Dead Man's Chest (20 page)

‘Yes, the officer is,’ replied Hugh. ‘We expect to round up the whole gang soon.’

‘We had to wait until Mr Thomas came home. We are staying here until you complete your arrests,’ said Mr Johnson. ‘You see, we were kidnapped because I was fool enough to say that I would denounce them to the authorities. They tried to convince me otherwise. But I was firm. Alcohol is a mocker, I said, strong drink is raging, your rum is too cheap, half of the town is out on a toot and drunk from daybreak to midnight, and then they go home to beat their wives and children and start fights and fall in the sea and drown in their sottishness.’

‘He’s very principled,’ explained Mrs Johnson.

‘Yes, but I could have suppressed my feelings and confided in the proper authorities. Pride, my dear, my sinful pride is what has reduced us to this. They tricked us into a car and drove us to the foreshore, and then we were muffled in sacks and dropped into a boat, and our baggage with us.’

‘I was just commending my soul to my Maker when we were unwrapped and a nice Irish voice told us that he was going to put us ashore “just so to be out of the troubles”, and so he did. He put us ashore just over there and dropped our bags down to us and told us that we had better stay out of sight for a while and if we would give him the key, he would arrange stores to be brought to us from our own house. I knew Mr Thomas wouldn’t mind, so I asked for some pots and so on—but forgot soap, which was so silly of me . . .’ said Mrs Johnson.

‘And he faithfully came and brought us flour and sugar and everything I had asked for, even my favourite teapot. And threw in some fishing gear, as well. I’ve wires out for rabbits, fine fat ones here, and we found a patch of herbs and onions someone planted and forgot about. And the fishing is good around the rocks. We’ve been eating well and hiding during the day. And until the Ellis brothers are in custody, Detective Sergeant, me and the missus are staying put.’

‘Good plan,’ said Hugh, after some consideration. ‘Who was this helpful fisherman?’

‘I didn’t see him,’ said Mr Johnson with a butler’s wilful and professional blindness. ‘It was dark.’

‘And you didn’t see him when he delivered the larder?’

‘No, he cached the food and we picked it up after nightfall.’

Hugh recognised a will of adamant when he encountered it. Mr Johnson was not going to betray his Irish rescuer, even though he had marooned them. Hugh had a sneaking suspicion as to who the boatman was. And it was a nice little camp. He could understand why it had been amusing for the Johnsons, with their background, to get away from running a big house for a while and eat fish straight out of the sea, cooked on that flat metal sheet, using a tin fork and no table manners.

‘Anything I can bring you?’ he asked, giving up on identification from these witnesses.

‘Some soap would be nice,’ said Mrs Johnson hopefully. ‘And a comb? We’ve really got quite enough food. In this weather it is no penalty to cook outdoors. And it isn’t cold at night, not really,’ she said bravely.

Dot reached into her capacious handbag, without which she never travelled an inch out of the house, and produced a small cake of hyacinth-scented soap, a comb and brush, a bottle of eau de cologne and another of citronella. Then she took off her woolly cardigan and held it out.

‘Take it,’ she said. ‘You can give it back when this is all over. We’re living in your house, you know. I’m Miss Fisher’s companion, Dot Williams.’

‘Oh, Lord, oh, what will Mr Thomas say? Poor Miss Fisher arriving and nothing prepared for her and no one to look after her!’ wailed Mrs Johnson.

‘We’ve managed,’ Dot told her, patting her arm. ‘Really. It’s been fun for us, too. And this was hardly your fault. Don’t be concerned. Are we going, Hugh?’

‘I’ll come back for you when it’s all over,’ Hugh told Mr Johnson. ‘Soon.’

‘The Lord go with you and strengthen your arm,’ said Mr Johnson.

Dot turned back at the edge of the small clearing.

‘I forgot,’ she said. ‘You’ll be glad to know he’s safe.’

‘Not Gaston?’ asked Mrs Johnson, and broke into tears of relief. ‘How is he?’

‘He’s healthy,’ said Dot. ‘He misses you, though. When he turned up at the house he was filthy. We had to wash him twice before we could identify him. But he’s eating well and he’ll be delighted to see you again.’

‘I have been trying not to think about him,’ confessed Mrs Johnson, accepting Hugh’s handkerchief. ‘I was so sorrowful, and Mr Johnson said I was being ungrateful to the Lord who had preserved our lives, and Gaston was only a dog, and he was right, but . . .’

Mr Johnson was looking very uneasy. Being right in order to suppress someone’s grief was not an attractive trait, Dot thought. He patted his wife awkwardly on the shoulder.

‘How did he get lost?’ asked Hugh.

Mrs Johnson stopped crying.

‘I had him in my arms when they put bags over our heads, and he jumped down and started attacking the men, and someone kicked him because I heard him yelp, and then there was a splash and they’d thrown him into the sea! My poor little darling Gaston . . .’

‘He’s fine,’ Hugh told her. ‘And they’ll be sorry.’

When they looked back at the little camp Mrs Johnson was chopping onions for a rabbit stew and Mr Johnson was reading to her from his pocket Bible.

‘Woe to the crown of pride, to the drunkards of Ephraim, whose glorious destiny is a fading flower, which are upon the head of the fat valleys of them that are overcome with wine! Behold, the Lord hath a mighty and strong arm, which is as a tempest and a destroying storm, as a flood of mighty waters overflowing, shall cast down to the earth with His hand.’

‘And so say all of me,’ said Hugh.

‘Amen,’ responded Dot.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque recurret You may drive out nature with a pitchfork, but she will return.

Horace
Epistles

Dinner that night was superlative. Hugh had informed the household that the Johnsons would be back, so Ruth had put her heart and soul into a magnificent feast before she had to hand over her kitchen. It might be a bit of a relief, at that, to surrender her responsibilities, but at least now she knew she could do it. She could run a household in trying circumstances; she could stock a kitchen from scratch, make her own bread, construct her own menus, cook her favourite recipes. She was proud of her own skill and her good teaching. And Mrs Leyel. Mrs Leyel was going home with Ruth. She would buy the book from Mr Thomas. Or, if necessary, steal it. When it came to Mrs Leyel, Ruth had no conscience.

So the dinner included all the Oriental recipes which looked so delicious: fish cooked in many forms; delicate vegetables in strange sauces; crayfish chowder, really piquant; roasted quinces as pink as an houri’s lips; a dessert of fresh dates, tropical fruit and berries in pomegranate syrup; and rosewater Turkish delight to eat with coffee.

Everyone was pleased, everyone was talking, the gramophone was playing. Joy, in fact, was unconfined until ten in the Fisher household, when Hugh had to leave to carry out his operation against the Ellis brothers.

Dot hugged him goodbye at the door.

‘You will be careful, Hugh, won’t you?’ she pleaded, and Hugh kissed her and promised that he would. And he meant to be. His planning had been meticulous, he had allowed for several contingencies, and it ought to go, he thought as he strode towards his lodging to put on his uniform, like clockwork.

The best-laid plans of mice and men gang aft a-gley, as the tender-hearted poet said to the dormouse, mourning over its ruined nest. The factor which would fling a wrench into the well-oiled machinery of Hugh Collins’s plan was Ian Fraser.

After a night in the wilderness, the boys were fed up. They had tried to make a fire in the wet forest on Swan Island and had not been able to make it flame. It had, however, smoked villainously and begrimed all faces and made them cough while giving out no useful heat. They had not been able to break into the locked gun-cabinet, so they could not shoot anything. The fish they had at last caught proved impossible to cook on this fire but they had been so hungry that they had choked down the raw flesh, which tasted vile. They were muddy to the knees. They were wet with seawater which was drying into crusts which scored delicate skin across wrists and thighs. Kiwi had been bitten by a bull ant and they had seen several snakes.

They had also sighted Mr Johnson, fishing with irritating skill off the rocks. He had caught three fish in the time that the boys had caught one measly little grey mullet, which Fraser had killed by beating it to death on the stones. It had then proved inedible because the flesh was full of shards of razor-sharp bone. The other one they caught was executed by Kiwi, who had been fishing with his father. It did not comfort their stomachs. It was cold in the dark and noisy; things hopped and creaked and bounced and called in the wet manuka. Something totally frightful groaned a long, triumphant croak which sent shivers down the spine. The fact that this was probably a bird of some kind did not console them at all.

‘I’m going home,’ announced Jolyon. He had considered his position. He would be in trouble. But, then, he usually was. His mother would scream at him. She usually did. He would be punished. What could be worse than this cold, wet, foodless wilderness, stocked with snakes and inimical birds? He could handle any amount of screaming if the deal included a bath, a fluffy towel, a change of garments and a lot of breakfast. Toast, he thought. Bacon. Eggs. Gallons of tea. In a house, with a nice heavy roof and walls and door, shut away from the beauties of nature.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Kiwi. His bitten knee had swollen to the size of a tennis ball and burned all the time, so that he had not been able to sleep and had been fully awake to experience the joys of camping
au naturel
in the
joli bois
. French lessons came back to him, and he understood the term
forêt sauvage
for the first time. No wonder everyone was afraid of it. Even now he didn’t know if he could walk. But he’d crawl rather than spend any more time in this company and in this horrible landscape, which seemed to hate him and be designed to bite, prick, burn, chill and wound him, personally.

‘You can’t,’ snarled Fraser. There was deep fear in his heart. Product of a broken-spirited mother and a cold, brutal businessman of a father, he had never been able to please his father or rescue his mother and domination over his fellows was the cornerstone of his soul.

‘We can,’ declared Jolyon, as dusk tinted the sky. He hauled Kiwi to his feet. ‘We shall.’

And then they limped off and left him. Without a backward glance. Left him alone. Well, he wasn’t going back.

On the other hand, there was no reason why he should stay on Swan Island. There must be better places to sleep than this dreary wilderness. He might find an empty house, or a shop. And if he was to survive, he needed money. He was cavernously hungry. He had never gone without food for so long. What did he have that he could sell?

An idea burst onto his mind like a Guy Fawkes rocket. Of course! All Queenscliff knew of the Ellis brothers and their smuggling of Bundaberg rum. Everyone also knew that the principled Mr Johnson had denounced them at the Presbyterian Church the Sunday before he and his wife disappeared. And Fraser had a shrewd suspicion that the Ellis brothers might pay for his information that the missing Johnsons were alive and well on Swan Island. They might even take him on as an apprentice smuggler.

His mind buzzing with dreams of criminal glory and his stomach growling, Fraser crossed to the mainland and set out to steal a bike to get him to Point Lonsdale before dark.

Kiwi and Jolyon arrived at the Mason house and begged peni- tently for admittance. Instead of screaming, Mrs Mason ordered, progressively, disinfecting high-temperature baths, a dose of Dr Pemberton’s Tonic, a small tot of restorative brandy, chamomile tea, soup and then dinner, and herself applied arnica to the bull-ant bite, which subsided directly. Both boys were ordered into fresh pyjamas as soon as their hair was dry and sent to bed with mugs of hot cocoa containing four drops of valerian essence for sleep and two of peppermint essence to cover the taste. Mrs Mason was so glad to get her son back that she did not even enquire about Fraser, whom she considered a bad influence on her son, and good riddance to bad rubbish was the only thought she spared for the absent boy. She could report him missing tomorrow, when he should be really sorry for leading Jolyon astray.

Kiwi and Jolyon fell asleep almost instantly. In his last thought before falling asleep like a tree falls in the forest, Kiwi hoped that Fraser was all right. Even though he was a blighter.

Fraser sailed through the deepening darkness on a trike left unattended in the butcher’s yard, heading for Point Lonsdale.

As he reached the chained gate and cried, ‘Open up!’, Phryne was tasting the crayfish chowder and thanking her stars that she had chosen to wear a loose gown of silver and black to Ruth’s dinner.

The dogs bayed at him. They sounded hungry. An old man in a grey dustcoat limped to the gate and croaked, ‘What d’ya want at this time of night? Go away!’

‘I want to see Mr Ellis,’ declared Fraser, his voice reverting to Received Public School. The tone gave the watchman pause.

‘Oh, do yer? But does ’e want ter see you?’

‘I’ve got information on the Johnsons,’ said Fraser.

‘Have yer?’ The watchman’s toothless mouth grinned. ‘Come in, then.’

He unlocked the gate. It swung wide. Fraser pushed the trike inside—he might want it again—and followed the old man to the kitchen door of a substantial house. It was open. Two massive men were sitting at the kitchen table, eating mussels from a huge pot which stood in the middle on a pad of newspaper. Shells littered the table and the floor, dropped among two favoured house dogs. There was a sliced loaf of bread and a pound of butter next to the pot. Fraser salivated.

‘Boss?’ quavered the watchman. ‘Boy ter see yer.’

‘Yair?’ asked the larger of the two men. ‘All right, Harry, get back to the gate.’

‘Boss.’ The watchman departed rather quickly.

‘All right, young feller, what d’ya want?’

‘I know that the Johnsons are alive,’ said Fraser, more terrified than he had ever been in his life. They were giants, gross and unclean. They ate like pigs. They had hands like hams. They could kill him with a blow.

‘Are they?’ asked the second man slowly. ‘How d’yer know?’

‘I’m willing to negotiate a fee,’ said Fraser faintly.

‘Are yer?’ asked the first Ellis. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what. You stay ’ere. Jim’ll go see. If yer right, we might think about givin’ yer a job.’

‘But . . .’ Fraser backed towards the door.

‘And if yer bein’ funny with us, you’ll be sorry yer was ever born,’ added Tom. He rose to his feet and took Fraser by the shoulder. A dog growled from under the table.

‘But yer hungry, ain’t yer?’ asked Jim.

‘Yes, very hungry!’ said Fraser, his eyes on the ambrosial bread.

‘And yer can stay that way,’ completed Jim. ‘Till I get back.’

Fraser, desperate, made a snatch for the bread. It fell to the floor and was instantly devoured by the under-table dog, who fought off the under-chair dog with much snapping and gulping. Every creature in the Ellis’s employ was hungry, except the brothers themselves.

‘Yer shouldn’ ha’ done that,’ Jim told Fraser, hitting him across the head with a soggy slap. ‘Wastin’ good food. I’m gonna lock yer up with the dogs,’ he said, hauling the half- conscious boy across the floor and into the yard. ‘They won’t eat yer if you stay still and don’t annoy ’em. Prob’ly. Come on, yer little worm!’

Fraser was flung into the compound where shadowy wolves came and sniffed at him, dismissed him as unimportant for the present, though someone to keep an eye on, and went on with their ravenous pacing. He wept for his aching head and his hunger and his knowledge that he had been cheated and for the unfairness of it all. But quietly, so the dogs should not be annoyed.

The attack on the Ellis compound began with the stealthy approach of Probationary Constable Basil Worthington, son of a well-respected dingo poisoner, who was required to silence the dogs.

There was something about good old Baz, his colleagues knew, which calmed lunatics, comforted lost children, soothed drunks and subdued angry dogs and runaway horses. He was calm, old Baz, with a broad oceanic stillness which some had mistaken for stupidity. But Basil was not stupid. It was just that he seldom found anything worth getting agitated about.

He was distributing among the guard dogs a recipe of his father’s, with some emendation. He did not want to kill the dogs; it was not their fault that their masters were crims. He just wanted to dope them. So to the figgin—a ball made of a mixture of chopped lungs, liver and lights wrapped in caul fat—he had added not the strychnine of the dingo-killer, but chloral hydrate. A sedative, not a stiffener, as his father might have said. Basil Worthington had spent a gory afternoon constructing the figgins and they were going down a treat. He was tossing them over the wire fence and marking down which dog got one as they vanished down gaping maws. Each dog would gulp the figgin and sit down to digest, then, in about five minutes, they just yawned and curled up to sleep. By the speed at which the drug was working Constable Worthington concluded that their poor stomachs had been entirely empty. Those Ellis brothers were real mean bastards.

He had been told that there were ten dogs. He had made twelve figgins, just in case the informant couldn’t count. He had distributed eight. There must be more dogs. Perhaps penned?

He sighted a wire cage at the side of the compound. By the sound of it, it contained two dogs. They were the only ones still howling. He was close enough to hear little yips as well; a bitch, perhaps, with puppies. He flung a figgin and the second howl was staunched. Then another, and the last lone barking stopped. There was still something scrabbling in the compound. So he dropped his final figgins over into the enclosure, and listened for further movement.

All was as silent as the grave. But he’d better get into that cage, as soon as they had the Ellis brothers by the heels, and make sure that the bitch hadn’t overlaid her young ’uns.

Fraser, next to the silenced mother dog, plunged his face ravenously into raw offal and swallowed, retched, and gulped the rest. Unconsciousness hit him like a wave and he fell with his head on the bitch’s flank, cuddled next to her squeaking babies.

Hugh loosed his assault at one o’clock. Constable Worthington crept forward and unlocked the chain on the main gates. He admitted Hugh’s army and then closed it again. Harry the watchman was muffled in his own dustcoat and told to stay still and quiet, and he did. The constables swarmed over the yard, unlocking the cargo sheds. Here they found ample evidence of smuggling. A wall of crates contained bottles of overproof rum which had no customs stamp. A pile of malodorous boxes contained cured Queensland tobacco, reeking of tar.

And the Ellis arrest was almost a disappointment. By the time they broke open the kitchen door and crunched over the mussel-shell flooring they found Tom Ellis lying maudlin drunk on the parlour couch, singing along with the gramophone record ‘The Sun Has Got His Hat On’. He had been secured with some difficulty, as no available handcuffs would span his mighty wrists. But Hugh had lashed him up with a handy curtain cord, fighting off invitations to sing along. The rest of the household went quietly, including a man with an unhealed slash across his face, apparently made by some sort of teeth. Mrs Ellis was the only one who showed fight. A straw-headed harridan almost as massive as her husband, she had threatened as they clicked handcuffs on her, ‘You wait till my Jim hears about this, you bloody curs, breakin’ into a dwelling house at night! You bastards! Jim’ll fuckin’ settle you, just you bloody wait!’