Let's Kill Uncle (18 page)

At one time they had all passed through here, Nootkas, Songhees, Kwakiutls, Salish, dressed like Homeric heroes in their barbarian regalia. With their proud helmets of cedar and copper, tasseled with ermine, their capes of sable and mink, their garments of cedar bark-cloth dyed in harsh primary colours, and their ceremonial robes of dog hair woven with the tufts of the mountain goat, they had paddled through the bright straits, and sometimes they stopped.

On the very beaches where the children now played so innocently, the warriors had paused to gorge themselves on tyee salmon. Their dugouts, bearing their haughty clan crests, the emblems of the raven, the otter, the killer whale, were dragged up to the beach, while their owners prepared for feasting.

On these beaches they had dug pits, piled them with stones and heated them until they were white hot. They set out their five-foot wooden cooking vessels, carved with beaked thunderbirds, and filled them with water. Then they dropped the hot stones in and boiled their repasts, ungutted salmon, clams, mussels, venison and berries. Their sauce and their favourite delicacy was the foul oolichan oil, which no white man could stomach, and which they relished like manna.

When they were gorged, their drums began a muted, ominous roll. The warriors recited tales of their greatness, their victories in war and their transient glory.

Here, in their potlatches, the symbolic belittling of their friends and enemies by their generosity, they had broken their priceless copper disks, burned their Hudson’s Bay blankets, smashed their rifles and joyfully impoverished themselves. Here, with stone clubs they had dispatched their slaves to shame their guests by their largesse.

Here they had been and from here they departed, their tenancy leaving no more mark than an army of ghosts. Only the abandoned goddess D’Sonoqua stood deep in a forgotten village in the forest, carved from the living cedar, her mighty arms outstretched for children.

Only three generations ago the Indian reigned where now Barnaby and Christie played. Two children, innocent of mankind, past or present, children who delighted in finding agates and tiny pink shells and purple starfish and clam holes which spurted like naughty subterranean fairies.

Two children who wandered, happy, brown and busily plotting murder with an insouciance that would have appalled the former savage tenants.

And here, Uncle, from his rocky cliff stronghold, licked his chops and leered as he watched them through high-powered field glasses.

Had they any chance against a wily old pro like Uncle?

If Sergeant Coulter had known more, he would have said no. But both Uncle and Sergeant Coulter underestimated them. Barnaby would never give in and Christie MacNab was a worthy protagonist for any uncle.

Forewarned by her mother,
she
was one little girl who would never be lured into parks or vacant lots. The promise of twenty-five cents or a stick of candy would have been lost upon her. Her strength was as the strength of ten because her heart was pure, because she did not like Uncle and because, in her own uncomplicated way, she rather wanted a million dollars.

The children had several distinct advantages. For one thing, there was no point on the Island from which they could not hear Uncle’s plane arriving or departing; consequently they always knew when he was in residence.

Also, their very inexperience helped, for they were not bound by any preconceived principles on the method of murder. The gun, they knew, was the most sensible approach, but they had no personal preference. Had it been feasible, it would have made no difference to them whether hemp, cold steel or poison were used to dispatch Uncle, as long as Uncle was dispatched.

Uncle, backed by a lifetime of experience, had marked preferences. He despised the contrivances he had been forced to use in the past, such as hypnotism, stabbing and monkey wrenches. He was too cunning to stick to the same pattern, but he pined for the days of yore. The supple weighted piano wire had been more than satisfactory during his commando days and as far as he was concerned it still was. Of course, things had to be arranged with finesse, one simply did not go about leaving strangled bodies in one’s wake, but then, he was a master in covering his tracks.

There was also the element of chance, and Barnaby and Christie’s flip of the coin was just as likely to be heads as Uncle’s, as was proved only a few days after their abortive attempt on the police launch.

It was a burning hot morning, and they sat on the step of the war memorial, gazing at the glittering water, still disgruntled over their failure.

A trim yacht, flying the American flag, sailed up to the dock.

The wheels of the gods were beginning to grind.

There was not a soul about, Sergeant Coulter was not expected until the next day, Mr and Mrs Brooks were having their morning tea in the dim little parlour behind the store, and the children were quite free to wander about.

As a party of half a dozen hunters streamed from the yacht onto the wharf, a look passed between Barnaby and Christie. A look of pure telepathy, and Operation Police Launch, a failure, was scrapped.

Without a word Christie slipped silently into the shed on the dock and Operation Yacht began.

‘Hey, sonny, is this Benares?’

The party, laden with fishing rods, shining gun cases, binoculars, cameras and valises, filed up to the sturdy boy who stood smiling a welcome to them.

‘No, sir,’ said Barnaby. ‘Benares is four miles south-east.’

‘Oh. Well, we’d better pack up again.’

The speaker, a tall, distinguished-looking man, turned to Barnaby again.

‘Is there any place I can get cigarettes here?’

‘Yes, sir. At the store.’ Barnaby pointed it out. ‘I’ll get them for you, if you like. Are you staying at the lodge at Benares?’

How delightfully polite these Canadian children were. The tall American decided he would have to have a word with his own son when he got home.

‘Yes, we are. We’ve been doing some big-game hunting in Alaska, and we’re stopping off for some fishing on our way back.’

Barnaby beamed.

‘I hope you catch some. Mr Brooks, he runs the store and I stay with him, he says we have the best salmon fishing in the world. Have you got your bait yet?’

‘No.’

Barnaby smiled again.

‘Oh, you must get it from Mr Brooks. He has fresh herring bait. And if you get it from Mr Brooks you can fish on the way to Benares. Mr Brooks knows exactly where the salmon are running this morning.’

The tall man laughed and, rumpling Barnaby’s hair, asked him if he was in the herring-bait business.

Seeing not a soul about except the boy and being honest men themselves, they left their guns, rods arid cases on the wharf as they accompanied Barnaby to the store.

Ten minutes later, bearing cigarettes and bait, they waved goodbye to the charming, helpful boy who had never been out of their sight for a moment.

Barnaby and Christie danced a gleeful little jig in the village square. Alone, unaided and with no trouble at all they had accomplished what they had expected to be the most difficult part of their mission.

Barnaby decided that after dark he would sneak out of bed, go to the shed, get the gun and hide it in Desmond’s shack.

The next morning even Christie awoke early, so eager was she to see the precious prize.

Barnaby got down on all fours and dragged the gun case from under Desmond’s cot. With reverent hands he laid it upon the unmade bed, while Christie peered over his shoulder.

Desmond sat unnoticed at the table, his luminous eyes forlorn because he thought they had forgotten to bring him his little treat.

Barnaby unbuckled the ammunition pouch on the side of the case.

‘Whew!’ He counted the bullets. ‘Look, Christie, nine of them. Aren’t they big?’

Next he took out the gun. Christie leaned forward to put her hand on the shining barrel, but Barnaby took a step back.

‘Don’t touch it, stupid. It might be loaded.’

He laid the gun upon the bed and sat looking down at it for a long time. Then he put his hand out and touched the polished walnut stock almost shyly.

‘Isn’t it beautiful, Christie? I’m going to practise taking it apart now.’

It looked like any other gun to Christie and she turned to poor Desmond.

‘Oh, darling,’ she said, seeing his crestfallen face, ‘you thought we forgot to bring you something nice. Well, we didn’t. Look, Desmond, a coffee cake Auntie baked yesterday. We’ll put raspberry jam and peanut butter on it and it’ll taste even better!’

Singing ‘The Big Rock Candy Mountain’ she began to prepare their snack.

Barnaby, dismantling the gun and memorising each piece as he did so, turned irritably and told her to shut up.

Christie shrugged and offered him a slice of coffee cake, covered with nuts, raisins, icing, and now peanut butter and jam.

But he was too fascinated by the gun to be interested in food. Lovingly, almost gloatingly, he looked at the parts on the bed, his sharp eyes noting the shape and contours of each piece. Then, confidently and unerringly, he reassembled the gun and turned proudly to Christie.

‘I did it. Give me a slice of coffee cake now. I’ll practise some more later, then tomorrow, or Thursday, when I’m sure Sergeant Coulter won’t be here, I’ll try firing it. Just once, to make sure. There are only nine bullets. That’ll leave me eight. I can’t take a chance of wasting any more or anyone hearing the shot. Give me a bigger piece than that, you and Desmond are one ahead of me. Isn’t it beautiful? I’ll take it up on the mountain to fire it. That way if anyone hears it, they won’t know where the sound is from. Bigger than that, don’t be such a hog!’

They sat cramming food into their mouths and feeling very much at peace with the world.

Barnaby, earlier so tense and bad-tempered, was now mellow.

‘Christie, what do you want to be when you grow up?’

Christie took a bite out of her last piece of cake, thought the better of it and handed the remainder to poor Desmond. She had eaten too much and she felt sick.

‘Rich, I guess.’

‘No, I mean besides that. I’m going to be rich, but I’m going to be something else too. I’m going to be a Mountie.’

Christie wiped peanut butter from poor Desmond’s chin and turned to Barnaby.

‘You won’t be rich unless you kill your uncle. And don’t forget, you’ve got to give me a million dollars. I’d like to be a Mountie too, but I suppose girls can’t. I think I’ll marry Sergeant Coulter instead.’

Barnaby jeered. ‘He won’t marry you, silly.’

Christie tossed her head. ‘You don’t know everything.’

‘I didn’t say I did,’ said Barnaby, settling back. ‘Tell me more about MacNab.’

‘Nope.’

Her mouth was set in that prim little line he hated.

‘Why not?’

‘Because you won’t tell me any more about Uncle.’

Barnaby flushed with anger.

‘You wouldn’t like to hear any more.’

‘I would too.’

‘Well, you can’t.’

There were times when it was useless to argue with him and Christie knew it. She cleared off the table, then pointed to the gun, which she didn’t like.

‘Put it away so I can make Desmond’s bed.’

‘Okay, but hurry. We’d better get a couple of graves done today.’

As Christie straightened the bed an unlovely thought struck her. She turned and stared at Barnaby for a few seconds, then at poor Desmond, who was dozing with his head on his arms.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘if we blame the murder on poor Desmond, maybe Sergeant Coulter will hang him instead of us.’

Barnaby thought that over for a while.

‘Well, it’s either him or us,’ he said with a sigh.

Christie agreed.

They took poor Desmond to the graveyard with them. He was afraid of the little garter snakes that slithered between the paths among the graves, so he sat on the rickety fence with his thumb in his mouth, watching them with gentle, unquestioning eyes.

It was a lovely morning, not so unbearably hot as it had been lately, and when the three left the graveyard the children sniffed the fragrant air happily.

Christie, holding poor Desmond’s hand, looked up at him.

‘Don’t you worry, Desmond. You’ll be an angel, of course.’

The ever-agreeable Desmond nodded.

‘Do you think, Barnaby,’ Christie turned to him, ‘do you think Auntie will make a raspberry pie for dinner?’

‘No. She baked this morning, and she doesn’t bake twice the same day and she didn’t bake one this morning. I guess he will be.’

‘Will be what?’ Christie had dropped Desmond’s hand and was skipping after a butterfly.

‘An angel.’

Barnaby suddenly burst into roars of laughter.

Christie stopped and turned.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Gee, Christie, can’t you just see poor Desmond with long golden curls and a halo?’

They laughed until their sides ached. Poor Desmond laughed with them, although he didn’t know why.

W
HILE THE CHILDREN
kept themselves busy, Uncle had not been frittering away his time. Far from it, for Uncle had taken an extraordinary interest in gardening. He had bought a big shiny shovel from Mr Brooks, and had spaded up a twenty by twenty plot at the back of the cottage.