The Goa Connection - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 

A stiffening breeze caused Dan Mapleton’s potting boat, Lucky Lucy, to pitch and roll a few metres out from Polminan harbour. Whitewashed cottages in the quaint Cornish village glowed in evening sunshine and the church tower clock showed seven o’clock when Dan’s boat chugged into harbour. He cut the engine before tying up near concrete steps at the jetty. Herring gulls circled overhead, their screeching echoing around the community as they prepared to swoop on tasty morsels.

Tourists who’d flocked to that corner of south west England were enjoying a spell of warm June weather. Forecasters predicted 2016 would be the driest summer since records began. Sun worshippers lined ancient stone harbour walls, some munching fish and chips while admiring the view. Across the road, staff at The Mackerel Inn served thirsty customers seated around wooden tables outside.

Dan set about emptying the last wire and wood lobster pot into a plastic tray on the boat deck and stared in amazement when a strange object fell out, landing in the tray with a solid clunk. He picked up the curiously shaped thing—about the size of his hand—and turned it round and round. It wasn’t heavy but seemed metallic. A few taps and a good shake suggested it was hollow. Using a penknife to scrape away some algae revealed what looked like bronze. Hmm. Funny. Looks sort of oriental, Dan thought. Although encrusted with marine growth he wondered if it might be a statuette of something ancient.

 He decided not to risk damaging his find and reckoned it’d be sensible to consult someone capable of identifying it. After locking the wheelhouse, Dan shoved the mysterious object into his trouser pocket, picked up the tray, climbed the steps to the jetty and headed to the local indoor market to deliver his meagre catch of crabs, a small lobster, and a crawfish. As he approached a strong aroma of fish wafted out. After spending a few minutes enjoying light-hearted banter with merchants, he headed to his nearby home, a tiny slate and stone one-bedroom cottage, named The Nook, in Bramble Lane.

He ducked in the cottage doorway to avoid banging his head on the low frame; being almost two metres tall sometimes caused problems around the humble dwelling. He showered his slim, muscular body, tanned by years of working at sea, and shaved before brushing his short, greying fair hair, bending to see in the bathroom mirror. At fifty-two years old, he wasn’t doing too badly looks-wise. After cleaning good white teeth, he went to the bedroom, wriggled into jeans and pulled on a shirt before picking up the intriguing little object from the dining room table.

“Right then. Let’s go and find out a bit about you,” Dan said to himself in a Home Counties accent, unchanged even after spending twenty years in Cornwall. He tossed the statuette from hand to hand before opening the door.

* * *

Mark Cunningham, landlord of The Mackerel Inn, glanced up from rearranging beer mats and coasters on the counter when Dan walked in and headed to a quiet corner in the cosy bar, which was renowned near and far for its wall displays of paintings and drawings depicting historical moments in the village’s maritime history. Pewter tankards, horse brasses and assorted memorabilia hung from black oak beams.

Sixty-year-old Mark, with a developing beer gut, hitched up lightweight cotton trousers and unbuttoned his short- sleeved shirt. Perspiration glistened on his brow. He watched his friend Dan place something behind a seat cushion before sauntering over to order a pint of lager at the bar.

“Hi Dan, how’s things?” The retired marine biologist’s crinkled face lit up and a huge grin stretched from ear to ear. They’d been close friends for many years, and he respected him. Only a few locals knew that Dan had moved to the village following tragic events. His mother, a garage forecourt attendant, was killed in an explosion when a car lost control and ploughed into the petrol pumps. Weeks later, his father, a carpenter, died from a heart attack after diving into a freezing lake and saving a child who’d fallen through the ice.

 “Strange sort of day really,” Dan said, drumming his fingers on the bar. “Not much fish, but I did find something interesting.”

“Yeah?” Mark said, absently wiping the counter.

“If you have a moment, I'd like to get your opinion.”

Marked looked up, frowning. “I'm no expert on crabs, mate.”

“No, but you’ve spent years working in oceans around the world. I might have dredged an antique off the sea floor.”

Mark's eyebrows rose. “Well I’ve often stumbled on some unusual bits and pieces. What sort of antique?”

“It’s over there,” Dan said, pointing to his chair in the corner.

“Really?  Right, I’ll be over in a minute. The wife can cope now it’s not so busy. Usual?”

Dan nodded and the landlord pulled a pint of draught lager.

As soon as Mark joined him, Dan plonked the statuette on the table. “This fell out of one of my pots this evening. What do you reckon?”

Mark picked it up. After scrutiny, he declared, “Now this might well be very interesting. It’s probably quite old.”

“Any value?” enquired Dan hopefully.

“Maybe—it’s a Ganesh. But there’re thousands of them all over the world—some valuable, others just tacky souvenirs. I wouldn’t build your hopes . . .” He stopped talking abruptly for a moment, then exclaimed, “Hang on though—what’s this?”

With the statuette upside down in his lap, Mark’s fingers explored an uneven tiny circular plug in the base. “Seems there’s a way to look inside. Ha! It’ll need opening with great care though—been sealed for goodness knows how long. I’ll go get my tool box.”

Mark returned with his specialist tools and slowly began clearing the statuette of marine growth. After a while, the elephant-headed God, Ganesha, appeared in well-preserved detail.

Dan gazed at his Ganesh blankly. “So what’s it all about?”

“Ganesha is a Hindu God,” Mark explained.

“Pity one of his tusks got broken.”

Mark laughed. “No, no. It’s supposed to be like that.”

“Why an elephant head anyway?”

Mark took a deep breath. “Briefly, Parvati, the wife of Shiva, wanted to take a bath while her husband was away so . . .”

“I thought Parvati was an Italian opera singer.”

“That was Pavarotti, idiot. Do you want to hear this story or not?”

“Sorry. Carry on.”

 “Anyway, Parvati formed a young boy from clay. Her new son stood guard at the door as she bathed. Shiva returned and was angry to find a stranger guarding his home. He cut off the boy’s head, and then . . .”

“No! Cut off the poor kid’s head? That’s terrible.”

“Just shut up. After discovering he’d killed his own son Shiva rushed out to find a replacement head and the first one he came across was that of a young elephant. So he hacked it off, stuck it on the body of his son, Ganesha, and breathed life back into him.”

Having listened to the story, Dan shrugged his shoulders. “Well, that’s a bit dramatic. Where do you think my little Ganesh came from?”

Mark said, “Maybe there’s a clue inside. Give me a few minutes and we’ll find out.” He worked carefully with a small tool, scratching round the rim of the plug. “Right. Easy does it.” He gently eased the plug out and placed it on the table. Holding the statuette upside down, he shook it slightly and particles of dust fell out. “At least it remained watertight, but there doesn’t seem to be anything in here.” He reached inside his toolbox and picked up a torch. On directing the beam inside the Ganesh he murmured, “Oh! There is something—looks like parchment or paper.”

“Probably just some stupid message to whoever finds it,” Dan muttered flatly.

“I think not. This looks fascinating.” Mark gingerly eased out a rolled up length of parchment and opened it with meticulous care on the table top. “It’s a map with wording in Portuguese. Something to do with Goa, India. It’s incredibly old I reckon. Here—you look.” He turned the map so Dan could read it.

“It’s got a few little crosses dotted about—like the ones in pirate and desert island movies. Surely this can’t be the key to hidden treasure?” Dan looked up expectantly.

Mark offered, “Who knows? One thing’s for sure though—we have to get these things examined properly. My guess is a deep sea chest from an old Portuguese sailing ship broke open—probably after the ship sank on a voyage from Goa to Portugal. Could have been as far back as the sixteenth century when the Portuguese colonised Goa.”

“Well I never. How come you know so much about that stuff? But I can’t see how anything could get that far in the water.”

Mark pondered on that observation then added, “You’re right. It’d be just about impossible for anything from that location to drift to these waters.”

“Right. Then this bronze thing probably disappeared from a ship bound for Britain­­—maybe it almost got here.” Dan declared enthusiastically.

Mark nodded. “Far more likely, but don’t let’s get carried away. It’ll take some time to get any feedback about the map from cartographers up in London. And you need to get that Ganesh looked at as well. We’ll set the wheels in motion first thing in the morning.”

* * *

Dan waited impatiently for news from London about his find over the next few days. One afternoon he decided to take a break from work and go somewhere to get away from routine. He drove his old Ford Transit van along a twisting lane across cliff tops covered with brightly coloured lichens. He stopped and used binoculars to view some puffins nesting in a crevice of an outcrop.

In Kensdown he pulled up at a parking bay off a narrow cobbled street lined with terraced cottages, each painted a different pastel shade. He walked to number seven, rang the bell and waited.

The door opened and a woman with grey wavy hair, a pleasant face and a flowered pinafore adorning her ample body greeted her unexpected visitor with delight. “Dan! Well! What a lovely surprise—come on in. How kind of you to drop by.”  

Dan kissed her on the cheek. “Good to see you, Rosie. You look as lovely as ever.” He followed her in, closed the door and dropped into an armchair in the small sitting room.

“Still the same old flatterer. I’ll pop the kettle on. You must be ready for a cuppa.” She bustled off to the kitchen.

Dan crossed to the mantelshelf over an open fireplace and gazed at a framed photo of Katie Barnes, Rosie’s thirty-four-year-old daughter. Katie looked elegant in a full-length scarlet evening gown that highlighted her tall, slender body. Blonde wavy hair cascaded over her shoulders, blue eyes looked at Dan and shining red lips, slightly parted by a smile, highlighted dazzling white teeth. Dan sighed deeply, shook his head sorrowfully and swallowed hard.

Rosie appeared with refreshments, glanced at Dan, still at the fireplace, and said, “Now come along, no use dwelling on it. What’s done is done.”

Sitting again, Dan tried to lighten up. “I just miss her so much. Five years together, and never an argument. It all comes down to my lack of cash. Who can blame her for taking off to backpack round the world?”

“Most young people do that these days, but I’m surprised Katie packed in that good career in . . . er—what’s it called?”

“Corporate hospitality.”

“That’s it. Can’t believe it was a year ago.”

“Perhaps I was too old for her after all,” Dan said.

“Never! Age and wealth shouldn’t matter in a relationship. Just because you weren’t married didn’t change the fact you were perfect together. I’m sixty-three, been widowed for a few years, and got used to being alone. But you two—well, I think Katie’s going to regret leaving you.”

Over tea and biscuits, Dan felt concerned for Katie on learning she hadn’t contacted her mother for a few weeks. “That’s most unusual. Maybe she’s just somewhere without internet or something.”

Rosie shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. She used to call on her cell phone in those circumstances. But nothing.”

“Perhaps she’s somewhere in the back of beyond where there isn’t any way of communicating. Do you know where she is?”

Tears welled in Rosie’s eyes. “No idea. Last I heard she was in the Philippines. Silly old me.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m just an old worrier. Anyhow, how are you these days?”

“Oh, you know—up and down. Life’s very drab without Katie around.”

“I bet you miss those special meals she cooked at weekends. She told me she’d never seen you so content. She really did love you, Dan. It’s all so weird.”

Dan lowered his gaze and said softly, “You’ve no idea how much I still love her, Rosie.”

They chatted for more than an hour and then Dan made ready to leave.

In the doorway Rosie said, “I’ll keep in touch and let you know as soon as Katie contacts me.”

“Please do that. I’ll worry until I know she’s okay.”

* * *

A week later, Ganesh and the map arrived back at The Mackerel Inn, and Mark Cunningham set about reading an accompanying report. Phew! Incredible. Almost unbelievable. Dan’s going to really freak out about this, he thought.

He picked up his mobile phone and called Dan who was fishing just offshore. “Hey Dan! Your stuff’s back and I think you should get over here right away—too much to explain on the phone.” He listened then nodded. “Right, see you then.”

There weren’t any customers in the pub when Dan arrived. Mark, standing behind the bar, triumphantly waved statuette and map, shouting excitedly, “Better sit down. Prepare yourself for a shock.”

Dan hitched onto a barstool, wide-eyed. “Go on then, what’s the news?”

“In a nutshell, you might be onto something truly rewarding. The map isn’t as old as it looks. Seems it was made to look like sixteenth century but isn’t more than seventy years old.”

Dan let out a low whistle. “Would you believe it? Why would anyone do that?”

 “It may well have been part of a plot to cover up an operation to smuggle a treasure of gold coins, silver, precious stones, and ornaments. Apparently there’s some coding connected to the location of a hidden fortune in Goa. The theory is your Ganesh left Mormugao port in Goa on a ship bound for Lisbon during the Second World War.”

“Then that puts an end to the idea of it being washed up around here.”

“Not at all. Possibly the piece of bronze was transferred to a ship sailing to Britain but was lost when the vessel sank. If so, I’d guess British based accomplices never had a chance to discover the whereabouts of the prize.”

Dan took a few moments to absorb the story before venturing, “Why wasn’t the map posted by air or surface mail?”

Mark shrugged. “Maybe they thought in wartime there would have been too many agents, spies and government officials keen to intercept mail.”

“About the code. I take it nobody has a clue how to crack it? And it sounds like the bronze statuette isn’t worth much.”

“Correct on both counts unfortunately,” Mark confirmed. “But it’s early days and maybe we need to sniff around for clues to decipher that code. So thinking caps on and let’s take a closer look. For starters, the fact that Portugal and Goa were neutral during the war doesn’t mean the would-be smugglers were Portuguese.”

Dan offered, “They could have been from anywhere, taking an opportunity to shift valuables from one neutral place to another.”

“I’ve a hunch there’s a clue about nationality somewhere in that code. The Portuguese to English translation suggests a slight resemblance to British code formula used during wartime. We need help to dig deeper into that,” Mark said.