Treasure Up in Smoke

by David Williams

  The building in shape, if not quite in scale, closely resembled the Randolph Hotel, Oxford. As though the duplication of such neo-Gothic excess were not a sufficient shock to the unwary, the aesthetic strain was worsened by the emergence of an octagonal tower at the centre. This was a truly derivative feature, copied from drawings of Fonthill Abbey in Wiltshire, a folly that had the grace to fall down a decade after it had been built. Buckingham House had proved unshakably durable, arrogantly withstanding the ridicule and contempt of informed observers, as well as a minor earthquake in 1902.

  O’Hara pushed aside the two slim reports he had been reading earlier and glared disdainfully at the instructions in the fresh blackmail note. This time the demand was for 25,000 US dollars – not a considerable sum in the circumstances – to be paid, as usual, into that numbered Swiss bank account. That would make $100,000 in twelve months – less modest when one thought of it in that way, but still a measure at once of the timidity as well as the cunning of his persecutor – something that further confirmed his growing suspicion of the man’s identity.

  Soon it was conceivable that in some parts of the world men would no longer be victimized in this way. Where there was general consent there could be no condemnation, certainly if care was taken not to involve minors. The WHO report of 1969 had been at worst ambivalent. O’Hara had never had a problem with his conscience – not a serious one. So why had he gone on paying? He paid because of the others involved; he did not consider he had it in hi soul to endanger others.

  It was because of the blackmail he had decided to get shot of the whole business. He had always been vulnerable and for nearly two years he had paid to protect his vulnerability. The thing had become too big. Today it was one blackmailer; tomorrow it could be ten – and twenty the day after. No: he had made the right decision, in principle at least.

  He had to admit he felt cleaner at the prospect – so much so that he would ask Aloysius to hear his confession today, before their business meeting. That would be a surprise – it would also help to add credence to the minor deception he proposed. He regretted this last stratagem, but it was necessary. He wondered who heard Aloysius’s own confession. From the first they had agreed that each must settle with his own conscience. In a sense it must have been easier for the priest – not because he was a priest but because he was a Carib, a true Carleon to whom the practice was in any case . . .

  Joseph O’Hara shrugged his shoulders; it took all sorts. He glanced at his watch. He would need to hurry if he meant to be early for his date at the Presbytery.

  The more pious of his friends and family were later to find comfort in the knowledge that Joe had received one sacrament so shortly before his tragic death.

  CHAPTER III

  ‘Well, you should have made it plain to Mr Gore and these Dogwall people that this is Government House, not an hotel.’ Lady Rees gave another tug on her Live ’n Breathe All-in-One girdle and padded towards the full length mirror. She stared at herself accusingly. ‘The Treasures are a different matter. My God, I’m a sight. She’s quite famous. The guest-house is perfectly adequate for the others. You don’t see Joe O’Hara volunteering to put anybody up. The people who make these things should be sued. Pour me another drink. Anyway, according to Debby, the Dogwalls are definitely NQOC.’

  The need to take a breath did nothing to improve the credibility of the all-in-one promise. Constance Rees had a torso irreversibly divided into three bulges; litigation would not have proved otherwise. Grateful for the temporary cessation of the high-pitched, staccato soliloquy, Sir Archibald Rees dutifully poured a whisky and soda, while wishing his wife would put on some proper clothes. There was no denying Constance was a big woman; in that skin-tight undergarment she looked obscene.

  ‘It’s just that the Treasures don’t arrive until tomorrow, Constance. We could have . . .’

  ‘Had the Dogwalls here for a night and turfed them out in the morning to make way for the carriage trade. Really, Archie, even Americans have feelings.’ Lady Rees was not without compassion. ‘Oh, to hell with it.’ She started to strip: this was not a pretty sight. The Governor turned to the glass Venetian door that led from the first-floor bedroom on to the centre of the wide balcony outside.

  Government House on King Charles Island is an attractive stone edifice commanding a fine view of Rupertstown from the east. Georgian-Colonial in style, it had been adapted from a design in The Builder’s Jewel, a pattern book devised by Batty Langley and published in London around 1746. Two wooden houses had successively stood near the same site – one had been completely destroyed by an earthquake, the other partially by a whirlwind. Governor James O’Hara (1726-1801) had been seriously inconvenienced and mildly embarrassed by the second of these disasters. He had been entertaining two Carib girls in his bedroom when the front wall blew away advertising his predicament to a large group of islanders sheltering in the church porch opposite. He emerged unscathed but determined to rebuild from a more durable material than timber – and further up the hill.

  James had sent to England for an architect, but since none could be persuaded to make the journey he managed with the pattern book. The result, completed in 1781, was a sturdy building with seven window bays front and back, five to the sides. Two storeys high, plus a basement, the front was enhanced by the superimposition of covered colonnades on both levels, prettily balustraded and punctuated by eight pairs of slim Ionic columns, the centre four of these rising to support a pediment pierced by an oval window. The colonnades provided at ground level an elegant reception area and on the first floor a covered deck – or Captain’s walk, a feature so beloved of architects of the period in the southern states of America.

  Although parts of the attic space had been ingeniously adapted in more recent times to provide extra accommodation, the house was not large. Its rooms were big but few in number. Shortly before Governor Rees arrived, his predecessor had built a guest bungalow some hundred yards below and to the south of the main house, where the garden joined the beach. This was a long building which divided into two suites if required. Discounting any consideration of prestige, it was likely that the Dogwalls and Peregrine Gore would be a good deal more comfortable in their modern beach-side accommodation than the Treasures would be at Government House with its antique plumbing.

  The early evening view of the town and harbour below was too familiar to enthral Archie Rees. ‘And don’t walk away.’ Constance was emerging from the clothes closet with an armful of generously draped, voluminous long dresses; she had accepted defeat – the new, sea island cotton sheath dress laid out on the bed earlier could be flown back to Montego Bay next day. ‘What am I supposed to say to these Dogwall people? Thank you for coming, but we don’t think we’ll be needing your ghastly hotels and nasty package tourists?’

  Archie Rees had been thinking about a railway ticket. He was not planning a journey; he collected railway tickets. He looked back at his wife who was clambering into a black chiffon tent. Things might have been different. They could have been preparing for dinner in some European Embassy. In that event she would surely not have let herself go in the way she had. He would have been presentable in tails – or at least a dinner-jacket – instead of the worn white linen suit that passed for formal evening wear in this out-of-the-way place.

  It was not as though he had started in the Colonial Service. He had been a grade one recruit in the Diplomatic in the days when the two were separate. Tailed to live up to early promise. Unsuitable for higher responsibility’ – that’s what had been written on his dossier; he had seen it one day, by chance, carelessly and heartlessly left lying open on a secretary’s desk in London. In a sense, though, amalgamation of the Diplomatic with the Colonial had saved him from further indignity. They had at least thought him good enough to run King Charles. That had been nine years ago. At fifty-six he was still lean – his tall, slightly stooping figure and scholarly appearance helped him look the part he had been sent to play. He had been given his knig
hthood – Buggins’s turn, but it had pleased Constance. For his own part he remained bitter and unfulfilled. It was small consolation that in the whole of Her Majesty’s Foreign Service there was no one with a more exhaustive knowledge of the long defunct Great Western Railway.

  ‘The Dogwalls?’ He tried to concentrate on his wife’s question. ‘Yes, well, we need to be civil to them in case Joe turns down the distillery offer.’ He frowned. ‘Though why one man should have the absolute power to . . .’

  ‘Well, heaven alone knows why anyone wants another distillery in the Caribbean.’

  Rees had already explained the terrestrial enough reason to his wife; perhaps he had gone too quickly. ‘Joe feels the island is becoming too dependent on cigars. He used an international broker to offer. . . oh, very discreetly . . . the tobacco company to a few possible buyers at a very attractive price – I think one year’s profits . . .’

  ‘Yes, well, I don’t see how that helps the island. Of course it lines Joe’s pockets as usual.’ Constance was applying liberal quantities of Cutex Flame Red to her fingernails, a process that appeared slightly to increase her powers of concentration.

  ‘As well as being offered the tobacco company at a knock-down price,’ the Governor continued stoically, ‘prospective buyers were made to promise additional capital investment in KCI – in new industry here, as a kind of make-weight. In fact, it’s an extremely astute idea on Joe’s part.’

  ‘I don’t follow. They should thin out this stuff.’ Lady Rees was vigorously waving one hand in the air as though desperately hailing a taxi.

  The Governor sighed. ‘I am trying to explain, my dear.’ He wondered if it was worth it; he wondered whether anything was worth it any more. ‘An Anglo-Australian group has offered to put in a distillery.’ He went on more out of a sense of duty than in hope of spreading true enlightenment. ‘They’re represented by this chap Treasure – oh, and Gore who’s dining tonight. World consumption of rum is on the increase.’ He gave a guilty glance at the glass of whisky in his hand. ‘The way things are going in Jamaica, the rum there may well become too expensive for world markets. A distillery here could be quite profitable long-term.’

  ‘But the Dogwalls have nothing to do with the rum business. And he’s not a banker – you said . . .’

  The Governor had produced a folded sheet of notes from an inside pocket. He read from this. ‘Glen Dogwall the Third – d’you suppose they have a kingdom somewhere?’ He looked up, shook his head, then continued. ‘Glen Dogwall the Third is President of the Sunfun Hotel Corporation of America. They’re offering to develop the whole of the Rollover Bay area – hotels, villas, golf-courses, rafting – there’s even been mention of a casino.’

  ‘A gambling casino?’ Constance was waving the other hand in the air as if in jubilation at the prospect. ‘Surely Holy Joe would never agree?’

  ‘One hopes not; one sincerely hopes not – but Joe has become so unpredictable. I mean, why has he suddenly decided there’s no future in cigars?’ The Governor shrugged his shoulders before inappropriately extracting a cigarette from a silver case. ‘Anyway, he’s down to a short list of two offers. Treasure is coming for more or less formal meetings. The Sunfun financial people are not due until next week . . .’

  ‘So why are the Dogwalls . . . ?’

  ‘The Dogwalls are taking a little holiday.’ Rees cut in with uncharacteristic firmness, and as if to avoid further interrogation on the same line of enquiry he continued. ‘By the way, Mrs Dogwall is wife number two.’

  ‘Debby says she looks like a tart.’ Debby was the Reeses’ nineteen-year-old daughter. Educated in England, she was due to return there in the autumn to read history at Cambridge. ‘Mr Gore, on the other hand, she describes as dishy.’

  ‘Well, we can make our own judgements at dinner.’ Archie Rees was not given to accepting other people’s opinions. This and the fact that he rarely formed any of his own should have underwritten his success as a diplomat. What held him back was not a penchant for indecision but a penchant for advertising it. In the words of one

  Foreign Minister, ‘Archie’s problem is he’s too bloody scrutable.’

  Father Aloysius Babington was big, tall, black and very angry. He stood at the door of his Presbytery near the quayside regarding with disfavour the retreating figure of his most affluent parishioner. Joe O’Hara had left, as he had arrived, on foot. There was nothing especially symbolic about this. The climb to Buckingham House after passing the church and the Governor’s residence was fairly steep, but Joe liked to walk, even though he owned most of the motor transport on the island. Already he was stopping to pass the time of day with people in the street – the people he was about to betray.

  O’Hara and Babington had been close friends for more than twenty years; the priest was much the younger of the two but any gap in their relationship that might have been opened through age difference, or for that matter by status, riches or skin colour had been bridged by their common and almost fanatical devotion to the community both felt they lived to serve. It was no overstatement to say that they had conspired together – and at some risk to themselves – to ensure the well-being of all Carleons; their mutual trust and understanding would in all circumstances have been judged complete. Yet now Babington wondered whether he knew Joe at all.

  The priest had long since accepted O’Hara’s decision in the matter of the cigar company. In this he had been deferring to the older man’s judgement – no more than that, for until an hour before there had been no reason to assume it had been prompted by anything more urgent than simple prudence. In the confessional Joe had announced he considered himself a thief – stealing money pledged to improve life for the people of KCI and using it to pay a blackmailer. The reasoning was, of course, ridiculous; it was Joe’s money in the first place – simply money he had pledged to give away to the community: it was typical of the man to think of it as money morally beyond his entitlement.

  It had disturbed but not incensed Babington that Joe had never before even hinted that he was being blackmailed – and that he had not sought counsel from his friend, even when he believed he had guessed at the identity of the blackmailer. The priest’s anger and feeling of alienation had stemmed from a different source.

  It had been later, in the Presbytery, that Joe had revealed his plan to accept the offer which would convert the west side of the island into a cheap tourists’ paradise. Babington had scarcely been able to credit that the man he had trusted and respected above all others had been able even to contemplate such an ignoble course.

  In the light of what he had learned in the confessional Babington was ready to agree that the days of the cigar operation were numbered. If the decision had been his to make he might still have applied himself to finding a compromise solution, given that it was possible to deal with the blackmailer. But the decision was not his, and he now accepted that Joe had serious grounds for what before had seemed an ill-considered action.

  Of the two propositions that Joe had appeared to entertain to provide income for the island when the inflated cigar profits evaporated, Babington had earlier supposed his friend intended to give serious consideration only to the distillery project. He had been flattered that O’Hara had sought his opinion on various propositions over the previous months. Only a few weeks before the older man had confided in him the intention to proceed with the distillery offer. Indeed Babington had regretted he had been indiscreet in quite inadvertently revealing his knowledge of this intention to the Chief Minister of the island before he appreciated that such an august person was not already also party to the decision. On that occasion he had been swift to acknowledge his error and to report it to O’Hara who had been all forgiving. That Joe should have changed his mind was beyond belief. How could the man who had done so much to protect the island in the past now be ready to see it converted into a centre of despoiling tourism?

  The influx of alien, insensitive sightseers, the erection of garish hotels, the flaunti
ng of riches by overfed seekers after tax havens – in this lay the seed corn of social destruction. The same malaise had already reduced island populations in other parts of the Caribbean to the status of disaffected rabbles – unruly and unrulable. It invented a sense of underprivilege, promoted political awareness, and produced the sleazy sort of democracy that led to anarchy and ended in tyranny.

  Babington had argued all this with Joe to no avail; incredibly, his friend had proved immovable in his resolve. It was not as though the priest was opposed to tyranny in principle. Heaven could witness he had supported O’Hara for long enough. It was a tyranny of the extreme left that he feared – and the emergence of politics in any recognizable form. There were no politicians on KCI, and there never had been. He believed with fervour that politicians represented a parasitical growth upon society – a growth that unaffected communities should resist at all costs.

  The Carleons had God, their own labours, and the generosity of a benevolent despot to thank for their present contentment. Father Babington decided he would do anything – yes, anything – to prevent the disruption of that satisfactory condition.

  CHAPTER IV

  The pretty Carib maid in the tight-fitting blue linen uniform rolled her big dark eyes. ‘You wan’ any help in da bath, washin’ yo’ back, dat kind o’ ting, jus’ ring de bell. Das de biggest bed on de island.’ She gave a short giggle. ‘I’m in a room at de side, and me name’s Sarah.’ She made a little curtsy and left.

  Peregrine Gore decided he was going to like King Charles Island. He was also ready for a bath. On second thoughts he decided to take a swim first and debate the propriety of having his back washed later. The flight from Montego Bay in Jamaica had been bumpy and sticky. The airstrip north-east of Rupertstown was clearly capable of taking aircraft larger than the eight seater Brittan Norman Islander in which he had travelled. A private Lear Jet had been fuelling near the single hangar. Peregrine was not used to small planes, and the pilot had unnerved him by asking him to make sure the door was shut just before take-off.