The Secret Fate of Mary Watson Read online

  ‘Even with a family to look after?’

  ‘My father never lets a small thing like responsibility slow him down.’

  ‘Where are you from originally?’

  ‘Cornwall. My family came over from Truro two years ago on the City of Agra. And you?’

  ‘London,’ he says, but somehow I doubt it. There’s something slightly askew about his accent. ‘These days I operate a sea-slug-fishing station on Lizard Island with my partner, Bob Watson.’

  ‘Sea-slug fishing!’

  ‘Let me guess. You’ve always imagined it’s a dirty business that no self-respecting gentleman would lower himself to.’ He seems more amused than offended.

  ‘Something like that, I suppose.’

  He looks briefly over my shoulder, then brings his gaze back to mine. ‘Look, rather than standing here making the place look messy, will you come downstairs with me for a drink? We’ll find a quiet corner table. You’re an interesting person, Mary, scambuster extraordinaire. And there is the small matter of the favour I owe you.’

  The pulse at my throat won’t let me say no. I look around. The room has largely emptied.

  By the time we reach the bar, Wilson has gone. Blackbeard’s in the corner talking to a middle-aged man who was not in the group upstairs. Dandy has taken a seat at a table under a window across the room, as though to get as far away from Blackbeard as possible. He, too, has company: a man dressed in grubby trousers and a worn shirt. One of the two ladies from upstairs is engaged in conversation with Sideburns, who apparently had enough money left to buy another big glass of whisky. Cobweb has disappeared.

  ‘Taking your inventory?’ Percy mutters near my ear.

  I smile slightly. ‘It’s habit. The world can’t pull the wool quite so easily over my eyes if I’m watching what everyone is knitting.’

  He guides me to an empty table next to a shaft of fermenting light near a window. Dust motes have lazy fits inside it. I look at the clock on the wall: four thirty. His hand is light under my elbow. I quite like the sensation.

  ‘Interesting that you think the world has a special balaclava with no eyeholes just for you,’ he says, laughing and indicates a stool. ‘What will you drink? They tell me a shot of absinthe can lead to high levels of enlightenment.’

  ‘I think I’ll stick to my lowland deductions rather than risk madness,’ I say. ‘Ginger ale, thank you.’

  Percy heads off to the bar for our drinks. I sit on the stool and look around. Blackbeard catches my eye and nods.

  I’m not sure what mischief is in me, but I stand and walk over to his table. The man he’s speaking with sees my approach and sits back abruptly, as though someone has hit him. Blackbeard’s hooded expression doesn’t change.

  ‘Mary Oxnam.’ I offer my hand. ‘I just thought I’d introduce myself.’

  Blackbeard looks down at the offending object on the end of my arm and, for a moment, I think he won’t take it. But finally he lifts a long, black sleeve and touches my fingers with his own.

  ‘Samuel Roberts,’ he says. His voice is low and deep, as self-contained as the rest of him. Like something long settled on the seabed, undisturbed by currents or surface ripples. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  I’m determined not to lower my eyes in submission, but the effort is considerable. He apparently never blinks.

  ‘Interesting poker game, wasn’t it?’ I comment.

  He doesn’t answer. His face is a mask. After a few long seconds, there’s nothing to do but turn and walk away. I take two steps, and his deep voice taps me on the shoulder.

  ‘You’ve a sharp eye.’

  I turn slowly. ‘So have you.’

  The man with him flinches — on my behalf, no doubt. Apparently I deserve compassion for my ignorance of beast-in-lair protocols.

  Samuel Roberts makes an odd sound. Of amusement, I assume, but it’s hard to tell. Acoustics on the seabed are somewhat distorted. It could be just a shifting of sand in his throat.

  I walk away for good this time, satisfied with the exchange. He knows there is at least one person in the room who is not frightened of him.

  Percy stands stock-still near our little table, two drinks in hand. I ignore the thunder brewing on his forehead and sit.

  He puts the drinks down, reaches into his shirt pocket for his pipe and a plug of tobacco. He tamps the leaf into the bowl, inspects it, puts the stem to his mouth, then lifts his eyes again.

  ‘How do you know the Captain?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know him. But the way everyone was reacting to him upstairs, he’s obviously someone important. I wanted to meet him. That’s all.’

  There’s a small flare, then a wet, popping sound as he draws in. A smell of plums on the turn and splinters reaches my nose. He shakes the match out and drops it on the table. He’s looking at his drink, not me.

  ‘I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,’ I say. ‘Who is he?’

  Percy takes the pipe out of his mouth and inspects it. ‘I thought you said you introduced yourself. Didn’t he respond in kind?’

  ‘I know his name. But who is he? What’s the nature of the kingdom he lords it over?’

  Smoke escapes in a small worm from the corner of his mouth. He takes a swallow of beer.

  My foot is tapping the floor and it takes an act of will to stop it. Suddenly, I’m excited again. And wary. Without meaning to, I’ve managed to start a conversation with people who have real money. One of them owes me a favour. Time to be careful. And clever.

  ‘Samuel Roberts is a steamer captain. Out of Townsville.’

  ‘Oh? What cargo does he carry?’

  ‘Back in the heyday of the gold rush, prospectors and their packhorses to Cooktown. Nowadays, as the gold’s almost done on the Palmer and diggers are trying their luck at the new seam in New Guinea: food, medicine and mail to Port Moresby.’

  ‘That can’t be all,’ I say, incredulous. A mere commercial courier wouldn’t command so much respect.

  Percy takes a sip of his beer. Looks off into the middle distance. ‘He occasionally brings in Kanakas from the islands too, I believe. Recruits to work in the canefields.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, though I don’t. ‘What’s the name of his boat?’

  ‘Blackbird.’

  I try to stifle a sudden laugh, and fail. ‘He names his boat Blackbird, and he uses it to run Kanakas! He’s obviously not blackbirding. Or maybe he is, in which case … My word, he must be a very powerful man. People in high places must owe him a great many favours.’ Something new occurs to me and I feel my eyes widen. ‘Maybe his cargo is opium. Or illicit gold.’

  Percy’s green eyes turn malachite. ‘I think your wild speculations have jumped the fence in your head. If I were you, I’d swallow them before any more escape.’

  He’s right; I’m too eager, and I’m playing what advantage I have badly.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I do lead with the mouth, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I think the root cause is the nose,’ Percy says coolly. ‘I imagine it’s not the first time you’ve inserted it in other people’s business.’

  ‘You didn’t mind too much when I inserted it in yours upstairs,’ I say. ‘Are you serious about owing me a favour?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  Time to raise the stakes.

  ‘I need a job. Do you know of anything on offer?’

  ‘In Brisbane?’ he asks slowly, as if leaving himself time to think something through. ‘Or … elsewhere?’

  ‘Anywhere away from landladies with pickaxes in their eyes.’

  A pardon? expression crosses his face, but I don’t try to explain. He looks at my hair pulled tightly back in its bun. My plain face.

  ‘How old are you, Mary Oxnam?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Going on thirty,’ he adds with a wry smile. Then, suddenly, ‘Why are you here?’

  So he sees me, and raises again. I’m in the game! Now … will the truth serve?

  ‘He
re in Brisbane, or here in the pub?’

  ‘Brisbane.’ Impatient. He knows I’m stalling. Time to show my hand.

  ‘Before leaving home, I went to the registry office for a copy of my birth certificate so that I could apply for work as a teacher.’ I think I see a look of doubt on his face and find myself saying, defensively, ‘I’m quite well educated. I went to school in Truro and I read a lot of books.’

  ‘I didn’t suggest otherwise,’ he drawls. ‘You seem impressively intelligent.’ The silent for a woman finishes the thought. Pity. I hoped he’d be somewhat different from the other men I’ve met.

  ‘Anyway, the surname on the certificate was my mother’s maiden name. My father hadn’t bothered to marry her until after I was born.’

  ‘Hard luck.’ He clucks his tongue. ‘Must’ve been a bit of a shock. But no reason to toss yourself out into the big, wide world with all its wilful wool-pulling. That would only make knitting your own garment that much harder.’

  He won’t let me bluff through this. I look into his eyes, weighing up how much I should say. May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, indeed.

  ‘If that were all, you’d be right,’ I tell him. ‘My father is a drunk, Percy. He’d been sober since we arrived in Australia. I thought he was resolute about making a new start. But one of the creditors he thought he’d left behind in Cornwall turned up at the pub. Papa fell off the wagon, got into an altercation. Landed in gaol. He’s always been something less than honest. Clumsily so, most often. With a tendency to use force first, reason last. I was of age, so I left. It’s as simple as that.’

  Of course it wasn’t simple at all. But there are some things I wouldn’t tell a friend, let alone a stranger. And in any case, I’ve given him the information he wanted. Will it be enough?

  Percy’s bottom lip creases as he thinks about this. ‘What state is he in now?’

  ‘He’s dry again, or so my mother’s letter tells me. Being locked in a cell like a common criminal gave him a jolt. How long his sobriety will last is anyone’s guess. There’s nothing for me in Rockhampton either way.’

  ‘He doesn’t want you home again?’

  ‘No.’ I lean across the table towards him. ‘The point is that I have no intentions of going back. You will have inferred that my money is almost gone. I have an avaricious widow on my back for board. I’m desperate for employment, gainful or no.’

  He looks at me steadily. ‘You’re not serious about the last part, of course.’

  I shrug, trying for insouciance. ‘Breaking the law is not really my line. But if I were inclined that way, trust me, I could make a good fist of it. I won’t fail the way my father has failed. I may be without means at the moment, but I won’t be for long. I’m not useless by a long shot.’

  ‘I didn’t imagine for an instant that you were.’

  Seconds stretch. He sips his drink. I’m very much in the dark, but the longer he thinks, the better. Up to a point. If only I had a clue about how he earns a crust! Enough to play poker for pounds, not pence. I don’t believe for a minute he’s wholly and solely a slug fisherman.

  ‘Can you play the piano?’ he finally asks.

  ‘Yes, actually.’ An unusual question. I wish I knew where he was headed. ‘Why?’

  He points to the table where Dandy and his careworn companion are having their conversation.

  ‘That’s Charley Boule. He runs an entertainment salon — French Charley’s — in Cooktown.’

  ‘You mean a brothel.’ No. He can’t be serious. That’s not much better than Wilson’s offer.

  He smiles. ‘A rose by any other name. Charley’s been putting the word around that he needs a piano player.’

  ‘Cooktown. I read the papers. Wild blacks in the bush, wild whites in the town. Blackmail, thievery, murder …’

  ‘Comes with the climate.’ He’s still looking over my head towards Dandy — that is, Charley Boule. ‘Gold scratchings, alcohol and sultry weather don’t mix well, true. But it’s the sort of territory that breeds … opportunity. In a way that Brisbane, say, might find a trifle challenging.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply that I was opportunistic. I merely suggested I would be adept at creative interpretations of the law, should I be that way inclined.’

  I groan inwardly. Fool! Who else but me could pluck, stuff, truss and cook my own goose in a mere few words.

  ‘And I didn’t intend to imply you have criminal tendencies. I merely observe that the marriage of a sharp mind to an open environment like Cooktown is likely to produce fair offspring in the form of … new ideas.’

  His own phrasing has more than a whiff of the artful dodger about it. But how can I say what I’m thinking without jumping a gun he hasn’t so much as loaded?

  I glance over at the Frenchman in his too-tight waistcoat. ‘Cooktown is so very far away. And I’ve heard that everything is twice as expensive up north. How would I survive, let alone avail myself of these so-called new ideas, on the few shillings a week I’m likely to make playing piano?’

  Two streams of smoke ride the humph noise he makes with his nose. ‘I see. Your desperation has its conditions.’ One sea-cracked finger plays with his bottom lip. It’s a nice lip, not fleshy like Wilson’s, nor tight as a drawn-shut purse like Charley Boule’s, nor carved of rock like Samuel Roberts’s. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’m not particularly interested in improving the quality of Boule’s entertainment. I do, however, sometimes pay for information. Useful information. Cooktown is the gateway through which all captains and crews must pass to reach the far north reef passage. And French Charley’s is often the first port of call for them when they reach Cooktown. A skilled observer can learn a good deal in a short time if he … or she … pays appropriate attention. Such as you demonstrated upstairs. If you prove reliable, and discreet, you’ll do quite well. Nothing illegal per se. Comings and goings, arrivals and impending departures, perhaps the occasional overheard conversation. The region’s shipping is … of interest to me.’

  ‘Why would a sea-slug fisherman be concerned about boats passing through Cooktown?’ My mouth opens involuntarily as a whole new slew of pennies drops into the slot. ‘You’re the one involved in smuggling. That’s what you do with your lugger when you’re not catching sea-slugs.’

  He bends forward conspiratorially. ‘Yes. You’re on to me. I bundle up young girls who talk too much, smuggle them north and straight into the arms of fat Mandarins in Shanghai. They pay a good price and, incredibly enough, once they take possession they even remove the gags. Maybe it’s because they’re deaf from all those firecrackers.’

  I give him what I hope is a withering look, then glance at the Frenchman again. He’s noticed the attention we’re paying him and, for a second, my eyes lock with his.

  ‘Just one more question,’ I say. ‘Do you work for, and therefore would I, ultimately, be working for, Samuel Roberts?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that.’

  ‘I do,’ I insist. ‘I need to know where my loyalties lie.’

  This is a reasonable request and he must know it. Being aware of who the big boss is doesn’t make me any the wiser about the business.

  ‘All right then. Yes.’

  So one piece of the puzzle resolves, at least.

  ‘Would I also be working for Mr Boule — in the same line of business, I mean?’

  ‘That’s more than one question. But, no. Not if you know what’s good for you. Roberts doesn’t tolerate divided loyalties.’ There’s something ironic twitching around his mouth. ‘You play piano for Boule, that’s all.’

  The room’s emotional temperature has dropped several degrees. I don’t dare look over to Roberts’s table again in case he somehow knows what we’re discussing. In case he’s staring at me with that same frigid malice he turned on Cobweb upstairs. But now, at least, I know the hierarchy of their mysterious business. Percy is an underling of Roberts’s, and I would be an underling of Percy’s. And Charley Boule is very firmly out of the pic
ture. That is, If I Know What’s Good For Me.

  I realise then it’s not quite enough information to allow me to sell my soul, no matter the wages.

  ‘Why would it be traitorous for me to have dealings with Charley Boule? Who is Samuel Roberts working for?’

  Percy puts his glass down firmly on the table and makes to stand. ‘No. If you can’t manage your curiosity by knowing when to turn it off, you’re no use to us.’

  I put my hand out to stop him. ‘Wait. I’m sorry. But don’t you see? The kind of intelligent observance you want from me is at odds with your request that I just blindly follow where I’m led, like a donkey. I won’t do anything against my scruples. If you ask me to trust and be trusted, you have to give me more. If I were to hand over my unswerving loyalty for less, then I wouldn’t be honourable enough to rely on, would I?’

  I’m not sure that my tortured argument makes sense, and, by his crumpled forehead, neither is he. But it seems to do the trick.

  He chews his bottom lip lightly with his teeth. ‘Are you loyal to the Empire?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ I’m indignant that he has to ask.

  ‘Then you are, in principle, already loyal to Roberts and to me. That is all I am at liberty to tell you.’

  I nod ‘Good enough. And Charley Boule is a Frenchman. Therefore …’

  ‘Enough political sleuthing!’ The shutters come down in his eyes. ‘Boule has his own fish to fry, and plenty of pans to do it in. He minds his business. You and I take care of ours.’

  ‘Yours being the sea-slug business.’ I emphasise the last three words and his eyes flicker with annoyance.

  ‘Quite. You’ll need to report to me: who is in port, what cargo they’re carrying, what they happen to chat about when they’ve a few drinks under their belts. There will also be notes that you’ll receive and then pass on. Everything will resolve when you are in place. But one last warning before you commit yourself. You won’t survive very long if you don’t learn to pull on your own reins. This is not so trivial as a poker game.’

  I nod with my lips compressed. I’d make the motion of buttoning them together with my fingers, if I didn’t imagine it would annoy him further.