Getting the wooden stopper out of the Spanish jar was a snack compared to the column. It was the same thing, only this time Les only had to give it a couple of light taps with the crowbar and it came away easily. He twisted it round a few more times, there was a muffled, rattling sound and as Les removed the stopper hundreds of gold coins began pouring from the neck of the jar. Les lifted the container up and screwed the stopper back in before any more fell out. Les looked at the pile of coins sitting on the towel, glistening and shining before his eyes. There would have been three or four hundred piled on the towel and who knows how many more still in the Spanish jar; and the only word to describe them would be beautiful.
‘Holy bloody hell!’ Les shook his head again and called out loud. ‘Have a look at that.’
Les picked up one of the coins. Between his fingers he couldn’t tell exactly how big it was; it was about the same size as an Australian dollar, only thicker, heavier and a little rougher in the moulding. A sudden burst of sunshine came through the ceiling, causing the coins to glisten and shine even more. Norton didn’t have a clue what they were, but you didn’t have to be Albert Einstein to know they weren’t ferry tokens. He held one up in the light and examined it in more detail. On one side was a profile of a square-jawed man with a big nose, solid chin and long hair tumbling over the shoulder of his breast plate. Running clockwise round the rim was ‘Phillip V. D.G. Rex’, beneath the breast plate was a date, 1729. Les turned the coin over. On the other side was a circle of flowers or a garland with a crown at the top and in the middle was a shield divided into four parts. Les could faintly make out what looked like a hand in one corner and some kind of engraving in the others. The printing on this read, ‘S. Initium Sapientia Timor Domini’. Les looked at it for a moment then dropped it among the rest and picked up a couple of others. They were all the same, only with different dates. Les was still none the wiser as to what they were. But they were obviously gold and just the weight of them alone would have made them worth a fortune. There had to be four or five kilograms, or more, lying on the towel. Not counting their historical value as collector’s items. Les ran his hand through the money and something caught his finger and glinted up through the gold coins. Les moved the coins aside and picked up the most beautiful gold necklace he had ever seen. It was at least a couple of feet in diameter with thick, chunky links as thick as a pencil. Set at the bottom was a gold cross about three inches by two inches and a good half an inch thick. But it was like no other cross or crucifix Norton had ever seen. The ends of the crucifix weren’t squared off, they were split into three and turned out and around, something like the design on the ace of clubs in a deck of playing cards. Set at the ends of the arms of the cross were two rubies as big as pencil heads, and set at the ends of the cross were two emeralds the same size. The centre of the cross was thicker and crafted in a hexagonal design and set in the middle was a diamond as big as a fingernail. The sun had gone back behind the clouds but the exquisite cross still dazzled and shone in Norton’s hands. Its weight or value Les couldn’t even hope to guess. Oddly enough, from the rough, hand-crafted workmanship you would think it was one of those junk things you pick up in a flea market or Woolworths. But this was the real McCoy. Les looked at it for a while before putting it back among the coins. He sat back and looked at what he had found and a few things began to fall into place. Including the one thing he’d overlooked in his haste. But he was a bit dry. He got another carton of orange juice and sipped it while he sat on the floor and stared at the coins and the necklace lying on the towel in front of the Spanish jar.
Les wasn’t sure what put him onto it at first; it just all seemed to come together at once when he was half drunk. When he lined the photos up the Spanish jars sitting on the verandah looked a lot like the wooden columns in the manse. The red, Pompeii tiles they were sitting on made him think briefly of ancient Rome. Then Millwood reading the poem out to him at the hotel, giving his explanation, only convinced Les even more that he was wrong. Les kept reflecting back to that old saying, ‘You can’t see the forest for the trees.’ Like he’d done with the hurricane. Only this time it was ‘you canst see something else’. The ten. Next thing Les thought of Eduardo’s Spanish name on the wall, last love, treasure, and, bingo! There it was. The other clue though was Norton’s toe. He’d stubbed it on a protruding bolt when he was walking around upstairs at the manse. It hadn’t hurt enough to worry him, even though part of the nail went blue, but as he walked around upstairs he was on the lookout for more bolts sticking out. There weren’t any. Which made Les a little curious as to why he found four sticking up from the beam above the column at the end. Eduardo had bored them into the column for extra support. Which, paradoxically, was the thing that had Les worried. He wasn’t sure whether the inside of the beam was full of dry rot over the years or the rain had got to it. Evidently not. They built them to last in those days. Getting it out was elementary common sense. When the time came for Eduardo to remove his loot, he wouldn’t have his back turned. He’d be watching the doors and entrances to the manse to make sure he was on his own. As for cleaning up afterwards, the sandstone blocks would swing back into place alright, thought probably not as neat as before. But whoever came into the manse would be looking for Eduardo, not a loose-fitting column down one end of the ballroom. Bad luck he drowned in a storm and never got a chance to retrieve his swag. Though it was nice to think one of the family finished up with it. And that was probably the bottom line. Norton was family. He knew there was something stashed in the manse from the first time he went upstairs and looked around. The bloodline and the family traits were just too strong — even over the centuries. As old uncle Harry always says, a Norton is a Norton. Whether they’re baked, boiled or fried.
As for Eduardo porking his sister? That was pure bullshit. Malicious gossip fostered over the years by the likes of that old bag Mother Nettleford. Eduardo and Elizabeth would have been close. They would have loved each other deeply and probably been the best of mates. They would have danced together, dined together, got drunk together. If there was any ganja around in those days, you could bet they would have packed a few ping- pongs together. They were more than likely almost inseparable. As for the laboured love where she fell pregnant to Eduardo, that was another clue. The labour was helping her rotten, slave-trading brother get the column together and stash the loot. Part of it was probably Elizabeth’s. You could bet your life she was halves in the whack with Eduardo; or she’d at least have done his bookwork for him. She had plenty of money. The whole family was loaded. Look at the places they lived in. She probably felt like a break from Jamaica, so all cashed up she sailed over to England for a while. Which was no big deal; ships came and went all the time in those days. In England she teamed up with Blackmore the poet, supported him, found out she was a dab-hand at poetry herself and sort of lived happily ever after. The news of her brother’s death obviously affected her and brought on her own premature death. She probably thought about going back to Jamaica, but apart from her family, there wasn’t that much there now. The loot? She didn’t particularly need it at the time. But being a woman she had to tell someone about it. So she wrote the secret into one of her most beautiful poems. How did the rumour start? When she took ill suddenly, she probably garbled it on her deathbed. No one, not even her immediate family, knew what she was talking about and it just became rumour and folklore from there. And that was about it. ‘How do I love thee? Let me count four ways.’ I wouldn’t fancy counting those coins, thought Les, still staring at the ones on the towel and in the Spanish jar. There’s probably thousands of them. Not counting any other Tom Foolery that might be sitting in the jar. Then Les began to laugh. A scornful, bitter laugh that echoed off the surrounding walls and the marble tiles as the last thing he’d overlooked dawned on him.
Norton had plotted, schemed, paid out a fortune in slings, driven all over the place, almost got arrested, not counting stubbing his toe, to find this loot. Now what was he going to do
with it? Yeah, what? Take it with him? Hah! If he went within cooee of those metal detectors at the airport they’d start going off like New Year’s Eve in Brazil. Plus it weighed a ton, and the customs department was red hot in Jamaica. It wouldn’t last five minutes in his travel bag. If they didn’t find it with X-rays, imagine some baggage handler picking it up. He’d get a few coins out among the dimes and quarters he still had from Florida, plus the Jamaican ones he was keeping and the coins he still had from home. But that was about it. Forget it, Les. Well done, nice try, but you blew it. Les stared at the coins lying on the towel and in the Spanish jar. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, after all. Maybe it was a secret between a brother and sister that was supposed to be left in the grave. Les had a bit of a think for a minute. Yeah. I’ll put it all back where I found it. And just leave things as they were. At least I know where it is if I want it. Les looked up at the name embossed on the wall and at the massive, mahogany column, still hanging from the ceiling like a monstrous, chocolate-coloured stalactite. So back it all goes, Eduardo and Elizabeth. Well, not quite all of it.
Getting the Spanish jar back into its hiding place was a monumental pain in the arse. Les packed the coins back in easy enough then took his last few photos, after that it was like lying on a pile of half housebricks, trying to do bench presses with your hands in the middle of your chest. Les grunted and strained, cursed and sweated as he slipped across the cannonballs and banged his knees and elbows trying to get the heavy ceramic container back into the mahogany column. Finally, with the help of the crowbar, he was able to heave it in, lever it around then get the stopper screwed on; ending up with three bleeding knuckles and bruises all over his back. After that, Les had a quick breather and drank his last carton of orange juice, then picked up the pinchbar and jammed it back under the sandstone blocks, only on the opposite side. After being loosened, they moved easier this time. Without too much trouble Les was able to jemmy them across the cannonballs with some more crunching and grating before they rumbled and clunked down into place. The only difference this time was a gap between the sandstone blocks and the bottom of the column where the sandstone blocks had been dislodged. But if you didn’t know it was there, you probably wouldn’t notice it. Well, that’s the best I can do, thought Les. At least it’s back in there and I doubt if anyone will ever find it. Unless maybe the place caught on fire. Les stood back and was admiring his afternoon’s work when there was a groaning, rumbling, slow crack from the ceiling. Les slowly raised his eyes. The huge beam above the columns seemed to quiver for a moment, dust and bits of debris fell to the floor then the end column slammed down onto the sandstone blocks with a dull thump that shook the floor. It wasn’t hard enough to smash the blocks. But if they had been pivoted to the side, with just the edge of the column resting on them instead of right underneath them, the whole thing more than likely would have come crashing down. Five tonnes of solid, milled hardwood rolling and banging round the ballroom. The four bolts were holding the column now with the sandstone blocks underneath. But the huge old beam above had more dry rot inside than Les first thought. Norton gave one giant blink then stared at where the massive column had jammed itself against the sandstone blocks, wide-eyed as more dust hung in the hazy shafts of light surrounding him.
‘Oooohhh! Ooohhh!’ Les shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think I like this.’
Strange thoughts began to fill Norton’s head. If he’d spent some more time drinking his orange juice, if he’d gone for a leak, if he’d had some more film in the camera. Just a few minutes either way… Les decided to stop thinking. It wasn’t a good idea. One thing was for sure though, Les thought. The Spanish jar would be a lot harder to get out next time. After that, it didn’t take Les long to get his stuff together, the tools rolled up in the sheet of tarpaulin and back in the car. He didn’t stay for any final, nostalgic farewells to the old manse. Something weird was going on, Les could feel it in his bones, and he wanted out of the place before he started hearing strange voices and seeing luminous outlines amid the shadows.
Seconds later Norton was in the Honda, taking a short cut up Harbour Street behind the police station then back onto the main road leading out of Dredmouth. If Inspector Noonan appeared out of the bush trying to sell tickets to the policemen’s ball, Les would have driven straight over the top of him.
Back at the hotel Errol was standing in his usual place at the bottom of the stairs when Les swung the Honda into the carpark and pulled up almost next to him. There was no sign of the caretaker, so Les motioned for Errol to come over to the car, where Les handed him the tools, plus his other fifty dollars, thanking him again for his trouble. Errol seemed happy as a clam and carried the tools off down the side passage. Les watched him for a moment then got the rest of his stuff from the car and trotted up the stairs to the office. There was no sign of Esme or Delta. But his key was at the desk with a message. They had rung Millwood Downie three times. They’d gone for a walk and would be back by six. Short and to the point, thought Les. Though they didn’t say whether Millwood would be at the hotel by six-thirty.
There was definitely a woman’s touch in his room when Les opened the door. Two plastic bags on the neatly made spare bed, the whiff of cheap, yet sweet, perfume in the air and a couple of bottles plus some knickers and other odds and ends in the bathroom and two girlie magazines near the phone. Besides that, all his clothes were neatly folded and placed on his bed, his towels, sock and shoes were all together and someone even had the audacity to iron his blue, button-down collar shirt and a clean pair of jeans and hang them on the wardrobe. Nothing was missing, not even the change he’d left by the phone. In fact, even that was stacked into four neat piles. The cheeky little bastards, thought Les, dumping his backpack on the bed. How’s their form? They’re bloody lucky I’m leaving tonight or they’d both get a piece of my mind. Not that I’ve got that much to spare. Whistling happily, Norton climbed out of his dirty, sweat-sodden clothes and got under the shower. He took his time and had a good close shave, got all the crap out of his hair then spruced up with several dabs of Jamaica Island Lyme he’d bought at the resort.
Before long Les was looking pretty chic in his freshly ironed jeans and shirt with a plain white T-shirt underneath. Packing his gear was easy, everything was all neatly laid out and he had time for a think. There wasn’t a great deal to think about now, just one or two things. But mainly Indiana Norton had scraped through again, made some more friends and got out in front. He was thinking of getting another bottle of Sangsters Rum and going out in style, but Les had a feeling the drink might finish up a bit melancholy. They say parting is such sweet sorrow and this was shaping up as no exception to the rule. There was something about Esme and Delta tidying up his clothes for him that touched Les, and Millwood, corny jokes or not, was one of the most decent blokes he’d ever come across. He was a destant smadi, alright. Then finding his roots going back all those years was something else again. Weird, uncanny; spooky even. And right on top of that bizarre, crazy experience in America. For a first trip away from Australia it hadn’t been a bad one. Les was reflecting on all this when there was a knock on the door.
‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t the two best sorts in Jamaica. How are you, girls?’
‘Fine Les,’ chorused Esme and Delta. ‘How are yu?’
‘Tops,’grinned Norton. ‘Couldn’t be creamier. No pun intended of course, Esme.’ This went over Esme’s head, but she kept smiling as Les closed the door. ‘So what’s been happening?’
They sat on the beds, facing each other, and Les sorted out what the girls had been up to and what was happening with Millwood. The girls had spent a lovely day hanging round the hotel and the beach and resting up in the room. They’d rung Millwood three times. He got to work late and he was busy, but he should be at the hotel by six- thirty. If not, he’d see Les at the airport.
‘At the airport?’ frowned Norton.
‘That’s what he say,’ nodded Esme. ‘We ring back twice. But he bus
y and de ’oman not put us through.’
‘Mmmhh.’ Les picked at his chin for moment. ‘Oh well, it’s not half past six yet. He’ll probably get here. Come on, let’s go and have an orange juice or something while we’re waiting.’
‘Okay,’ smiled Esme.
‘Hey. And thanks for tidying up the room and ironing my shirt for me,’ said Les, returning Esme’s smile. ‘No wonder I love the both of youse.’
‘We know you do,’ said Delta. ‘You’re our Brer Wallaby.’
They had a bit of a laugh and a muck around then walked out onto the balcony.
The Caribbean sun was starting to set behind the clouds, filling the sky with streaks of violet and gold while it turned the still waters of Montego Bay a shimmering mauve. Considering the threat of an approaching hurricane it was quite a beautiful evening. There were only two other couples on the balcony so they sat down at the same table again and Les got two orange juices and a bottle of Red Stripe from the bar. Les was going to stick to orange juice, but it was a kind of celebration and he figured a couple of beers wouldn’t hurt him. They clinked glasses then sat around talking while they waited for Millwood. Les was in a fairly jubilant kind of mood, which would have been even heightened if Millwood had been there. The girls were a little down. Besides being genuinely sad at seeing Les go, they had to be out of the room in the morning, then they had to go and start working for Lucretia Borgia at the Badminton Club in the afternoon. Not something to make you want to start doing handstands. But it would have been a lot worse if it hadn’t been for Les. They almost brightened up a little when Les told them not to worry. Happy up. Things could only get better. Wait and see. Les told them a bit about Australia and his trip to Florida. He’d drop them a line when he got home. All the time he was talking Les kept checking his watch and looking out at the street. But there was still no sign of the schoolteacher. Where is the bastard? frowned Les. It’s not getting any earlier. He bought another bottle of beer and drank that. Before Les knew it, time had run out.
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