Chapter 27
Theft
"You seem a little slow this morning," remarked Julian Roil, having just slapped his sword rather firmly against Max's undefended shoulder. Max was slow and distracted. He had just been simultaneously daydreaming about sleep and fretting about being found out as a thief or whatever crime it was that they had committed that morning.
"Just a bit tired," replied Max, with a shrug, before taking up the ready stance once more and then parrying the next attack.
Julian Roil was a quiet young man. Even as Max met or turned aside his powerful blows with the edge of his own practice sabre, Roil seldom grunted or matched his exertions with such sounds.
Their practices together were just that and Max got the strong notion that other areas of the Goth's life were not open to him. Therefore, on the scant number of times that their sparring had afforded them the pause for conversation, Max had resisted asking Julian the list of personal questions that came to mind. It was not that he wasn't interested, far from it, The Goths were very interesting. More that he had never felt permission. It was quite true to say that their worlds only ever crossed in the fencing salle. Likewise, it seemed that this one interface was all that Roil desired.
Accordingly Max had been hesitant about inviting him to his birthday dinner. But in the end decided to throw caution to the wind and let Julian make up his own mind. Max was surprised that he had come.
At the finish of their practice this Monday, Julian did however offer something.
“You know this isn't the only club in the city,” he said returning his sword to its red velvet lined box.
“I wasn't sure,” answered Max, running a towel over his wet face. He was doubly exhausted now.
“There is another. The Guild of Merchants.”
“A rather innocuous name.”
“Well the full title is The Guild of Merchants and Gentlemen Adventurers.”
“A little more fitting.”
“Quite. It is known to be a men's club.”
Max wasn't sure what that meant, other than... it was as it sounded... a club for men.
“Meaning?” he asked.
“Meaning, they practice with naked steel.”
“I see.” Max continued to pack away the gear he had been using, returning the dented old practice sabre to the Blacks locker. Fighting with real blades was a different concept altogether. He guessed it was, in the fencing world, what passed for being a man. “Thanks for the practice.”
“You are welcome. Thank you.” Roil was at the door when he turned back to Max. “Gilbert Lavisham is a member of The Guild of Merchants.”
* * *
Alastair Stewart’s ship, the Elizabeth III, was still stuck in the estuary mud and listing at an awful angle when the 7:15am from Rockville Central rolled past. The three friends sunk back into their seats as others rushed to the windows to stare and exclaim loudly.
A nameless feeling, the offspring of terror and joy, gripped Max.
What have we done!?
A glance at his friends confirmed that they were experiencing something similar.
"I wonder what would have caused Captain Stewart to do that to his beloved ship?" remarked Wiremu and suddenly they were struggling to suppress their nervous laughter.
They were all dog tired. Max studied the black mud of the now drained inlet a moment longer, before the train turned up The Cut and climbed into the city.
After escaping capture by Stewart and his crew, Wiremu, Wang and Max had paddled through a network of hidden 'reedways' which took them west, back toward the river.
Then Wiremu had stopped their forward progress near a backwash of tangled drift wood and the butt of an uprooted tree. Here he had let himself over the side so that he was standing in waist deep water, his toes sinking in the muck. Mumbling a prayer, he had gently uplifted each pou whenua from the floor of the dug-out. Then, with care, he drove the whole length of the post deep into the muddy bottom, standing on the top of each, so that they were completely hidden. When he flopped back onto the canoe a great stink of disturbed mud came with him.
Not long after that the vein they had been following came to an end. They exited the canoe, dragged it onto dry ground, through some native trees and in a few short minutes were standing back on the bank of the Aorere, almost in the shadow of the Ferntown Bridge.
Here Wiremu surprised them by suddenly producing, from the bottom of the dug-out, a breakfast of cold pork, bread, and beer. They all partook with eagerness and Max noticed that the black outlaws’ bandanas, now hanging limp around their necks, suited them well.
When the impromptu meal was done they re-boarded their little wooden raider and while the tide was still turning worked their way under the dark bridge and back up the river.
That part of the journey, maybe the single longest stage, was now just a blur in Max's memory. At some point Wiremu had turned them into the willows on the left-hand bank. Here they had entered the lagoon where the shags nest, hidden the canoe in the flax stands and walked on the railway line back to the Aorere Pā.
The dawn was lighting the sky in the east when they finally returned to their sleeping whare and fell back into their beds. It was 5:30am, one hour and forty-five minutes until the train to University, fifteen minutes until Wiremu needed to be at Mr Reilly's milking shed.
Tired as they were, they could not break their routines. For doing so would, when the news of the raid broke, cast them in suspicion. On arriving at Victoria Max had let the other two into the Gymnasium, where they had all showered and changed into the fresh clothes which they had stored for this very purpose. Restored a little by the boiler heated water they had gone their separate ways.
Drooping again almost at once, they attended all their lectures, ate lunch in The Canteen and Max went to his fencing practice with Julian Roil. In body at least they carried on like it was a normal Monday. In mind they were concerned about not doing anything to increase The Fives suspicion of them. Not that Max saw them anywhere on campus. He suspected that more pressing concerns kept them at home on Wapping Point or back on the Estuary bearing witness to the salvage barge that worked over the Elizabeth.
At last, with chins resting on their chests, they sat on the 5:15 and let it carry them home. Max went to bed early and slept the night right through.
* * *
In the darkest part of that night a shadow detached itself from the gloom in an alley next to the National Museum. Catlike, but human in form, it moved along the base of a marble wall. It did not linger or look back, as if concerned. For the lurker knew that it passed unobserved. And if it did happen upon someone who wished to somehow detain it... then it knew how to deal with that very well.
With little more than a single step for a run-up it sprang to the top of the wall. Then it was over and down. A moment later rising again and fleeting like the shadow of a high passing bird, it danced up the balconies and window casements, to come to rest on the frame of one particular window.
If a person did happen to be passing, they would have no reason whatsoever to look to that window. If they did, it would be only a glance and not the kind of study that might, if carried out with any focus, reveal the thickening of darkness that rested within the frame. They would also have no reason to consider that that particular window opened out from the Department of Archaeological Studies, for one window was the same as another.
The lurker did not pause but drew from its black clothes a tool that could only be seen from within the room. Beneath its hands a circle appeared on the glass pane. A disk, fit for a giant's monocle, was removed, and lain aside. Then a slender gloved hand and wrist went through the hole and released the latch from the inside.
The sash opened out and the shadow slipped in. The gaslights of the city penetrated the gloom within enough for the intruder to not need assistance. Soundlessly, on soft shoes, it moved across the classroom.
An open door, a corridor, a flight of stairs. Out, along, down.
There would be a guard stationed at the front doors, on the ground floor. Not a concern, just information. A pause, a head turn, the way forward discerned and on it strode. Doubtless the black mask and hood that it wore would have impeded the senses if worn by a normal citizen. But it was not normal. Nor for that matter was it a citizen.
Through another door and down more stairs. Not a grand flight for the public these ones, but a tight spiral for the staff. Down two levels, beneath the street now. Many doors, with many labels. The correct door is found, but it is locked.
There is a wet sound. The figure steps back. The heavy lock smokes, smells and melts apart.
Inside the vault a small lamp is lit. Now the search begins in earnest. Drawers are opened and re-closed. Likewise, file boxes, cabinets, and cupboards. Many stone pieces are found, along with flax garments, bird feathers, wooden vessels, bowls, carvings, weapons, shrunken heads...
The searcher is silent for a moment. Then it crosses to the research and cataloguing desk, the top drawer of which is also locked. A foot goes up and the handle is gripped with two hands. One pull, two... the drawer is open. A gloved hand goes in and to the back.
It comes out again with a small bundle. This is placed on the desktop and the tissue paper wrapping removed.
From the small porcelain bowl a golden coin with a square hole though the middle is retrieved. The thief lifts its hood and touches the coin to her lips.
* * *
Tuesday 7:00am and the story is out. The Dominion Press had it on the front page, the Murderer's Bay Argus as the front page. Max spread both papers, side by side, on a table in the waiting room of Rockville Central Station. He started first with the Press. He always did this, it felt more... proper. With equal measures of dread and excitement he read...
Priceless artefacts stolen. Historic and cultural site vandalised. Early Monday morning three black clad men landed by boat on Wapping Point and removed Māori marker posts. The thieves were pursued by the ship Elizabeth III but escaped into the wilderness area of Ruataniwha Inlet.
Motivation for the removal is unknown. But a spokesperson for the current Māori owners, one Kingi Kuratahi, said that the action was a cowardly attack on all Māori. Inspectors from the Gibbstown constabulary have visited the site of the crime but are said to have found little to advance their investigation.
Inspector Hewetson said that he doubts the marker posts, called Pou Whenua in the Native, will ever be recovered and that he believes it to be the work of unscrupulous artefact smugglers. He went on to say that this sort of thing was becoming more common with gangs working to order for offshore buyers.
It was standard fare for the Dominion Press and had been relegated to a side column. However, the Argus always took a more... colourful, creative angle. Now the entertainment would begin. Max dragged the second paper over and took a sip of his coffee. Next to the text an artist had rendered an image of three likely, though fairly generic looking, rough necks. The sketcher's job had been made easy by the fact that the face of each was hidden behind a black kerchief. Only the eyes showed, and it was with some relief that Max noted that these too were rather standard and that an almond pair of Chinese ones had not been included. The body read...
Daring raid on Pā! Masked men appear from the sea, carry away Māori treasure! Dramatic midnight boat chase on Collingwood Haven follows! Thieves and treasure gone! - reports Rebecca Salasor.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
While their guardians slept in their beds early Monday morning, three men, dressed from head to toe in black, and masked like wild western outlaws, slipped ashore and cunningly removed not one but four large pou whenua marker posts. While bearing their booty away the trio were briefly chased by the Elizabeth III captained by Alastair Stewart. The gun boat was however no match for the raiders and soon ran aground. The outlaws disappearing into the night!
Many questions remain. Who are The Gibbstown Three, these Murderer's Bay Musketeers? When will they strike again? What is their message? Is anyone truly safe!?
Max reread the article. Then with a mounting sense of triumph and amusement he purchased his own copy of the Argus, folded it under his arm, dipped his bowler forward and strolled out onto the platform as the 7:15 drew in.
Murderer's Bay Musketeers, indeed.
He liked that.
* * *
Max tried to pay attention to what Professor Wynyard was teaching during Archaeology that afternoon, but his mind was again on things other than his studies.
Once more The Five hadn't been in The Canteen or anywhere else on campus that morning. He couldn't blame them, especially considering what was being spoken there.
Everybody was talking about 'the raid,' about the 'The Gibbstown Three' and the 'Murderer's Bay Musketeers', and the failure of the Elizabeth III. Initially Max had worried his peers would instantly see Wang, Wiremu and himself as suspects. But it was soon apparent that he was the only one who saw himself in this light. It was a small dent to his ego that no one else had him cut out as an outlaw.
The whole affair was, to the first-year students, an exciting but distant adventure that could not possibly touch any of them personally.
When Max had presented Wang and Wiremu with the newspaper that morning on the train their reactions had been satisfyingly similar to his own. Even Wang who had previously been rather reticent about intrigues and adventures seemed more than a little smug at what they had done.
What had they done? Max wasn't sure. But what appealed was the potential creating of a legend. Wiremu it seemed was satisfied that the score had been levelled.
Max wasn't completely elsewhere during class. He did notice a couple of times that Jasmine seemed to be watching him. Seemed; he couldn't be sure. She was either not watching him at all or very good at the game of watching. They were both good enough that their eyes never once met. This was in itself a giveaway.
It occurred to Max that she was the one person who would have been in a position to notice a dangerous anomaly, that Wang did not get on the train at Eeling on Monday morning after the raid, and that he himself did not get on at Rockville Central, but that all three of them had boarded at Aorere Pā. Was she giving names to the faceless Gibbstown Three?
Course requirements had drawn Wynyard away from his more localised passions and thus the day's lecture had been a foundational talk on the Neolithic sites of the British Isles; stone circles, barrows, henges, hill forts, hole stones and the iron and bronze ages in general. Max had a certain interest in the subject and had a clear memory of his grandfather telling him about strange stone tables, quoits and standing stones on the hills and heather moors of their old country Cornwall.
Then it was over, students were standing and packing away their books. Max followed suit and was about to exit when Wynyard called him.
“Mr Skilton. One moment. A word. If you don't mind, please close the door.”
Max did as he was bid and returned to the Professor at the black board.
“Sir?” Max noticed then that Wynyard had gotten slightly fidgety and had lost a little of his professional poise.
“Max, there has been a... how shall we say? I regret to have to tell you that there has been a theft.”
“Indeed, I read all about it in the papers this morning,” responded Max evenly.
“I beg your pardon,” gapped Wynyard. “That is not possible! I mean no one else knows...”
“Wapping Point? Pou whenua?” clarified Max, and Wynyard looked completely lost for a long moment.
“Heavens no. Not that carry on. The Māoris are always up to some such lark. No, something that affects us both much more personally.”
“Such as?”
“The Chinese coin and bowl are gone.”
Max and Wynyard parted company after the Professor had shown him a glass disk that had been cut away from the window in the neighbouring classroom, a melted lock in the vault below and an empty drawer. There were no other clues and Wynyard hadn't even called the Constabulary about the break in.
Max had felt a range of responses. At first, naturally shock and disbelief. But then as the news had sunk in and he had examined the crime scene, coming to see what had transpired in the small hours, these feelings had been replaced surprisingly by... excitement.
Also surprising was that he was neither greatly upset at the loss of the coin or its considerable value in gold. For more than anything the existence of the coin represented to him a mystery. Not a historical academic puzzle but something that was taking place right now. The past and the present were reconnecting. Finding the coin was one thing, a dead thing, but having it stolen it bought it back to life, made it current, active. Its removal confirmed to Max that there was a game afoot and that players were in the field. So far only a dead swordsman and a thief, but who knew who else?
Interestingly the case was dead, as the professor had never declared the problematic find to anyone and now it was gone. Max entertained the idea that Wynyard had staged the robbery himself in order to remove the archaeological anomaly. Its presence raised too many awkward questions and Wynyard, it could be argued, did not want to be the one to present to the academic community, indeed to the very English rulers of the Dominion, a theory about how it got where it did. However, Max dismissed this scheme as being beneath the good professor.
“So, there it is,” whispered Max to Wiremu, having just let his excitement speak. Wang was looking out the Canteen window, showing his disinterest in the chosen subject. But Wiremu, having finished his lunch, was matching Max in enthusiasm.
“Right. The dead swordsman, with the brass copy, he wasn't the only treasure hunter. There is another!”
“And this one has found his treasure!” reflected Max.
“Exactly. Which begs two further questions; first, are there more hunters? And second, more importantly, is there more treasure?!”
“Would you two stop it!?” snapped Wang, pulling himself away from the window.
“What's the problem?” replied Wiremu at once.
“The fact that you are calling it treasure for a start...”
“Look Wang, your Tong clearly isn't involved. I mean that brass coin didn't mean anything to Fong Wa... the chemist fellow.”
“Fong Wai Sung. The drug dealer,” corrected Wang.
“That's, him. Max said he hardly looked at it. Just gave it to Harriet Leith, like it had no value to him.”
“You don't know what value it had to him,” snapped Wang. “I still contend that he used the coin to purchase Miss Leith!”
“I don't like the sound of that,” said Max, taking a turn to look out the window himself.
“I don't mean to cast doubts about Miss Leith's character...”
“Oh cast away.”
“You yourself told us that Fong looked at her in a way that made your skin crawl.”
“I did,” agreed Max. “But also, not like that. It was more like...” Max tried to recall the night at the Chinese New Year Festival when he had watched Fong Wai Sung and Harriet talking. “...more like an appraisal. Like how a tailor would look at a client he was about to make a shirt for.”
“Sure. That sounds really comforting!”
“Wang was that sarcasm?” teased Max. “I liked you better when you were just grumpy!”
Wiremu intervened.
“We are getting off track. Look, there is no proof that the Tong know about the coins. In fact, we have no proof that the Tong even exists, only Wang's word on it...”
“It exists alright!”
“We believe you. But look, didn't you say that the word around Chinatown...” both Wiremu and Max had stopped calling it Chinatin since their visit there. “...was that the murdered swordsman was a Government Agent?”
“Yes.”
“And you felt that that was enough to get him killed?”
“Certainly.”
“So it is entirely possible that, only having half the story, the question the Tong is asking is not; are there any more treasure hunters? But are there any more Government Agents?”
“But we, having a fuller picture,” clipped in Max. “Get to ask a fuller question, namely are there any more Government Treasure Hunters?”
“Exactly!” chimed Wiremu.
“I really don't think the Chinese Government needs to send Agents to New Zealand to look for lost coins under floor boards. If they want coins they can just send a few thousand workers down a mine for a couple of weeks and make a train load more!”
Max could see that Wang had them there, but it was almost time for class, so he was saved from the need to make that admission.
“All right,” called Wiremu raising his hands in defeat. “Who took the coin and the bowl from the Museum? That at least did happen. The thief knew what he was looking for, where to find it and how to take it. An inside job then?”
The three friends rose and brushed the crumbs of their midday meal from their pants and waist coats as they considered the question. Max flicked his bowler onto his head.
“Only Wynyard's group of sworn students knew about the existence of the coin and bowl. It's a fairly tight circle.”
“It isn't a tight circle!” snapped Wang. “It is all of first year Archaeology. As well as the second and third years who were on the field trip and reworked the site afterwards looking for more coins. Including the Professor himself, that is at least fifteen people! 'Wynyard's Sworn', ha! 'Wynyard's Sieve!' I mean even you told the two of us all about the find, what? Only three hours later. It is amazing the whole city doesn't know.”
“Fair point,” agreed Wiremu. “And in telling Wang... well the news was right at the heart of Chinatown in only two moves. Not a very long 'Chinese Whisper.'
Wang eyed Wiremu dubiously as he held the Canteen door open for him. Outside Max took up the discussion again.
“Agreed. The fact that the thief went right to the exact location of the coin, says that he had some rather specific knowledge of where it would be. Once there he melted the vault lock with some kind of acid, ignored some fairly valuable greenstone artefacts and removed only the Chinese pieces. The robbery was all about the coin and bowl and not about simply getting rich.”
Wiremu nodded his head at Max's analysis.
“I was going to say that the next person who suddenly turns up unexplainably rich is the person who stole the coin and melted it down. But I think you are right, it's not about the money. Is Wynyard going to call in the Constabulary?”
“I don't think he will,” answered Max.
“Do you think he could have taken the coin himself?”
“It has crossed my mind. But no. His reluctance is born from a fear of committing professional suicide. In this climate no one wants, no matter how compelling the evidence, to listen to a theory about the Chinese discovering New Zealand before any European...”
“Yeah,” interrupted Wiremu with a chuckle. “Imagine how they are going to feel when they work out that some Pacific Islanders beat them to it as well!”
Max spared him a wink.
“I think that discovery is still a couple of hundred years away!”
All three of them laughed as, with hands in pockets, they started to stroll across the quad. Max picked up the thread of the conversation yet again.
“...if Wynyard was just after money he could have spirited the coin away anytime. No one was asking about it. Staging the whole break-in robbery would be a fairly weak double bluff. Nope, if he needed cash there are more subtle ways to quietly filch valuables out of the museum vaults.”
“If not for money...” cut in Wang. “...what then was the purpose of the theft?”
“Beats me,” said Max and Wiremu together. Wang eyed them for a moment.
“It's a message. And a clean-up and sweep away job. Think for a minute. The whole thing has gone away now. The brass is melted down, the gold and the bowl have disappeared, all the trails have gone cold... the evidence for Chinese gold in New Zealand has been removed. The searchers, whoever they may be, have greatly reduced the competition, maybe in their minds even eliminated it. The first hiccup to their plan was The Tong, for their own reasons, taking out a searcher. The second was someone else finding a coin before them. But it's all been cleaned up now and they are free again to search in peace. The Tong knows about the searchers, but not the coin. Wynyard and his students know about the coin, but not the searchers. What Wynyard does know he isn't going to share and if he did... well no one is going to listen.” Wang removed his glasses and polished them on his sleeve. “In the whole of the Dominion there are only three other minds that see both parts.”
“Ours.”
Wang nodded, and returning the glasses to his nose, fixed his friends with a firm stare.
“But I would heed the message; let it all just go away.”