The Governor's House

by J. H. Fletcher

  No false heroics; it occurred to me Colin might be that creature of legend, a truly honest man. Thoughts of Siegfried flickered. Of Lemminkäinen. But naïve Joanne had been conned before. Also I did not plan to talk too much over the phone; these days you never knew who might be listening in.

  ‘Will you be coming to Hobart?’

  ‘I have a meeting at the Governor’s House in the afternoon –’

  ‘What say I meet you at the airport? We can have a coffee and I can explain what this is all about.’

  ‘I should like that,’ he said. He had such an old-fashioned way of talking. Really cool; I loved it. A woman I disliked had accused me of the same thing; I’d told her to get stuffed.

  Colin gave me his flight times, we agreed how much we were both looking forward to seeing each other again and rang off.

  I phoned the vice-chancellor’s residence. As it was a Saturday evening I knew he would be playing cards with some of the friends he’d cultivated since his appointment four years earlier – an MP, a member of the local council, anyone else who might be useful in rowing his boat for him. It meant I would have to put up with being spoken at by Mrs Boss but even that was preferable to explaining for the nth time to her husband that no, I had not found the crown but was working on it.

  ‘The vice-chancellor is out,’ she said. Thus on the mountain God might have spoken to Moses.

  Said I cheerily: ‘Playing Ludo with his mates, is he?’

  Frost formed on the telephone; lack of deference always brought out the Ice Queen in her.

  ‘Was there a message?’

  ‘Tell him everything is under control,’ I said.

  ‘Tell him everything is under control.’ She repeated the words carefully, like they might break if she dropped them. ‘That is the message?’

  ‘Put the old dear’s mind at rest,’ I said.

  ‘It might be helpful if I knew what you were talking about.’

  ‘I often think that,’ I said.

  But as always the cow managed to have the last word. ‘No doubt he will phone you when he gets in.’

  Over my dead body, I thought.

  Wiranto next. Our conversation was very much to the point. No more coffee and cake on the waterfront. No more palpitant waitresses. Tomorrow was a Sunday but I told him, like, if it was that urgent we could meet in my office at ten o’clock. In the absence of the waitress I wondered whether Di Hardcastle might do. I thought she’d love it. Love it? She’d have her knickers off before he was through the door. I said nothing about the mysterious Amir, whom I rang next.

  All I got was voicemail; an accented voice. I said:

  ‘Dr Fletcher returning Mr Amir’s call.’

  I hung up. I had to assume Amir had something to do with the GKM, the Muar Independent Movement. If I was right I’d be hearing from him again very soon, but not tonight. I disconnected my landline, switched off my mobile and went to bed.

  Through the windows I watched the surf rolling white-flecked under a three-quarter moon. I was a historian with my feet rooted firmly in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. An ordinary woman, reasonably law-abiding, with – until recently – a splendiferous sex life, the standard issue intolerance of authority and a carefully regulated fondness for booze. Now I found myself in the front line of a battle of shadows, with uncertainty at its heart. I wasn’t sure whether the prospect was scary, exciting or both.

  There had been nothing menacing in Amir’s voice or his message yet I remembered Wiranto warning I could be in great danger. I still couldn’t quite get my head around that but if he was right I was a sitting duck with my nearest neighbour half a kilometre away so before I went to bed I did something I hadn’t done since I’d moved into the house. I went round checking and locking all windows and doors. Nevertheless I lay awake a long time. Beyond the window the moon shone silver on an otherwise black sea. Somewhere up there were the stars.

  TWENTY

  Sunday morning Dr Wiranto marched into my office like a column of tanks taking over the university.

  ‘Two men have arrived in Tasmania. They believe you know where the crown is – may even have physical possession of it – and intend to get it out of you. I should warn you these men are known to us and have a name for being utterly ruthless.’

  ‘How do you know about them?’

  ‘You do not need to know how, only that it is so.’

  Hey, how arrogant could you get? He was way off beam if he thought he could bully me. I put on my smart-arse voice. ‘If you were a historian, Dr Wiranto, you would be aware that knowing how is always important. How can you evaluate information if you don’t know whether the sources are reliable or not?’

  ‘They are reliable, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Which doesn’t answer my question. How do you know about these people?’

  ‘Every embassy in the world has sources of intelligence. Ours is no exception.’ He opened the document case he had with him and took out two photographs which he pushed across the desk. ‘These are the men,’ he said.

  I studied them. ‘They look harmless enough.’

  ‘Believe me, they are not.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do about them?’

  ‘It occurred to me that if you know anything about the crown’s whereabouts –’

  ‘I don’t.’

  He talked over me. ‘– anything at all, it will be very much in your interests to tell me. Once the legitimate authority has the crown and can publicise the fact, any danger to you will be at an end.’

  ‘Maybe I should carry a gun,’ I said. ‘Or maybe a peashooter? Except guns are illegal and I was never much cop with a peashooter.’

  ‘I am speaking to you very seriously,’ he said, speaking to me very seriously. ‘Do not think this is a game.’

  ‘If I find the crown of Muar you’ll be the first to know,’ I said. I bet James Bond had been a liar too when the need arose. ‘Incidentally…’

  He looked at me.

  ‘Communication is a two-way trip.’

  ‘I do not understand what you are saying.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me who they are or how come you know about them.’

  ‘Their names are of no consequence. They change them as the need arises. They are terrorists, members of the Muar Independence Movement. They are committed to regaining the lost crown. They believe it has supernatural powers.’ He laughed scornfully. ‘Such nonsense! But it is not a good idea to underestimate them. I can assure you they will stop at nothing. Have you ever been tortured, Dr Fletcher?’

  ‘Hardly. We don’t go in for that much in Tasmania. And if I don’t know anything torture won’t help them anyway.’

  ‘But if they think you do it might still be an unpleasant experience, not so?’

  ‘Why should they think that? I don’t know anything about the wretched crown.’

  ‘Nevertheless they do think so. I assure you, Dr Fletcher, that your safety and even your life may be in danger. I have told you this before.’

  ‘And you know this for certain?’

  ‘Believe me, Doctor, I do.’

  Impasse. He was looking for information but I had none to give him. Or at least none that I would give him.

  ‘I shall just have to be careful,’ I said.

  Words: if these men wanted to find me there wasn’t much I could do about it. Yet the idea of being tortured to reveal secrets I did not have was too bizarre; I couldn’t take it seriously.

  Ten minutes after Wiranto had gone my phone rang. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Averil.’

  ‘I thought you’d have left for China by now.’

  ‘There’s been a delay at their end. Listen…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Skip the Walls of Jerusalem. I’ve had an idea.’

  The next morning I stood once again staring through my office window at the shining expanse of Sullivans Cove. It was all very well Averil telling me to skip the Walls but there was zero chance of that. Di
ck had been after me again first thing.

  ‘When do you plan to leave, Joanne?’

  ‘Soon as I can get away,’ I promised.

  ‘And that will be when?’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know.’ I had a hunch I’d told Wiranto the same thing the previous day.

  I knew Dick’s problem; he wanted to stay sweet with the PM and thought that instant action was the way to do it. You could argue that the crown was none of the university’s business but in truth it had sort of become so since I’d let myself get involved. I might be dean of history but Dick was vice-chancellor; I could hardly refuse a direct order. I didn’t think the crown was there but supposing Pete Poxon had got it right for once? If I said no and somebody went and found it exactly where he’d said I’d be up shit creek with a vengeance, wouldn’t I? It might even give Dick the excuse he wanted to ease me out. Which might not be a bad idea in principle but if I went I wanted it to be at a time of my choosing, not his.

  I looked at my watch. Colin McNeil was arriving at Hobart airport in a little over an hour. Colin with his blue eyes and tangled black hair matching my own. Was that fate or was it? My heart was still sore – I guessed it would be for a while yet – but I still felt a pleasing quiver at the thought. I took the lift to the parking garage. The concrete walls echoed the Maserati’s roar as I drove up the ramp. Elderly – it had cost me fifteen grand – but still potent, like others I had known. Minutes later I was hot-rodding it down the road to the Tasman Bridge.

  The airport café was as noisy as hell but at least no one could eavesdrop on us. I explained to Colin about the missing crown and the pressures being put on us to find it. I then spelt out what I had privately named the Walls of Jerusalem Lunacy. As Colin listened he chewed on an unpleasant-looking piece of chocolate cake – what was it about otherwise virile-seeming men and chocolate cake? – and drank coffee from a cardboard cup. I joined him in a sausage roll that unhappily wasn’t much cop either.

  The chocolate cake and I ran out of steam together. Colin brushed crumbs from his lips.

  ‘So the theory comes in two parts,’ he said. ‘The first is that your ancestor stole this mysterious crown.’

  ‘The crown of Muar. Yes, that is the theory.’

  ‘The second is that she then hid it where no one could find it, in a place so remote that she must have known she would almost certainly never set eyes on it again. Does that make sense to you?’

  ‘It sounds crazy, put like that.’

  ‘It is crazy. You will forgive me for saying so but it sounds absolute balderdash.’ He pondered. ‘Explain to me how the Walls of Jerusalem National Park got involved.’

  ‘There are a number of biblical references in the text.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘My vice-chancellor thinks they are sufficiently compelling –’

  ‘There are biblical references in the Bible. But the Bible was not written in the Walls of Jerusalem National Park.’

  ‘We have to start somewhere,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’ve no option.’

  A plane had arrived. Accompanied by two adults a crowd of schoolchildren came pouring into the café. It was a miniature sack of Carthage, the adults there for purely decorative purposes.

  ‘So you have no interest in helping me look for the crown of Muar?’ I said.

  ‘Did I say that?’

  A charging boy, bullet-headed, barged Colin’s chair as he ran. He did not stop or apologise.

  ‘At such times I find myself longing for the peace and quiet of an AFL Grand Final,’ Colin said.

  ‘Or the Walls of Jerusalem National Park.’

  ‘Now there’s a thought.’ He drained the last dregs of his coffee. ‘Let’s do it, then.’

  First we had to get organised. Luckily I had the rest of the day to put together the gear we would need; he had his meeting at the Governor’s House; I had to organise matters at the university. A responsible departmental head should not just walk away without making arrangements, right? I told myself a bit of responsibility might not come amiss for once. Quite a lot to do if we were going to leave the following afternoon but somehow we managed it.

  I briefed Helen, my assistant. She was the coolest woman I knew and would hold things together more than adequately while I was away.

  It was lunchtime when we drove out of town in a flooding downpour that left standing water along large sections of the Midland Highway. I was driving and the conditions meant I had little time to admire the countryside, which did not please me.

  Colin’s meeting at the Governor’s House had apparently gone well but he was still as grumpy as hell. ‘This is a waste of time,’ he said.

  I swerved around a two-hundred-metre puddle. An oncoming vehicle flashed its lights.

  ‘Think of it as an adventure,’ I said.

  ‘The way you drive we’ll be lucky to get there at all.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I told him gaily. ‘I am an ace driver.’ The wheels lost traction as we ploughed through another sheet of water that had sneaked up on me unnoticed. ‘Oops!’

  For some reason he seemed under a degree of strain; I told myself he had probably been overworking.

  ‘Learn to relax,’ I advised him. ‘This is a fun trip. Forget the stupid crown. We are here to enjoy ourselves.’

  I turned to smile encouragingly at him. A truck like the North Wall of the Eiger powered past, horn blaring. Honestly, some drivers.

  We stayed overnight in the small village of Mole Creek, about an hour’s drive from our destination. We both felt better after a shower. A few drinks over dinner and Colin was positively chirpy.

  ‘The age of miracles,’ he said.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘We got here in one piece, didn’t we?’

  Nervous passengers could be a bane to responsible drivers but I forgave him.

  ‘Have another drink.’

  ‘Of course the Walls isn’t true wilderness,’ Colin said.

  I’d read the park had boardwalks and camping sites so technically he was right but since they’d been put in to protect the alpine vegetation I couldn’t see any problem. It took a purist to bitch about such things.

  ‘Are you a purist, Colin?’

  ‘Not in everything.’

  His eye glinted. I had seen looks like that before and knew it was not the wilderness he was thinking about. Well hello, I thought. Tim was still a significant presence but I had chosen to move on, and purists could be tedious or sometimes even dangerous.

  ‘Oliver Cromwell was, for one,’ I said.

  He stared. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘He was a purist.’ And dangerous. As Charlie had found out.

  Once again Colin had no clue what I was on about but it didn’t matter. I went back to thinking about the Walls of Jerusalem. Being the middle of the week I thought there was a good chance there wouldn’t be anybody around when we got up there. I had a notion the idea had already occurred to Colin and wondered whether his eagerness to come on the trip might have less to do with Operation Muar than Operation Joanne.

  Well, sufficient unto the day, I thought. If my ancestor could be so free with her biblical references so could I, although I suspected St Matthew had not been thinking of a glint-eyed hunk of Scottish descent when he wrote it.

  Later I lay in bed and thought some more about the Walls and our reasons for being here. In Cat Haggard’s day there would have been only the occasional shepherd, if that, which would’ve suited her had she really been trying to hide the crown. It still made no sense to me that she should even have visited the area, never mind hidden anything there, but I didn’t care. I was looking forward to the trip. Being up in the wilds with only the clouds and wind for company was to pay homage to all that was of enduring value in the world. What was there not to like about that?

  Next morning we checked our kit together, Colin coming on like an army quartermaster.

  ‘Food, dehydrated, four days’ supply.’

  ‘Check.’<
br />
  ‘Thermal blankets, two.’

  ‘Check.’

  And so on down the list. Long johns – it could get mighty cold in them there hills. Sleeping bags, two. Mine was tested down to ten below, which should be enough. Gas stove and torch.

  ‘Pup tents, two.’

  A final item that was not on our list but vitally important all the same.

  Chivas Regal, bottle of, one.

  Added weight but in such a cause I was willing to be brave. Sneaky to my toes, I did not declare it. We were on serious business and Colin might not approve.

  To hell with Colin.

  We had breakfast, settled up and lugged our packs out to the car.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Colin suggested.

  I gave him a look. ‘Don’t even think of it.’

  Joanne ensconced firmly behind the wheel, we set off for our appointment with destiny.

  There was one other car in the car park when we shouldered our packs and headed up the steep slope. It was pouring with rain and the track was slippery with mud.

  ‘Only fools would think of going up to the Walls in this weather,’ said Colin but, a man in love with the wilderness, he was quite cheerful about it.

  It was six kilometres to Herod’s Gate, where we got our first view of the dolerite peaks that had given the park its name. All the way the rain bucketed down and for long periods we couldn’t see a thing. We passed the lakes called Solomon’s Jewels and some time later, as we were approaching the camping site at Wild Dog Creek, we had an odd experience.

  In a sudden break in the weather I caught a glimpse of two men in the instant before they vanished into an isolated stand of pencil pines three or four hundred metres beyond the camping site.

  I pointed. ‘You said only fools would explore the Walls in this weather. Well, there they are.’

  ‘I don’t see them.’

  Neither did I now. ‘They were there,’ I said.

  ‘Odd they didn’t say hi,’ he said.

  He was right. Bushwalkers weren’t the chatty type but they usually said something or at least waved.

  The site had camping platforms and was a handy place to heat up the billy and get some warm food into us, but Colin was having none of it. ‘If the weather improves we’ll take a break at Damascus Gate. We’ll be close to Solomon’s Throne by then.’