And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Okay,’ Les said to Coyne, holding the broom, ‘if you’d like to sweep up in here, around these columns and along the walls. Then push all the rubbish in the corner near the door and we’ll take it out later.’ Coyne snarled something under his breath and removed his cap as Les turned to Moylan. ‘Now, what I had in mind was this…’ Les led Moylan out near the kitchen where all the muddy, water sodden books were slowly pulping themselves on the floor. ‘If you’d like to shovel those into that corner, that would be great. I’ll be along to help you shortly.’ Moylan removed his cap and gave Norton a look even more diabolical than his mate.

  ‘Ire,’ snapped Inspector Noonan. ‘You heard de mon. Mik movin’.’

  ‘Absolutely marvellous,’beamed Norton. ‘Now, Lewis. Tell me a bit about yourself while I take some notes.’

  Les loaded his camera and walked Lewis round the bottom floor of the manse while he took photos, wrote meaningless scrawls in his notebook and talked about absolutely nothing. Nothing Les was interested in anyway. Lewis waffled on about how long he’d been in the force, his family and what a good turn the ball should be on the weekend. Les said he couldn’t wait to be there with his friends and he was going to have at least one dance with Lewis’s wife. Les was also ringing Kingston and Australia the following morning and he’d make sure he mentioned Inspector Noonan and the trouble he’d gone to for him. Lewis beamed like a lighthouse as Norton continued to piss in his pocket. Behind them, Coyne and Moylan were toiling away, getting shit all over them and getting more sour by the minute. Les and Inspector Noonan wandered out into the backyard, Les got the fat cop to strike an authoritative pose near the back door and took his photo then they wandered back inside again with Les still making notes.

  ‘You know, Lewis,’ Norton said sincerely, ‘I don’t think it’s going to take as much as we thought to restore this building.’

  ‘It won’t?’

  Les shook his head. ‘No. We budgeted for half a million dollars. My family’s putting up one half, the other half comes from the Australian government.’ Les looked at his notebook again. ‘We’ll get out of it for a lot less than that.’

  Noonan’s eyes lit up at the phone number Les was tossing around. ‘You will?’

  ‘Easy. And you’ve been such a help and so friendly, Lewis, I don’t know why we wouldn’t be able to do something for your people. Could the Sommersby Police Sports Club do with a little help in some way?’

  Noonan started to fluster. He’d stumbled across a walking, talking Australian pot of gold. ‘Well. If you…’

  ‘Excellent,’ smiled Les. ‘We might even organise it all through you.’

  ‘I can assure you, Les, I’m the right man for the job there.’

  ‘Do you think I ever doubted that for a minute, Lewis? In the meantime,’ Norton draped an arm over Lewis’s shoulder and went into Arthur Daley spiel about warp nine, ‘I know what a busy man you are Lewis. With the ball coming up and all that. Plus the police station’s running a couple of men short. You may as well go on about your business. I can organise things here.’

  This pretty much suited Inspector Noonan. He could get back on the road, hustling motorists and putting half the money in his kick. ‘Okay, Les. But only if you’re sure.’

  Norton removed his arm, made a magnanimous gesture and, out of sight from the other two cops, pulled a fifty from his wallet and offered it to the inspector. ‘Take this, Lewis. Share it around up the station or whatever. With the Australian government’s thanks. And mine too.’

  Lewis tipped his cap again. ‘Thank you, Les. I shall see that it goes to the right place.’ Like my false bank account over at Ocho Rios.

  ‘I’m sure you will, Lewis. Now, come on, mate, I’ll walk you out to your car.’

  Inspector Noonan gave Coyne and Moylan a goodbye blast as he was leaving, then let Norton piss in his pocket some more all the way out to the battered Toyota. Les shook his hand as Lewis got behind the wheel, thanked him profusely again and said if he didn’t see him tomorrow he’d be in touch by the weekend. See you, Lewis. Thanks again. Les waved the inspector off up Holding Street, watched the little car disappear out of sight then walked back round the corner.

  Coyne and Moylan were barely going through the motions as Les walked inside and Les was certain he could still detect the echo of obscenities hanging in the air as he entered the main ballroom. They picked up the pace slightly at the sight of the white bastard. Les gave them a thin smile each, went to his backpack, took out a carton of orange juice and drank it in front of them.

  ‘You’re doing a good job,’ he said. ‘Keep it up.’

  Apart from two more sour looks there was no reply. Les glanced at his watch, finished his orange juice and went upstairs.

  From the top floor Les looked out over Dredmouth Harbour. It was still cloudy and crushingly humid, a couple of large brown birds hung in the air and a slight breeze drifted in from the bay, on which Les could smell the ocean and seaweed drying on the beach. He thought about a couple of things then started walking across the floorboards and beams, watching for gaps and loose nails. The ceiling was in a lot worse condition than Les had first thought. A lot of the floor was on the way out, and even though the beams supporting it were huge slabs of some local hardwood, they couldn’t be expected to last forever. Not with most of the roof missing and rain constantly pouring in rotting them, then the sun streaming in and warping what was left when the rain stopped. Les walked slowly around some more. Through the gaps and the broken floorboards Les could see Coyne shuffling around below with the broken yard broom. Even doing very little he’d still managed to bring the marble tiles up in one area and Les could see just how opulent the old building must have been in its day. He could just picture Father Eduardo and hundreds of people whirling and dancing away while slaves in breeches and powdered wigs walked around with trays full of champagne or punch. Les could just picture it. But that wasn’t what he was there for. He had one last look around then went back downstairs.

  Moylan was still shovelling away at the books near the kitchen. Les called for him then nodded for him to follow him into the ballroom where he called Coyne over. They dropped their tools and sullenly walked across to Les standing at the kitchen door.

  ‘Listen, you two wombats,’ said Les. ‘You’re both about as much use as tits on a bull. You may as well hit the toe.’ The two young cops looked at each other, then back at Les. Yeah, you pair of monkeys, thought Les. You’re alright with your bloody patois. But you’re not so good when it comes to a bit of good old, north corner, Jack Lang, are you? ‘Go on, stall, you pair of dropkicks. Do a Harold. Before I give you a size ten St Louis right up both your abo khybers.’ The two cops blinked at Norton as if he was from another planet. Les smiled another syrupy smile. ‘Moylan. Coyne,’ he said. ‘This is no job for two fine young officers like you. Go. You can leave. With my blessing.’ This got a response. ‘And before you go, tch-tch-tch! Look at the state of your uniforms. Here, take this for dry cleaning. And don’t tell Inspector Noonan.’ Les handed Coyne $10 US. This got a response too. Les couldn’t tell if it was gratitude or contempt. But they didn’t need to be told twice. They picked up their caps and Les walked them out to the gap in the wall, where he shook their hands again and thanked them just to sweeten the pot some more; the handshakes were no better but at least the looks this time weren’t so bad. Les watched them vanish around the corner into Holding Street and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Les had a look around then walked over to the old fruit tree in the middle of the backyard. It reminded him of the one up at Sweet Ginger Hill and he thought of the happy snap of him and Joshua standing next to it and the sundial. For some reason Les suddenly felt himself badly in need of a leak; he didn’t think anybody would mind if he piddled up against the tree. Why he wanted to piss against the old tree, Les didn’t know. He just did. When he finished, Les stared absently up at the yellow fruit for a moment then slowly nodded his head. Righto. Let’s go treasure hunting. Le
s turned around and walked straight into the great hall of the manse.

  Maybe it had been the presence of the police, maybe it was the shadows playing tricks in the muted light, but suddenly it seemed quite eerie standing alone in the huge old room. Thick shafts of hazy sunshine were slicing down from the gaps in the ceiling, and the four massive wooden columns seemed even more prominent now where Coyne had swept around their sandstone bases, casting vague, slightly intimidating shadows across the marble-tiled floor and the aquamarine walls. It was very seventeenth century. Les checked his watch then went to his backpack and took out his book of Elizabeth Norton Blackmore’s poems. He opened it and flicked to the one Millwood had read to him in the bar the previous night. Arguably her most famous poem.

  ‘Well, Betty baby,’ he said out loud, ‘I haven’t read any poetry since I left school. But seeing as there’s no one around — I hope — I might have a go. Now, what’s it say here?’ Les looked at the book again. ‘“How do I love thee? Let me count four ways.’”

  Still holding the book of poems, Les walked over and stood directly in front of the four brown mahogany columns where they ran along the huge ballroom to the far wall that faced Holding Street. He started reading again.

  Confronting you directly, my beloved, I see all four at once,

  Yet ’tis for this very reason I canst see the ten,

  A heartbeat to the left or right and I see all four again,

  Though the last love may be obscured.

  Norton stared up at the huge wooden pillar in front of him to where it met the ceiling above, then back to its sandstone base. Betty, he pondered, you weren’t talking about these four columns inside the manse, were you? Because standing right in front of them I can see all four at once. Though I can’t, or canst, see no ten. I can’t see any bloody thing. Les stepped half a pace to the left. Yes, now I can see all four again. Les stepped across to the right. Same thing here. And the last one’s certainly obscure, ain’t it? Norton stepped back to the left hand side and began slowly walking along the wooden columns. But this ten you’re talking about, Betty? This ten I canst see. Les kept walking, then stopped next to the end column and looked up to where Father Eduardo had embossed his name on the wall. That wouldn’t happen to be the X up there, would it? As in Eduardo, X for Xavier, Norton. And isn’t an X ten in Roman numerals? It was when I went to school. And you definitely canst see it standing up the other end of the columns. Les opened the book and started reading again.

  And tis indeed the last love I treasure most, my dearest,

  This is a love we both did share and shall ever treasure,

  Our laboured love. The last love at the manse.

  Betty, pondered Les again, closing the book. This last love you’re talking about? The one you treasure most. You wouldn’t happen to mean the last column, would you? The one at the end in front of the X? It’s definitely the last one from the other end, ain’t it? And it’s pretty bloody obscure looking from up there. Les tapped the book against his hand and smiled. Betty, I’ve got this feeling that’s what you’re talking about. Norton shifted his gaze from the last column back to the end wall. And as for you, Eduardo X Norton. Les’s smile got broader. I think I’ve twigged to your modus operandi too. Norton switched his gaze back to the end column. The thing is, though, if I have, there’s still one burning question: If there is something in there. How the fuck do I get it out?

  Les gave the end column several intense once up and downs. Well, I don’t know exactly what is in there, though I’ve got a sort of an X-ray picture, if you’ll pardon the pun, Father Eduardo. One thing for sure, if there is anything in there you wouldn’t pick it up on a metal detector. But how do I get it out without that dirty great beam crashing down and squashing me or wrecking what’s left of the place? That’s the thing. If that column came down, it’d shake the whole town. Les absently rubbed the right toe of his trainer against his left calf muscle. With a bit of luck, though, I don’t think it will. Les had one more look and shook his head. Well, only one way to find out. He walked up to where the pinchbar was standing near the inside door.

  If what Les thought was in there, the last part of the poem would all fall into place. But for the time being getting it out was the problem. Les surmised, however, that when Eduardo stashed his loot he hadn’t intended burying a time capsule; it just happened that way. If there was some sort of trouble and he had to leg it, he’d want to be able to get it out without too much trouble. Les tapped the hammer end of the pinchbar against the sandstone blocks supporting the wooden column; they appeared solid enough. He swung the pinchbar back and gave it a good, hard hit. The noise kind of boomed across the room and off the walls. Les walked up to the next column and did the same thing. This time what noise there was was more of a dull thud. The sandstone blocks at the end definitely weren’t as dense. Les walked back to the end column and stared at it for a while, trying to picture himself in Eduardo’s shoes, then decided to take a punt. He walked around and stood with his back to the X on the far wall, so he faced all the doors and entrances to the manse, jammed the pinchbar near the left hand corner of the sandstone blocks and heaved. Nothing happened or felt like happening. Les moved the pinchbar to the middle and tried. Same result. He moved the pinchbar to the right corner and heaved again, keeping up the strain. There was nothing at first, then a faint movement. Les sweated and strained some more; this time the sandstone blocks definitely moved. This is it, panted Les. There’s some sort of a key stone or balance. He stopped, took a deep breath then jammed the pinchbar underneath as far as he could and heaved again, keeping up the pressure. The whole column seemed to creak and groan mournfully through the great hall as the sandstone blocks lifted about an inch. There was a crunching, grating sound of wood on stone and a horrible, dry scraping sound of metal against metal and the sandstone blocks swung round to the left as one, pivoting to a stop with one corner pinned beneath the base of the column diagonally across from where Les had stuck the pinchbar. Norton wiped a hand across his forehead then stepped back for a look.

  Set into the marble tiles where the sandstone blocks had been were the tips of half a dozen bronze cannonballs sticking up like several partially buried Easter eggs. Les knelt down and stuck his fingers as far as he could beneath the sandstone blocks and felt the edge of a metal plate. He surmised the inside of the blocks would have been hollowed out to a certain extent and the metal plate set over the cavity. He stood back up and noticed the top of the sandstone blocks had been smoothed off, almost like marble, and was the same as the bottom of the massive wooden column, which was still suspended in mid air with one small edge resting on the sandstone blocks. Three of the cannon balls at the edge were loose, something like a set of ballbearings, and Les guessed these would be the balance or counterweight. There’d probably be indentations in the plate beneath the sandstone blocks, you hit it on the sweet-spot, it lifted, clicked out then swung across. Very ingenious Eduardo, commended Les. And I’ll bet you had the slaves killed too after they built it. Les looked up at the mahogany column hanging in the air again and gave it a bit of bump. It shook slightly, but held firm. That’s what Les had been counting on. Because now he had to crawl under it, and if it came down while he was there, Les would end up flatter than a cane toad after a week on the Pacific Highway; that’s if they could scrape enough of him up. Les gave the wooden column one more tap, put down the pinchbar and crawled underneath over the cannonballs.

  They were hard and cold and dug into his back. Shit! What I need is a bloody mechanic’s trolley, cursed Les as one dug into his hip and another his elbow, making him curse again with discomfort. He felt round the bottom of the column and looked up. There was some sort of a wooden dowel sunk into it, something like the stopper on a hot-water bottle, only this was about eighteen inches across and the lug in the middle was about two inches thick and a foot across where it was carved out. Les gripped it and gave it a wrench anti-clockwise, but after sitting there all these years it wasn’t about to bud
ge. Les grunted and wrenched again. Nothing. He climbed back out and picked up the pinchbar. Les squatted down, held the hammer end of the pinchbar about two feet away from the wooden stopper, and swung. It hit the wooden lug with a dull thump and maybe a tiny crunch. Les swung the pinchbar again. This time there was a definite crunching sound and movement. Les gave the lug a few more taps and climbed back underneath.

  The wooden stopper was loose now. Les gripped it and twisted and it started coming out just like the plug in a hot-water bottle. Les kept twisting. Would stuff start pouring out once he removed it? Norton didn’t think so. The stopper was about six inches thick with a solid, wooden thread; Les got it out and placed it on the tiles. Inside the column was a cavity wider than the stopper with a lip running around the bottom. Les placed his hand inside and felt something cold, hard and heavy sitting at an angle against the hole. Les gave it a push and a shove and figured it wouldn’t be hard to jam the tips of your fingers getting it out, so he went and got the crowbar. He levered the crowbar under the object till it was right on the edge of the hole, gave it one last twist, pulled the crowbar away and out fell a Spanish jar about a yard long and a bit over a foot wide. Les took the weight on his chest and rolled out from under the column. I thought so, grinned Les, as he got to his feet and stood the Spanish jar on its end. I bloody well thought so. In the light from above, the shiny, brown, ceramic container looked almost like a small version of one of the mahogany columns. Look at that, smiled Les. He shook his head in admiration and his gaze moved back to the name on the far wall. You’re not bad, Eduardo. Not bad at all. That’s about as perfect a fit as you can get. Now, though, what’s in the bloody thing? Les got a towel from his backpack, placed it on the ground near the last column and laid the Spanish jar on its side with the neck over the towel.