Preface

The Pacific Islands Pilot, Vol. II, published by the Hydrographer of the Navy, has this to say about the island of Fonua Fo'ou, almost at the end of a long and detailed history:

In 1963, HMNZFA Tui reported a hard grey rock, with a depth of 6 feet over it, on which the sea breaks, and general depths of 36 feet extending for 2 miles northwards and 1 1/2 miles westward of the rock, in the position of the bank. The eastern side is steep-to. In the vicinity of the rock, there was much discoloured water caused by sulphurous gas bubbles rising to the surface. On the bank, the bottom was clearly visible, and consisted of fine black cellar lava, like volcanic cinder, with patches of white sand and rock. Numerous sperm whales were seen in the vicinity.

But that edition was not published until 1969. This story began in 1962.* Desmond Bagley** Night of Error** Chapter One** 1*

I heard of the way my brother died on a wet and gloomy afternoon in London. The sky was overcast and weeping and it became dark early that day, much earlier than usual. I couldn't see the figures I was checking, so I turned on the desk light and got up to close the curtains.

I stood for a moment watching the rain leak from the plane trees on the Embankment, then looked over the mist-shrouded Thames. I shivered slightly, wishing I could get out of this grey city and back to sea under tropic skies. I drew the curtain decisively, closing out the gloom.

The telephone rang.

It was Helen, my brother's widow, and she sounded hysterical. 'Mike, there's a man here – Mr Kane – who was with Mark when he died. I think you'd better see him.' Her voice broke. 'I can't take it, Mike.'

'All right, Helen; shoot him over. I'll be here until five-thirty – can he make it before then?'

There was a pause and an indistinct murmur, then Helen said, 'Yes, he'll be at the Institute before then. Thanks, Mike. Oh, and there's a slip from British Airways – something has come from Tahiti; I think it must be Mark's things. I posted it to you this morning – will you look after it for me? I don't think I could bear to.'

'I'll do that,' I said. 'I'll look after everything.'

She rang off and I put down the receiver slowly and leaned back in my chair. Helen seemed distraught about Mark and I wondered what this man Kane had told her. All I knew was that Mark had died somewhere in the Islands near Tahiti; the British Consul there had wrapped it all up and the Foreign Office had got in touch with Helen as next of kin. She never said so but it must have been a relief – her marriage had caused her nothing but misery.

She should never have married him in the first place. I had tried to warn her, but it's a bit difficult telling one's prospective sister-in-law about the iniquities of one's own brother, and I'd never got it across. Still, she must have loved him despite everything, judging by the way she was behaving; but then, Mark had a way with his women.

One thing was certain – Mark's death wouldn't affect me a scrap. I had long ago taken his measure and had steered clear of him and all his doings, all the devious and calculating cold-blooded plans which had only one end in view – the glorification of Mark Trevelyan.

I put him out of my mind, adjusted the desk lamp and got down to my figures again. People think of scientists – especially oceanographers – as being constantly in the field making esoteric discoveries. They never think of the office work entailed – and if I didn't get clear of this routine work I'd never get back to sea. I thought that if I really buckled down to it another day would see it through, and then I would have a month's leave, if I could consider writing a paper for the journals as constituting leave. But even that would not take up the whole month.

At a quarter to six I packed it in for the day and Kane had still not shown up. I was just putting on my overcoat when there was a knock on the door and when I opened it a man said, 'Mr Trevelyan?'

Kane was a tall, haggard man of about forty, dressed in rough seaman's clothing and wearing a battered peaked cap. He seemed subdued and a little in awe of his surroundings. As we shook hands I could feel the callouses and thought that perhaps he was a sailing man – steam seamen don't have much occasion to do that kind of hand work.

I said, 'I'm sorry to have dragged you across London on a day like this, Mr Kane.'

That's all right,' he said in a raw Australian accent. 'I was coming up this way.'

I sized him up. 'I was just going out. What about a drink?'

He smiled. That 'ud be fine. I like your English beer.'

We went to a nearby pub and I took him into the public bar and ordered a couple of beers. He sank half a pint and gasped luxuriously. 'This is good beer,' he said. 'Not as good as Swan, but good all the same. You know Swan beer?'

'I've heard of it,' I said. 'I've never had any. Australian, isn't it?'

'Yair; the best beer in the world.'

To an Australian all things Australian are the best. 'Would I be correct if I said you'd done your time in sail?' I said.

He laughed. 'Too right you would. How do you know?'

'I've sailed myself; I suppose it shows somehow.'

'Then I won't have to explain too much detail when I tell you about your brother. I suppose you want to know the whole story? I didn't tell Mrs Trevelyan all of it, you know -some of it's pretty grim.'

'I'd better know everything.'

Kane finished his beer and cocked an eye at me. 'Another?'

'Not for me just yet. You go ahead.'

He ordered another beer and said, 'Well, we were sailing in the Society Islands – my partner and me – we've got a schooner and we do a bit of trading and pick up copra and maybe a few pearls. We were in the Tuamotus – the locals call them the Paumotus, but they're the Tuamotus on the charts. They're east of…'

'I know where they are,' I interrupted.

'Okay. Well, we thought there was a chance of picking up a few pearls so we were just cruising round calling on the inhabited islands. Most of 'em aren't and most of 'em don't have names – not names that we can pronounce. Anyway we were passing this one when a canoe came out and hailed us. There was a boy in this canoe – a Polynesian, you know – and Jim talked to him. Jim Hadley's my partner; he speaks the lingo – I don't savvy it too good myself.

'What he said was that there was a white man on the island who was very sick, and so we went ashore to have a look at him.'

'That was my brother?'

'Too right, and he was sick; my word yes.'

'What was wrong with him?'

Kane shrugged. 'We didn't know at first but it turned out to be appendicitis. That's what we found out after we got a doctor to him.'

'Then there was a doctor?'

'If you could call him a doctor. He was a drunken old no-hoper who'd been living in the Islands for years. But he said he was a doctor. He wasn't there though; Jim had to go fifty miles to get him while I stayed with your brother.'

Kane took another pull at his beer. 'Your brother was alone on this island except for the black boy. There wasn't no boat, either. He said he was some sort of scientist – something to do with the sea.'

'An oceanographer.' Yes, like me an oceanographer. Mark had always felt compelled, driven, to try and beat me whatever the game. And his rules were always his own.