19

Although it was late, the A40 was slow and they’d taken longer than expected to get to London.

‘Probably an accident or road works further on,’ said Nick, glancing at Verity who was thumbing through some files.

‘You know,’ she said without looking up, ‘I can’t be as enthusiastic as Julius that Bunting left some important message in his map. You know, Dad’s been in trouble before, for sticking his neck out with his hunches. He is less …’ she hesitated. ‘Well … careful than I am. I love him to bits, of course, and he has had his wins but there have also been some damaging failures. Some people even call him an eccentric, especially in the more conservative cartographic societies. I would hate to see him hurt by this new interest you have brought him.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Nick assured her. ‘You know I care for your dad. Anyway, this whole business will probably turn out to be a storm in a teacup. I can’t imagine why it would go public, and certainly not from me!’

Verity favoured him with a smile. ‘Thanks, Nick,’ she said. ‘I really appreciate that.’

‘Verity,’ Nick said anxiously, ‘I’ve still had no luck contacting Bronte on her mobile or land line. If I take the A205 turnoff, I can drive to her place in Wandsworth.’

‘I’m sure everything will be okay,’ Verity reassured him. ‘She’s probably been out at some event and turned her phone off.’

‘Yeah, or her battery’s flat,’ responded Nick, agitated. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t normally panic but seeing your father’s place turned over like that was really disconcerting.’

‘You must be worried. She’s worked for you for years, hasn’t she?’ Verity said.

‘Well, yeah, I guess so. I mean, she is virtually my business partner, and a true friend … I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

Nick and Verity were quiet for a few seconds before Verity spoke in a decisive manner. ‘Since we’re stuck in traffic and you are worried about Bronte, how about I tell you more about some of my research on Portuguese explorations. Very boring, I know, but it may be distracting for a while, until we get to Bronte’s place.’

Nick nodded appreciatively and restarted the conversation. ‘So you were saying that there is no proof at all that the Portuguese landed in Australia?’

‘No, no proof, just circumstantial evidence, and that is a very dangerous game in the conservative and traditional world of cartography. Have you heard about the lost Mahogany Ship?’ she asked, as Nick negotiated the approach to the M25 turnoff.

Seeing Nick shake his head she continued, ‘It’s a fascinating story about a Portuguese or Spanish sailing boat discovered in Australia in the 1840s near Warrnambool, Victoria. Apart from a couple of subsequent sightings, it has not been seen for well over 100 years. This letter was published in the Melbourne Argus in 1876.’

Verity rifled through the file she had brought, pulled out a photocopy of an aged newspaper article and began reading:

Sir,

Riding along the beach from Port Fairy to Warrnambool in the summer of 1846, my attention was attracted to the hull of a vessel embedded high and dry in the Hummocks, far above the reach of any tide. It appeared to have been that of a vessel about 100 tons burden, and from its bleached and weather-beaten appearance, must have remained there many years. The spars and deck were gone, and the hull was full of drift sand. The timber of which she was built had the appearance of cedar or mahogany. The fact of the vessel being in that position was well known to the whalers in 1846, when the first whaling station was formed in that neighbourhood, and the oldest natives, when questioned, stated their knowledge of it extended from their earliest recollection.

My attention was again directed to this wreck during a conversation with the superintendent of the Post-office, in 1869, who, on making inquiries as to the exact locality, informed me that it was supposed to be one of a fleet of Portuguese or Spanish discovery ships, one of them having parted from the others during a storm, and was never again heard of. The wreck lies about midway between Port Fairy and Warrnambool, and is probably by this time entirely covered with drift sand, as during a search made for it within the last few months it was not to be seen.

‘And,’ added Verity, ‘it has never been seen again, even though there have been a number of serious searches funded by local government.’

Nick looked up to see the Chiswick roundabout approaching. He had been so engrossed in listening to Verity that he had nearly missed the turn-off.

‘Here’s another interesting one from the Northern Territory News in Darwin,’ continued Verity, pulling out another photocopy from her file. ‘This is the story of a teenage boy in far north Australia who found a Portuguese swivel gun not far from Darwin. He and his dad were taking the opportunity to explore the seabed, when tides were at an unusual low. They found the gun poking out of the mud. Experts have confirmed that it is genuine and was a standard anti-personnel weapon on Portuguese caravels of the sixteenth century.’

‘That is interesting, however, the cynic in me says it could have been lost there, or left there, by anybody in the last four hundred years. Maybe a nineteenth-century antique dealer dropped it overboard or it had been washed up there from Timor.’

‘Absolutely. And this is the problem when you have no confirmed Portuguese contact with Australia during the 1500s. It’s all conjecture. And as for any economic rationale,’ Verity continued, ‘like explorers in future centuries, the Portuguese would have discovered little monetary benefit from expeditions to Australia. There was nothing growing that European markets required – no spices such as nutmeg, cloves, mace or sandalwood offered by the islands to the north. The gold and minerals that have made Australia so rich, were buried deep beneath the ground and would not be discovered until the nineteenth century. So there was no point in creating a colony or settlement, and therefore, no reason for subsequent visits.’

Nick nodded. ‘To my mind, it makes a certain sense that there was pre-Dutch discovery. To think otherwise would be like wearing blinkers. But, if there was nothing of benefit in Australia, and any maps from this period were held in secret, how on earth would a provincial priest draw it on his map? And why would he bother? Even if we accept Julius’ assertion that the coastline on the map is western Australia and not just a fluke, why would anyone steal the map from me? Or the ones from Sotheby’s, for that matter? I mean, there are plenty of them around!’

‘No, it doesn’t make sense,’ concurred Verity. ‘So … we must be missing something! The recent interest in the map is real enough: and the maps were stolen in Amsterdam, and your gallery was ransacked, and dad’s place was turned over.’

‘What the hell!’ Nick exclaimed, bringing the car to a sudden halt in front of a police barrier at the entrance to Haldon Road. He wound down his window for an approaching policeman.

‘Sorry, sir,’ the constable said in a West Indian accent that was genial enough. ‘The road’s blocked off. Unless you’re a resident you’ll need to back up.’

Nick could see flashing police lights and an ambulance about fifty metres up the road. ‘We’re visiting a close friend,’ he said. ‘At number 36. She’s an employee of mine.’

The constable stared at Nick and Verity. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something. ‘Just wait there, sir, ma’am. I’ll be with you in a second.’

Nick watched him carefully as he moved a few paces away from the car and spoke quietly into his walkie-talkie, nodded his head a few times then returned to Nick’s open window. ‘Sir, the incident is at 36. So if you would please proceed to the scene, Detective Chief Inspector Kumar will meet you there.’

‘Incident?’ asked Nick anxiously, however, the constable remained impassive, removed a bollard and waved Nick through. He had to find a parking space a good fifty metres from the house due to the number of police cars and vans blocking the street. A crowd of journalists and photographers assailed them as they walked quickly towards the house, then a sudden popping of flashlights and voices fired questions at them. ‘What the fuck!?’ said Nick, putting his arm around Verity as a policeman led them past the media throng and into Bronte’s place.

Inspector Kumar was grave as she explained the situation in Bronte’s kitchen. ‘It appears,’ Kumar began, ‘that Ms Gibson was by herself when she was attacked by an unknown intruder.’

‘Oh my God! Can I see her? Is she okay?’ said Nick.

Kumar looked surprised for a second, before the realisation hit her. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Mr Lawrance. I thought my officers had told you.’

‘Told me what?’

Kumar put a hand gently on Nick’s arm. ‘This is a murder investigation. Ms Gibson is dead.’

Nick, completely stunned, sank back into his chair, trying to take in the terrible news.

‘It appears,’ the inspector elaborated, choosing her words carefully, ‘that an unknown assailant forced his entry while Ms Gibson was asleep in the front room. We’ve no idea why she was killed, possibly a robbery gone wrong. Which is why I do need to ask you a few more questions.’

Nick’s phone started ringing. He snatched it up. ‘Yes? What is it?’ he said abruptly. In a second his face registered shock instead of anger.

‘Keep your hat on, Nick,’ said the voice of the other end. A familiar voice.

‘Bronts? Is that really you?’

‘Yeah, I’ve been at the cinema all day. Watching a Lord of the Rings trilogy. But I’ve got seven messages from you. What’s up? Don’t tell me we’ve had another break in at the gallery!’

‘No, not that. Bronte? I think you’d better get home right now!’