Hilary And The Hurricane (a novelette) (Hilary Manningham-Butler #3.5) Read online

  Copyright © Jack Treby 2017

  Published by Carter & Allan

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  Hilary And The Hurricane (a novelette)

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  Author's Note

  This story takes place in the aftermath of The Devil's Brew (Hilary Manningham-Butler #3)

  Hilary And The Hurricane

  If I had not been so absorbed in the map, I might have noticed the two rather strange looking men loitering on the far side of the street. The electric lighting running the length of the main drag was more than sufficient to reveal their presence, even with the stream of revellers making their way up Regent Street towards the bridge, and doubtless there would have been something in their manner which would have alerted me to their intentions had I been paying the proper attention. As it was, I reached the bottom of the staircase, folded up my newly acquired map and turned right, moving past the wooden store front of Krug and Co and disappearing into a darkened side street. The alleyways of Belize, I had been reliably informed, were among the safest in the world, and in the two months I had spent in the small British colony I had seen nothing to disabuse me of the notion.

  The two men must have moved to follow me as I made my way towards Albert Street at the far end of the alley, but the first I was aware of either of them was when the first fellow slipped past me and came to a halt directly in my path. Even then, such was my distraction that all I was aware of was a sudden obstacle to be navigated. It was only when I swerved politely to avoid the man and he manoeuvred to intercept me that I realised something was amiss. I pulled myself up and at last took a good look at the fellow, in what little light radiated out from the main roads at either end of the alley. He was a tall, muscular man with wide eyes and a youthful face, spoilt only by the huge wart growing on the left side of his nose. A local fellow, if I was any judge, in rather tatty clothes. He smiled a macabre smile and my heart skipped a beat.

  ‘May I help you?’ I enquired, desperate even in the face of such provocation to establish some sort of rapport with the fellow.

  He continued to grin. His eyes flicked past me, but before I had the chance to wonder what he might be looking at, a heavy blow struck me across the back of the neck. An explosion of pain engulfed me. My legs gave way and, with little more than a whimper, I crumpled to the ground. A second man had crept up on me, carrying some kind of blunt instrument. If this was a robbery, it was a well planned one. The scoundrels must have been waiting out in the street for a likely looking mark. It had been foolish of me to disappear off the main drag like this, all on my own. I let out a low groan and struggled to regain my composure. The second man was looming over me now, a frightening silhouette with a solid cosh in his right hand. No, not a cosh, a hefty piece of bamboo. A policeman’s truncheon would hardly have been more effective.

  ‘What...what do you want?’ I managed to mutter, even in my dazed state. ‘I have money.’ Perhaps they knew about the poker game I had been involved in this afternoon; or maybe they had taken note of my well tailored suit and decided that I was worth a punt. My winnings this afternoon were nothing to write home about, but I did have a few dollars in my pocket and in a town like this – where a dollar and a half was a weeks wages – it would be a decent enough haul for them. In the circumstances I was more than happy to let them have it.

  I was just about to slide a hand into my trouser pocket and hand over the loot when the first man stepped forward and kicked me viciously in the stomach. I let out another groan. I was trying my damnedest to be civil, but it was clear they were enjoying the situation too much to simply take what money I had and run. It is a sad fact that some people take pleasure in inflicting pain, even when it brings them no tangible benefit. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘There’s no need...’ But before I could finish the thought, a second blow from the bamboo cane struck me square across the shoulder blades and I slumped once more into the mud.

  The bamboo man leaned over me and pulled my arms behind my back, lifting up my head. The Wart, who was still smiling, now crouched down in front of me, and it was then that I saw the knife in his hand. At this point, I came within a whisker of evacuating my bowels. This was no ordinary robbery. These men intended me some serious harm.

  ‘You there!’ a voice exclaimed from the far end of the street. It was a man’s voice, deep and authoritative.

  My assailants hesitated, but only for a second. The knife flashed, but I managed to dodge my head to one side, even with the bamboo man holding my arms. The blade nicked an earlobe and the Wart made to slash at me a second time. At that moment, incredibly, a pistol fired, a loud retort which echoed the length of the alleyway. ‘Get away from him!’ the voice commanded. ‘I won’t warn you again!’ The sound of gunfire had an immediate effect. The bamboo man abdicated his grip and, all at once, the two ruffians began to scrabble away, in the direction of Albert Street.

  I remained where I was, lying on my front in the middle of the alley, trying hard to catch my breath. I heard the soft pad of footsteps behind me.

  ‘Mr Buxton? Are you all right?’ Sebastian Coulthard – the man who had called out – had by now rushed over to me. He knelt down and pulled me onto my side. ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed, taking note of the bamboo cane, which the second fellow had abandoned when he had made off. ‘What were they doing to you?’

  I hauled myself into a sitting position and took a moment to gather my wits. My heart was still hammering away at a good thirty knots.

  Mr Coulthard was observing me with understandable concern. He was a sober, thick set man in his mid forties, coloured of course, as most people were in these parts, but a decent, reliable cove.

  I put a hand to the back of my neck, which was still throbbing from that first blow. ‘I thought...I thought it was just a robbery. But I think...I think they were trying to kill me.’

  Coulthard’s face wrinkled in horror. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing,’ he breathed. ‘Not in Belize.’

  I clutched the neck unhappily. ‘I’ve got the bumps to prove it. If you hadn’t happened to come by...’ I shuddered. ‘I dread to think what might have happened. Was that a gun I heard firing?’ Why the mild-mannered shopkeeper would be in possession of such a thing I had no idea. This was not the United States of America.

  Coulthard shook his head and held out the weapon for me to see. It was a rather feeble looking device. ‘It’s a starter pistol,’ he explained, with some embarrassment. ‘For the games tomorrow afternoon. I was taking it home with me.’ Coulthard was one of the many volunteers overseeing the sporting events at Newton Barracks. Tomorrow was a public holiday. ‘It shouldn’t even have been loaded,’ he lamented, returning the pistol to his jacket pocket.

  ‘It was lucky for me that it was. I don’t think anything else would have frightened them off.’ I shivered again. ‘Another moment and I’d have been a goner. Mr Coulthard, you may have just saved my life.’

  The man shook his head, dismissing the idea with typical modesty.

  I gazed past him, to the far end of alleyway. Pedestrians were still moving in a steady stream along Regent Street, as if nothing had happened. This was the one day of the year when nobody would bat an eyelid at a sudden loud bang.
A fireworks display was scheduled up at the Fort in an hour or two, and a few local children were already skipping about letting off firecrackers, as children are wont to do.

  My eyes came to rest on a verandah on the opposite side of the street. A peculiar looking man was loitering there, smoking a cigarette. He was too far away for me to make him out clearly, but I felt oddly certain that he was observing the two of us. His face was obscured by the shadow of a large felt hat but I could tell he wasn’t a local; no more than I was. I frowned. The figure was at the limit of my vision and the dim street lighting was no help at all, but there was something oddly familiar in the way he held himself. I was sure I had seen him somewhere before. The man dropped his cigarette and, as a hand cart rattled past, momentarily obscuring my view, he disappeared.

  Coulthard mistook my gaze for something in the order of concussion. ‘We should get you looked at,’ he said. ‘Is that blood on your ear?’

  I lifted a hand to the offending lobe. ‘Oh, just a drop. One of them nicked me with a knife.’

  ‘My heaven.’ Coulthard was appalled. ‘We should get you to the hospital.’

  I rejected that idea out of hand. ‘It’s nothing,’ I insisted. I was a little bruised, to be sure, but I was not exactly at death’s door. And I have never been too keen on doctors. ‘To be honest, a drink would be more useful.’ A glass or two of whisky would help to steady my nerves. ‘Maybe we should head back to the store?’ We had both come from the same place, although I had left a little ahead of the older man.

  Coulthard put the kibosh on that idea. ‘It is already locked up, I’m afraid. Mr Buxton, I think we ought to go to the police station. We need to report this.’

  Oh, lord, I thought. ‘I really don’t think that’s necessary.’ The last thing I wanted to do was to get the police involved. I had had some bad experiences with policemen of late, albeit not in British Honduras.

  Coulthard helped me to my feet but he would not take no for an answer. ‘Of course it’s necessary. Good heavens, Mr Buxton, those men tried to kill you. And today of all days. They cannot be allowed to get away with it. Did they take anything?’

  I shoved a hand into my pocket. My winnings were still there, and my silver fob watch was hanging unmolested from a chain at my waist. It was lucky it hadn’t smashed when I had fallen. ‘No, nothing,’ I said. I scratched my head, looking down at the muddy ground. ‘Except...’ When I had fallen, I had let go of the map I had been carrying with me; the one I had just won at the poker table. I took a moment to make sure it hadn’t simply blown away, but there was no sign of it anywhere. The robbers had got away with something after all.

  In ordinary circumstances, I would have given the idea short shrift. Mr JG Turton had presented the map to me with an unholy reverence that bordered on the facetious. What did the fellow take me for? I was hardly a child, to be drawn in by the lurid fantasy of buried treasure. I have to confess, however, as something of a connoisseur of confidence tricks like this, that the young man had an extremely plausible manner. I could tell from the reaction of the other players that my scepticism was well founded. There were knowing chuckles as Mr Turton made his absurd pitch. We were, however, at the end point of an agreeable afternoon’s poker and, having done surprisingly well today, I was anxious to conclude this last hand with a suitable flourish.

  The store had shut up shop early on Wednesday afternoon and, in deference to the forthcoming festivities, we had agreed to gather early in the upstairs room for our usual weekly poker match. It was a dark, smoky place and, at first sight, the company might have given some pause for thought. They were a rum lot, my fellow players. Not one of them would have gained admittance to any respectable gambling den in London. I confess, the thought of associating with such people, less still gambling with them, would have been shocking to me at one time, but in the last couple of years I had become used to associating with all sorts of people. In a small community like this, where there was nothing in the way of decent society, it was pointless to hang on to one’s scruples. In point of fact, these men – with the possible exception of Mr Turton, who worked at one of the big chewing gum warehouses – were individuals of some standing in the local community; a lawyer, a businessman and a magistrate among them. In a society where ninety per cent of the population was black, this was hardly a surprise. Such hierarchies as existed in the colony were based not on race, but on a more palatable combination of birth and merit, though of course with administrators from the home country at the top of the tree, keeping a fatherly eye on them all. It was a far more satisfactory arrangement than the brutal segregation I had witnessed in Guatemala – my last port of call – and, in the short time I had spent in the colony, I had come to appreciate its merits. Indeed, on getting to know these men, I had come to regard them as among the most amiable I had met since leaving Europe. A British education, even in these backwaters, did wonders for a man’s character. If British Honduras as a whole was perhaps a little too pious for my taste, these men at least injected some character into the proceedings.

  The electric light illuminated the yellowing parchment as Turton rolled it out enthusiastically on the table before me. He was a scrawny fellow in his mid twenties with a thin face but a ready smile. Dusk had already fallen and our host, Mr TP Woods, a rather cautious man, had only now taken it upon himself to switch on the electric lights. I stubbed out the remnants of my cigarette and regarded with some satisfaction the small pile of coins which had built up on my side of the card table. I am not a particularly accomplished poker player, for all my years of practise, and it was a rare delight for me to come out ahead of the pack; indeed, the first time, in this ignoble company. Mr Woods and the other three players had already thrown in their hands, leaving the denouement to take place between Mr Turton and myself. Unfortunately for him, the man had run out of cash. The bizarre offering now spread out across the table was his last desperate attempt to remain in the game.

  ‘A treasure map?’ I raised an eyebrow in amusement.

  ‘A treasure map,’ he repeated, with apparent seriousness. ‘Buried treasure, on Turneffe.’ That was a small atoll a few miles off the coast of Belize. So far as I was aware, it was uninhabited. The map lying before me was an absurd thing, crumpled with age and containing a hand scrawled outline of the island in question. It was the kind of thing a child might have drawn. There was even an “X” marked on it next to a convenient clump of pine trees. A set of badly scrawled directions were written out underneath, detailing exactly how many paces hither and thither you would need to walk to find the precise spot. ‘That is the treasure there,’ Turton insisted, jabbing the “X” vehemently with his finger. ‘A chest full to the brim with gold coins. And with this map, you will find it easily.’

  My mouth split into a wild smile. In ordinary circumstances, I might have felt insulted that this young fellow imagined I would be taken in by such a trick. I have been conned by professionals. But with Lady Luck shining on me that afternoon, coupled with a natural desire to reveal my hand in the most theatrical manner possible, I was prepared to indulge him. ‘And you’re happy losing it all, for the sake of a three dollar bet?’

  Turton nodded. He seemed to be fairly confident of his hand; but I was equally confident in mine. I looked down at the cards. Oh, they were not unbeatable, to be sure, but it was my best hand of the day. In the circumstances, I could not resist baiting my opponent a little. That is part of the fun of playing cards. ‘If you’ve had this map for some time,’ I said, ‘how is that you haven’t dug up the treasure yourself?’

  ‘It is not possible,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. ‘This map was given to me by my father, who had it from his father. Long ago, in the seventeenth century, there were pirates in these waters.’ That was true enough. The huge reef protecting the mainland made it difficult for large ships to land here, but the pirates could zoom in and out at will, using smaller boats. Peter Wallace, the famous Scottish pirate, had even bequeathed his name to the township. “
Belize” I was reliably informed was a corruption of “Wallace”. ‘One of my ancestors,’ Turton continued, ‘served as bosun with Henry Avery.’ Another notorious pirate. ‘He was entrusted with this map. He passed it on to his son, who was killed at the battle of St George’s Caye, and the map was lost. Years later, my grandfather discovered it, buried in the lining of an old chest. He went to the location, followed the instructions on the map, and uncovered the treasure. This was on the one hundredth anniversary of the battle. He discovered a wooden chest full of gold coins. But he was not a greedy man. He took ten of the coins and then reburied the chest. And every ten years thereafter, he would go back, or my father would, when he was old enough, and they would dig up another ten coins.’

  This was getting better and better. The story had so many holes in it, I didn’t know where to begin. My companions had clearly heard it all before. Sebastian Coulthard, who was sitting to my left, was staring at me thoughtfully, wondering if I would be taken in.

  ‘And you’ve seen this chest yourself, have you?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I have not,’ JG Turton admitted. ‘My father dug up the last batch of coins in 1928. He died two years ago. The chest will not be visible again for another seven years.’

  ‘Not visible?’ I didn’t follow. ‘Why? Is the island underwater?’

  ‘No, not the island. It explains on the map, look.’ He gestured to the scribbled writing. ‘The chest will only reveal itself on the day of the anniversary.’

  ‘Right.’ That made even less sense. ‘But the anniversary is tomorrow.’

  The battle of St George’s Caye was the founding event in the history of British Honduras, the day we gave Spain a bloody nose and forced them to abandon pursuit of the territory by force of arms. Every year, on the anniversary, there was a parade and much merriment across the colony.