by G. W. Kent
‘Who then?’ Suddenly Lorrimer looked alarmed. ‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed. ‘What was the name of the big fellow who helped you push the truck across the ford a few days ago?’
‘Brother John,’ said Kella.
The two policemen looked at one another. ‘Could it be him?’ asked Lorrimer. ‘Maybe Sister Conchita heard something, or guessed it, and sent you a coded message to warn you.’
‘It won’t be John,’ said Kella decisively.
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Lorrimer, turning away. ‘I’m going to send an emergency message to Honiara HQ over the mission transmitter. The duty officer there can start inquiries first thing tomorrow morning and find out just where Brother John has been on Malaita over the last couple of weeks.’
The inspector hurried away. Kella thought about the huge Melanesian mission man but dismissed his suspicions. He knew what he had to do, but Brother John would not be involved.
The schoolboys were eating their evening meal noisily in the mess hut as he walked across to the house of Solomon Bulko. The mission school headmaster was sitting reading a hardback copy of The Naked and the Dead when Kella entered. He looked up and nodded, marking his place in the book with a leaf. A country and western record was playing on a battery-operated player.
‘You know,’ Bulko said, indicating the book, ‘I find it very hard to identify with the Solomon Islanders in this story, when we only ever appear in the distance as terrified extras.’
‘You should try Jack London’s The Cruise of the Snark,’ Kella told him. ‘We’re all savage headhunters in that one.’
Bulko took the record off the player. ‘Charlie Pride,’ he said, holding up the disc approvingly. ‘A black man who made it at Nashville. There’s hope for us all. I’ll get to sing at the Grand Old Opry yet.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ said Kella.
‘Maybe not. Anyway, I was wondering when you were going to get around to seeing your old mucker. I’ll open a few tins and we’ll have something to eat,’ said Bulko, bustling around the over-furnished room. ‘Then you can watch the film in the compound with us afterwards. It’s Love Me or Leave Me tonight. Jimmy Cagney’s a bit past his sell-by date, but Doris Day’s all right in it.’ He looked at Kella. ‘You’re very quiet. Are you all right?’
‘I know,’ said Kella.
Bulko looked inquiringly at him. ‘Of course you know,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s your business to know. You’re the bloody aofia. You’re supposed to know everything. What particularly do you know tonight, mate?’
Kella sat down. ‘The lot,’ he answered wearily. ‘You’ve been organizing the smuggling of custom artifacts out of the Solomons, helped by Mendana Gau. Oh yes, and you tried to kill Sister Conchita in the mangrove swamp.’
‘Oh, come on,’ expostulated the headmaster, sitting down abruptly with an unconvincing laugh. ‘Are you trying to wind me up? What are you on about, Ben? This is me, remember? Your old mucker.’
‘I heard that someone from the school had been up by the treehouse where Gau stored the surplus carvings waiting to be brought down to the mission. That same person was also seen at the killing ground by the custom temple,’ said Kella.
‘So? There are a lot of people at this school, sunshine. Seen one, seen ’em all, especially from a distance.’
‘Exactly,’ said Kella. ‘I assumed that they meant Peter Oro, because he was killed in Kwaio country. But the teachers wear the same uniform as the students here at Ruvabi. It wasn’t Peter Oro who’d been up there. It was you. Pazabosi told me so yesterday. I did him a favour by getting rid of one of his rivals. He figured he owed me one. I asked him what Peter Oro had been doing, collecting artifacts from the bush villages. That was something I hadn’t been able to work out.’
‘You’re slipping,’ said Solomon Bulko spitefully, standing up again.
‘Pazabosi told me that the boy had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t Peter Oro who was buying the carvings and who stole the havu from the waterfall temple. It was you. Several people saw you there. They never imagined that their havu would be in any danger from the school headmaster.’
‘A good reputation is worth more than gold,’ said Bulko.
‘You sometimes go up into the bush area to see if there are any candidates from bush schools for a place at Ruvabi, so you weren’t an uncommon sight there.’
‘If you only knew the agony I underwent climbing the side of that bloody mountain,’ said Bulko unemotionally. ‘Is that all? It seems a bit flimsy on the evidence side to me, Ben.’
‘Don’t worry about evidence,’ Kella assured him. ‘When Mendana Gau hears that I’ve arrested you, he’ll sing like a mynah bird to shift most of the blame in your direction.’
‘Gau,’ said Bulko wryly, deflated. ‘I needed him because he had a right to come and go in the bush on trading expeditions. Believe me, he wouldn’t have been my first choice for a partner.’
‘Is that why you tried to have him killed, too?’ asked Kella. The headmaster looked at him inquiringly. Kella went on. ‘I don’t think you told Gau that you’d stolen the havu. You hoped that when he went up to make the next routine collection of carvings, he would be killed by the bushmen looking for vengeance. That would have got rid of a potential witness and left you in sole charge of the racket.’
‘Bloody bushmen,’ said Bulko with rancour. ‘With all the practice they’ve had over the years, you’d think they’d be able to organize one simple ambush.’
‘How did you expect to get away with it?’ Kella asked. ‘Sooner or later the Kwaio people would have broken into the school and chopped you down, like they did Gau.’
‘I’ve put in for a transfer to a school on Guadalcanal,’ said Bulko. ‘It’s due to come through next month. I would have been safe over there, if you hadn’t interfered.’
‘It was the arrival of Sister Conchita that prompted you to steal the havu, wasn’t it?’ asked Kella.
A flicker of reluctant appreciation crossed the headmaster’s eyes. ‘How do you make that out?’ he asked.
‘It was something the sister told me. She mentioned that she’d studied island religions in her training. Carvings are an important part of Melanesian faiths. You were afraid that she would notice that some of the artifacts in the boxes of carvings made by the students to be sold in Honiara were genuine relics.’
‘Do you reckon?’
‘Oh yes. I almost noticed it myself, and I wasn’t in the mission house long. I saw that some of the carvings in the open crates looked black and ancient. I assumed that the students had used boot blacking to make them look older, but they were the real thing. Father Pierre’s eyesight was too bad for him to notice such things, but you knew that Sister Conchita would discover the truth before long.’
‘I knew I didn’t have much time left before she found out,’ nodded the headmaster. ‘I wanted to make one last big haul before I transferred out. So I went up to the killing ground and stole the havu. As you said, the local people were accustomed to seeing me inspecting the handful of mission schools up there.’
‘Did you have to try to kill Sister Conchita?’ asked Kella astringently.
Bulko shrugged. ‘I saw her talking to you down by the river. I didn’t know what she might be telling you. I couldn’t take a chance, so I shot at you and then followed you into the mangrove swamp. I should have known that I didn’t stand a chance against you there.’
‘And I thought I knew you,’ said Kella, shaking his head. Suddenly he understood the message that Sister Conchita had been struggling to get through to him, probably not appreciating its true significance. ‘You were like a brother to me, Sol.’
‘Who knows anybody?’ asked Bulko. ‘I get paid peanuts for running this school for the mission. I’m patronized by the expats and treated as a traitor by my own people. What did I do that was so bad? I bought a few old carvings from bushmen who didn’t want or appreciate them, and I sold them to collectors who did both.’
‘And you tried
to kill a harmless nun. I’ve got to arrest you for that, Sol.’
‘Come on,’ wheedled Bulko, extending his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘What good will that do? Let me resign and go back to my district. I promise I’ll keep out of your way.’
‘Sorry, I can’t do that.’
‘For God’s sake why not?’ exploded Bulko. ‘All I’ve done is cheat whitey. Who gives a shit?’
‘You’re missing the point,’ said Kella. ‘When you tried to murder Sister Conchita, she was under my protection. I can’t let that go.’
‘So it all comes down to bloody custom again, does it?’
‘Yes,’ said Kella. ‘It usually does.’
The three Roviana policemen were waiting for them outside the leaf house. Some of the staff and students had been alerted by their presence. Quite a large, silent crowd had gathered as the policemen escorted the headmaster away. Bulko stared straight ahead, not giving his school a backward look. He was suddenly unknown to Kella, as if a stranger was occupying the Western District man’s substantial body.
‘The truck will be waiting at the road-head,’ Kella informed the departing officers.
He watched the three uniformed men take his friend down the track beneath the trees towards the river. A deep sense of loneliness engulfed Kella. It was as if he was trying to remember a song he had once loved, but neither the words nor the music would come back into his head.
Then he picked up his pack and started to walk after the others.
38
GRADUATION CEREMONY
The female students of Nazareth College outside Honiara were wearing grass skirts, leis of brilliant hibiscus flowers, and anklets formed from clusters of nuts. They were performing a Fijian cane-cutting dance taught to them by a sister from Suva.
Kella walked away from the crowd of onlookers and entered the empty bamboo church. Most of the Catholic expatriates in the capital had been invited to the graduation ceremony and the blessing of the college buildings. Kella could see at least one of the British chief inspectors of police, in his dress uniform of white jacket, trimmed with gold braid, black trousers with gold stripes, and white gloves.
Sitting in the cool calm of the church, Kella wondered who could have invited a lapsed Catholic like himself to the ceremony. Already this afternoon he had seen Father Pierre in the distance, and he knew that Sister Conchita had been teaching the students here occasionally during her enforced stay in the capital. He had not spoken to either of them since his return from Malaita several days before.
He had made his report to Chief Superintendent Grice in his office on the day of his return. Inspector Lorrimer, hawk-like and inscrutable, had also been present.
‘How’s Professor Mallory?’ asked Kella, before either of the white men could say anything.
‘He flew out an hour ago,’ said Chief Superintendent Grice, looking pleased, but as usual bewildered by events. ‘He seemed a bit tired and disorientated. But that’s only natural considering the ordeal he’s been through.’
‘Quite so, sir,’ said Kella. On their way down from the killing ground he had agreed with Mallory that no point would be gained by including details of the activities of the three Sikaiana women in any official report on the American, chastened as he was and soon to be reunited disenchantedly with his wife.
That would not prevent the saga spreading rapidly over the bush telegraph, but it would be a long time before any of the expats got to hear of it. By then, the tale would have grown so embellished in the repeating that it would have entered Malaitan folklore, and no one would ever be certain exactly what had happened in the cabin up by the waterfall. All of which suited Kella very well.
‘I think it’s marvellous what that man did,’ harrumphed Grice. ‘The way he came to your assistance and pushed Hita over the ledge, why, the professor deserves a medal.’
‘Somehow, Chief Superintendent, I think that Professor Mallory regards himself as already being well rewarded,’ answered Kella.
Grice, accustomed to years of snide but inexplicable remarks from subordinates, grunted suspiciously. Kella managed to keep a straight face. He did not dare look at Inspector Lorrimer.
‘I’ve read your report,’ said Grice, indicating the pages typed up by a fastidious secretary from the sergeant’s waterlogged, sweat-stained and almost indecipherable notes.
‘Extraordinary story,’ continued Grice, regarding Kella with new respect. ‘How long had this headmaster Bulko been smuggling custom carvings out of the Protectorate?’
‘For quite some time, I fancy,’ said Kella. ‘He had help from Mendana Gau of course, and we suspect that John Cho has been fencing the items here in Honiara and arranging their departure overseas.’
That would explain why Cho had been so eager to recruit him on that night in his office, Kella thought. The Chinaman had been alarmed by his investigations on Malaita and had sought to deflect him from them. His declining of Cho’s offer had also probably led to Cho sending so many islanders after the sergeant to try to kill him on the beach by the wharf.
‘And Bulko’s desperate effort to steal the havu from the waterfall triggered everything off?’ asked Grice. ‘The killing of Senda Iabuli by his people, Professor Mallory’s kidnapping, Peter Oro and Gau being hacked down by Hita, Pazabosi leaving his area to put the bones curse on you, to try to stop your investigation.’
‘Just about,’ confirmed Kella. Actually, many things had swum together in a pattern because different spirits had been out of harmony at the time, but there was no point telling Grice that.
‘Solomon Bulko got greedy,’ he said. Kella thought of the contents of the headmaster’s leaf house, the battery-powered lamp and record player, the collection of films, the basketware furniture, the expensive stove. All these possessions on a mission school headmaster’s salary should have alerted him long ago, but he had always expected Bulko to live well. It was all a part of the man’s expansive ambience. Kella had allowed his friendship with the witty and happy-go-lucky headteacher to blind him to the obvious, until it was almost too late.
‘When Bulko sent the boxes of carvings to Honiara,’ Lorrimer told Grice, ‘he bribed someone at the Customs station to extract the genuine artifacts from the boxes and take them to John Cho. It was a nice little scam. They might have carried on almost indefinitely, but then Sister Conchita turned up, who could spot genuine carvings from those made at the mission. Bulko tried to get rid of her.’ The inspector glanced at Kella. ‘And that aroused the ire of our friend and colleague here,’ he concluded.
‘Unfortunately, it never occurred to me that it was Bulko who was trying to kill us in the swamp that night,’ said Kella. ‘I couldn’t see who it was in the dark. It was obvious that our attacker couldn’t move too easily, so at first I assumed that it was Mendana Gau, who’s in pretty poor condition.’ The police sergeant hesitated. ‘Or, I thought it could have been John Deacon,’ he concluded. ‘He’s got a gammy leg.’
‘The plantation manager?’ Grice was scandalized. ‘How could he have been involved?’
‘He exports seashells without a licence,’ said Kella. ‘It would only be a short step from that to buying carvings and smuggling them out. But the man who was chasing us was a poor shot, so that ruled out Deacon.’
‘I should think so,’ snapped Grice. ‘He’s a white man.’ He noticed that Lorrimer and Kella were looking at him. He flushed slightly. ‘Go on,’ he ordered. ‘Can you prove that it was Bulko who attacked you and Sister Conchita that night?’
‘I managed to inflict a pretty severe cut on the leg of the man who shot at us,’ said Kella. ‘Bulko has a nasty gash in the same place. I noticed that on the couple of occasions I visited his school afterwards, Bulko had stopped wearing shorts in favour of slacks or a long lap-lap. I should have put two and two together at the time, but I didn’t. Perhaps I didn’t want to. Sol was my friend.’
‘Mendana Gau’s evidence will convict Bulko,’ said Lorrimer confidently. ‘We’ll find their ma
n in the Customs Department, and he’ll probably talk as well.’
‘So Bulko overreached himself when he stole that havu,’ said Chief Superintendent Grice.
‘As I said, he got greedy,’ said Kella. ‘He was the brains behind the operation, not a thief up in the bush like Mendana Gau. Mind you, you can see the temptation. The havu will fetch tens of thousands of dollars from the right collector in Australia or the USA.’
‘Why on earth weren’t the police sent for in the first instance?’ demanded Chief Superintendent Grice indignantly. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’
‘You’re forgetting, sir,’ Kella reminded his superior with quiet satisfaction. ‘There was no one on patrol in the high bush at the time. You had withdrawn me from Malaita in the run-up to the theft. That’s why Pazabosi was able to kidnap Professor Mallory and hold him as a possible negotiating tool in case he had to confront the renegade Hita.’
In fact, thought Kella, Pazabosi had kidnapped Mallory for the same reason that he had placed a public bones tabu on the police sergeant. The old chief had known that his ostentatious flouting of the official law would only incense Kella and make him all the more determined to invade the high bush country to find out what was happening there. In the process, it was highly likely that the sergeant would come up against the hot-headed Hita and either arrest or kill him, thus disposing of the old chief’s only rival, and allow him to enter the last days of his life in the tranquil contemplation of the trochea. Again, this would all be too complicated to attempt to explain to his English superiors.
‘Incredible,’ said Grice. ‘Let me see if I’ve got it right. The two villagers who murdered Lofty Herman before the Japanese could find him are dead. Hita slaughtered Peter Oro as a sign for saltwater people to keep out of Kwaio country, and half-killed Mendana Gau for taking custom carvings from the area, but now Hita’s dead as well. The headman ordered the custom killing of Senda Iabuli because the old man was in league with the devil. Well, we’ll never be able to prove anything there.’