Brianna and Marsali consented to the notion with alacrity, if not enthusiasm.
“Anything is better than sitting around worrying,” Brianna said. “Anything!”
“Aye, and anything is better than the stink of filthy clouts and sour milk, too,” Marsali added. She fanned herself with a book, looking pale. “I could do wi’ a bit of air.”
I worried a little about Marsali’s ability to walk so far, given her expanding girth—she was in her seventh month—but she insisted that the exercise would benefit her, and Brianna and I could help to carry Joanie.
As is usual in cases of travel with small children, our departure was somewhat prolonged. Joanie spit up mashed sweet potato down the front of her gown, Jemmy committed a sanitary indiscretion of major proportions, and Germain disappeared during the confusion occasioned by these mishaps. He was discovered, at the conclusion of a half-hour search involving everyone in the street, behind the public livery stable, happily engaged in throwing horse dung at passing carriages and wagons.
Everyone forcibly cleaned, redressed, and—in Germain’s case—threatened with death and dismemberment, we descended the stairs again, to find that the landlord, Mr. Burns, had helpfully dug out an old goat-cart, with which he kindly presented us. The goat, however, was employed in eating nettles in the next-door garden, and declined to be caught. After a quarter of an hour’s heated pursuit, Brianna declared that she would prefer to pull the cart herself, rather than spend any longer playing ring-around-the-rosy with a goat.
“Mrs. Fraser, Mrs. Fraser!” We were halfway down the street, the children, buckets, and picnic basket in the goat-cart, when Mrs. Burns came hurrying out of the inn after us, a jug of small beer in one hand, and an ancient flintlock pistol in the other.
“Snakes,” she explained, handing me the latter. “My Annie says she saw at least a dozen adders, last time she walked that way.”
“Snakes,” I said, accepting the object and its attendant paraphernalia with reluctance. “Quite.”
Given that “adder” could mean anything from a water moccasin to the most harmless grass snake, and also given that Annie Burns had a marked talent for melodrama, I was not unduly concerned. I thought of dropping the gun into the picnic basket, but a glance at Germain and Jemmy, pictures of cherubic innocence, decided me of the unwisdom of leaving even an unloaded firearm anywhere near them. I dropped the pistol into my berry-bucket, instead, and put it over my arm.
The day was overcast and cool, with a light breeze off the ocean. The air was damp, and I thought there was a good chance of rain before long, but for the moment, it was very pleasant out, with the sandy earth packed down sufficiently from earlier rains to make the walking easy.
Following Mrs. Crawford’s directions, we made our way a mile or so down the beach, and found ourselves at the edge of a thick growth of coastal forest, where scanty-needled pines mingled with mangroves and palmetto in a dense, sun-splintered tangle, twined with vines. I closed my eyes and breathed in, nostrils flaring at the intoxicating mixture of scents: mudflats and wet sand, pine resins and sea air, the last faint whiffs of dead whale, and what I had been looking for—the fresh, tangy scent of wax-myrtles.
“That way,” I said, pointing into the tangle of vegetation. The going was too heavy for the cart now, so we left it, allowing the little boys to run wild, chasing tiny crabs and bright birds, as we made our way slowly into the scrubby forest. Marsali carried Joan, who curled up like a dormouse in her mother’s arms and went to sleep, lulled by the sound of ocean and wind.
In spite of the heavy growth, the walking was more pleasant here than on the open beach; the wind-stunted trees were tall enough to give a pleasing sense of secrecy and refuge, and the footing was better, with a thin layer of decaying leaves and needles underfoot.
Jemmy grew tired of walking, and tugged on my skirt, raising both arms to be picked up.
“All right.” I hung a berry-bucket from one wrist, and swung him up, with a crackle and pop of vertebrae; he was a very solid little boy. He twined his sandy feet comfortably round my waist and rested his face on my shoulder with a sigh of relief.
“All very well for you,” I said, gently patting his back. “Who’s going to give Grannie a ride, hey?”
“Grand-da,” he said, and giggled. He lifted his head, looking round. “W’ere Grand-da?”
“Grand-da’s busy,” I told him, taking care to keep my voice light and cheerful. “We’ll see Grand-da and Daddy soon.”
“Want Daddy!”
“Yes, so does Mummy,” I murmured. “Here, sweetie. See that? See the little berries? We’re going to pick some, won’t that be fun? No, don’t eat them! Jemmy, I said no, do not put them in your mouth, they’ll make you sick!”
We had found a luxuriant patch of wax-myrtles, and soon spread out, losing sight of each other amid the bushes as we picked, but calling out every few minutes, in order not to lose each other entirely.
I had put Jemmy down again, and was idly contemplating whether there might be any use for the berry-pulp, once the myrtle berries were boiled to render the wax, when I heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the other side of the bush I was picking from.
“Is that you, darling?” I called, thinking it was Brianna. “Perhaps we ought to have our lunch soon; I think it’s maybe coming on to rain.”
“Well, it’s a kind invitation, sure,” said a male voice, sounding amused. “I thank ye, ma’am, but I’ve made a decent breakfast not long since.”
He stepped out from behind the bush, and I stood paralyzed, completely unable to speak. My mind, oddly enough, was not paralyzed in the slightest; my thoughts were running at the speed of light.
If Stephen Bonnet’s here, Jamie and Roger are safe, thank God.
Where are the children?
Where is Bree?
Where’s that gun, goddamnit?
“Who’s that, Grandmere?” Germain, appearing from behind a bush with what appeared to be a dead rat dangling from one hand, approached me warily, blue eyes narrowed at the intruder.
“Germain,” I said in a croak, not taking my eyes off Bonnet. “Go find your mother, and stay with her.”
“Grandmere, is it? And who will his mother be, then?” Bonnet glanced from me to Germain and back, interested. He tilted back the hat he wore, and scratched at the side of his jaw.
“Never mind that,” I said, as firmly as I could. “Germain, go!” I stole a look downward, but the pistol was not in my bucket. There were six buckets, and we had left three on the goat-cart; undoubtedly the gun was in one of those, worse luck.
“Oh, don’t be goin’ just yet, young sir.” Bonnet made a move toward Germain, but the little boy took alarm at the gesture and skittered back, throwing the rat at Bonnet. It hit him in the knee, surprising him and making him hesitate for the split second necessary for Germain to vanish into the myrtles. I could hear his feet chuffing the sand as he ran, and hoped he knew where Marsali was. The last thing we needed was for him to lose himself.
Well, possibly not the very last thing, I amended. The very last thing we needed was for Stephen Bonnet to lay eyes on Jemmy, which he promptly did, when the latter wandered out of the bushes an instant later, his short gown smeared with mud, more mud oozing through the fingers of his clenched fists.
There was no sun, but Jemmy’s hair seemed to blaze with the brilliance of a striking match. Paralysis disappearing in a heartbeat, I grabbed him up, and backed away several steps, knocking over the half-filled bucket of myrtle berries.
Bonnet’s eyes were the pale green of a cat’s, and they brightened now with the intentness of a cat that spots a creeping mouse.
“And who will this sweet manneen be?” he asked, taking a step toward me.
“My son,” I said instantly, and pulled Jem tight against my shoulder, ignoring his struggles. With the natural perversity of small children, he seemed to be fascinated by Bonnet’s Irish lilt, and kept turning his head to stare at the stranger.
�
��Favors his father, I see.” Drops of sweat glistened in the heavy blond brows. He smoothed first one, then the other, with the tip of his finger, so the sweat ran in trickles down the sides of his face, but the pale green eyes never wavered in their regard. “As does his … sister. And is your lovely daughter anyplace nearby, dear one? I should enjoy to renew our acquaintaince—such a charmin’ girl, Brianna.” He smiled.
“No doubt you would,” I said, making no particular effort to disguise the edge in my voice. “No, she isn’t. She’s at home—with her husband.” I leaned heavily on the word husband, hoping that Brianna was near enough to hear me and take warning, but he paid it no mind.
“At home, now. And where do ye call home then, Mum?” He took off the hat and wiped his face with his sleeve.
“Oh … in the backcountry. A homestead.” I waved vaguely in the direction I thought roughly west. What was this—social conversation? And yet the choices seemed distinctly limited. I could turn and flee—at which point he would catch me handily, burdened as I was with Jemmy. Or I could stand here until he revealed what he wanted. I didn’t think he was out for a picnic among the myrtles.
“A homestead,” he repeated, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “What business brings ye so far from home, and I might ask?”
“You might not,” I said. “Or rather—you might ask my husband. He’ll be along shortly.”
I took another step backward as I said this, and he took a step toward me at the same time. A flicker of panic must have crossed my face, for he looked amused, and took another step.
“Oh, I doubt that, Mrs. Fraser dear. For see, the man’s dead by now.”
I squeezed Jemmy so hard that he let out a strangled squawk.
“What do you mean?” I demanded hoarsely. The blood was draining from my head, coagulating in an icy ball round my heart.
“Well, d’ye see, it was a bargain,” he said, the look of amusement growing. “A division of duties, ye might say. My friend Lillywhite and the good Sheriff were to attend to Mr. Fraser and Mr. MacKenzie, and Lieutenant Wolff was to manage Mrs. Cameron’s end of the business. That left me with the pleasant task of makin’ myself reacquainted with my son and his mother.” His eyes sharpened, focusing on Jemmy.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said, through stiff lips, taking a better grip on Jemmy, who was watching Bonnet, owl-eyed.
He gave a short laugh at that.
“Sure, and ye’re no hand at lyin’, ma’am; you’ll forgive the observation. Ye’d never make a card player. Ye know well enough what I mean—ye saw me there, at River Run. Though I confess as how I should be obliged to hear exactly what you and Mr. Fraser was engaged in, a-butchering that Negro woman that Wolff killed. I did hear as how the picture of a murderer shows in the victim’s eyes—but ye didn’t seem to be looking at her eyes, from what I could see. Was it magic of a sort ye were after doing?”
“Wolff—it was him, then?” Just at the moment, I didn’t really care whether Lieutenant Wolff had murdered scores of women, but I was willing to engage in any line of conversation that offered the possibility of distracting him.
“Aye. He’s a bungler, Wolff,” he said, dispassionately. “But ’twas him that found out about the gold to begin with, so he claimed a part in the doings.”
How far away were Marsali and Brianna? Had Germain found them? I could hear nothing over the whine of insects and the distant wash of surf. Surely they must hear us talking, though.
“Gold,” I said, raising my voice a little. “Whatever do you mean, gold? There isn’t any gold at River Run; Jocasta Cameron told you as much.”
He puffed air through his lips in genial disbelief.
“I will say as Mrs. Cameron is a better liar than yourself, dear one, but sure, I didn’t believe her, either. The doctor saw the gold, see.”
“What doctor?” A baby’s high-pitched cry came faintly through the bushes—Joan. I coughed, hoping to drown it out, and repeated, more loudly, “What doctor do you mean?”
“Rawls, I think was his name, or Rawlings.” Bonnet was frowning slightly, head turned toward the sound. “I’d not the pleasure of his acquaintance, though; I might be mistaken.”
“I’m sorry—I still have no idea what you’re talking about.” I was trying simultaneously to hold his gaze and to scan the ground nearby for anything that might be used as a weapon. Bonnet had a pistol in his belt, and a knife, but showed no disposition to draw either one. Why should he? A woman with an armload of two-year-old was not any sort of threat.
One thick blond brow flicked up, but he seemed in no great hurry, whatever he was about.
“No? Well, ’twas Wolff, as I was sayin’. It was a tooth to be drawn or somesuch; he met with this sawbones in Cross Creek. Bought the fellow a drink in reward, and spent the evening inside a wine-skin with him, in the end. Ye’ll know the Lieutenant’s weakness for the drink—the doctor was another sot, I hear, and the two of them thick as thieves before the dawn. Rawlings let out that he’d seen a great quantity of gold at River Run, for he’d just come from there, see?”
Rawlings had either passed out or sobered up enough to say no more, but the revelation had been enough to renew the Lieutenant’s determination to gain the hand—and property—of Jocasta Cameron.
“The lady would be havin’ none of him, though, and then she ups and declares as she’ll be takin’ the one-armed fella instead. ’Twas a cruel blow to the Lieutenant’s pride, alas.” He grinned at that, showing a missing molar on one side.
Lieutenant Wolff, furious and baffled, appealed to his particular friend, Randall Lillywhite, for advice.
“Why, that—so that’s why he arrested the priest at the Gathering? To prevent him marrying Mrs. Cameron to Duncan Innes?”
Bonnet nodded.
“That would be the way of it. A matter of delay, ye might say, so as to be havin’ the opportunity of lookin’ further into the matter.”
Said opportunity had occurred at the wedding. As we had theorized, someone—Lieutenant Wolff—had in fact attempted to drug Duncan Innes with a cup of punch spiked with laudanum. The plan had been to render him insensible and pitch him into the river. During the uproar occasioned by Duncan’s disappearance and presumedly accidental death, Wolff would have the chance to search the premises thoroughly for the gold—and eventually, to renew his addresses to Jocasta.
“But the black bitch drank the stuff herself,” he said dispassionately. “Didn’t die of it, worse luck—but she could have said who gave the cup to her, of course, and so Wolff slipped round and mixed ground glass into the gruel they were after feedin’ her.”
“What I want to know,” I said, “is just how you got involved in this. Why were you there at River Run?”
“And isn’t the Lieutenant the friend of my bosom these many years past, dear one? He came to me for help in disposing of the one-armed lad, so as he could take care to be seen in the midst of the party, enjoyin’ himself in all innocence whilst accident was befallin’ his rival.” He frowned slightly, tapping a finger on the hilt of his pistol.
“I would have done better to bash the Innes fella on the head and toss him in, once I saw the laudanum had gone astray. Couldn’t get at him, though—he spent half the day in the jakes, and someone always in there with him, bad cess to them.”
There was nothing on the ground near me that could possibly be used as a weapon. Twigs, leaves, scattered fragments of shell, a dead rat—well, that had worked for Germain, but I didn’t think Bonnet could be surprised twice in that fashion. Jemmy was losing his fear of the stranger as we talked, and was beginning to squirm to get down.
I edged backward a little; Bonnet saw it, and smiled. He wasn’t bothered. Obviously he didn’t think I could escape, and just as obviously, he was waiting for something. Of course—he had told me, himself. He was waiting for Brianna. I realized belatedly that he had clearly followed us out here from town; he knew that Marsali and Brianna were somewhere nearby—much easier simply to
wait until they revealed themselves.
My best hope was that someone else would happen along; the weather was muggy and damp, but not raining yet, and this was a well-known spot for picnicking, according to Mrs. Burns. If someone did come along, how could I take advantage of it? I knew that Bonnet would not have the slightest compunction in simply shooting anyone who got in his way—he was boasting about the rest of his bloodthirsty plans.
“Mrs. Cameron—Mrs. Innes, she’ll be now—seemed willin’ enough to talk, when I suggested that her husband might soon be lackin’ a few of his treasured parts, though as it happens, she was lyin’, then, too, deceitful old trout. But it came to me, ponderin’ the matter afterward, that she might be more obligin’, were it a matter of her heir.” He nodded toward Jemmy, and clicked his tongue at the boy. “So, lad, will we be goin’ to see your great-auntie, then?”
Jemmy looked suspiciously at Bonnet, cuddling back against me.
“Whozat?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s a wise child that knows its father, isn’t it? I’m your Da, lad—was your mother not after telling you so?”
“Daddy?” Jemmy looked at Bonnet, then at me. “At’s not Daddy!”
“No, he isn’t your daddy,” I assured Jemmy, shifting my hold. My arms were beginning to ache under the strain of holding him. “He’s a bad man; we don’t like him.”
Bonnet laughed.
“Is there no shame with you at all, dear one? Of course he’s mine—it’s your daughter has said so, to my face.”
“Nonsense,” I said. I had maneuvered my way into a narrow gap between two of the evergreen wax-myrtle bushes. I’d try to distract him back into conversation, then seize a moment to whirl round, set Jemmy down, and urge him to run. With luck, I could block the gap long enough to prevent Bonnet grabbing him before he could get away—if he would run.
“Lillywhite,” I said, taking hold of the conversation. “What did you mean, Lillywhite and the Sheriff were going to—to attend to my husband and Mr. MacKenzie?” Merely mentioning the possibility made me feel sick; sweat was running down my sides, but my face felt cold and clammy.
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