The Smoke Hunter

by Jacquelyn Benson

  Ellie had woken from that one in a cold sweat, sure that for the first time since she started her journey across the sea, she was going to be ill.

  It was probably the motion of the boat. She’d heard people say before that being on the water did strange things to one’s sleep. She hoped things would be better now that the ground wasn’t rocking beneath her feet.

  The medallion was a more likely culprit than the motion of the waves for the other strange thing about her dreams: the common element that united them.

  That element was a woman. She was small and slender, delicate like Constance but dark where Constance was light. There was something ageless about her, though if she had to guess, Ellie would have put her at perhaps ten years older than herself. Her face was sad and lovely, save for a single blemish, a jagged scar that cut across her cheek.

  She had appeared in the dreams dressed like any other Londoner, in a simple blouse and tailored skirt. Ellie would catch sight of her in the midst of the desks that filled her classroom, or at the back of a crowd of admirers asking her to sign books for them. There was something uncanny about seeing her standing at the far end of an Egyptian wadi or in the middle of a mob of screaming women. She never spoke. Never moved. Her very stillness and silence, her solemn watchfulness, made her stand out like a beacon. The memory of her face would continue to tease at Ellie’s awareness long after the rest of the dream had faded into the fog of waking.

  Now that Ellie had arrived in British Honduras, she recognized the particular cast of the woman’s features. Her strong nose and earth-toned eyes made her resemble one of the natives of the place in which she now found herself, the descendants of the Mayans who had built the ancient cities of Copán and Palenque.

  She supposed that the small, still figure was the way in which her dreaming mind had decided to embody the adventure she was embarked upon.

  Putting her dreams aside, Ellie turned her attention to the more substantial matter of her wardrobe. She was very tempted to throw convention to the wind and simply wear her tailored suit, but a glimpse of the other guests strolling through the garden below told her quite clearly that dinner in British Honduras was, if anything, an even more formal affair than at home. It was as if being so far from civilization made people here want to cling to its vestiges that much more ferociously.

  She sighed and gave the lace of her bodice one last tug. Then she picked up her clutch, peeking inside to see the medallion nestled beside her handkerchief, a few spare pins sticking to its surface. Snapping the bag closed, she turned down the lantern, letting the room slide back into near darkness.

  Ellie stepped out onto the veranda. She instantly felt the warmth of the sun on her skin, even though it had sunk low on the horizon, painting the rooftops around her in gold and flame. Tufted heads of palm trees rose from between the buildings, and the dark shadows of gulls cut across the sky. But it was that horizon that drew her, marked by the distant charcoal line of the mountains.

  Somewhere out there lay the secret she had crossed an ocean to find.

  Ellie felt the breeze brush against the exposed skin at her collarbone and admitted to herself that while Constance’s gowns were certainly of a lower cut than she preferred, they offered a distinct advantage in terms of ventilation. It was so rare in London that her skin actually felt the brush of open air. She relished it for a moment, then stepped back, pulling the French doors closed behind her.

  The other guests were filtering into the Imperial’s dining room as Ellie descended the stairs. She caught sight of the hotel’s owner, Augustus Smith, returning from seating a French family she had seen earlier.

  “Miss Tyrrell,” he said, bowing as she approached. “You look very nice this evening,” he added, quite genuinely.

  Ellie was pleased in spite of herself. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “May I show you to a seat?” he offered.

  She caught his arm, stopping him. “Actually, if I might speak to you for just a moment?”

  Smith nodded, holding back.

  “I wanted to ask you if you knew of a reliable guide to the interior.”

  Smith frowned and stepped aside as a pair of young gentlemen moved past him into the dining room.

  “Where is it exactly that you’re looking to go?”

  “To the mountains in the Cayo District.”

  Smith looked at her with concern. “I must tell you, Miss Tyrrell, the mountains are almost entirely unexplored and the journey is quite hazardous, particularly for a young lady.”

  “I’m sure that it would be. I have no intention of going.” She smiled through the lie, as much as it galled her. After all, why shouldn’t a woman be just as capable as a man of making the trek, if properly outfitted and guided? But she had admitted to herself on the passage to Central America that revealing her intent would only raise eyebrows, and Ellie felt no desire to draw any undue attention to herself. A cover story was an annoying necessity.

  “I’m simply making preparatory inquiries for my brother,” she said. “He should be joining me here shortly. He’s a geologist in the employ of a mining firm potentially interested in making a purchase here.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll make some inquiries. Did you want me to hold a room for him? We’re getting rather full here at the moment.”

  The offer caught Ellie off guard. She forced a quick recovery. “Oh, no—I wouldn’t want you to do that till I have confirmation from him on his arrival. He’s dreadfully unpredictable, I’m afraid. I’ll let you know as soon as he’s made definite arrangements.”

  “Very good,” Smith said, and motioned her inside. He led her to an empty chair at a round table already mostly filled. “Will this do?”

  “Of course. Thank you,” she said.

  He held the chair for her as she sat down, then headed through the doorway into the kitchen. A server approached with a carafe of wine, and Ellie nodded, letting him fill her glass. She took a heavy sip, hoping it would calm the rush of nerves Smith’s offer of a reservation for her nonexistent brother had sparked in her.

  “Rotten lot,” the portly gentleman beside her was saying. He wore a suit of light linen, sharply tailored, with a bright blue handkerchief neatly folded in his pocket. His accent flowed with the easy drawl of the Southern United States. “That’s what they sold you. I’d say it was probably a surplus from someone else’s shipment that was sitting around on the docks for a few weeks.”

  “My agent should have noticed the difference,” said the small, dark-clad man across from him, who wore a very morose expression.

  “As regards that, I would consider whether perhaps some money might have changed hands,” the portly gentleman pointed out. “Don’t rule it out. It’s the sort of thing that happens all the time here.”

  “Seven crates of rotten oranges. That’s what they delivered. Seven,” the dour man emphasized sadly.

  “You were right to come see about it yourself,” the other man confirmed. Then he turned his attention to Ellie, giving her a warm smile. “Will your traveling companion be joining you, miss? I would gladly move to another chair so that the two of you might sit together.”

  “That’s very kind, but it won’t be necessary,” Ellie said.

  “I see. Well, that being the case, perhaps I might take the liberty of making your introduction to the table. With your permission.”

  “Granted.” She smiled at him politely.

  “I am Major Jeremiah Tucker,” he announced with a flourish.

  “Major? In what army?” said the young man beside him. He wore an expensive suit and spoke with a distinctly aristocratic accent.

  “That of the former Confederate States of America.”

  “You’re a Confederate?”

  “I am,” Tucker acknowledged with a nod.

  “So you fought on the side of the slave owners?” the young man said pointedly, gesturing with his spoon as a bowl of soup was set down in front of him. Ellie leaned back as another was placed for her.


  “This is Mr. Galle,” Tucker said to Ellie. “He and his companion, Mr. Tibbord, are touring Central America. They spent the last month in the Yucatán and have just arrived here in British Honduras.” He shifted his attention back to Mr. Galle. “If I’d been fighting to preserve the institution of slavery, then tell me why I would have chosen to emigrate to a place where it has been illegal for well over a century.” He took a spoonful of soup and nodded his approval. “Very nice. Now, then—I fought on the side of self-determination, young man. And of our nation’s Constitution, which quite clearly states that the affairs of a locality should not be imposed upon by the will of a far-off government.”

  “So you moved to a place run by an even farther-off government?” said one of the table’s other occupants, a pale, dark-suited man with a thick Scottish brogue.

  “Point taken, Reverend. But your Crown doesn’t stick its nose into business here until it’s necessary. They’re content for the most part to leave well enough alone. Ah—the Reverend Markham, my dear. And his sister, Frances,” Tucker said to Ellie. “The reverend has a Presbyterian mission in the interior, outside Orange Walk. They come into town periodically to supply themselves with a few comforts from the homeland, and I’ve had the pleasure of crossing paths with them twice now.”

  The reverend nodded at Ellie and smiled. His sister moved her glare from Ellie’s face to the neckline of her gown. Frances, apparently, had plenty of high-necked dinner dresses in her wardrobe. Ellie suspected most of them were in shades of stiff gray or black.

  “And this is our unfortunate fruit dealer, Mr. Burgess, who is joining us from Liverpool.” Tucker gestured to the owner of the rotten oranges.

  “How do you do?” Mr. Burgess said morosely.

  “Ah—and our final companion for the evening arrives, a compatriot of mine—Mr. Adam Bates. A pleasure to see you again, sir,” Tucker said to someone who had entered the room behind Ellie.

  “As always, Major.”

  Ellie felt herself stiffen at the familiar rumble of his voice. She turned to confirm it but had to look twice. The tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in a finely tailored navy suit was barely recognizable as the mud-covered, snake-wrangling intruder who had burst into her bath earlier that afternoon. With his sandy hair neatly combed and his face clean-shaven, he almost looked respectable. At least, he would to anyone who didn’t know better.

  He finished shaking Tucker’s hand and moved to the empty seat across from Ellie.

  “Mr. Bates would know where to find the ruins you’re after, Mr. Galle,” Tucker offered. “Though I doubt he’ll divulge. He keeps his finds close.”

  “It’s that or watch them get looted,” Adam said grimly, holding out his wineglass for the server’s carafe. He cast the two younger men an appraising look and seemed unimpressed. He nodded politely at the reverend and his sister. Then his attention fell to Ellie and stuck. Ellie found herself very aware of how blue his eyes looked against the deep tan of his face, and she felt an unwelcome heat rise into her cheeks at the memory of the state she had been in the last time he’d seen her.

  “You now have all of us at a disadvantage, my dear,” the major said kindly from beside her, jolting her out of the hold Adam’s stare had on her.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she apologized, and flashed a smile. “Constance Tyrrell. It’s very nice to meet all of you.”

  She accepted a nod of acknowledgment from Mr. Galle’s companion, Tibbord. The slightly overweight man was sporting a pink sunburn and spectacles, through which he gazed at her slightly reverently. When he realized she was looking back at him, he seemed to catch himself, jumping slightly, and turned his nervous attention to Adam, who sat beside him.

  “So you know where we could find some ruins?” he said.

  “You’d have seen the best of what’s accessible in the Yucatán,” Adam replied, sipping his wine.

  “What’s that mean, exactly—accessible?” Galle cut in.

  “It means what it sounds like. In the Yucatán, you’ve got postcard vendors next to the temples. The ruins here are extremely difficult to get to even if you know where you’re going.”

  “We’re hardly amateurs,” Galle said archly. “We just spent a month in the bush in Mexico, and managed quite well.”

  “Did you?” Adam said. Ellie saw him glance over at the plump-cheeked Tibbord.

  “We don’t mind a bit of discomfort. I’m actually fond of ‘roughing it,’ as they say. I think it’s quite invigorating in a masculine sort of way—if you’ll forgive the expression, Miss Tyrrell.”

  Ellie refrained from commenting.

  “Take my word for it,” Adam said. “The bush here isn’t like the bush in the Yucatán. It’s about a hundred years behind when it comes to roads or trails, and half the men posing as guides are looking to rob you and leave you out there.”

  “You’d best listen to what the man is telling you,” the reverend spoke up. “Mr. Bates is the colony’s assistant surveyor general. He knows the conditions out there better than almost anyone.”

  “You’re the assistant surveyor general?” Ellie blurted, unable to contain her surprise. Adam’s gaze drifted over to her, and she felt suddenly self-conscious.

  “That a surprise?”

  “Well, yes. You’re American. Surveyor general is a civil service position. You’ve got to be English to be in the civil service.”

  “They make exceptions in the colonies. But I am English, technically. I was born in the Cotswolds.”

  “I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Mr. Bates, Reverend,” Tucker said.

  “He assisted us in our journey to the mission,” the reverend replied. “I must admit, without him we would have been in for a rather difficult time.”

  “I was headed that way,” Adam said.

  “Lucky for us you were,” the reverend added firmly.

  “And where are you headed now?” Tibbord asked, a bit timidly.

  “Nowhere. I’m eating my dinner,” Adam replied as the main course was set down in front of him. Ellie leaned back to make way for her plate, which was loaded with a richly spiced fricassee. She realized she had barely touched her soup when Smith lifted the bowl away, giving her a slightly disapproving look when he saw its contents. Judging from the figure of his wife, Smith was a man who preferred his women eat heartily.

  “He means your next expedition, obviously. I think Mr. Bates isn’t interested in company, Tibbord, if that’s what you were getting at. Am I right, Mr. Bates?” Mr. Galle said.

  “Go to the cays,” Adam said, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork. “Easy boat ride. Nice beaches. Pretty girls. It’ll make for a fine chapter in your book.”

  Tibbord’s eyes widened.

  “How did you know we were writing a book?”

  “Your type are always writing a book,” he replied around a mouthful.

  “He’s writing a book,” Galle corrected. “I’m just putting my name on it and providing all the interesting anecdotes. If it were left to Tibbord, it would be a travelogue of life at nice hotels.” He accepted a refill for his wineglass and leaned back in his chair. “I do wonder if Mr. Bates’s disinclination for travel companions extends to young ladies. Our Miss Tyrrell, for example.”

  “Me?” Ellie blurted, taken off guard.

  “Forgive my eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help overhearing your asking Smith about a guide to the interior on your way in. What do you say, Mr. Bates? Would you break with your principles for the lovely Miss Tyrrell?”

  Adam studied her sharply. Ellie forced herself to stay casual.

  “You’re going to the interior?”

  “I was making the inquiry for my brother, actually. Oliver,” she said, quickly inventing the name. “He’s in mining and hopes to survey a potential site in the Cayo for his company.”

  “What’s he mine?” Burgess asked, the merchant in him perking up at the sound of business talk.

  “Silver,” Ellie said, then coolly turned her ga
ze to Adam. “But you needn’t be baited by Mr. Galle, Mr. Bates. My brother and I are making our own arrangements.”

  “Oliver not feeling well?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your brother,” Adam clarified flatly.

  “Oh.” Ellie smiled. “I certainly hope not. He’s finishing up work on his last site and will meet me here once it is complete.”

  “You’ll be joining him in the Cayo?”

  Ellie felt Adam’s eyes on her, studying her reaction. She schooled it carefully, flashing him a light smile.

  “Perhaps.”

  “We’ll look forward to meeting him,” the major said. “About those oranges, Mr. Burgess…”

  Ellie felt the weight of the air shift as Adam’s attention moved to the mousy fruit dealer, who leaped on the opportunity to share more of his frustrations, regaling the reverend with a description of different types of citrus rot.

  She was grateful for the dull turn to the conversation. Even mold was an improvement over the intensity of Adam’s stare. Surveyor he might be, but Ellie had determined she would happily do without his advice. She was sure Smith had sufficient knowledge of the men of the colony to know the reliable ones from the thieves. Adam Bates, she decided firmly, was someone she’d happily limit her acquaintance with.

  Ellie managed to excuse herself before dessert. She hurried back to her room, closing the door and leaning against it gratefully. Being alone again was a relief. Dinner had made her feel like she was performing on a stage. Well, it had not been dinner itself. It was more specifically the presence of Adam Bates that had imposed the pressure. The way the man looked at her had made her feel as though he were searching for a crack in her armor. Tomorrow, she decided, she would ask for dinner in her room. It would be simpler to stay out of the way for however long it took for her to find her guide.

  The room had cooled since she had left it. Though she had closed the French doors, she left her window open. After all, it was still as warm as any summer night in London. She sank down onto the chair and opened her clutch, pulling out the medallion.