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Excerpt
from Obeah |
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Did his perception play a trick on him,
or had Mrs Burchard indeed cast rebuking glances at Murdoch while this was
said? The premier, having undoubtedly noticed his wife’s insinuative look,
hastened to change the subject. Mentioning Wirt by name he inquired: “I suppose you are acquainted with the
island’s history?” “Through books only.” “Then you are probably better informed
than most,” Mrs Burchard quipped, while trying to avoid her husband’s
admonishing mien. She had her knife in Murdoch alright, no
two ways about it. The premier, anxious to maintain an atmosphere of
civility, addressed Wirt ceremoniously: “I hope you will feel at home here,” he
said. Murdoch perked up. “That will take time. In my case months
went by before I became acclimatised,” he remarked. “It seems you find it difficult to
divest yourself from it now,” Mrs Burchard suggested with an innocent air. If Murdoch noticed the tinge of irony in
her remark, he showed no sign of it. He merely smiled graciously and inclined
his head ever so lightly. Wirt was about to make known his
fascination with Dominica’s enchantment, which grew by the hour, but the
words remained stuck in his throat. “Something is wrong here,” it flashed
through his mind, dreadfully wrong. The Burchard’s and Murdoch pursue
different agendas, which put them on guard with each other. Wirt felt they
were trying to side-step invisible squares, one party set for the other. The
realisation put him on pins and needles, it marred the magic of the island.
Even the indomitable voices of the Caribbean night appeared to lose their
splendour; they suddenly sounded subdued. Mrs Burchard interrupted the painful
silence: “Well, Mr Murdoch, you must be anxious to
hand over the reins,” she commented. “Who can blame him after many years of
service fraught with bitter disappointments,” her husband commiserated. Murdoch consented: “Yes, the last one still grates on my
nerves. That Alfred Nantes affair cut me to the quick, I must admit.” Noticing Wirt’s raised eyebrows, the
premier explained: “Nantes, Mr Murdoch’s intended successor,
arrived two years ago, then suddenly disappeared without a trace.” Murdoch, turning to Wirt, explained: “What a peculiar chap that was, a feigner
of the first order. Pretending to be enthused about the job till the day when
he absconded. He sure left us in the lurch, especially me who had already
undertaken other obligations. As in your case three months had been allowed,
giving my successor a chance, with my assistance, to become familiar with the
Gardens’ ins and outs.” Shaking his head disapprovingly, heaving
a sigh of disgust, he exclaimed: “Nantes’ head-over-heels flight, as I call
it, threw us in a dither. My bags were already packed, farewell dinners had
been given, and travel arrangements were made. Of course leaving under the
circumstances stood out of the question.” Mrs Burchard wondered aloud: “It seems odd that we never heard from
him again.” “Bizarre, really,” her husband agreed. Turning to Murdoch the premier declared: “Your willingness to extend your tenure
another two years deserves praise and thanks.” Wirt’s bewilderment grew as he listened
to these astounding revelations. He wondered why Murdoch signed on for
another two years, being ostensibly anxious to leave the island. It should
hardly require two full years to find a suitable replacement. Beyond that,
how could someone, fairly prominent, a white man to boot, disappear among a
sea of black people in a confined area? His reflections were interrupted by
rumbling noises outside. Someone stumped up the steps, snorting as if out of
breath, hurling imprecations at these confounded inventions. Murdoch heaved a sigh of relief: “Finally,” he expelled. “Sorry, folks, I couldn’t come sooner, the
hussy acted up again,” a stentorian voice announced. The premier grimaced, as did his wife.
Everyone but Wirt realised who was meant; none other than Caroline Brise, the
terror of Dominica. Howard Brunt, the chief of police, it
couldn’t be anyone else, revealed his origin by his accent. His cradle,
without a doubt, stood within the sound of the bells of St.
Mary-le-Bow-Church; in other words he was a cockney. Wirt gazed at the
Falstaffian figure in dismay, for he doubted that the chief could squeeze
through the door opening; not unless he sidled in. “Murdoch, unlimber your refreshments,
somewhat laced, if you please,” he roared as he crossed the threshold. Wirt instinctively liked the man. His
rough-and-tumble manners affected him pleasantly; he was a breath of fresh
air, wafting away the gossamer of genteel sarcasm. The conversation soon became vivacious,
contrasting sharply with the previous wariness. Brunt’s raucous laughter
filled the room, he possessed a gift to relate insignificant incidents with a
Rabelaisian flair. Turning to Murdoch he remarked: “Well, old boy, soon you will be on your
way. When have you seen England last?” “Seven years ago.” “A deuced long time, I grant.” Casting an eye at Wirt, he inquired: “No doubt you have heard of Nantes?” “Yes, just now.” “Believe me, sir, we moved heaven and
earth to find him. Way up the Morne Diablotin I chased scouts, down into
bottomless gullies I urged volunteers to scramble. All for naught I must
confess. That Belgian, well liked I should add, had performed a vanishing act
worthy of Houdini.” The minister expounded: “We contacted his relatives and
acquaintances in Belgium, and checked with every company and individual known
to convey people to and from the island. All proved futile. To this day he
remains untraceable.” It is a mystery that might never be
solved,” the police chief sighed. The premier, inclining his head towards
Wirt, observed smilingly: “I venture to say that this time we have
no reason to fret.” “None at all,” Brunt agreed. Did anyone notice Murdoch’s sneer?
Probably Mrs Burchard had, judging by her reaction. She gasped, then looking at her husband she
said: “It’s getting late, Raoul, remember our
meeting with the Daniel’s.” Evidently baffled he raised his head
inquiringly, ready to protest. But something in her demeanour prompted him to
acquiesce. “Oh that, I plain forgot about it,” he
commented. Refusing proffered coffee and cordials, the
Burchard’s left after shaking hands with the others. Again Wirt couldn’t
banish an odd sensation of discomfort, he physically felt an undercurrent of
enmity between the Burchard’s and Murdoch. Guarded, mind you, yet tangible
and no less intense. Raoul Burchard, the premier, being a
politician accustomed to dissimulation, managed to suppress his inimical
feelings. But not so his wife who sure had her knife in Murdoch; she blanched
on account of stifled anger. For when he extended his hand, she instinctively
hid hers behind her back, as if a viper was about to strike. Overcoming an
impulse to cut and run, she offered her hand with an air of undisguised
loathing. Soon afterwards Brunt took his leave.
Saying goodbye to Wirt he said in an undertone, contrasting with the bluff
air shown so far: “Should you need me, I can be reached at
the Government House. Don’t hesitate to call, be it for professional or
personal reasons. No appointment is necessary, just knock and enter.” Then he added ominously: “You might need me sooner than you
think.”
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