One Blood (13 page)

‘I will,’ promised the gangling youth. ‘I wouldn’t like to go through that again. I’m not cut out to be Robinson Crusoe.’

‘I should think not!’ Conchita remembered that she had not yet asked Andy the question she had started to put to almost everyone lately. ‘By the way, have you had anything to do with the group of American tourists stopping at the Munda rest-house? There are about a dozen of them.’

Andy shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘When you get back to Gizo, will you keep your ears open? If you hear anything about them, let me know.’

‘Sure thing,’ Andy said. ‘I’ll do anything you want me to, Sister Conchita. I owe you big time.’ Sister Conchita thought that there was a touch of something resembling hero worship in the boy’s eyes. She dismissed the thought as being immodest and presumptuous. ‘What do you want to know in particular about the Yanks?’

‘I’m not sure. Anything out of the ordinary.’

The boy looked puzzled but nodded. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said, transparently eager to help. The launch was tying up at the wharf. He lifted a hand in farewell and walked down the slope to the water as Sister Brigid came out of the church. Typical, thought Conchita. Brigid would not say farewell to the ingenuous VSO, but she obviously cared enough for him to want to see him before he left.

‘He’s a nice lad,’ Conchita said, trying to draw the older nun out.

‘Not bad,’ conceded Brigid. ‘He didn’t stay with us long, though, did he?’

That’s a bit cool, considering how bitterly you complained when I first brought him here, thought Conchita. However, she was growing accustomed to the Irish sister’s apparently innate refusal to display emotion, so she said nothing. She watched Andy reach the wharf in long, loping strides. He was the second guest to leave. Only a couple of days ago, after an overnight stay, Sergeant Kella, unusually preoccupied, had paddled off in his canoe across the lagoon without leaving any word as to when he might return.

‘Sisters!’ cried a tremulous voice from the direction of the mission. Sister Jean Francoise hurried round the corner of the house and across the garden area towards them. She was carrying something wrapped in a banana leaf in her hands.

‘We would never have found it if Sister Johanna hadn’t had a sore throat and wanted me to find some
kava
roots to ease the pain,’ she panted. ‘It grows right in the middle of the bush where no one ever goes. I asked a couple of the men to find some for me. When they came back, they brought this with them as well.’

‘Sister Jean Francoise, what are you talking about?’ asked Sister Brigid.

‘Look!’ said the French nun dramatically, dropping the leaf to reveal a war club.

Sister Conchita examined the weapon. It bore no signs of age, and the shell inlay had been polished until it glistened. ‘It must be one of the artefacts we were selling on open day,’ she said. She turned the club in her hands. The other two sisters gathered closer to examine it. With some trepidation, Conchita turned the club until the studded head was on top. Sister Jean Francoise gasped.

‘Look,’ she said, pointing.

Embedded in the side of the club was a slight, bristling patina of blood-soaked hair and flesh. Sister Conchita felt sick.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Jean Francoise.

‘I think,’ said Sister Conchita, ‘that we have discovered the way in which Mr Blamire was really killed. The poor man was struck down with this club!’

The other two sisters gaped at her, suddenly lost and helpless.

‘Somebody’s got off the launch,’ warned Sister Brigid, raising her hands to shield her eyes from the sun.

The government vessel had taken Andy on board and had already cast off and was turning to make the return run to Gizo. A tall, slim man in khaki shorts and a white shirt was walking up from the wharf. Sister Conchita recognized the oldest and toughest of the group of tourists she had met at Munda.

‘It’s Mr Imison,’ she said. ‘He’s an American. He says he was here in the war. Sister Jean Francoise, will you kindly take this club to my office and put it in one of the desk drawers there? And don’t talk to anyone about it. We’ll discuss the matter later.’

Sister Jean Francoise nodded and ran off with the weapon, carrying it gingerly. The other two nuns waited for Imison to walk up the slope towards them. He gave Sister Conchita a wave.

‘You seem to make friends wherever you go,’ said Brigid.

‘I wouldn’t call him a friend,’ said Conchita. She was aware of the other nun looking questioningly at her, but said no more.

‘Hi,’ said Imison, drawing near. ‘We meet again.’

‘Sister Brigid,’ said Conchita, ‘this is Mr Imison.’

‘I’m really pleased to meet you,’ said Imison, shaking the nun’s hand enthusiastically. ‘In fact, I’ve come over to see you specially.’

‘Me?’ said Brigid in surprise. ‘What would you possibly be wanting with me, Mr Imison? I’m just a relic from the past.’

‘Well, I wonder if I could have a word with you in private about that?’ asked the American easily.

Compared with the last time Conchita had met him, Imison was pulling out all the stops to be pleasant, but there was still an element of menace clinging to the man like a cloak. Conchita picked up her paintbrush and turned to resume her work on the church wall. Brigid looked at her in a manner that could be construed as near-panic.

‘I’m sure Sister Conchita would like to hear what you have to say as well, Mr Imison,’ said Sister Brigid. ‘After all, she is the senior sister at the mission. I expect she will insist on being present.’

Conchita blinked at the transformation in the other nun. Where had this newly docile and eager-to-please Sister Brigid come from? She realized that the Irish sister was looking at her imploringly as she waited for a response.

‘Shall we have tea in the mission?’ Conchita asked.

Ten minutes later, the three of them were sitting in basket chairs drinking tea inside the reception room.

‘Now, Mr Imison,’ said Sister Brigid with a trepidation Conchita had not seen in her before, ‘what was it that you wanted to ask me?’

‘Actually, it’s about the war,’ Imison said.

‘Sure, and that was a long time ago. The thick end of twenty years. And I don’t like talking about it.’

Sister Brigid was becoming more like a stage Irishwoman by the minute, thought Conchita. It must be a sign of her unease.

‘You were here during the war?’ pressed the American.

‘To be sure, I was posted here from Malaita in 1942, and I’ve been at Marakosi ever since.’

‘I understand that you played a prominent part in rescuing stranded US sailors and airmen and guiding them back to safety.’

‘We had our moments,’ said a poker-faced Sister Brigid, refusing to respond to the visitor’s charm.

‘Now here’s the thing,’ said Imison, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Were you involved in the rescue of Lieutenant John Fitzgerald Kennedy and the surviving members of the crew of PT-109 in August 1943?’

Sister Brigid did not reply. Imison remained crouched forward, like a feral animal prepared to spring.

‘May I know why you’re asking the sister all these questions, Mr Imison?’ enquired Sister Conchita, coming to the elderly nun’s assistance. Brigid looked relieved.

The American made no effort to conceal the resentment in his eyes at the interjection. He gazed coldly at the younger of the two sisters.

‘Is there any reason why she shouldn’t answer my question?’ he asked.

‘There are any number of reasons, Mr Imison. One of them is that you are a guest at our mission, not a prosecuting attorney. Another is that Sister Brigid simply may not care to respond to your rather hectoring tone or generally help you with your enquiries.’

Imison gazed fixedly at Conchita. She returned his stare and did not move. After a few moments the American seemed to relax in his chair. ‘Sorry,’ he said, waving his hand apologetically. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you. Guess I just got too involved in the whole thing. You’ve got to admit, it’s a fascinating story.’

‘You still haven’t told us the reason for your interest.’

‘That I haven’t,’ admitted Imison. A smile as thin as the blade of a foil whipped across his face and then vanished. ‘It’s just that I’m covering the story for a military magazine back home. With John F. running for the presidency, there’s a lot of interest in his exploits in the Roviana Lagoon. They won him the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for heroism, you know.’

‘Sister Brigid?’ asked Conchita.

The other nun did not respond. She seemed as far removed from the activities in the quiet room as hardly to be present. It was as if she was hoping that if she did not react, the situation would melt away. Conchita turned back to their visitor.

‘Was there something in particular that you wanted to know?’ she asked.

‘Sure thing,’ replied Imison with alacrity. ‘Kennedy’s PT boat was cut in half and sunk by a Japanese destroyer in the lagoon that night. Kennedy and ten of his crew escaped and spent a week hiding from the Japs on a number of small, uninhabited islands in the lagoon. Eventually they were rescued by two natives called Biuku and Eroni, who got Kennedy and the other survivors back to safety.’

‘So what do you want to know, Mr Imison? You seem to have the whole story at your fingertips.’

‘There’s more, a whole lot more, stuff that nobody knows about, only rumours and gossip,’ Imison said eagerly. ‘I have reason to believe that there was a third native in the party that rescued Kennedy, one that nobody seems to know much about. His name was Kakaihe. I’m eager to find him and get his story, but he seems to have disappeared years ago, somewhere around 1943 in fact.’

‘But why should Sister Brigid be able to help you?’

‘She’s one of the few white people still around who were in the lagoon area in 1943. She was involved in a number of rescues of American personnel. It’s no good asking the natives.
They either clam up or tell you a hatful of lies.’ The American could not hide his resentment. ‘Believe me, I’ve tried.’ He looked hopefully at the old sister. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘I have nothing to say,’ said Sister Brigid, chipping out each word.

‘Oh, come on,’ said Imison coaxingly. ‘What’s wrong with loosening up and talking about it? This is old history; it can’t hurt anyone.’

‘I have nothing to say,’ repeated Sister Brigid.

Suddenly the old Irish nun seemed almost on the verge of tears. Conchita stood up. ‘You heard the sister,’ she told Imison. ‘She doesn’t want to talk about the matter. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. You must forgive us. There is so much work to be done here at the mission.’

Reluctantly Imison got to his feet. ‘If it’s a matter of a donation to the church funds …’ he offered.

‘If you please, Mr Imison; I’m afraid you’ve outstayed your welcome. Have you got transport back to the rest-house?’

‘They’re sending a canoe over for me.’

‘In that case,’ said Sister Conchita, bustling Imison briskly to the door, ‘I suggest you go for a nice walk round the island. You’ll find that it’s well marked with footpaths. Sometimes kingfishers can be found by the stream on the far coast.’

She waited until she was sure that the disgruntled American had left the premises before returning to Sister Brigid. Hastily the old nun tucked a handkerchief away in the sleeve of her habit. Conchita wondered if the apparently impregnable woman had been crying.

‘What an objectionable man,’ she said. ‘Are you all right, Sister?’

Brigid nodded. ‘I’m sorry I went to pieces just now,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘You didn’t go to pieces. You chose not to talk to an
unpleasant visitor. Why should you bother with him if you don’t want to?’

‘He was talking about events that I did not wish to remember,’ Sister Brigid said.

‘Well, it’s all over now,’ said Conchita. ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you again.’

‘You’re a good girl,’ said Sister Brigid. She sniffed into her sleeve. ‘Even if you are in too much of a hurry sometimes.’

‘That’s better,’ said Conchita. ‘That’s the Sister Brigid I know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Paying a compliment with one hand and taking it back with the other.’

Sister Brigid almost laughed. She was recovering her composure. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in the islands too long. It’s no climate for a white woman. It dries you up and makes you suspicious of people.’

‘Thanks a bunch,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’

A contrite Sister Brigid touched her hand. ‘I didn’t mean you, Sister,’ she said. ‘You’re a fighter; you’ll get things done. We saw that as soon as you came here to Marakosi. That’s why we were frightened when you arrived. We thought we might get swept away by the new broom.’

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘I can’t even find a broom that works around here for a start.’

‘I asked you to stay with Mr Imison and me because I knew you wouldn’t be intimidated,’ said Brigid. ‘You wouldn’t have let him bully me, even if he did try to batter me down. I used to have spirit like you.’

‘You still do.’

Brigid shook her head. ‘No, it’s all gone now. And what a liar the man is. All that malarkey about him being a writer for a newspaper.’

‘You don’t believe that?’

‘Do you?’ asked Sister Brigid scornfully. ‘The only thing that man’s ever written is an application for a search warrant.’

‘He’s a cop?’ asked Sister Conchita

‘He’s either that or something similar. He’s used to asking questions, that’s certain. And accustomed to beating the answers out of people too, if you ask me.’

‘How can you tell?’

Brigid’s face contorted into a savage grin. ‘I haven’t always been a nun,’ she said. ‘Back home in the slums of Belfast I had six brothers. When the police came calling at the front door of a Saturday night, it was no unusual occurrence. My ma would just ask them which one they wanted this time and to kindly take their pick and leave the rest of us alone.’

‘Do you want me to make an official complaint about Mr Imison’s behaviour?’ asked Conchita. ‘I can go to the Bishop about it.’

‘No, he’s not worth the bother.’