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EXTRACTS FROM HAUNTED HERITAGE AND OTHER STORIES
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Nature Guide
By Albert Williams
“Your country is so beautiful, so unique,” Mandy said
to her guide. She sniffed in the cool air of the
undergrowth, then shivered slightly as a trickle of a gust
blew against her sweaty skin.
Mandy steadied herself; the rocks beneath were
slippery and jagged.
“That’s what all you visitors say,” responded the
young man. He was of dark complexion and slightlybuilt,
and he wore a smile like a wristwatch. “Hey!” he
stretched his arms towards Mandy, “let me help you
with your bag.”
“How sweet,” she swung the backpack at him,
grabbing at a cluster of nearby saplings for support.
“This is exhilarating.” She rubbed her hands over the
surface of a full-grown Gommier tree, its branches
spread out like mighty arms. “How long will it take to
reach the lake?”
“By midday,” the guide answered nonchalantly
flashing another of his wide grins. “How come,” he
continued, “a pretty lady like you would go through all
this trouble just to see a lake in the middle of Dominica.”
He stood still for a moment.
“because Dominica is a World heritage site?” she
replied raising her eyebrows.
“Really, I didn’t know that.”
“You know it’s almost a crime to be invading the
privacy of the wild-life like this.” She sighed deeply.
“We’ve been on the trail now for almost an hour…”
“Don’t you panic,” butted in the guide, “where I’m
bringing you, you’re sure to say this is the Garden of
Eden.” He motioned Mandy along the footpath as she
contemplated on what lay ahead. The undergrowth
eventually gave way to a leafy-green Savannah about
half the size of a football field.
“I’m really tired,” the tourist declared, “this is the first
time I’ve been on such a long hike, I think I’ll have a rest
right here.” She dropped down on the vegetation.
“You look so beautiful sitting there,” Ralph said
admiring her, “let me take your photograph.”
“Since it’s my own camera,” she replied “I think that
would be quite an honour.” She leaned back into her
pose. In the distance a clump of young bamboos spread
out like the plumes of a peacock’s tail.
“Can you just hold.” The guide clicked the camera
then let it dangle about his chest. Then he placed a finger
to his lips. “Shh,” he whispered, “I can hear parrots!”
They looked up
“You must get a shot of this. While you’re resting I’ll
take a few shots for you.” He started in the direction of
the birds.
“Remember, don’t point the camera to the sun.”
Mandy called out to him, but Ralph didn’t respond.
Either he was too preoccupied with his mission to
capture thee winged ones on film, or the rustle of the
trees on that breezy mountain top had drowned her
American lilt sweeping it back down the mountain side
from which she had come.
Ten-twenty, then 40 minutes passed. A deep sense of
dread now befell Mandy. Deciding that her guide had
gone long enough, she set off in the direction she had
seen him disappear beneath the edge of the Savannah,
returning again to the thick undergrowth. Sunbeams
shining eerily between the thick boughs of the Gommier
and White Cedars, played tricks on her. “Ralph is that
you?” but only the soft rustle of the tropical rain forest
answered her.
Mandy plodded on for over an hour, then she heard
the sounds of drums being played. A few metres ahead,
she came upon two men who were sitting in the shade of
a small bamboo house. “Hello,” she said “would you by
change have seen a young man pass this way? His name
is Ralph.”
“Ralph, are you alright?” Mandy peered down the
hole. The Inspector’s jaw dropped as he gaped at the man
below.
“Well, well, well, guess who’s this, the famous Kojoe.
McIntyre get on the radio, we found our last escapee. Tell
them to send a helicopter,” snarled Inspector Cockrane.
“O.K. Kojoe, it seems,” he told the man in the hole, “that
you didn’t dig the pit, but you fell in it!”
Mandy at hearing the Inspector’s sarcasm asked, “Did
you say that this man is Kojoe?”
“Yes Miss Parketta, Ralph Mason alias Kojoe is one of
three escaped convicts who broke their cells two days
ago. The prisoner must have been unaware of one of the
pits the local hunters dug to catch the wild boar.”
“The wild boar!”
“But don’t you worry Miss Parketta, we’ll soon have
this little piggy in custody where he belongs,” the
Inspector assured her. “I simply love a good chase.” He
smiled at Mandy. “Now you two,” he frowned at the two
dreads. “Get out of here before I change my mind and
have you arrested for cultivation and possession of
marijuana.” The dreads made themselves scarce.
“McIntyre, radio to base to make it quick, it seems as if
the prisoner may have broken his right leg, and they’ll
have to take this young lady along for the ride, a little sky
view of the Freshwater Lake wouldn’t hurt her and the
view from above is really nice.” He smiled gently at
Mandy. She only shook her head and blushed.
THE END
Recipe for Murder
By Albert Williams
When I arrived on the crime scene, Suite 109 on the
third floor of the Bense Hotel, the Managing Director,
Mrs Hopper, was speaking with the elderly maid that
had discovered the body of the 24 year old American
journalist. “Who was she?” I asked, pointing to the dead
woman.
“Rosemond Holmes, a journalist from the states,”
replied Mrs Hopper.
“How long had she been at this hotel?”
“She checked in two nights ago.”
“Did you or anyone of your staff observe anything
strange or unusual. Visitors perhaps?” I asked, drawing
out my notebook.
“Miss Holmes had many visitors.” She replied, I
presumed they were all connected in one way or the
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other with her work.” She paused, “She did seem,
though, to be sort of unusually friendly.”
She appeared to gloat at the body of the slain woman,
“And as you know there’s this opening of the art
exhibition of this famous African artist, Joseph Olanbago
from Ghana. He is…to…er unveil his latest masterpiece
commissioned by the United Nations”
She spread her hands as if she was holding up a
painting. I then asked her, “Do you have any person in
mind who could have done this?” “No! Absolutely none!”
I looked Mrs Hopper over from head to toe before
sweeping my eyes across the room. The drapes were
drawn, the room was as orderly as one could expect,
showing no signs of violence. The maid was smoothing
her apron with her hands as I spoke. “The men from the
Homicide Unit will be here shortly.”
“I want this room kept closed until they arrive. We
don’t want anyone tampering with the evidence. I expect
that you and your staff will co-operate fully with us over
the course of the investigation, Mrs Hopper?”
“I’m quite sure that helping the police would not be
much of a problem, Inspector Rusell” she replied.
I shot a glance at the dead woman on the wide bed. She
was a coloured girl. Apparently she had been strangled
with a scarf. It was about 9:30pm when I left the hotel
with only one unanswered question left dangling in my
mind.
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The following afternoon the lobby of the Bense Hotel
was the venue for Joseph Olanbango’s art exhibition.
Dominica’s artistic elite was present. The crews of a
number of media houses were also set up all over. A host
of security personnel were visible, eyed the guests with
interest. Diana Whit-Cliff, daughter of an eminent art
critic was among the invitees. She was in the company of
a male adult. “I’m glad that you decided to come,” he
said to her.
“I don’t really have an interest in art. I only come to
please you” she said.
“I’m a hard man to please.” He replied.
“You’re very strange. I don’t know why I like you!”
She replied “but I am enjoying this much more than I
expected. You know, I used to think that art exhibitions
were boring, that only stuffed up people, like my father,
were into!”
Meanwhile, I had caught up with her famous father,
who was admiring one of the exhibits. When she noticed
him speaking with me, she and Jarrette, her companion
came across, “Hi Dad! Impressive, eh?”
“Certainly, my dear. You seem to be really enjoying
yourself. I haven’t seen you appreciate a piece of art
before. Congratulations!” he turned toward me, winking.
“Have you seen the ‘weeping woman’?” his daughter
asked.
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“Not yet,. By the way, I’d like you to meet a friend, Mr
Russell.” How are you?” I asked politely. “This
exhibition surpasses my expectations,” she said. “My
friend here, Jarrette, encouraged me to come.” She
sprawled her palm over his chest while he simply stood
there grinning.
I asked him, “Are you an artist of some sort?” “Not
really,” he said. “but I really admire fine art.”.
“That’s interesting, very interesting.” Moments later,
we were shuffling along the gallery, literally being
pushed forward by the swarm of spectators that had all
come out to witness Joseph Glanbango’s masterpiece—
an African woman thrusting a spear though the belly of a
young ion. “This is cruel,” remarked Diana. “Senseless”
offered Jarrette.
“As senseless as the murder of Rosemond Holmes a
night ago in this very hotel,” I said gasping at him as he
opened his eyes. “Did you know that she was a
celebrated journalist?”
“She was a photo-journalist, here to represent ‘Ebony
Highlights,” Diana replied. “I heard about her on the
news this morning.” I let her words carry in the air. At a
predetermined sign, four men, two in police uniforms
approached Jarrette.
“Excuse me, sir,” said one of the men, “could you
accompany us to Police Headquarters?”. “What have I
done?” protested Jarrette. “We have reason to believe
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that you may be able to assist us in the investigations of
the murder of Rosemond Holmes.” The spokesperson
said as the two uniformed police officers laid hold on
him, grabbing him at the elbows.
“Now don’t do anything stupid,” I cautioned. “You’ll
only make the matter worse.” I produced a leather-cased
identification card, showing it to the suspect as the men
hurriedly lead him through he unsuspecting guests who
were now engrossed with the main attraction—the
unveiling of the famous artist’s masterpiece. Minutes
later, a waiting unmarked police vehicle outside in the
quadrangle carried him away.
I was about to leave the station after completing the
process of Jarrette Simon, when an angry Diana Whitcliff
stormed in accompanied by her father. I told them,
“Jarrette has been arrested and charged with the murder
of Rosemund Holmes of the United States. He is to
appear before the magistrate tomorrow, for a preliminary
inquiry. Most likely, bail will be denied.”
“But that’s outrageous! I can’t believe I,” sobbed
Diana “there must be some mistake .” She clutched her
father, crying openly. “Of course, a man is innocent until
proven guilty,” I told her. “My job is to supply the
evidence.” Can we visit him?” asked Mr Whitcliff.
“I’m afraid not until the PI has been heard. No there is
nothing more I can tell you.” I walked away leaving them
lost in their thoughts. I did not turn back as I jumped into
my jeep. As far as I was concerned, the man-hunt was
over.
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At the PI, the prosecution established beyond doubt
that the evidence leading to the arrest of one Jarrette
Simon was sound, corroborated by the findings of the
forensic experts who determined that finger prints on the
victim’s telephone receiver were identical to the
suspect’s, who’d been identified as an intruder caught on
several of the hotel’s security cameras impersonating a
room-attendant.
The presiding magistrate, Peter O’Neil ruled that the
reviewed tapes were admissible.
He listened thoughtfully to the Medical Examiner’s
statement of Maggie, the elderly maid who had
discovered the body that fateful evening. The accused up
to this point had refused to be coerced into signing a
prepared statement and was adamant that he was
innocent. He insisted the whole affair was nothing but a
farce and a frame up. But his protests were not enough to
persuade his worship to grant him bail, in spite of the
number of sureties present nor was he able to dissuade
the magistrate from having him remanded to the State
Prison for a full week before his case would be brought
before Judge Eagle back at the Dominica High Court of
Justice.
Seven days later, I met Diana on the steps of the court.
She was alone, dressed ina simple grey skirt and white
blouse, clutching a little brown lady’s bag.
“This is very unpleasant business for you,” I said, for
want of conversation.
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“I still don’t understand,” she replied. “I can assure
you we have the right man, confession or not. When we
were convinced that your friend was the perpetrator we
set up a 24 hour watch.”
“But how did you arrive at that?” she asked. “From
the hotel’s surveillance cameras.” We were now inside
the courtroom, where a large gathering waited
anxiously. “We then followed him night and day. When
he led us to the exhibition, our concern for your safety
grew.” I told her, my eyes glued to hers. “It’s common,
you know, for criminals to return to the scene of the
crime. God knows what he may have had in his mind.”
We sat on one of the mahogany benches to the rear of the
room, as I did not want to be preparing this witness who
was scheduled to take stand. “Did you even suspect from
his behaviour that he may have been involved in
something already?”
“Not really,” she said “but he was very tense lately, so
I thought he wanted to view the exhibition in relax.” She
turned her eyes up to the ceiling. “I just don’t get it…it’s
too peculiar. A man murders a woman and he’s walking
casually in the streets of Roseau, as if nothing amiss has
happened,” I said to her, “Well, we’ll just have to wait to
hear what he has to say,” she replied. “I know he’s
innocent, you’re going to have to pay for this.” She stood
up, then moved away without another word before
loosing herself in the throng of curious on-lookers
waiting for the trial to begin.
“Why…I didn’t know what to do at first.” Mrs Hopper
was the last witness to take the stand on behalf of the
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prosecution. Replying to a question posed to her by the
defendant’s government appointed lawyer she appeared
to be somewhat nervous. A rather plump woman, her
many years in the Caribbean had given her face a golden
tan that now was turning a pale orange as the lawyer
brought to bear on her his years of experience.
“When did you call the police?” he asked. “After I was
sure that she was dead, I called the police.”
“Approximately what time do you figure this crime
took place?” “I would say about 7:30.”
“In the morning?” “No, in the evening,.” She said, her
face now fully flushed. Producing a white handkerchief
from the top pocket of the blue executive suit that she
wore, she wiped her face and forehead, relieving herself
of the beads of perspiration that had begun to form.
“What time did you call the police?” the lawyer asked,
his eyes focused on the witness. “About 9:13pm,” she
replied. I swung my head around the courtroom. The
gallery was filled with many young persons. Also
representatives of Ebony Highlight were seated, not too
far from me. Obviously, they were here to receive justice
on behalf of their murdered colleague. The defendant,
Jarrette Simon, stood in the prisoner’s dock, hand
handcuffed behind his back, h is chin resting on his chest.
“Had you known Miss Holmes prior to this?” “I first
heard of her last August at a Hotelier’s Conference in
Barbados. She created quite a stir.”
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“Why was that?” “She claimed in one of her articles,
that certain hotels in Dominica discriminated against
blacks,” A muffled gasp arose from the gallery. “Do you
know the defendant?”. The lawyer asked her, pointing to
Jarrette. Mrs Hopper paused for a moment, then to my
surprise, I saw her slump, then collapse unto the wooden
rail that ran along the witness box.
“Ma’am are you all right?” the lawyer asked. The next
minute Mrs Hopper was actually crumpled in the box,
looking quite ill.
Judge Eaglebeck intervened. “Mr Thomas, do you
intend to further question this witness?” “No further
questions Mi Lord,” The lawyer said, before approaching
the prisoner’s dock, where he spoke to his client, who
glared at the spectacle of Mrs Hopper being led away by
two female police officers. It was almost midday;
incredibly hot and humid. The judge cleared his throat
before he addressed the jury, seven men and three
women. “Members of the jury, you have listened to the
evidence as presented in this case, the State versus
Jarrette Simon.” He nodded at Jarrette who stared right
back at him “One thing is clear that as long as I continue
to occupy this seat horrendous crimes of this nature will
bring upon the perpetrate of such the fullest extent of the
law. Justice will be served.”
Judge Eaglebeck now had his eyes fixed on the tenman
jury who, I imagine, were very uncomfortable
under his gaze. He continued “The defendant will be
remanded in custody. Members of the jury you will now
retire for one hour to consider your verdict.” And with
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that he slammed his gravel, stood up and then regally
strode off to his adjoining chambers.
In all my twenty-nine years as a police officer, working
my way from a constable to my present position, I have
never been more anxious to hear a jury’s decision. The
curious onlookers mumbled continually until the clerk
called the room to order.
“have the members of the jury decided upon a
verdict?” the judged asked. “Yes Mi Lord, we have found
Jarrette Simon, guilty as charged.” The Foreman said. A
gasp emanated across the courtroom. Members of the
jury sat motionless in their seats; however, the two
women who were colleagues of the victim, hugged each
other weeping. Above the muffled sounds of the mixed
reactions, a woman’s shrieking voice surfaced.
“No-no-no, please” she said, “It was my idea…I
pushed him to it.”
“Order in court! Order in court!” The judge slammed
his gavel so hard, I thought that it had broken.
“Constable, restrain this woman.” The room was now
quiet, as everyone sought to make sense of the confession
that was coming from a most unlikely person, Mrs Hopper.
“Another outburst from you my lady, and I will
charge you with contempt of court.” The judge said. A
few moments passed before he spoke again, this time to
the accused. “Jarrette Simon of 21 Grassteaf St, Roseau,
you have been found guilty of first degree murder, do
you wish to say anything before I pass sentence?”
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