by Doug Ashby
CHAPTER 3
Tea for Two
A short time after the pictograph discovery, the three brothers were again on an outing up the valley. The timing to go exploring along the river proved to be perfect – sand and silt had been washed out from between the boulders after days of heavy rain – and what they discovered would be enough for the police to re-investigate the case of Tamehana’s disappearance. The boys loved to poke around the exposed rocks. It was Roscoe who caught a glimpse of something shiny trapped between two large boulders. Using a stick he dug around the object and lifted away stones and pebbles to partially expose a flat metal case, a size that would fit easily into a pocket. Calling his brothers over, the three of them used stronger sticks to try to lever aside the large rocks. Relics in the valley left from the old milling days were often found in the area; steel cables lay rusting along the sides of the stream and there were old iron rails for a tramway that had been used to bring the logs out of the bush. But this find was shiny and new looking – quite out of the ordinary – and it looked like something of great value. The brothers dug frantically around the shining object and managed to prise apart the large boulders.
Roscoe carefully picked it up and washed it in the stream and as Dan-Dan and Simione gathered around, Roscoe turned the object over in his hands to examine both sides. It was a cigarette case and they were pretty sure it was made of pure silver; the most precious object they had ever discovered in their lives. The shiny metal looked as good as new with remarkably few scratches on its surface. It was slightly dented but apart from those slight imperfections it could have been bought only yesterday.
In awe they examined the case turning it over again and again. The lid was identifiable by the elaborate engraving around the edges and in the middle was an embossed shield with three letters etched in the centre – W.F.S. The initials meant nothing to the boys; it was the silver case itself that captured their interest. It was like finding hidden treasure, something that only happened in story books about pirates and villains.
The case must have been in water for some time because the clasp, the only piece of steel on the case, had rusted solid and sealed the lid. Using his knife, Roscoe carefully slipped the blade under the lid and with only a minor twist popped it open. Sand filled most of the inside but trapped amongst the sand in the corners were the sodden remains of shreds of tobacco and pieces of cigarette papers and their packet, stained black over time and almost indistinguishable from the other organic material. Disappointed with the contents, the boys closed the lid. What else other than tobacco was likely to be found in a cigarette case, they asked themselves. It was to be expected. Carefully placing the case in their day pack they continued up the river bed, hoping to find more treasure.
That afternoon after returning home, they sat with their parents around the picnic table having an afternoon snack and Roscoe produced their find. Their dad instantly recognised the initials.
“My God, that could be old Bill Smith’s cigarette case!”
For a few seconds the boys looked bewildered, then it dawned on them. WFS. The initials on the lid. Bill was short for William and they certainly knew the name Bill Smith. After the shock of their father’s revelation, the conversation quickly turned to what had been hearsay in the district for many years.
Bill Smith had denied ever being up the valley and he said he didn’t know where Tamehana lived. The evidence the police had collected in the form of a hand-rolled cigarette end from around Tamehana’s hut had seemed to clear Bill Smith of any involvement as, when confronted with this evidence, old Bill was able to laugh it off, saying he only smoked tailor-mades. But now that the boys had found an initialled case along with the papers and tobacco for rolling cigarettes his defence looked a bit thin.
“What do you think we should do about it?” Simi asked.
Realising the implications of the find, the family talked about what was the best thing to do. They decided this possible new evidence could not be ignored.
“We should give it to Sergeant Johnson,” stated Roscoe. “He’s been looking for something like this for ages.”
“Boy, imagine what he’ll say,” said Dan-Dan.
The boys’ parents thought that since the three of them had found the silver case they should follow it up themselves and report exactly what had happened and the precise location where it had been found.
So the next day, the three brothers took the cigarette case into the local police station. A smiling receptionist greeted them and quickly called Sergeant Ken Johnson to hear what these three young lads had to say.
Sergeant Johnson had been a young recruit at the time of the original investigation and had worked under Tom Mayor. Tom had risen to the ranks of Commander until his retirement from the force only a couple of years ago, and now Sergeant Johnson was senior officer. The Tamehana case had been Johnson’s first real investigation.
He remembered the mystery well. With building interest he listened to the boys’ account of finding the cigarette case, asking them to mark on a map where it had been found.
Like just about everyone in the community Sergeant Johnson was fully aware of all the gossip linking Bill Smith to the possible murder of Tamehana Tito, but without a body and no proof that Tamehana’s disappearance was anything sinister, the cigarette case could be significant. At this stage though, he kept his mounting interest to himself. As the story unfolded and the silver cigarette case was placed on the counter, it seemed that after all these years the evidence the police had sought to place Smith up the valley was finally in front of them. Wilhelm Ferdinand Schmidt. WFS. The initials matched.
The boys explained that the whole family had touched or rubbed the case so they’d probably destroyed any fingerprints – on the outer case anyway but maybe not the inside.
“Great work, guys,” said a smiling Sergeant Ken Johnson. “I’ll get the lab boys to do their thing and we will see what we can discover.”
Feeling rather important after relating their story and depositing the case in good hands, the brothers left the station and headed back home where the conversation was all about the cold case of Tamehana’s disappearance. They had not mentioned to the police the pictograph image they’d found on the underside of a stone. Nor had they mentioned how the fantail had shown them where to look. It all sounded much too far fetched. The pictograph still seemed only remotely connected to the mystery, anyway, and they felt they needed more time to try to decipher the markings.
That night after clearing away the dinner dishes, the family sat around the dining room table. Having discovered the cigarette case, the boys were all fired up to solve the mystery and their attention was on the only remaining clue, the scratch marks on the hearth stone. It just had to be a coded message left by Tamehana Tito.
Dan-Dan had done several drawings of the pictograph and the whole family was thinking hard, tossing in suggestions as to what each symbol could mean. They worked on it for some time and it was their mother who thought the strange looking power pole shape could quite possibly be the Cross of Lorraine. She couldn’t see any logic in that, and so, frustrated with no progress, she jumped up and announced she’d had enough for now and it was time for a break.
“Anyone for a cuppa tea?” she inquired, looking at the group, each with pen and paper, huddled around the table. No one seemed to hear. “Anyone for tea?” she repeated, a little louder this time.
“No thank you, Mum,” the boys chimed, in a cheeky but light hearted manner.
Only their dad raised his hand slowly to indicate his need for refreshment.
“Tea for two or two for tea,” was the tune that their mother sang as she strode out to the kitchen to put on the jug.
Simione had been staring hard at the image in front of him. Only half listening to what was going on, for some reason he repeated under his breath, “Two for tea or two tees.” For a second he didn’t comprehend what he had said, then it struck him. With a burst of enthusiasm he shouted, “Two Tees!” <
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Simi looked at the group of blank faces, a great grin on his face. “That’s what it is! Can’t you see? Even if it is the Cross of Lorraine it could still be two tees as well. One on top of the other … it’s Tamehana Toto’s initials! Do you know what I think?” His eyes gleaming with excitement, Simi didn’t wait for an answer. “The Maltese cross is a code for Bill Smith; the arrow’s his murder weapon and the cross of Lorraine is his victim Tamehana Tito … Bill Smith murdered Tamehana Tito!”
“What?” said Roscoe with a frown of disbelief.
Simi didn’t care. He was positive he was right.
“You could be right,” said their father with caution. Then more positively, “I think you could very well be right.”
In the prolonged silence while everyone contemplated what had just been said, the boys’ mother, who’d been listening in the kitchen, tip-toed into the room with the tea tray and placed it carefully on the table.
“You know what?” offered their father, breaking the tense atmosphere. “This all ties in perfectly. Tamehana would’ve fought in Italy during the war – he would more than likely have fought in the Battle of Cassino and seen the monastery bombed. I remember talking to an old returned serviceman years ago about what happened overseas. And I asked about Tamehana. This old fellow reckoned that he and Tamehana were lucky to be alive. In 1941 they had fought the Germans in Greece and then in Crete where they were lucky to escape capture. He had returned home with an injury but Tamehana stayed on to fight again in North Africa, and in places like Al Alamein and Tobruk, and in Italy.”
Months later, the boy’s heard more about Tamehana’s war years from the history buff at the local library.
In 1943, Tamehana was in Italy. It was during these years when he was with the 28th Battalion that he would have seen so many of his friends die in those brutal battles. The Maori Battalion had to endure months of fierce fighting, losing many men, especially during the battle for Monte Cassino. But right throughout the Mediterranean he would have also witnessed the desecration of so many monasteries and churches. Ancient buildings, beautifully decorated in frescos and mosaics, all turned to rubble. Often the only surviving piece was the altar cross, jutting out of the smashed stone and brick work that once was a shrine. It was here that Tamehana would have seen the Cross of Lorraine, not only as a religious symbol but also as the symbol of the Free French Forces he joined in order to liberate France.
So it was the perfect emblem with its two crosses, creating, as he would have seen it, his own initials. It was also in this theatre of war that he would have come to know the Iron Cross. Hitler’s Nazi Germany was the cause of all this death and destruction and the image of the Maltese Cross could well have been etched into his mind after all the years of constant fighting and hardship he had endured.
For now, the important pieces of the puzzle were in place. Almost in disbelief, the family sat around the table and looked at the riddle before them. A clue scratched on a rock? Had they really cracked it? Was this really what it meant or had they invented an answer to match the clue? They tried hard to look for other meanings but the more they studied it, the more convinced they became that this was the only possible answer. All other suggestions seemed absurd.
Old Bill Smith had often been referred to as ‘The German’, a detail lost with time their father told them, further reinforcing their belief that the Maltese Cross was the code for Bill Smith. Bill never bothered to hide the fact that he despised Tamehana, accusing him of many felonies including acts of theft. The arrow was the symbol for the weapon that had taken Tamehana’s life, and now, the last piece of the puzzle was in place. The Cross of Lorraine was the cryptogram for the victim himself. TT.
Wilhelm Ferdinand Schmidt, better know as Bill Smith, was not German at all, their father explained, but an Austrian refugee, whose family had fled Europe soon after WW1 to seek a better life in New Zealand. But even with the name change from Schmidt to Smith, the family had trouble avoiding the prejudice of the time. Local people would not speak to them or serve them in shops, the family’s home was vandalised and swastika’s were regularly painted on their front door. Their lives were made miserable by the narrow-mindedness and fear that possessed the people of that era.
This news had a major influence on how the three brothers now felt about old Bill. To them he’d been an old devil who had probably murdered an innocent war veteran. Mentally they had distanced themselves from him, not knowing anything about his past and not wanting to either.
After their father revealed Bill’s own personally tragic life, for the first time they were torn between the sympathy they felt for the Smith family and the horror they felt about a probable act of murder. The new knowledge had created a dilemma.
Dan-Dan sat back in his chair, a frown creasing his forehead. “What do we do?” he asked. “What on earth do we do now? Do we pretend that the stone and its message doesn’t exist? Or do we go to the police with our theory?”