One Blood

by Graeme Kent

  ‘Do any of you want to tell me why I would kill a man I didn’t even know?’ asked Michie.

  Suddenly matters became clear to Sister Conchita. ‘You didn’t have to know him,’ she said. ‘He knew you. He was hunting you down. Ed Blamire worked for the Alvaro logging company, didn’t he? He had been sent here to investigate the threats against their operation. I remember now. While he was talking to me in the church just before he died, he told me about the different jobs he’d had. One of them I didn’t understand at the time. He said that he had been a tree-hugger. I suppose that was his way of saying that he was working for the logging company.’

  Kella cast a glance of approval at the nun. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘That was the conclusion I came to as well. Blamire was an investigator sent in the guise of a tourist to check up on the sabotage attempts. Unfortunately for him, he was also a political supporter and admirer of John F. Kennedy. While he was here, he hired a canoe and paddled it to Kasolo to see for himself where Kennedy and his crew had landed after PT-109 had been sunk. When he arrived, he found Andy hiding on the island—with a canoe, which meant that he could go anywhere in the Roviana Lagoon. It didn’t mean anything to Blamire at the time, but unwittingly he had destroyed Andy’s alibi of being stranded on Kasolo and unable to leave the island. I suspect that Andy told Mary Gui or Joe Dontate what had happened, and that one of them informed you, Michie.’

  Everyone looked at Andy. The VSO shuffled his feet and said nothing. Kella continued his story.

  ‘That meant that without knowing it, Ed Blamire had a vital piece of the jigsaw. By this time he was beginning to close in on you as the instigator of the extortion attempts, Michie. He knew that there would be vital evidence in the anonymous letters that you and Mary Gui had written on behalf of the SIIP demanding money in return for stopping the raids on the logging operation—if such letters existed. He even went to the District Commissioner and asked if Maclehose had the authority to perform arrests. At the time, he said that if he discovered some letters, he would return with them as proof. That’s where I got it wrong. I thought he meant letters that Imison and the other Americans had received from the FBI referring to the rumours about Kakaihe being involved in Lieutenant Kennedy debating surrendering to the Japanese.’

  ‘I’m sure that if we contact the authorities in Honiara, they will have discovered by now that Ed Blamire was a private detective working for your company, Mr Michie,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘When they hear what has been going on, Alvaro will send half a dozen investigators here to look at your books. They’ll soon unearth anything illegal.’

  ‘You jokers are out of your minds,’ said Michie. ‘Have you got just one piece of evidence to support these allegations?’

  ‘I think I might have,’ said Sister Conchita, remembering the day when Sister Jean Francoise had come hurrying excitedly out of the bush after her search for kava roots. ‘We’ve found the war club you stole from the mission and used to kill Mr Blamire. It was right in the heart of the undergrowth on Marakosi. One of the nuns found it by chance. The police will be able to examine it for fingerprints. No one wears gloves in the Solomons. You probably wiped it down when you got rid of the club, but if you’ve left just one trace on it, it will be found.’

  Michie sighed. Suddenly he started running. He headed away from the coral road, towards the shore, moving with surprising speed for such a big man. The Melanesian labourers gaped at him as he passed. Kella cursed and set off in pursuit. Sister Conchita and Andy exchanged worried glances and followed at a slower pace.

  ‘He’s trying to get to the launch!’ said Andy.

  Michie reached the beach. He hesitated. Kella was gaining on him. Abruptly the logging boss changed direction. He ran towards the fenced-off enclosure containing the latest consignment of logs waiting in rows in ten feet of water. There was a stiff breeze coming off the lagoon, stirring the tightly packed tree trunks so that they jostled hard against each other in the gurgling water.

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ Kella shouted, coming to a halt.

  Michie ignored him. Balancing precariously, his arms held out on either side of him, the big man started running across the slippery logs towards the anchored launch on the far side of the pen. Several times he tottered and almost fell, but he kept moving. Kella hesitated, and then started across the logs after him. The trunks were as slippery as glass. Michie looked back over his shoulder and increased his pace. He was almost halfway across the pen before he lost his balance. One of the logs revolved beneath his feet. The Australian danced grotesquely, his arms waving. Then he went sprawling across the heaving tree trunks. For a few moments he lay semi-conscious on top of the timber. A gap appeared between two of the logs. The Australian tried to cling to the glistening surface, but his clawing fingers lost their purchase. The trunk began to spin around. With a muffled shout, Michie slipped off the top into another gap appearing momentarily in the phalanx of timber. Then, as the logs smashed together again above his head to form a huge, immovable swaying wooden raft, he disappeared from sight.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘WHAT WILL HAPPEN to everyone?’ asked Sister Brigid.

  ‘Not a great deal, to be frank,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘Mr Michie is dead, so he can’t stand trial for the murder of Ed Blamire.’

  ‘But what about Mary Gui? According to what Ben Kella said, she was responsible for the whole dreadful business. She planned to extort money from the logging company by threatening to sabotage its equipment and involved Michie in the plot in return for a share of the proceeds. Then she seduced young Andy into making several raids on Alvaro and trying to make it look like an old-time custom attack, so that Michie could tell his head office that the threats were genuine and they would have to pay up if they wanted to keep the operation working.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mary was the ingenious guiding light behind it all,’ agreed Sister Conchita. ‘We’re sure of that. But we can’t prove anything.’

  ‘Surely Andy Russell—’

  ‘Andy won’t say a word against Mary Gui. He’s too besotted with her,’ said Sergeant Kella with some feeling. ‘All the lad wants to do is go home and take up his university place. He won’t betray Mary, that’s for certain. They say you never forget your first love; you probably don’t shop her to the police, either. Anyway, if Andy told his side of the story, he would have to admit to setting fire to the timber on Alvaro Island. I don’t suppose the Cambridge authorities are very keen on arsonists.’

  ‘Fancy a girl like Mary having such an effect on men,’ mused Sister Brigid.

  ‘I suppose some would say don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,’ said Sister Conchita, looking meaningly at Sergeant Kella. With a pang of glee, she thought she saw the policeman blush beneath his brown skin.

  ‘Well I never,’ said Sister Brigid, at a loss. ‘So Mary will get away with everything?’

  ‘I daresay there will be a few unattributable comments added to her secret files in Honiara,’ said Conchita, ‘but nothing official will be done, I’m sure. After all, she may become the first indigenous prime minister of the Solomon Islands one day. If that happens, some expatriate civil servant will have to sit up all night destroying the files on local politicians, so there will be no record at all before long. The logging company is willing to draw a line under the whole affair as long as it’s allowed to continue its profitable operations on Alvaro.’

  ‘And those three dreadful Americans who killed Joe Dontate?’

  ‘I daresay much the same will happen to them. Or won’t happen, to be more exact. There were no witnesses as to what occurred on Skull Island. They will be extradited back home as soon as they recover in Pilgrim Hospital. After the debacle on Olasana, I dare say their FBI careers will be permanently stalled, but apart from a series of postings to Albuquerque or somewhere similar, they’ll probably get away scot free.’

  ‘Albuquerque,’ said Sister Brigid with a shudder. ‘Punishment enough, if you ask me.’

  The two nu
ns and the police sergeant were standing on the beach at Marakosi Mission early in the morning. The area was much busier than usual. A group of islanders with a concrete mixer and several wheelbarrows were putting down a base for the planned boarding school. Sister Jean Francoise was vigorously hoeing the half-acre of vegetable garden she had carved out of the bush to feed the imminently expected new intake of residential students. Outside the mission, Sister Johanna had stripped down the old generator and was reassembling it.

  ‘Don’t say we never do anything for you,’ said Sister Brigid.

  ‘I’m overwhelmed,’ said Conchita. ‘Really I am.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Sister Brigid, putting a hand on the other nun’s arm. ‘It was the least we could do after all you’ve done for us. Especially for me.’

  ‘It was such a noble effort on your part,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘For all those years you never said a word about Welchman Buna killing Kakaihe on Olasana.’

  ‘Welchman stabbed Kakaihe to save Lieutenant Kennedy and his men from betrayal to the Japanese,’ said Sister Brigid. ‘If I had spoken about it, he would have been involved in a lifetime of blood feuds with Kakaihe’s line. He couldn’t afford that. Even then, anyone could see that Welchman Buna had a considerable career ahead of him. I reported what had happened to the coast-watcher, Mr Evans, and left it at that.’

  The government ship Bellama was anchored a hundred yards off the shore. It had arrived to pick up any passengers booked from the mission for Honiara. A dinghy rowed by two seamen was already pulling for the shore. ‘Will you start visiting the islands again?’ asked Sister Conchita.

  ‘I shall do my best,’ said Sister Brigid. ‘I don’t suppose it will be easy, but I’ve been cooped up at Marakosi for too long. Thank you again, my dear. I’m quite looking forward to getting out and about again.’

  ‘It was Welchman Buna’s soul that you took responsibility for, wasn’t it?’ asked Conchita.

  ‘In a way. Welchman killed Kakaihe on the beach at Olasana because he was fighting in the white man’s war. He was young and had never killed a man before. He was in a terrible state afterwards. I felt that I had to do what I could for him.’

  The elderly nun squeezed Conchita’s arm and hurried back to the basket of yams she had been sorting through for that evening’s meal. Kella nodded, picked up his knapsack and walked down to the wharf, where he joined the waiting Welchman Buna.

  The dinghy reached the wharf. A tall, thin young man in the robes of a priest stepped out and walked along its length. Several islanders picked up his luggage and followed him across the beach towards the house. Sergeant Kella and Welchman Buna stepped down into the dinghy. The seamen started rowing them out to the Bellama. Sister Conchita walked across the sand to welcome the priest to his new home.

  • • •

  THERE WERE A number of passengers from Gizo already on the deck of the Bellama when Kella and Buna climbed up the swaying rope ladder from the dinghy to the government vessel. One of them was Mary Gui. The girl smiled dazzlingly at the sight of them. She walked over and put her arm through that of the politician.

  ‘Hello, Welchman,’ she said. Her smile faded a little, like a flickering light bulb, as she turned to the police sergeant. ‘Sergeant Kella, how are you?’

  ‘Hi,’ said Kella. ‘Where are you going, Mary?’

  The girl looked at Buna. ‘Is it all right to tell people now?’ she asked, squeezing his arm.

  ‘Of course,’ smiled the politician. ‘Your posting has been officially announced in the Solomon Islands’ Gazette, my dear.’

  ‘Posting?’ asked Kella.

  Mary laughed affectedly. ‘I really don’t know whether I’m coming or going,’ she said. ‘I have been appointed the Protectorate’s representative at the South Pacific Commission in Noumea for the next three years. Aren’t I lucky? Of course I owe it all to dear Welchman here.’

  So Buna was calling in a few of the debts now owed him by the British and American governments. The South Pacific Commission was financed by a number of European nations to sponsor the economic and educational development of countries in the area. It was a prestigious, well-paid appointment with the opportunity to make influential contacts. It would serve the ambitious Mary well as she prepared to enter politics. It should also get her out of Buna’s hair for the next three years, and remove a possible cause of unrest from the islands, so everyone ought to be happy. Uncharitably, Kella wondered how hard Mary had had to work on her back to get the politician’s all-important sponsorship. Then he felt ashamed of himself. After all, Mary Gui had lost Joe Dontate. She could not be blamed for looking for another mentor, even if her period of mourning had perforce not been a lengthy one. As for Buna, there was no doubt that he had saved the lives of Kella and Sister Conchita on Olasana. If the determined Mary had fallen into his middle-aged lap, probably almost literally, he could not be blamed for taking advantage of the situation.

  ‘Let’s go and look at the dolphins,’ suggested Mary, almost overdoing her skittishness, leading Buna away towards the ship’s rail. She glanced cursorily back at the policeman and winked. ‘Take care, Sergeant Kella. Don’t get into any more scrapes in the Mendana Hotel!’

  Sergeant Ha’a saw Kella standing on his own and ambled over. He had been dispatched with a squad of policemen to scour Kasolo and Olasana for any remaining frigate bird knap knaps, and was on his way back to Honiara with his men.

  ‘You’re needed back on Malaita,’ said the rotund policeman abruptly.

  ‘Why, what’s gone wrong there?’ asked Kella, his heart sinking. After all, he had only been away for a couple of weeks.

  ‘It was on the SIBS news last night. Timothy Anilafa’s up to his tricks again.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Kella. Then he remembered. ‘You mean the old man who built the ark? What’s he done?’

  ‘You know that a couple of Emperor Rats took up residence in his ark. It gave his cause a lot of credence.’

  ‘Yes, I was there at the time. So what? One pair of animals doesn’t constitute a mass migration.’

  ‘You’re out of date. Make that two pairs,’ said Ha’a. ‘A district officer on tour in the area reported last week that two ground boa snakes had moved in as well.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘I’m not even wearing a funny hat,’ said Sergeant Ha’a. ‘The best way the DO could figure it out, the ark is so dark, damp and dangerously unhygienic, it’s likely to attract all sorts of creatures over a period of time. Besides which, the old man keeps stockpiling food supplies for them in it. Anyway, our Timothy has taken advantage of the situation.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He’s announced that he’s formed a new religious denomination called the Lau Church of the Blessed Ark. Any of the local villagers who don’t make a donation of shell money to its funds will be doomed to spend a period in hell when they die, where they will be gnawed by animals rejected for the ark. It’s causing a bit of a stir among the saltwater villages.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ said Kella. ‘You’re right. It’s time I was getting back home.’

  • • •

  ON THE SHORE, Father Johnson, the new priest, was fussily supervising the transfer of his luggage from the wharf. Sister Conchita walked over to him.

  ‘Welcome to Marakosi, Father,’ she said. ‘I’m Sister Conchita. I hope you’ll be happy here.’

  ‘I haven’t come here to be happy, Sister,’ said the young priest censoriously. ‘I believe, indeed I know, that there is a great deal of work to be done, and I am anxious to get on with it quickly. I hear that this mission has fallen into a considerable state of disrepair, both physically and spiritually.’

  ‘The sisters are working very hard,’ said Conchita. ‘Would you like to meet them?’

  ‘Time enough for that later,’ said Father Johnson. Suspiciously he watched the Melanesians carry his bags up to the mission house. ‘I believe that you have been here just to keep matters ticking over, Sister Conchita.
You won’t have had time to put your imprimatur on the mission. I intend to stay much longer and carry out a root-and-branch revision of all that goes on, or does not go on, here.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Conchita humbly, suppressing the answer that rose to her lips. The priest was young and inexperienced and could not be expected to establish himself at the mission first. He would have to make his own mistakes and invent the wheel for himself, just as she had. For his sake she hoped that it would not be too painful a process. She took a deep breath.

  ‘I could delay my departure and stay on for a few more weeks if it would help,’ she offered.

  ‘No need, no need,’ said the priest, transparently anxious to be rid of her. He extended a limp hand. ‘Goodbye, Sister; I hope that your brief sojourn at Marakosi was an enjoyable one, even if you didn’t have time to accomplish a great deal.’

  ‘Oh, it was,’ said Sister Conchita, but the young priest was already scurrying away purposefully up to the house. Engrossed in his shining plans for the future, he did not look round.

  The dinghy was making the return journey from the Bellama to pick her up. Conchita picked up her holdall. Sister Brigid, Sister Jean Francoise and Sister Johanna hurried over to the young nun to hug her and say their fervent goodbyes. Conchita looked at the slim, unbowed form of Father Johnson as he entered the mission house, busily shouting orders to the carriers. Then she turned back to the three elderly, innocuous-looking nuns. She wondered what lay in store for the energetic young priest in his new life. She was rather afraid that she knew.

  ‘Be gentle with him,’ she said.