? Your little deviation into the dark side of life. Someone might want to know who you are working for.’

  Connor didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was hard. ‘Drop it.’

  Holly dropped it. She knew a good idea when she heard one.

  They cut eastwards, well north of Port Louis, through sugar cane country where plantation houses, relics of gracious colonial living, stood in beautifully tended tropical gardens. ‘I didn’t think people still lived like this,’ Holly commented.

  ‘You’ll find that Raoul does.’

  The same square plinths that she’d seen on her way north from the airport, looking like unfinished pyramids of stone, dotted the landscape. ‘Mauritius is a volcano,’ Connor explained. ‘No longer active but rocks keep working their way to the surface. This is how they dealt with them when the estates had more labour than they could poke a stick at.’

  They stopped in the village of Poudre d’Or. Non-touristy and quiet, it was surrounded by cane fields. The buildings had seen better days. ‘Must have been nice here once,’ Holly observed. ‘Seriously cute. Have we got time to look at that church?’

  ‘If you’d like to.’

  ‘Please.’

  Crossing a sadly polluted river, they parked beside an old but well-tended cemetery. ‘Built in 1847,’ Holly read out loud.

  ‘This is the centre for anyone seeking pirate treasure,’ Connor told her. ‘Couple of boys called Olivier le Vasseur and Butin Nageon de L’Estang are rumoured to have buried their combined hoard near here.’

  ‘Has anything ever been found?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Still, there are those who persist. Did you notice the river bed as we crossed?’

  ‘All the digging, yes. I thought someone had been excavating the sand.’

  ‘According to the rumour, walk about 260 metres north-east from the church altar and you’ll come to a sinkhole in the river. That’s where the treasure is supposedly hidden.’

  ‘Quinn said something about Mauritius being knee-deep in pirate booty. Perhaps he was right.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Connor sounded doubtful. ‘Though in this day and age with sophisticated metal-detecting equipment you’d think they’d have found some by now.’

  From Poudre d’Or, they headed down the coast towards Grand Port. It was a beautiful wind-free day and the waters of the Indian Ocean sparkled aquamarine, reflecting the sky. Leaving the sugar cane belt, a winding road took them past numerous tourist resorts and on to the dramatically rugged and fertile valley domain below Bamboo Mountains. No five-star hotels here. Instead, small villages dotted the way, snugged into inlets. Each a separate community perched just above sea level, taking up every square centimetre of reasonably level ground. Twin peaks of column-shaped balancing rock rose majestically to the west.

  ‘The different scenery is amazing for such a small place,’ Holly observed, breaking their companionable silence. ‘You think you’re getting to know the island and pow, along comes something else. Would the real Mauritius please stand up.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Not only the scenery, the people too. It’s a melting pot.’

  Further south, they rounded the cat-like shape of Lion Mountain. ‘That’s where William went to hide from Kavanagh,’ Connor said. ‘Plenty of places to leave his treasure, but the coastline bears no resemblance to his map.’

  A few minutes later he swung off the road into an area the size of a tennis court. Blackened stone ramparts separated it from the sea beyond. ‘Old Grand Port,’ Connor announced as he parked beside an old cannon. ‘This way.’

  Holly had no time to enjoy the view. She followed as he crossed the road and clambered, agile as a cat, up the steep slope, stopping to help when he realised her sore ribs were hampering her progress. At the top of the slope they halted for a moment. Scattered everywhere around them were signs of a once fortified settlement, strategically important in days when the French and British contested ownership of the island.

  Connor led her away from the ruins and stopped beside what had once been a solitary dwelling. ‘This is where William built his house. We’re meeting Kathleen here. Out there is the Warwyck Bay William mentioned in his journal.’

  The coastline swept away towards Mahébourg, flattening out into the serenity of a reef-protected lagoon. The vista stretched to a hazy infinity.

  Stone steps, hand-hewn, had once led to the front of William’s house. Originally there would have been more but only the bottom three remained reasonably intact. The dwelling had been a simple rectangle about ten metres long and four wide. At one end, part of a chimney leaned crazily sideways. At some stage, the rest had given in to gravity.

  Behind the main building, a flagstone floor was all that remained of an outhouse, possibly the kitchen. Grass had taken root between the stones and a rambling rose showed its tenacity, clinging stubbornly to life. When it had been planted was up for conjecture but its trunk was tree-like, woody branches spreading upwards and out in all directions with only the tips showing any sign of life. Starved of sustenance, the few leaves were spindly and withered. Someone had tried to establish a line of trees. Most were smothered by potato creeper and had long since expired. Cyclones must have toppled others as far as the encroaching wilderness would allow. They lay awkwardly, at various angles, waiting for time and the elements to obliterate all evidence of their existence. Holly wondered if William had planted them. How much history had they seen, how many stories could they tell, what lives had come and gone while they grew towards the end of their own?

  A diminutive figure, dressed in the traditional penguin colours of a nun, was making her way daintily towards them. Holly watched her, marvelling at the diversity of genes that had combined to make up this one person. Of her Irish ancestry there was little sign. Only a hint of aquiline in the snub of a nose, a dusting of apples on rounded cheeks. The small amount of exposed skin shone like burnished gold, smooth and soft – the skin of a girl. Full lips bore the darker pigmentation of her African heritage, a shade repeated around deep brown eyes. She wore small, round, rimmed wire glasses giving her a quaint, almost delicate appearance. The serenity in her eyes was a pure delight.

  ‘Welcome back, Connor Maguire, welcome back.’ Her voice was soft and held an interesting blend of French and African accents. ‘And you would be Holly Jones.’ The deepening smile of greeting sent a good twenty years scurrying from Kathleen’s face.

  ‘Sister.’ Not being Catholic, Holly was ill at ease with the term.

  ‘Kathleen, please.’ Holly’s hands were clasped briefly in warm fingers. ‘What a pretty girl you are.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Unsolicited compliments usually covered Holly with confusion but Kathleen’s frank sincerity was so refreshingly free of guile that her only reaction was one of pleasure.

  Those brown eyes were scanning her face. ‘A loyal heart,’ Kathleen murmured. ‘Betrayal cuts deep where there is such allegiance. Who would be so cruel?’

  She didn’t dare look at Connor and was furious with herself for blushing, grateful when he simply asked, ‘Do you mind if Holly tapes our conversation?’

  �
�Not at all. Come. We will sit here.’ She led them to a flat, almost polished rock. ‘I feel that William used to sit here, watching the ships come and go.’ Kathleen folded herself gracefully to the ground. ‘What have you been getting up to, Connor?’

  He felt his scratched cheek. ‘Had a run-in with a prickly bush.’

  Kathleen raised her eyebrows but made no further comment. She turned to Holly. ‘You have questions for me, my dear?’

  Holly nodded. ‘About your family, yourself, and how you feel about William’s treasure. But first, do you mind telling me about this rather unique ability of yours?’ Holly turned on the tape recorder.

  Kathleen smiled. ‘Not at all. Most people find it fascinating.’

  ‘What actually happens when you sense something?’

  ‘Mental images – brief ones. Feelings. Sounds. Smells.’

  ‘So you have to put it all together? It’s not a clear picture or a whole scene?’

  ‘Sometimes it is. There are times, usually when I’m asleep, where a message is so strong it’s as if I’m watching a film. At others it’s no more than a fleeting feeling, as if I’m eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation. More often than not it’s just snatches of things.’

  ‘Have you always been able to do it?’

  ‘Yes, although as a child I didn’t understand what was happening. It was only when I became a nun that I learned how to interpret the information.’

  ‘Don’t the two clash? I mean, being a nun requires some pretty inflexible beliefs. This gift of yours must involve a lot of loose . . .’ Holly paused, ‘. . . more lateral thinking.’

  Kathleen laughed. ‘These days the church is surprisingly loose and lateral itself.’ She adjusted her guimpe so that it spread evenly over both shoulders. ‘Besides, messages from beyond the grave are only an extension of the life-after-death doctrine. I admit that until recently the Catholic Church was publicly ambiguous about such things but they’ve never denied their existence. No, my dear, the two complement each other perfectly.’

  For a brief moment, Holly felt a flash of envy for this calm, contented woman. Given only a fraction of her equanimity, she’d be more than satisfied. ‘Do you ever resent the intrusion into your head?’