On Jacaranda Street: A Jack and Bea Mystery, #2

By K.V. Martins

An art dealer accused of murder. A notorious criminal on a desperate hunt for diamonds. An imposing house with many twisted tales to tell. What is the connection between them?

 

December 1923: After returning a stolen artifact to New Guinea, Jack and Bea Collingwood arrive in cinematic Sydney, Australia, for what they hope will be a restful stay with their friends Dr. Miller and his wife, world-renowned spiritualist and medium Madame de Clermont. However, the imposing house on Jacaranda Street, where the four friends enjoy their reunion, holds many dark secrets that will force Jack to question his sanity.

 

When the house is broken into one night, and a woman's body is found in Hyde Park, Jack finds himself reluctantly working with the New South Wales police to solve a cold case murder involving a local art dealer with a murky past. Jack is introduced to Sydney's seedy underworld and discovers the city's most notorious gang leader is convinced diamonds are hidden somewhere in the house and he'll do anything to lay his hands on them, including threatening Bea Collingwood. As the incidents escalate, Jack learns the history of a family torn apart by rivalry and the pursuit of wealth, and that everything centers around the house on Jacaranda Street and the mysterious woman Jack keeps seeing in an upper-level window.

 

Who is this woman, and what is the story she is so desperate to tell? Can Jack unravel the past and find out what really happened on a fateful day in January 1914? After all, the truth cannot be buried forever.

 

A modern gothic ghost story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aroona Group Press
• Release date: Mar 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9780473620134

K.V. Martins

K.V. Martins is originally from Sydney, Australia but now lives in New Zealand. Her work has been featured in various literary journals and she has won writing and poetry competitions. She has a B.A. (Hons) in History.

Book preview

THE SHAMAN’S RETURN

New Guinea, October 1923

Since the day we arrived in Port Moresby in January 1921, stumbling off the ship after months at sea, our legs as wobbly as newborn foals, Bea has been happy, and that is all that matters to me. She likes to say that the dripping heat of the afternoons, crammed with the sugary smell of honeysuckle and scarlet-tailed parrots screeching from tree to tree, helps her concentrate on her painting. It makes little sense to me, though. The startling colors of the garden, as bright as the midday sun, send me to our darkened bedroom, feeling feverish and grumpy.

Take a headache powder, Jack, and lie down for an hour or so, Bea always suggests, and I eagerly strip off my sweat-soaked shirt, lift the mosquito net, climb into our bed, and wait with a cool flannel over my eyes for the powder to take effect and lessen the drumbeat of my headache. The clink of Bea’s brush swirling in the glass of water as she paints on the bungalow’s verandah sounds like the distant chime of a church bell, and soon, its soothing rhythm fades any disturbing memories of Ashgrove Park that may come to mind.

Ashgrove Park. Bea’s ancestral estate in East Sussex, England, that we left soon after we were married in October 1920, full of talk about how our life would change for the better once we returned the shaman’s skull to its rightful place. Bea’s father, the eighth Lord Ashgrove, had stolen the skull while on a relic hunting trip in British New Guinea in the late 1800s. He proudly displayed it in his cabinet of curiosities, never once realizing that his ill-conceived actions had unleashed a violent curse over the Ashgrove family that would take decades and a rough sea voyage to resolve. Bea blamed her father for the string of deaths that had occurred at Ashgrove Park, including that of her beloved mother, Lady Eveline.

The estate had been requisitioned during the war, providing a recuperation facility for Dominion officers who, like me, had survived the rat-infested trenches only to suffer shell shock. But what I saw stalking the hallways of Ashgrove Park was not the delusions of a damaged mind. No, it was the uncomfortable presence of a vengeful spirit who had been wrenched from his homeland, the Place of the Three Rivers.

It’s the right thing to do, Bea, I’d told her, draping one of her mother’s silk scarves reverently over the shaman’s skull and tucking it into our luggage on our last night at Ashgrove Park. I promised the shaman I would do whatever it took to take him home if he stopped seeking revenge.

Bea had grasped my hand, and on that last evening, under a full moon, we wandered to the cemetery in Oaks Green, a quaint village on the outskirts of Ashgrove Park. She had always struck me as a strong, capable woman, but she seemed like a small child, tears traveling down her cheeks as she crouched by the graveside of her mother, Bea’s tapered fingers tracing the inscription: Eveline Ashgrove. d. 23rd December 1916. 48 years.

Bea’s wedding ring, which had been her mother’s, was a pale gold glint against the pearl gray of the headstone. She never once looked over to her father’s grave in the row behind, dark tendrils of ivy creeping across the etched words Lord Hubert Ashgrove. d. 14th March 1919. 68 years. Without a word passing between us, I knew she would never mention Lord Ashgrove again if she could help it.

Thank goodness it’s all over now, Jack, she said, straightening up and kissing my cheek, the wetness of her tears cold against my skin. We can put it behind us and start a new life together.

Yes, I’ll be relieved to set sail, I admitted. It was still something of a surprise to look down at this slim-waisted woman with a blaze of coppery hair and realize she was now my wife, Beatrice Collingwood. I would do anything to protect her, and the long voyage to New Guinea was the first thing we needed to do in our married life so that the shaman could be at peace. After all, Bea had been having unsettling dreams, stirred by the shaman, who was reminding me that his power extended to harming Lord Ashgrove’s daughter.

Within the week, we were bound for Port Moresby on RMS Southern Aurora, a passenger liner with electric chandeliers in the wood-paneled lounge that swayed as the ship pitched and rolled. I would hold Bea’s hair back from her face as she leaned over the rails, the Empress pudding she’d had for dessert sitting uneasily on her stomach.

It will get me prepared for morning sickness, she laughed, wiping her mouth with my handkerchief.

When we walked down the gangway on arrival in Port Moresby, a shimmering wall of heat slapped us in the face. Little did I know we would remain here for far longer than intended.

Our life had indeed changed for the better.

We found a small bungalow in the village of Kimbu along the Kikori River. It had a wide wrap-around verandah, set within a tropical garden of hibiscus-edged paths, a few scrawny chickens, and the jacarandas Bea has come to love for their blue-mauve blooms. Bougainvilleas competed for space, crowding around the stairs leading up to the verandah, but their paper-thin purple flowers looked like those of the showy jacaranda to me.

"No, Jack. That is a jacaranda mimosifolia, she’d say to me, pointing the tip of her paintbrush toward a large tree that looked like an upturned umbrella, growing against the verandah. See? Their flowers are shaped like little trumpets." And I’d look at the small square canvas propped on an easel, shades of amethyst, crimson, and lavender melting into intricate lines and curves and know that despite the eternal torment of the heat, Bea had begun to think of this country as her home.

We adopted a sensible tropical uniform of linens and khaki and swapped the rolling green pastures of England for malaria and dengue fever. I have a hazy recollection of shivering violently as my teeth chattered and kicking our thin cotton bedsheets off my legs as Bea, her eyes shining with tears, wiped my damp brow, telling me everything would be all right. I could barely lift my head but felt the sensation of floating upwards, the shaman looming in and out of my feverish nightmares.

Jolly bad luck to have contracted malaria within our first few months in Kimbu, but I knew better than to think our life in New Guinea would be nothing more than early morning strolls, lavish lunches, and the occasional prickly scarlet rash.

We were befriended by the bronze-faced Australian administrative officer or kiap, Harold Chesterfield, who was happy to while away the hours on our verandah at night under flaming torchlight, a glass or two of single malt in hand, his eyelids growing heavy as he recalled his time in the Australian Light Horse in the Sinai.

You New Zealanders, he’d slur in his broad Australian twang. Bloody good fighters. Proud to have had you by our side in that blasted war, Jack.

Bea would raise an eyebrow as if asking whether we needed to accommodate Harold for the night, but he would always stumble off into the impenetrable darkness, somehow finding his way back to the local Australian administrative station.

There was no getting around the fact that we needed Harold to accompany us up the Kikori to the Place of the Three Rivers. He hungered to trudge through leech-infested jungles in drenching rain or dodge a hail of arrows—the sort of thrill-seeking behavior and self-confidence that was needed to be an administrative officer in the first place. He knew the Kikori River better than the backstreets of Redfern in Sydney, where he grew up, and we traveled by dugout canoe as dawn streaked the sky apricot one humid morning, making camp that night in a small clearing in the center of an abandoned village along the riverbank.

Harold strung a length of telephone wire around our camp area and connected it to a battery. Anyone touching this will be in for a hell of a shock, he said as we tried to sleep on the hard-packed earth, drums beating in the distance. When we woke the following morning, thirsty as hell, mist like floating clouds draped the village, and Bea saw a naked boy standing at the jungle edge, his short tight curls stained red and yellow clay dotted over his body. Bea touched her belly as sulphur-crested cockatoos screeched overhead, and I thought for a moment she was going to walk down the muddy track to the young boy and take him in her arms, such was the joyful expression on her face. Harold gripped her hand before she could move an inch.

Don’t say a word, he cautioned, pulling her toward him. It’s a trap to lead us into the jungle where a few of his people will sink a stone ax into our heads. I’m afraid we have to dash to the canoe.

Shouts drifted toward us as we heaped the blankets and water we’d brought with us into a bilum bag that had clearly seen a few trips up and down the river. I grabbed my satchel that held the shaman’s skull.

Leave that tin of sweet biscuits, Harold barked, his breath coming in fast hisses, the yellow sweat stain under his armpits visible as he hoisted his bag over one shoulder. They might stop to see what we’ve left behind before aiming arrows at us, although, I doubt it. Right, let’s go.

It was obvious Harold knew more about the local dangers than we had managed to gather after our few months in Kimbu, and he moved surprisingly fast for a middle-aged man who constantly complained of stiff joints. Frantically waving figures emerged from the jungle’s depths as we ran to the river’s edge, Bea gasping and almost tripping over the hem of her skirt and slipping on a muddy patch.

How did they know we were here? I shouted at Harold’s retreating back, flinching as an arrow sailed past my right ear and helping Bea steady herself.

Bush telegraph, mate. Those were the drums we heard last night.

Guess they weren’t too keen on overnight guests, I said, my stomach dropping as I looked back to see the young boy’s expression was like that of a cat stalking a bird. Our boots became water-logged as we hurled ourselves into the canoe, carved from a single sandalwood tree, birds rising in fright from a nearby clump of reeds as we pushed off and paddled, our arms only tiring once we’d rounded a bend downriver what seemed an hour later.

Well, I probably handled that badly, Harold said, slipping a silver hipflask from his jacket pocket and taking a sip of whiskey before passing it to Bea and me. We should have camped farther down the river where I’ve been working with village elders. But that would have meant more hours stuck in this canoe and with a lady on board—

Oh, you thought I needed my beauty sleep, Harold? Bea said in an affectionate tone. I’m no delicate English rose. Jack can tell you that.

Although we’d only told Harold we wanted to return a stolen artifact to its rightful home, he sensed Bea was not a woman who was easily frightened or deterred. After all, he’d seen her wallop the daylights out of a large hairy-legged spider on a wall of our bungalow that would have sent many women reaching for the smelling salts.

Yes, he said, clearing his throat and looking like a proud father watching his son play cricket, you’d probably put to shame an Aussie woman sweating it out in the outback.

We sat in silence for a while, the canoe gliding along the smooth tea-colored river. A few crocodiles ducked their heads below the water’s surface, reminding me not to trail my hand in the coolness of the river. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the bulky bilum bag, the edges of a headache pressing against my temples. Brilliant flashes of gray and green flicked across my eyelids as crowns of leaves from eucalypts stretched over the water, almost forming an arch in places. The air was tinged with the earthy, rotting smell of the vine-tangled jungle and the incessant hum of thousands of insects. I must have dozed off, the heat of the day seeping into every muscle, and in that midway point between waking and dreaming, I could hear snippets of conversation:

I am happy here, Harold, but I don’t think Jack . . .

. . . go back to England?

He was so terribly ill with malaria. I couldn’t bear it if . . .

. . . a good dose of quinine powder in whiskey does the trick, you know.

My eyes adjusted to the bright light as Bea placed her hand on my arm, her tenderness spreading through me like warm milk. Sweat ran down my forehead and matted my hair underneath the wide-brimmed Akubra Harold had presented me with on my thirtieth birthday last year. Harold preferred to wear a white pith helmet as though he were a Victorian explorer setting out to machete his way through the African continent.

I suppose you’ve been talking about me while I’ve been catching my forty winks? I said, straightening up and stretching my legs.

Don’t flatter yourself, Jack, Harold said, showing the cracked tooth smile he’d gained after snagging a foot in a thick tree root and smashing face-first into the ground while trekking to a remote village south of Kimbu. You’re not that interesting, he added for good measure.

Bea, her cheeks a healthy pink, looked fondly at the man who had become her confidant. I suspect she had even told him that the English doctor she’d consulted in Bougainville told her we could not have children. After receiving this heart-wrenching news, she’d locked herself in the darkened guestroom of our bungalow, and no amount of soft knocks on the door and reassurances of my deep love could convince her that the fault was not hers. For weeks, it seemed a crushing depression would overtake her, but then she became involved with the children at the local mission, and seven-year-old Eustace, as the missionaries christened him, brought the beauty of Bea’s smile back into my life. It did not escape my attention that Eustace was part of the reason Bea might be reluctant to leave New Guinea.

Not far to go until we reach the Place of the Three Rivers, Harold said, looking up at the bulging bellies of low-hanging clouds. Let’s hope we get a better welcome there because that’s torrential rain coming our way.

We had turned into a tributary of the Kikori River at least an hour before, the air thick with iridescent kingfishers flitting this way and that and black-necked storks picking their way through the shallows. Bea’s father, Lord Ashgrove, had pilfered the skull from an island where three rivers converged. I brushed my fingertips along the flap of the battered leather satchel with the rather macabre thought that I should open it and lift out the shaman’s skull, showing him that he was almost home. A jolt like that of an electrical shock shot up my left arm, almost causing me to fling the satchel into the river.

Steady on, Jack. Are you all right? Harold said, eyeing the satchel as though it contained a mass of slithering snakes. I know you said what’s in that satchel is an artifact to be returned, but it seems to me it has a dark energy about it. He wiped his brow and sniffed the air as though he’d caught a whiff of something disagreeable. Listen to me, would you? I’m sounding like some fresh-faced administrative officer who’s had too much tropical sun and listened to too many stories about black magic. As if an artifact could have powers. Harold shook his head, swatting flies sucking the sweat from his crimson-cheeked face.

We saw wispy smoke plumes from cooking fires rising above some skinny eucalypts before we spotted a group of tribespeople clustered on the riverbank to our left, entirely naked and with their ears and noses pierced with what looked like animal bones. Or human, perhaps. We had heard rumors of cannibalism in these parts. They stood there silently, watching as Harold maneuvered the canoe toward the sandy bank. Bea was biting her lip, gripping the sides of the dugout, and I admit to thinking in that moment that I should have left her behind in Kimbu because, fearless though she may be, there was every possibility we could all meet our deaths within minutes.

It will be fine, my dear, Harold said to her under his breath. It might have been smart to carry a rifle, but I don’t believe in the use of threat or force. Show no fear and let me handle things.

You have kept your promise. I am almost home. Lord Ashgrove may have taken me from my people, but his daughter is honorable. Take me to the cave at the Place of the Three Rivers so that I may dwell once more with ancestral spirits.

The shaman’s words buzzed in my skull like clouds of mosquitoes, making me feel as if I had drunk too much champagne. But he has always communicated with me in this manner, leaving me thinking at times that my sanity had deserted me.

A curious look passed between Harold and Bea, for they had realized I’d taken the shaman’s gleaming skull from the satchel and was cradling it in my arms.

Bloody hell, Harold said, his voice cracking. What on earth is that glow around that . . . well, you never said it was a skull. This could get us in a hell of a pickle. You could at least have warned me.

What could we have told you, Harold? Should I have unwrapped the skull, held it up in the air, and said to you, ‘the spirit of a New Guinea shaman stalked the hallways of Ashgrove Park for years and caused the deaths of more people than we can count. He walked through my dreams and demanded I return him to his resting place. So that’s why we need to travel up the Kikori with you.’

Harold puffed out his cheeks and grunted something unintelligible.

I think you’d agree it would sound like the ravings of a mad man, I added.

We’re grateful you came with us, Harold, Bea said, always knowing when to cut into a conversation to diffuse things. There’ll be plenty of time to tell you all about what happened with the shaman when we’re back on the bungalow verandah enjoying a nightcap. But right now...

Animated voices mixed with the din of cicadas as Harold stepped from the canoe, speaking in a strange mix of English and local dialect. Tok Pisin, he’d told me one day when we’d walked to the mission together, two young boys pawing at his trouser legs, seeking sweet treats he always carried. It means ‘bird talk,’ and it’s how we converse with the locals. I had yet to learn the language fully but understood enough to know that Harold was asking for permission to enter the village and that we came with no intention of causing harm.

At least six tribespeople crowded around Harold, who towered above them. I half-carried Bea to shore, the bottom of her skirt dipping into the silty water. A dark-eyed boy, no more than fourteen or fifteen with a bone through his nose and raised scars on his chest, reached out to touch Bea’s auburn curls. She did not flinch but kept her eyes downcast as Harold motioned for us both to come forward with the shaman’s skull. The men dropped to their knees, and the few women we could see, who had been prodding the smoky embers of cooking fires, rushed to the water’s edge, chattering like children, their bare breasts a physical reminder that we were far from what was considered appropriate fashion in England.

Disentangling himself from the huddle, Harold reverently took the skull from my outstretched arms. A dignified older man wearing a headdress of tiger cowrie shells and bird of paradise feathers, his nose pierced with the upturned, curved tusks of what looked like some sort of bush pig, accepted the shaman’s skull, holding it to his chest and stroking it. The women were staring at creamy-skinned Bea, who was at my side and whispering, I would so like to paint them. What beautiful faces. You should have brought your camera, Jack.

To be honest, it had occurred to me to bring along the Kodak folding Brownie I’d bought before we’d left England. I had often accompanied Bea to the mission school, taking photographs of round-faced children. On one occasion, I’d traveled with Harold to a village where I’d snapped women tying up almost-ripe bananas in leaves to save them from flying foxes, the women’s spontaneous smiles more attractive than any posed setting I could have arranged in a studio.

You know what we’ve been told, Bea, I said, taking her hand in mine. Some people here think having their photograph taken steals the light from their soul or that the soul will be trapped inside the image forever.

Bea didn’t need to be reminded of this. After all, taking photographs of the shaman’s skull had revealed his human form and convinced Lord Ashgrove of his folly in stealing the skull for his cabinet of curiosities.

The old tribesman looked as if he had discovered gold, the creases around his eyes deepening as he gave me the broadest white-toothed grin I’d ever seen. He stood with the agility of a much younger man and walked toward me, the raised scars on his chest forming a pattern that looked like the outline of a crocodile. Placing a cool hand on my overheated face, he spoke fast in a phlegmy voice. What is he saying? I asked Harold, who was talking to a man with large holes in his drooping earlobes, as though he were chatting idly about the weather.

What’s that? Harold said. Impressive in his military-style cut-off khaki shirt, shorts, and sturdy canvas boots, he betrayed no sign of nerves as the shorter man touched what I knew to be a leather-strap wristwatch given to Harold by a woman he often spoke about back in Sydney. Oh, he’s a tribal elder and says you have honored the ancestors by returning the shaman’s skull, and we are to be their guests overnight. Harold unstrapped his wristwatch and handed it over with a chivalrous gesture, saying, Our lives are worth far more than this watch. Besides, Frances can send me another one.

An onion-ripe odor rose from the tribal elder’s body as he came closer, wrapping a thin forearm around me and leading us toward the cooking fires and some grass-thatched huts. Harold was pulled along by an older woman with short white hair, who was probably the tribal elder’s wife. She clapped her hands at some children, shooing them away as though they were the ravenous street dogs I’d seen in Port Moresby.

Whatever you do, just keep smiling, Harold said over his shoulder. And whatever they offer us to eat, gobble it down as though it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.

Bea had peeled away from me and was now surrounded by the children, who were hiding their shiny skinned faces in the folds of her crumpled linen skirt. She spoke to them as a mother would talk to her own infant, patting the tops of their heads affectionately and holding the grubby hands that reached shyly for hers.

The afternoon deluge arrived; the bruised-looking clouds no longer able to hold their burden of water. Salty sweat mixed with cool rainwater ran into my eyes. It was a momentary relief from the intense heat that seemed to rise from the ground in steaming plumes. I wished I’d brought a change of shirt with me, for I doubted the downpour would wash away the dark stains under my armpits or around my shirt’s collar. The rain stopped no sooner than it had begun, but it had rinsed the air, which now smelled of honey and wet animal fur.

He’s wanting us to go in here, Harold said, pointing to the dark interior of a hut with an entrance so low both Harold and I would almost need to double over to enter. They’ll bring us some food and water, and this is where we’ll sleep for the night.

The inside was smoky, with little ventilation, and the light was dim but enough to see the dirt floor was covered with reed mats and animal skins, and the hut was clean. Ceremonial skulls, teeth rotted with age, lined one wall of the hut, and in answer to my silent question, Harold mouthed, Don’t ask.

After what seemed like an eternity, a striking young woman with skin the color of dark caramel toffee entered the hut, holding a large palm leaf in her outstretched hands. My eyes must have been playing tricks because it looked as though silvery orbs were around her head, forming a halo.

Harold has an eye for the ladies, but he knew better than to flirt with her or spark an incident because of an accidental touch. Bea had nodded off, her face tucked into my shoulder, her hair smelling like tobacco. I pushed off the wall I’d been sitting against as the girl approached, her eyes downcast, offering me the palm leaf that had something wriggling on it. Bea stirred and rubbed her eyes. It was so hot and sticky that tiny beads of perspiration dotted her upper lip.

The good news is, Harold said, keeping a watchful eye on the palm leaf and its contents, they think you’re some sort of shining god for bringing back the skull and spirit of their shaman.

The thought of being a savior to the tribespeople had never occurred to me. All I wanted was to get this trip over and done with and free our lives from the curse unleashed by the foolish actions of Bea’s father. Once the skull was returned to the cave at the Place of the Three Rivers, we could breathe easily once more.

The young girl ducked out of the hut and returned moments later with two baskets woven from what looked like palm leaves, water sloshing as she placed them on the dirt floor in front of us. She tilted her head as though we were small children, not understanding the simplest of instructions, and clicked her tongue.

Right, said Harold, cupping his fleshy hands and scooping up some water. Not as good as a whiskey tumbler, but it looks sweet and clear. Water dripped through his fingers and dribbled down his dust-caked chin, leaving silvery snail-like trails. Ah, I stand corrected. Better than a whiskey. Harold looked up and smiled at the young woman grinning from ear to ear, her perfectly straight teeth as white as clouds.

What’s the bad news, then? I asked as Bea, trying to hide a thirsty-as-all-hell expression, moved toward the water carrier, her fingertips brushing mine as I offered her my cupped hands.

Let’s just say that whatever is on that palm leaf over there, Harold said, gesturing toward a wriggling white mass, we will eat it as though we’ve never tasted anything so scrumptious in our lives.

The frantic squawk of chickens outside sounded like someone was being strangled. It was a welcome diversion because my cheeks flushed with the shame of squeamishness as I glanced at the palm leaf, mesmerized by the sight of what looked like entangled giant maggots.

What are they?

I’d say they’re smoked sago grubs, Harold said. A tribal delicacy but not something I’ve ever been able to stomach. I think we’ll have better luck with dinner, though. I’m hoping for chicken with slow-baked taro slices. Harold winked, but his strained smile told me he was every bit as anxious as I was to delay the moment when we were expected to eat the grubs.

Harold took off his pith helmet and scratched his scalp as though some sago grubs were crawling through his short-cropped sandy blond hair. Pity we didn’t bring the silver cutlery, he joked. Let’s pretend we’re about to eat some Turkish delight, shall we? Almost the same consistency, to be honest.

Bea leaned across us both. She didn’t protest but reached for a grub and gulped it down with a curious look on her face. I could see her trying to swallow as though dry bread was stuck in her throat, and it reminded me of the time my father gave me my first slimy, salty oyster, which I couldn’t get down fast enough. He could never understand why I always refused his offer to go oyster harvesting with him—my younger brother, Thomas, taking my place by our father’s side.

I drew in a breath, wondering if Bea had been reckless. After all, the villagers could have seasoned the grubs with some toxic or hallucinogenic substance. Bea, perhaps you shouldn’t have—

Come on, you two, she said in a challenging but too bright voice. It’s not so bad, although these grubs are nothing like Turkish delight, Harold. I think you were lying to us.

Harold rubbed his palms up and down the front of his khaki shorts before taking a grub from the palm leaf. Well, it’s not how I imagined lunch today, but here goes, he said as he threw his head back, flared his nostrils, and popped a squirming grub as long as his little finger into his wide-opened mouth. I did the same, and nearly retched as warm juice exploded in my mouth when I bit down, the chewy texture of the grub worse than I had feared.

Tastes something like fried bacon, wouldn’t you say? said Harold, massaging his jaw as though that would help make the experience more palatable. I remember the time I was out the back of Wagga Wagga, and a wonderful Aboriginal fella offered me a choice between witchetty grubs and honey ants. Believe me when I say those honey ants looked a darn sight better to me.

The air inside the hut was so sticky we gulped down more of the cool water, hoping it would also help wash down the sago grubs. By the look on Harold’s face, I could tell he craved a whiskey or two, but we kept the forced smiles on our faces as the young girl gestured for us to eat more.

What I wouldn’t give for a strong cup of tea right now, said Bea with a triumphant look as she downed the last grub.

A sweet smell rose from the skin of the young woman as she bent over, taking the empty palm leaf into her hands. Harold said a few words to her, and the only word that sounded anything like English to me was tenkyu, which I took to mean ‘thank you.’ He pulled his cigarette case from his shirt pocket, tapped and lit a Carinya Gold cigarette, cupping the flame before saying, Got this packet from some Yank foolish enough to go alone up the Fly River on a sugarcane expedition. He was never seen again. Got lost in the jungle, I’d say.

I squinted at Harold through a cloud of smoke and thought, not for the first time, how lucky we were to have him accompany us on our own expedition. When we first reached New Guinea and encountered Australian kiaps, I thought their job was to conquer a new frontier but came to learn the role required diplomacy. It was a thankless task being the middleman, wielding police powers and settling tribal disputes fairly, but it suited a lone adventurer like Harold.

Right, well, we should use the water from the other carrier to wash the dirt and dust off ourselves, Harold said. Can’t appear for dinner looking like something the cat dragged in. Unfortunately, I left my evening suit behind in Kimbu.

The dry Australian sense of humor often left Bea perplexed, but I could not stop myself from smiling at the image of Harold dressed up in a formal dinner jacket with a swallow tail and a white bow tie tied so tightly around his thick neck that it almost choked him.

And we should get some rest before the night’s festivities, Harold added. Although with all the racket in this village, I doubt we’ll get a moment’s shut-eye.

We’d been hearing ripples of children’s laughter since we’d arrived, as well as the chattering of long-tailed parrots in the trees and the snorts of village pigs, but there was also an undercurrent of tension in the air. I had tried to ignore the spears propped up against huts and the stone weapons I’d seen as the tribal elder’s wife had shepherded us like geese into our hut.

I’ll pop outside while you two get cleaned up, Harold said, heading toward the entrance. I’ll see if I can get hold of a mosquito net for those string hammocks over there. He gestured toward two hammocks drooping like deflated balloons and slung between wooden poles. Not sure where I’ll be sleeping, but I’m used to hard floors, he said before disappearing into the bright daylight with the young woman following close behind.

The thought of being eaten alive by mosquitoes and shivering and sweating through another bout of malaria had me reaching for more drinking water as Bea stripped off her blouse and started splashing water under her arms and over her face. Bea had adopted the boyish bust-flattening look of the flapper fashion, wrapping soft fabric around her breasts in a bandeau. She always sighed with relief when her small breasts were released from the bandeau, while I always marveled at the beauty of her pale nakedness. Bea wasn’t in the least self-conscious, and our intimate moments, which perhaps should have made her blush like a schoolgirl, left us both gasping for air.

What’s the matter, Jack? Bea said with a coquettish smile on her face. It’s not as though you haven’t seen me unclothed before.

I walked over to where she was standing in the center of the hut, her breasts glistening with water beads, and kissed the curve of her slender neck. My mind was in turmoil because there was only one thing I wanted to do right then, but Harold would be back any minute.

I love you, Bea, I said, my voice cracking with emotion because I still could not believe this intelligent, strong-willed woman was my wife. My life.

I know you do, Jack. And I love you more than I can say. She squeezed my hand, and I helped her rewrap the bandeau and put on her blouse.

She lifted her hair off her neck; the deepest hints of ginger I most love catching in