Death by Tradition: Fiji Islands Mysteries 2

by B. M. Allsopp

  ‘Fair enough. What a difficult decision he had to make.’

  ‘Io, Inspector.’

  ‘Tomasi, is Ratu Osea in the village now? Sergeant Singh and I would like to pay our respects before continuing our work here.’

  ‘Ah, good to see you’re a respecter of tradition, sir. Ratu is certainly here, but he may be in conference now. Let’s go to his house and see. As you know, it’s at the eastern end of the village.’

  Singh chatted to Tomasi as they walked. Horseman was relieved Tomasi’s manner with her was easy: it wouldn’t be unusual for people in the remote hinterland to be tight-lipped with an Indian police officer.

  The chief’s spacious house looked recently painted; cream weatherboards with red window frames and doors. The windows were fitted with glass louvres instead of timber shutters, but the house was far from ostentatious. The chief’s military career and diplomatic post must have enabled him to accumulate substantial funds. Was the chief a man of simple tastes, at heart a barracks soldier? By the end of today, Kelepi Taleca should have discovered more about Ratu Osea’s assets.

  They waited near the foot of the steps as Tomasi called out to announce their visit. In a few moments the village headman, Ilai Takilai, emerged, shutting the door gently behind him. He came down the steps and addressed Tomasi quietly. Then he turned to Horseman, hand outstretched. ‘You are welcome, Josefa Horseman. And your sergeant, also—welcome Ms Singh. Ratu Osea apologises that he must attend to business this morning. He would be honoured if both of you could join him for a very simple lunch at one o’clock.’

  Horseman glanced at Singh, surprised. He bowed his head, clapped his hands once, open-palmed. Singh clapped too. ‘Vinaka vakalevu, sir, we would be honoured to accept,’ Horseman said.

  The man nodded and clapped in return. ‘Good. Ratu will be most grateful.’ He returned to the house.

  ‘Tomasi, could we speak to you further in private, please?’ Horseman asked. Tomasi lifted his eyebrows in assent.

  ‘Where would be a suitable place?’ Horseman asked again.

  ‘I can offer my house, with pleasure. Just back along the path, as you saw.’

  Horseman thought this was hardly likely to be private. ‘We don’t want to disturb your family in any way at all. Perhaps I’ll look in on Pastor Joni and ask him if his office is free. He’s happy for us to use it.’

  ‘It’s only me in the house, Inspector. My youngest son will hang around the SOCOs as long as he can. He’s the only child at home now. My wife’s at the school making costumes for the meke dances on Sunday. So we can be private at my house.’

  ‘Vinaka, Tomasi. We appreciate your offer,’ Singh replied with a smile.

  Tomasi’s house was more modest than the chief’s. The roof and walls were of reeds, mud plastered and whitewashed. Palm thatch covered the corrugated iron roof. Inside, the floor was laid with reeds and topped with palm mats. A blue-checked cotton curtain partitioned off the sleeping area. Cupboards were built into the side wall opposite the curtain with some open shelves above. There was no other furniture. A lean-to corrugated iron roof projecting from the back wall protected the open cooking fireplace.

  The place was airy enough. Windows on the front and back walls, their wooden shutters propped open, provided good ventilation, but the place had a damp earthy smell, indicating the floor beneath the springy reeds was earth. This smell always evoked decay to Horseman and depressed him. He had grown up by the sea on the island of Ovalau, where any houses not elevated were built on sand. Their smell was dry and salty, which seemed healthier to him. He knew it was just what you were used to growing up. But this earthy smell added to the oppressive feel this picturesque village gave him.

  Horseman sat with his right leg stretched in front of him: he couldn’t risk straining his knee by sitting cross-legged. Tomasi propped his back against a wooden post. Singh was the only one of the three who seemed able to sit on the floor unsupported, her legs neatly tucked to one side.

  Singh glanced at him questioningly and began. ‘Constable Tomasi, I know you’ve been thinking carefully about Viliame’s death since we spoke on Monday. Can you tell us anything more?’

  ‘I still can’t understand it, Sergeant. The more I think about it, the more I believe it must have been someone here, a fellow villager, who killed Viliame. It’s possible outsiders slipped in to murder him and then left, but they would need to have come on foot, and go back to wherever they came from in the dark, or stay in the bush until morning. Possible, but difficult, dangerous for anyone who doesn’t know our lands like the back of his hand. That could only be one of us. But it beats me who in the village would kill that boy.’

  ‘We’re thinking the same way,’ Singh replied. ‘You know everyone here. Someone hated Vili or someone was scared of him.’

  Tomasi was shaking his head. ‘I’ve already told you about the elders knocking back the proposals he worked so hard on. They probably thought he was big-headed, but he didn’t scare them, I’m sure. They tolerated him. They wouldn’t kill him!’

  ‘As we know, someone did,’ Horseman said. ‘What if someone was desperate for something Vili had in his possession. They killed him to get it. Or to get it back, maybe, if they believed Vili had stolen it from them. Does that ring a bell?’

  Tomasi looked bewildered. ‘I understand, but what could that be? What could Vili have? He had a good job, but he was young, he couldn’t have saved much. And I bet he kept his money in the bank.’

  ‘You’d be surprised how little money some people will murder for,’ Singh said.

  ‘Such people must be crazy!’

  ‘Probably Vili’s murderer is crazy in some way. But perhaps it wasn’t money he was after. It might have been something only valuable to the killer,’ Singh replied.

  ‘A person, perhaps a woman. Did you say Vili had a girlfriend?’ Horseman asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe in Suva,’ Tomasi suggested.

  ‘We know this is a village which greatly values tradition—customs, ceremonies,’ Singh said. ‘We noticed when we arrived you’ve kept up skills like building bilibili for river transport. Is there any traditional wood carving or other crafts carried on here?’

  ‘Some of the women make pots. The clay here is suitable. In the old days we traded pots with the coast—all went by bilibili down the river. Nowadays the women make smaller pottery for the shops in the tourist resorts and Suva, even Nadi.’

  ‘How interesting,’ Singh said. ‘I’d like to see some while we’re here, if I may.’

  Tomasi smiled. ‘The potters have been busy. They will present gifts to the Weston descendants on Sunday. There’ll be a display at the school too.’

  ‘Wonderful! I’m looking forward to seeing them,’ Singh said.

  ‘What about wood carving?’ Horseman asked. ‘Copies of old priest’s dishes, weapons, and so on.’

  ‘Not in recent years, no.’

  ‘People must have traditional carvings from the old days stored away, though. Handed down through the generations?’

  ‘Some may, but I don’t. People don’t talk about them, if they do have such things.’ Tomasi looked a bit wary.

  ‘Why would they keep such keepsakes quiet?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no reason for secrecy. Not at all. I meant that I haven’t heard anyone mention any old carvings they own. That’s all.’

  ‘Who would be most likely to have such things?’ Singh asked.

  ‘I don’t know. The chiefly families, I suppose. The clan elders.’

  Horseman glanced at Singh. ‘Vinaka vakalevu, Tomasi. We’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘Oh, not too much peace and quiet today, sir! We all have jobs to do to prepare for our big day on Sunday.’ He sprang to his feet. ‘Let me get you a drink of water before you go. I’ve neglected you.’ He picked two cups from the shelf and poured water from a kettle.

  ‘Vinaka,’ they both said, drinking gratefully.

  ‘We’ll be just on time for lunch if we lea
ve now,’ Horseman said. He hoped this meal would provide them with something to chew on, other than food.

  ***

  Ilai Takilai appeared on the porch as Horseman and Singh arrived at the chief’s house. As usual, his face was serious. He greeted them in Fijian. ‘Welcome, Detective Inspector Horseman.’ He nodded at Singh and stood aside. ‘Please enter, both of you.’

  They took off their sneakers and placed them side by side next to several other pairs lined up by the door.

  ‘Vinaka vakalevu, we are honoured,’ Horseman said. The low doorway forced both men to duck. Singh bowed her head respectfully. A teenage boy offered to take their bags. Horseman retrieved a paper bag of ground yaqona root before handing his backpack over.

  Ilai ushered them through to a large room taking up the full width of the house. A huge rectangle of decorated masi hung on the back wall. Fine pandanus mats covered the floor. A dark wooden tanoa stood in the centre. Ilai invited them to sit down. Horseman managed to sit cross-legged. He hoped the sevusevu ceremony would be brief.

  Ratu Osea entered from the opposite door, smiled, sat down on the other side of the tanoa, and clapped once.

  ‘Welcome, honoured guests, to our poor village…’ He continued for a few minutes of ritual welcome, emphasising the poverty and unworthiness of the village and its people, and the greatness and generosity of the police officers.

  Horseman then placed the one-kilo bag of yaqona before the wooden bowl, murmuring gratitude for their welcome.

  ‘Please accept this paltry token of our thankfulness for your kind invitation. We impose on your hospitality in a time of grief, for which we are truly sorry.’

  Ilai, crouching low, picked up the yaqona and sat beside the chief. ‘Ratu Osea accepts your most generous offering with humble thanks, and grants you and your officers the status of villagers for the duration of your duties here.’

  Horseman again expressed his thanks and apologies effusively.

  Ratu Osea clapped three times. The boy appeared, added ground yaqona and water to the tanoa, and stirred the contents for some time. He kneeled to serve the chief yaqona in a coconut shell cup. The chief drained the cup, and the others clapped three times. ‘Maca, empty,’ they responded. The boy then served Ilai and the guests, who clapped in thanks. After two rounds, the chief signalled his refusal to the boy, who retreated on his knees.

  The chief stood up. ‘Our resources are very poor, but let’s see what we can offer you for lunch.’ Ilai opened the door behind and they went through to another large room, the right side set up with a dining table and chairs, and homely sofas set in a square on the left. The table was covered in a blue cloth, with a terracotta bowl of frangipani in the centre. Four places were set.

  A smiling woman carried in two platters and laid them on the table. She had the same square face and prominent nose as the chief.

  ‘My daughter, Ana’, the chief said with a hint of pride.

  ‘Please sit down and tuck in,’ Adi Ana said. ‘No ceremony here, officers!’ Was she being ironic?

  When they were all seated, the chief said a brief grace and passed around the platters of chicken, dalo, and salad. After a few minutes, during which the others tackled the food with gusto, Ratu Osea spoke.

  ‘Officers, I assume you have noticed we’re going ahead with the preparations for our ceremonies next Sunday.’

  ‘Io, Ratu,’ Horseman said. ‘I quite understand your decision. May I ask when you’re planning to hold Viliame’s funeral?’

  ‘On Friday. Superintendent Navala assures me we can bring Vili back home tomorrow.’

  Horseman bowed slightly. ‘His murder has had a big impact, Ratu.’

  ‘Io, my people’s usual excitement before a big ceremony is muted. But they are rallying and we can rely on them. Under Ilai’s able direction.’

  Ilai nodded sombrely. ‘All the preparations are in hand, Ratu.’

  The chief continued, ‘It always helps to have routine tasks to do in times of crisis. I believe this ceremony will relieve our distress, not add to it.’ He looked at Horseman. ‘May I ask about your plans, Inspector?’

  ‘My officers are searching for the murder weapon. Sergeant Singh and I will talk to more people close to Vili.’

  ‘What sort of weapon are you looking for?’ the chief asked.

  Now he was put on the spot, Horseman’s strong instinct was to play down what they knew about the club. He decided to go with his instinct.

  ‘We know Vili was killed by a blow to his head by a heavy wooden object. But the questions of who killed him and why are still very much open, I’m afraid.’

  Both the chief and his headman looked grave, their faces giving away nothing.

  ‘I would appreciate your own thoughts about the who and why, sirs,’ Horseman said, glancing at both men.

  ‘We’re thinking about little else, Inspector,’ the chief answered calmly. ‘I can only imagine a dispute, probably with another young man, which escalated in the heat of the moment and Vili was struck. Probably his death was not intentional at all, therefore not murder.’ He looked at Ilai.

  Ilai lifted his eyebrows in agreement. ‘Let us pray that is so.’

  Adi Ana entered, took away the lunch things, and quickly returned bearing a tea tray. She set out cups, saucers, and plates, poured tea, deposited a plate of iced and sliced cake before her father, and departed with another cheerful ‘Help yourselves!’

  Ratu Osea smiled indulgently. ‘Io, please help yourselves to Mere Tora’s banana cake. Ana’s service is rather casual, but the cake is excellent.’

  It was indeed. Singh took it upon herself to pass the milk and sugar around. The tense atmosphere lightened a little.

  After only one piece of cake, Horseman glanced at Singh, who pointedly looked at her watch and rose. ‘If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I must be going—I have an appointment. Thank you for the wonderful lunch.’

  Horseman got to his feet too. ‘Vinaka for your hospitality, Ratu Osea. I no longer feel like I’m trespassing on your land.’

  The chief nodded benignly. ‘You’re Tanoa villagers for the duration, Inspector. We’re honoured to help the police. That goes without saying. May God bless your investigation.’

  18

  Rhythmic drumming came from the direction of the rara as they walked along the main path.

  Horseman smiled. ‘Sounds like meke dance practice. Vili’s brother will probably be there, so I’ll head over.’

  ‘I’ll be late for my two o’clock with Mere Tora if I stop off to watch. Let’s compare notes later,’ Singh said.

  ‘Right, Susie. Although I’ve nothing to compare yet.’

  As he approached, the chanting of vigorous male voices joined the drumming. A gap between houses revealed the rara further up the slope. The sight gladdened him, even though it didn’t help one jot with Vili’s murder. He hurried up to the terrace.

  Four rows of uniformed schoolboys, older boys and young men behind them, danced and chanted an aggressive meke of welcome. Tomasi directed the squad with his police whistle, and teacher Sasa demonstrated the moves at the front. Horseman watched from the sideline. The demands of the meke would surely help lift the boys’ confusion and grief for Vili.

  As the front line advanced, five young men rushed forward, brandishing sticks at Tomasi. Sevu was one of them. But no, not sticks. They were clubs, similar in shape to the murder weapon. Here was something! Impatient as he was, he’d have to wait.

  When the rehearsal ended, Horseman approached Sevu. ‘That was a scary attack you launched! You lot put on a good show.’

  ‘Vinaka, but our hearts aren’t really in it.’ Sevu looked down.

  ‘You’re a brave boy to carry on like this, Sevu. I’ve come to ask if you remembered anything more about Saturday.’

  ‘No, sorry. I thought about it, like you asked, but I only remember what I told you.’ Now he was away from the others, Sevu’s face crumpled.

  ‘How about the bang you heard in the nigh
t?’

  Sevu shook his head, regretful.

  Horseman persisted. ‘Any odd behaviour since then? Anything you’ve noticed could be a real help.’

  ‘All I’ve done is help Mum and Dad with the condolence visits, catch up with work in the plantation. Everyone’s been kind.’ Sevu wasn’t the most alert of boys, but maybe he was right and there had been nothing to notice.

  ‘Your clubs are realistic, pretty impressive!’ Horseman said.

  Sevu smiled a bit. ‘Oh, they’re just lightweight mock-ups.’

  ‘Well, you scared me. Who looks after them?’

  ‘Tomasi. But Sasa keeps them at the school. Kids would love to take them home, but he counts them in and out of the storeroom. Strict as.’

  ‘Vinaka, Sevu. I mean it when I say we will do everything possible to track down your brother’s killer. Everything.’ Horseman offered his hand and the boy shook it firmly. Sevu’s troubled brown eyes welled over. The tears rolled down his cheeks before he rubbed his face on the sleeve of his tee shirt.

  ‘But you can’t bring him back, sir. Not even you. Now I need to help my father. Moce.’ Sevu headed off in the direction of his house.

  ***

  After Tomasi had put the young schoolboys through their paces again, Horseman walked back to the school with Sasa. Horseman wondered why Tomasi had never made corporal in the force—he seemed to have a talent for drill. He would requisition his service record back at the station.

  Sasa carried a sports bag with the props: the clubs and presentation whale’s teeth, whittled out of balsa wood. A few boys had charge of the light dancing drums, packed in drawstring bags made from old towels. The rest of the pupils made straight for the school water taps, laughing and jostling a little. Then they moved off to their classrooms without being told.

  ‘They’re well-behaved children,’ Horseman said.

  ‘Io, good kids. They love performing and try very hard. I wish they loved reading and maths as much as singing and dancing. Oh, they love rugby too!’