The Secret Fate Of Mary Watson Part 13

'I'll catch my own for a shilling,' I say. 'Five pence, two fish.'

He shakes his head. The waist-long queue of hair at his back twitches like a horse's tail swatting a fly.

'Keep them then.'

I begin to turn away and he relents, his voice burdened with a century's sorrow.

'All right, missy. Five pence, two fish.'

I hand over the money. He drops the snapper into my basket. I turn slightly to give the man my full attention. Step back from Ah Ping's stall to put the sun behind him. I want a clear look at his face. It's then I notice the lugger tied up behind Ah Ping and his baskets, not ten feet away. Actually there are two luggers - there's another twenty yards down the pier. I hadn't noticed either, too concerned with my bartering. I look down to the man's stained pants again and make the connection.

'Is one of those Bob's? Has something happened?'

His brown eyes smile as he takes off his battered canvas hat. He looks to be around Bob's age, perhaps younger. It's hard to tell - sea spray has eroded the cliffs of his face. He's certainly a good deal taller than Bob. And so thin his trousers would fall off if not for the extra holes in the belt, raggedly fashioned, by the look, with a bait knife.

'Porter Green,' he says and holds my eyes for a minute. 'I work for Bob and Percy Fuller over on the Lizard.'

He holds out a hand as beaten up as his hat. The pinky and ring fingers are missing. I shake it briefly. The sensation is odd - like palming a c.o.c.ked gun made of skin and muscle.

A coolie pushing a barrow full of melons almost runs into us. 'Look out! Sorry, sorry.'

'You look out,' Mr Green snarls. 'Or I'll stamp your backside with my boot.'

The 'sorries' continue all the way down the dock, the hat bent so low over the barrow it's in danger of overbalancing the body beneath it. In few words, Mr Green informs me that the nearer lugger is Bob's Isabella. And that Bob's had a small accident.

'Is he all right?' I ask.

'A bit knocked about. A few days' rest will set him well. He's not bad enough for the hospital. We took him to John Adam's dispensary.'

'What happened?'

Porter Green's long, thin face shows a faint web of wrinkles when the light hits it a certain way. A kind face, actually. He waits, as though I could answer my own question if only I wanted to. Something's not quite right here. The silence stretches. The sun's out again, and reflections off the water dance up through the beams at our feet.

'It's a long story,' he says finally. 'Petrel couldn't go out because she split her mast. That's Percy Fuller's boat. Bob's partner.' He gestures over his shoulder to the lugger furthest away from us. 'That's why she's in Cooktown, you see? I limped her over from the Lizard. Had to brace the mast with timber and rope. The carpenters from Victoria Stores have been shaping a new mast all morning.'

Porter Green reminds me a little of Riley Robinson: never taking the short cut in conversation if there happens to be a more scenic route.

'I see. About Bob's accident?'

'Percy was on Isabella with Bob when it happened. I'll let Bob tell the story.' He lifts his hat. 'Must get aboard and hurry the work along. I want to leave this afternoon. I'll take Petrel back to the Lizard when the new mast's up. Percy has errands in town. He and Bob can come home on Isabella when they're ready.'

I look down the dock to Petrel. It's not a particularly impressive sight. The mast is out, and it looks unbalanced compared to Isabella, right in front of me. Two Chinamen, in the usual outfit of pale blue drawstring trousers and b.u.t.toned tops, lean with their backs to me on the port rail. They're waiting for something. The one on the left holds a bandaged foot out in front of him, and a walking stick. He puts one hand on the rail and leans heavily on it.

My eyes widen. I've seen that hand before. It's unmistakable, even at a distance. Ugly as a chicken's foot, with two long curved nails curled around the railing and three others broken off. It's the hand I saw on the wanted poster. The hand of the runaway Chinaman. The one Percy said he hadn't found.

My head buzzes with heat and confusion. What does it mean?

'Mr Green, just before you go. Those two Chinamen ... on Petrel...?'

He turns, and squints. A sudden hot gust of wind pushes my skirt against my legs.

'New coolies to work on the Lizard. I'm taking them back with me. Bob signed off the old ones a while back, but we can't manage on our own. There's the farm needs tending for our fresh vegetables, and someone to cook and clean up at the house.' He shakes his head. 'I have to wonder where Percy's head is, to come up with a crippled John Pigtail. I suppose it's not up to the hired help to ask questions.'

I close my eyes briefly and try to think it through. Then open them again on what might be an important point.

'Who chose the other Chinaman?'

'Bob, for better or worse.' He rubs his chin. 'He's a bit long in the tooth, but he seems wiry enough.'

I glance back to the second coolie. There seems nothing remarkable about him. I wonder if I'm not giving in to paranoia, speculating that he too might be somehow sanctioned by Percy, and, by extension, Samuel Roberts.

'Are you on a contract too then, Mr Green?'

He nods. 'I'll be signed off eventually, just like the black boys, the Kanakas and the Chows.'

'I'm sure Bob and Mr Fuller regard you as a member of the team,' I say. And then, because I want to know if he knows what the fugitive Chinaman's done. 'You don't get to Cooktown much, I guess?'

He shakes his head. 'Hardly ever. There could be a war on and I'd have to wait till someone came back to the Lizard to tell me about it.'

So he's unlikely to have heard about the murdered shopkeeper, to have seen the wanted poster.

'Mr Fuller's Chinaman,' I say casually, 'what happened to his foot?'

'Lost some toes a few days ago. I don't know the details. He can hobble, I suppose. But with Chows a dime a dozen ...'

'Yes, indeed.'

I chew the inside of my cheek. If the Chinaman mends quickly ... Percy's made his preference plain about who should handle the signals from Lizard Island. A headache rumbles behind my eyes.

Porter Green is clearly oblivious to the real business to be done on the island. Interrogating him won't get me anywhere.

'Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr Green,' I say. 'I must get on and see Bob.'

'Please call me Porter, Miss Oxnam. And I don't think it's the last time we'll meet.'

'Perhaps not,' I say, with a smile. 'Time will tell. And it's Mary.'

'Mary, then.'

His smile is surprisingly soft: a creature breaking out of a coc.o.o.n, the wings of innocence still wet. Oh, for some of that innocence right now! A simple world of sea and slugs and sun, instead of all this complication.

Petrel seems to bob more vigorously in the water as he approaches, as though recognising him and wagging its tail. He leaps the yard-wide gap onto the deck. Brown arms. Straight back, as though a rod is attached to his spine. The two Chinamen stand a little straighter when he's aboard. Their wait in the marinating sun is over. Green mutters instructions and they turn to. Ugly Hands moves with alacrity despite his injured foot and walking stick. He's using the cover of his large hat well: it's pulled low over his eyes so that no one on the dock can get a decent look at his face. Doubtless he knows it's in his best interests to get out of Cooktown as soon as possible.

I put the fish into the icebox at the boarding house, wash my hands, then make my way to John Adam's pharmacy. I need time to think, but, as usual, don't have it.

The hollow tink of a rusty, crumpled bell above the door announces my entrance. John Adam stands erect behind the counter, a picture of eloquence in white: beard, pith helmet and suit. He looks ready to be presented to the Viceroy of Delhi, and I tell him so.

He responds with a salute of Empiric proportions and tells me he's off for a rehearsal of the Harbourmaster's Parade next Sunday. I'd seen the crowd gathering at the end of Charlotte Street, including the chubby little mayor, melting in his robes. This is the other side of Cooktown, held apart from debauchery and squalor; province of the three-decker businessmen from the Hill, so-called because they're allowed three votes apiece in local elections.

'How's the patient?' I ask.

'Irritable,' Adam says. 'He wants to get out of bed. Truth is, he probably can - this afternoon. I've organised a room for him at the Sea Wah Hotel. He should rest up for a day or two. He'll need Allc.o.c.k Plasters for back pain. A blood cleanser for his sc.r.a.pes. Probably some quinine wine, as he seems a little low in spirits. Oh, and some clean bandages and a walking stick for that leg. I've got the essentials together.' He produces a bulging crate from under the counter. 'Unfortunately, Bob didn't have any money on him when he came in.' He grins like the slot in a piggy bank.

I sigh and open my purse. After the money's safely stored in the till, Adam becomes more expansive.

'Though normally I'm immune to idle talk, something compelling has reached my ears, Miss Oxnam.'

I watch a leech slide damply up the gla.s.s inside the big jar on the counter. A dozen others on the bottom knot and unknot, oozing over each other in a nauseating pile.

'This idle talk, is it compelling in substance? Or in the desire to pa.s.s it on, Mr Adam?'

He brushes his forehead and eyes with his hand. 'This something concerns you, Miss Oxnam.'

'Really? I would have thought myself far too ordinary to attract gossip.'

'Well, I'll rephrase. Not you in particular. Rather, any white woman who marries Bob Watson.'

'I see. Well, then. You'd better inform me.'

He licks his lips. 'As you must know by now, the wild blacks go over to the Lizard regularly in their canoes. But why, Miss Oxnam? Perhaps ... because Bob was involved with one of their own kind a year ago.'

'I'm tired of this story and variants thereof. Unless you have something of vital interest to add to it. What's done is done.'

'Maybe it is done, if you believe Watson's side of the affair.' He looks around as though Bob might have lurched from his sickbed to listen at the door, then beckons me with a chapped finger.

I move a little nearer. Up close, his teeth are yellow. There's no mistaking the smell of opium-laced cough mixture on his breath.

'Talk is, Watson disposed of her.' He puts a hand to his neck, performs a mock strangling. 'And, if you marry him, you'll be the one to pay the price. Those blacks are her tribe. They want revenge. What better revenge than to kill a European woman?'

A fly crawls slowly across the counter. Adam picks up a swatter and flattens it. We both stare at the mess.

I pull back so I don't have to breathe in his acrid-cherry exhalations. I'm nonplussed. The whole breathless revelation has the whiff of a play being badly acted out. I am, however, interested in who put him up to it.

'I'm surprised I haven't heard this before, Mr Adam. It makes me think that someone is trying to deliver the information to me directly. But who, I wonder? And why have they, and you, seen fit at this particular moment to show an interest in my long-term health?'

The mouth thins. The brow lowers, chastisingly. 'You shouldn't be so dispirited about human nature, Miss Oxnam. There are some who, through simple Christian charity, would want to do everything in their power to avoid a tragedy.'

'I'm sure you're right.' My purse is still in my hand, and I touch the clasp lightly. His eyes follow my fingers. 'Nevertheless, I would be greatly indebted to know who gave you this timely warning. I should like to thank them personally for their care.'

I open the clasp and extract my last pound note. Well, technically, Charley's pound note. But I'm sure he wouldn't mind donating it to Bob's rehabilitation fund.

I look to the shelf behind Adam, then hold out my hands, palms up. 'I have a nervous itch. Perhaps some cream?'

He clucks his tongue. 'Oh, my word, yes. And you must wear gloves to bed at night to prevent doing further damage to yourself.' He turns and pulls a tube of ointment from the shelf. 'That will be nine shillings.'

I place the pound on the counter. He reaches to take it. I lightly place my finger over one corner.

'Are you sure you can't remember, Mr Adam, who gave you the information regarding my dangerous situation?'

He licks his lips. Bears down on the counter with both hands. Finally the name squirms out, triumphant, from under a rock of amnesia.

'I believe it might have been Percy Fuller. Watson's partner. I hear so much, you see. And I'm not good with names and faces.' He raps the side of his helmet with his knuckles, as though checking the level of brain fluid therein.

I smile and lift my hand. 'The life of a shopkeeper is hectic, isn't it?'

'Pharmacist, Miss Oxnam.' The smile's still locked in place. He takes the note delicately.

'Of course. Pharmacist. Keep the change, won't you? Now, I must go and see Bob.'

17.

Killer whales always go for the tongue.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson I hear the medicinal b.a.l.l.s first. Bob's hidden behind boxes of bandages and a crate of Madame Kurtz's Reliable Female Pills, lying low on a cot. His leg lies in a wooden splint held up by a canvas loop tied to a ceiling beam. The good side of his face is grazed plum-red from temple to cheekbone. The scowl suggests his mood's similarly raw. I doubt the quinine wine will help much. The air's dusty with discontent and the smell of cooped-up male.

'I see you've been in a skirmish. Is there a window somewhere I can open?'

Gazing around, I find only a small square hole, just large enough to let the flies and mosquitos in. It looks out onto a tiny patch of simmering yard.

'Did Porter tell ye? It happened on Isabella.'

I set my crate of medicines down.

'What's all that?' He attempts to sit up straighter and look.

'Supplies for your recuperation.'

The scowl deepens. 'Enough to run a bedlam house. How much did he charge ye?'

I tell him - minus the pound that greased the skids of Adam's tongue.

'I would punch the thieving b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'll fix ye up for it.'

'Porter said you'd tell me about the accident.'

His cheekbone tightens under the scar. The ugly graze on the good side almost balances out his face. The medicinal b.a.l.l.s argue in his pocket.

'Ye ever see killer whales attack a humpback?' His eyes pull away from me, falling overboard into his own mind. 'It's the worst thing. Birds shrieking. The ocean churns then boils blood-red. Killers work as a pack: worry at the humpback. It dives. But they chase it down. And when it rises back up to breathe, no matter what way it turns, they're at it again.'

'Why are you telling me this story? Did you get attacked by a killer whale?'

I'm not sure if it's his compulsive tone or the stuffy room, but I feel a sudden wave of dizziness. There's an empty crate in the corner. I drag it to his bedside and sit. Now, we're almost at eye level.