Killman (17 page)

‘What about Dr Maddy, the white professor?’ asked Kella. ‘Did Papa Noah invite her as well?’

Shem looked embarrassed. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘Wainoni the Gammon Man came to see me about her. He told me that the white woman was upset because she could not find enough pidgin songs about the war. Wainoni was afraid that she might leave without paying him all the money she had left. He wanted to keep her among the artificial islands for a little longer. He knew that the church choir would be singing at the tra-la-la, so he asked me if it would be possible to include “Japani Ha Ha!” and maybe a couple of other war songs for her to record on her machine. Papa Noah had been rehearsing these with the girls’ choir for days, so he had no objection, and he included her in the invitation.’

‘At a price, I fancy,’ said Kella.

‘The Gammon Man was prepared to make a contribution to church funds,’ said Shem.

‘I bet he was,’ said Kella. ‘Dr Maddy was his milch cow. Wainoni didn’t want her drying up on him. Talking of money, what happened to Papa Noah’s?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said the Tikopian. ‘What money?’

‘Come on,’ said Kella. ‘Everybody knows that anyone wanting to join the Lau Church of the Blessed Ark had to pay an entrance fee of two strings of custom shell money. The church had over a thousand adherents. Where are all those shells now?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Shem. ‘Papa Noah took care of the finances.’

As far as Kella could tell, the Tikopian was telling the truth. Papa Noah and Shem had both lived in ordinary leaf houses in the village below the ark. They did not appear to own even a canoe between them. Neither had ever shown any sign of being wealthy. That meant that a lot of valuable custom money was lying around somewhere. Could that have been a motive for the murder of Papa Noah?

‘What about the others?’ Shem demanded, suddenly going on the attack.

‘What others?’ asked Kella.

‘The killman has now murdered three members of the Church of the Blessed Ark on Malaita. He killed Papa Noah, a young man hunting for wild pigs, and another man preparing a new garden.’

Kella remembered the details given to him by the tribal chiefs meeting on the artificial island of Sulufou. He had noted that the killings had taken place many miles apart. Was the fact that three members of the Ark cult had been murdered an important link, or just a coincidence?

He doubted that it could have been the latter, but he said nothing. It was obvious that Shem was frightened of something. At the same time Kella noticed that the seamen on deck were beginning to cast apprehensive glances at the lowering sky. The ship started to buck irritably, like a pawing horse preparing to unseat its rider. One of the Melanesians shouted an abrupt warning. The others started running for the companionway leading below.

‘Big rain!’ cried one of the deckhands, pushing the sergeant towards the steps.

Kella followed the others down to the narrow passage below. Shem and Brother John were just ahead of him. They stopped in the ship’s corridor and glowered at one another. There was no love lost between these two, thought the sergeant. Then Shem stepped back and shouldered his way along to the crew’s quarters. Attracted by the disturbance, Sister Conchita opened the door of her cabin and looked out enquiringly.

‘We’re running into a squall,’ Kella told her. ‘I should stay where you are if I were you.’

‘Come in,’ said the nun, retreating into the cabin. She sat on the single bunk and indicated that the sergeant should take a narrow bench attached to the wall beneath the porthole. Gingerly Kella lowered himself on to the flimsy seat.

‘I haven’t seen much of you on the voyage so far,’ he said. It was true. The sister had hardly left her cabin.

‘There were things I wanted to think and pray about,’ Sister Conchita replied.

‘Snap!’ said Kella.

The nun smiled weakly. She and the sergeant rarely discussed the divergences in their faiths and beliefs. Their skills complemented one another and both of them were content to leave it at that. There were some subjects a pagan priest did not discuss with a Christian nun, even one who had become a close friend like Sister Conchita.

‘While I’m here, may I ask you some questions about the death of Papa Noah?’ he asked. ‘They’re mainly background ones.’ Sister Conchita nodded. She was composed now, her hands folded in her lap. ‘Basically I’m interested in why you went to the feast in the first place,’ he went on. ‘The Church of the Blessed Ark is a very new arrival on Malaita. It hasn’t had time to get established yet, so it hardly presents itself as a rival to the Catholic missions. Why did someone as busy as you bother to attend a ceremony of such a minor sect?’

‘That’s what I said. It was Father Pierre’s idea. For some reason he was particularly interested in Papa Noah and his church. He thought it was becoming an important one. He asked me to attend and keep my eyes open.’

‘Who better?’ said Kella. Outside, the rain was coming down hard now, hammering down on the deck above them like thousands of tiny tacks being driven relentlessly into the weather-beaten planks by a phalanx of industrious gods. More rain rattled interrogatively against the glass of the porthole.
The Spirit of the Islands
was suddenly making hard work of its passage, running breathlessly up waves and then plunging recklessly down the far side of them like a frolicsome elderly aunt paddling at the seaside.

‘Thank you, Ben,’ said the nun composedly. ‘I’m aware of my reputation for being a nosy young biddy. However, I really can lay most of the blame at Father Pierre’s door on this occasion. I’d hardly heard of Papa Noah and his church, but the father seemed really worried about it.’

‘I wonder why,’ said Kella lightly. ‘The old boy’s seen off a fair few sects on Malaita in his time. What was so different about this one?’

‘I don’t know; he wouldn’t tell me.’ The nun hesitated. ‘I got the impression that Father Pierre wasn’t so much worried about what the ark church
was
. He seemed more concerned about what it might become.’

‘What do you mean?’

Sister Conchita selected her words with precision. ‘Once when we were discussing my trip to the feast, he said something to the effect that he wished that Papa Noah had chosen almost anything but an ark as the symbol for his cult. He said that it had too many connotations with the great canoe. In the wrong hands it could lead to dreadful trouble.’

Kella leant forward. ‘Can you remember his exact words?’ he asked.

The nun closed her eyes in concentration. ‘I believe’, she said slowly, ‘that he said:
the ark and the great canoe; there’s very little difference between them
.’ She opened her eyes. ‘Yes, that’s right, the great canoe. Is that of any help to you, Ben?’

‘Not much,’ admitted Kella.

The two sat in puzzled silence. What sort of sect was the Lau Church of the Blessed Ark? pondered the sergeant. He had assumed that it was just another unimportant minor cult, like dozens of others that had sprung up and then withered on the vine in the course of his lifetime on Malaita. Most of them had been founded by zealots who claimed to have had a dream or a vision in which they were commanded to establish a new church. The resulting conglomerations had usually consisted of a few bewildered adherents following a haphazard mixture of Christian and pagan practices. Their average lifespans were usually less than twelve months.

It was beginning to look as if the ark church was going to be different. For a start, the venerable Father Pierre had expressed his misgivings about it. The priest had once been Kella’s headmaster at Ruvabi mission school. Even then he had been noted for his tolerance and acceptance of the diverse pagan faiths often being followed in tandem with the Catholic religion in his far-flung parish. When the young schoolboy had informed him that he was leaving the mission to take up the arduous training of the
aofia
, Father Pierre had made little attempt to deter him. ‘Follow your path as it has been appointed,’ was all the sad priest had said. They had remained friends ever since. If Father Pierre was concerned about the Lau Church of the Blessed Ark, then almost certainly there was a great deal to be worried about. But what? It was time to bring Sister Conchita into the equation. Her opinion was always worth having. Kella opened his mouth, but the nun’s thoughts seemed to be running on parallel lines and she forestalled him with a sympathetic smile.

‘It’s a matter of symbols, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Papa Noah selected the ark as the icon for his cult. It must resemble the symbol of some other sort of religion. Somehow Father Pierre is afraid that the two icons will merge in one dangerous faith.’

‘I was hoping that the father would have explained more about that before you left Ruvabi,’ said Kella.

Sister Conchita did not answer. Her silence only intensified the noise of the squall gathering outside. Father Pierre had been too ill to tell her anything. She wondered if he would ever be fit enough to run his mission again. The drumming of the rain was now being reinforced by the screaming of the wind and the monotonous thud of waves slapping against the sides of the ship. Sister Conchita guessed that by the standards of the Solomons, this would not be considered a major storm. Certainly Kella was not reacting to it in any visible form. He was sitting impassively on the bench, not even squirming round to glance out of the porthole behind him. Not for the first time, Sister Conchita thought that he looked like a deeply tanned and even more battered version of the film star Jack Palance in urgent need of a haircut. He must have sensed her unease.

‘The bosun’s still heading into the wind,’ he said, ‘which means that he’s not too worried yet. If he was, he’d turn and run before the storm.’

‘Is
The Spirit of the Islands
fast enough to outrun the bad weather?’ Sister Conchita asked, hoping for a positive response.

‘Probably not,’ Kella said.

They heard the sound of footsteps running up the companionway to the deck. The ship began to rise and plunge in even greater parabolas. Water was coming in under the door of the cabin from the passage outside.

‘The crew is going up to lash everything down to stop it being swept away,’ Kella told her.

Dismayed shouts came from the deck. Kella frowned and stood up. He opened the door, allowing more water to gush in. He stood out in the passage, straining to hear.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered, and started running up towards the deck. Sister Conchita hesitated, and then, disregarding his instructions, followed the police sergeant closely. Mayotishi emerged from his cabin and joined the small group.

When they reached the deck, the ship was rolling and plunging deeply from side to side. The wind screamed in from the west. The rain was hurtling almost horizontally in solid sheets. For the first time since she had come to the Solomons, Sister Conchita was really cold. The seamen were milling around the wheelhouse. The usually imperturbable bosun had thrown the door open and was shouting desperately to the crew. With difficulty, Sister Conchita and Mayotishi followed Kella across the slippery planks of the deck. As Kella engaged the bosun in a dialogue in the Lau language, the fear was apparent in the older Melanesian’s tone.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sister Conchita shouted, above the noise of the wind and rain.

‘Apparently the magnetic compass has broken,’ said Kella. ‘There’s no course for the bosun to follow. We’re travelling blind.’

‘What’s wrong with the instrument?’ asked Mayotishi. He was wearing yellow oilskins. The Japanese seemed to have an outfit for every occasion.

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Kella said.

He groped for the rope ladder swinging against the side of the wheelhouse and started climbing. The ladder crashed against the wheelhouse in the wind, and the rain thudded down, but it was only a few spray-soaked and slippery rungs to the flat roof, and he was able to swing himself up on to his stomach. Pausing to get his breath back, he ran stooped against the wind across to the compass situated in a protective wooden casing next to the rail. It was illuminated by the flickering light of an oil lamp, mounted on one side. As he approached, he could see that the glass face of the compass had been shattered into hundreds of shards and that the magnetic needle had been wrenched off and thrown away.

‘What’s wrong?’ Brother John shouted from below.

Kella looked down at the group of worried faces staring up at him. ‘It’s smashed,’ he said briefly, climbing back down to rejoin the others.

‘Storm big too much,’ said the bosun, who had handed over the wheel to one of the seamen. ‘Compass himi bugger-up big time. No lookim long Tikopia. Me go turnaround quick time.’

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Mayotishi worriedly from the edge of the gathering.

‘We can’t find an island as small as Tikopia without a compass. We’d just sail into nothingness,’ said Brother John. ‘He wants to turn round and head back for Malaita. I must say that he’s got a point. If we return the way we came, sooner or later we’re bound to find one of the islands in the main group. If we go plunging on blindly like this . . .’ He shrugged.

Those members of the crew who understood English muttered their agreement. Shem shouldered his way through the crowd. He towered above the other seamen. He seemed to have changed since Kella had last seen him. There was a new air of purpose, almost of determination about the Tikopian.

‘We don’t have to turn back,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘I can guide you to my home!’

Murmurs of dissent spread among the crew. They faded away beneath the Tikopian’s imperious gaze. Shem turned his attention to the bosun. The Lau man hesitated, and then nodded reluctantly.

‘Try littlebit,’ he grunted, and went back to his wheel.

Shem took up a place in the prow of the vessel. He looked up at the stars, thought for a few moments and then pointed into the darkness.

‘That way,’ he said.

The bosun spun his wheel and edged
The Spirit of the Islands
round to its new course. Sister Conchita looked uncertainly at Kella.

‘Are we . . .’ she began.