by Joan Druett
“Aye—from one hundred ninety yards. Killed him first shot.”
“And he was armed with this mere, and did not have a gun?”
“Aye.” A note of uncertainty had entered Forsythe’s voice.
“It hardly seems sportsmanlike.”
Forsythe’s attitude became aggressively self-defensive. “I was only doing the job I was hired to do, and the warriors with me were firing guns, too! If the tables had been turned, he would have shot me!”
“I believe you, more’s the pity,” said Captain Coffin. “Damn it,” he said softly, and to Wiki’s surprise, his eyes glistened with tears.
“Put it away,” he said then, more loudly. “You’re insulting my son.”
“Me? Me insult him? How, for God’s sake?”
“Didn’t you listen to what he was saying? This club is tapu, and you’ve set it down in a noa place, on a table that is used to serve cooked food.”
Forsythe looked puzzled. Then he straightened and looked around. It was as if he were suddenly aware of his audience. Dr. Olliver was plucking at his plump lower lip, his eyes bright and alert; as Wiki watched, his hand dropped to stroke his bushy beard. The other scientifics were staring down at the mere, blatant greed in their faces. Forsythe noticed that, too, because he pulled it back before anyone could touch.
He looked at Wiki, shoved the club at his chest, and said, “Take it.”
Wiki said blankly, “What?”
“Take it. I hadn’t realized you set such store by it.”
For a long moment, Wiki couldn’t move. He clenched his right hand to stop its trembling, but when he slowly held it out the shake was still there.
“It’s that important, is it?” Forsythe said, looking embarrassed.
Important? It was taonga—treasure. Wiki took it. The stone was warm. When he blinked, tears fell out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Incapable of saying a single word, he turned and walked out of the room. Captain Couthouy could do the translating, he thought.
* * *
As he descended the shallow veranda steps into the scented garden, Wiki softly sang a karakia to restore tapu to the mere. As always, he didn’t know if he had the right words. There were karakia for laymen, for children, for priests, and chiefs, and he didn’t know one from the other. However, it didn’t matter. When the rapid chant was finished, he tucked the mere into his belt at the back, where the weapon fitted into the small of his spine as if it had been made for it.
Then, letting his jacket drop, he looked around. Pergolas radiated out from the fountain, their trellised archways leading into moonlit gardens, and the air was soft and cool. He could hear the women chattering in the salon, and the music of a waltz wafted from the ballroom beyond the trees.
The moon was so bright that the shadow of the nearest trellis was black. It wasn’t until Madame de Roquefeuille called out his name that he realized that she was perched on a nearby bench. Her gown was as white as the moonlight.
He went over, sat down, and said, “What are you doing here?”
“Ah, they talk about babies,” she said, and made a kind of pshaw noise. “I’m not interested in that. So I came out for the air.”
Her voice was light and breathy, as if she were eternally on the verge of a giggle, and she shifted closer, in the cozy way of Brazilians, so that he could smell her scent and feel her warmth. Her skin was very white, the upper swell of her breasts gleaming faintly.
Wiki was finding it hard to concentrate. He said, “Were Lieutenant Forsythe and my father quarreling at the table? Or was Forsythe just bragging?”
Her white shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “It was hard to tell. Men are such strange, rough creatures. Too, they spoke English. I suspect the lieutenant considers himself your friend, and your father does not approve at all.”
“Good God,” said Wiki. She was probably right, he thought, remembering Forsythe’s strange loyalty to the men who had crewed the cutter.
“Fathers are like that,” she said, and snapped her fingers in an emphatic dismissal of the vagaries of paternal parents. “You waltz, they tell me.”
“That I do,” Wiki admitted uneasily, wondering how she had heard.
“Listen,” she urged.
Wiki listened. He could hear men’s voices, and realized that the men had settled down to their conference, because Forsythe’s Virginian accent predominated. The orchestra in the distant ballroom had struck up yet another a waltz. Then, close to hand, there was a sudden startling swish of fabric, as Madame de Roquefeuille impatiently stood.
When he looked up into her face she crinkled her eyes at him in her provocative way. Then she held out her hand, and said, “Let’s go.”
“To the ball?” He laughed. “You’re joking, surely.”
“I’m serious.”
“But what would your husband say?”
“I don’t have one,” she said, and grabbed his hand and hauled.
Her hand was small, warm, and imperious, but he held back, protesting, “We can’t just walk into the ballroom.”
“Why not?”
“For a start, we haven’t been invited.”
“Talk for yourself,” she said pertly. “I was most surely invited—why do you think I wear white, and have no jewelry? Because that is the stipulated costume, you see. But my sister insisted that I stay and help entertain my brother-in-law’s guests instead of going, which was tedious. Come on,” she said, and let go his hand, picked up her skirts, and ran off across the lawn.
Obviously, she kept herself in wonderful physical trim, because she was as fleet as a nymph. She was wearing little satin slippers, Wiki noticed as he pursued her. He thought she was giggling, but it was hard to tell, because she was moving so fast. He followed her across the lawn; and under the trees, and then onto the gravel path that wound up to the blazing windows of the ballroom.
Like Sir Patrick Palgrave’s place, the building was colonnaded, and the portico was elaborate. When they were within yards of the entrance Madame de Roquefeuille stopped and dropped her skirts, allowing him to catch up with her, and then tucked her hand demurely into the crook of his elbow. They walked sedately up the short flight of steps and into the anteroom, to find several dignified gentlemen chatting over their claret and cigars.
“Madame de Roquefeuille,” exclaimed one in a tone of surprise. “An unexpected pleasure! You decided to join us, after all?”
“Just for one waltz,” she said, without bothering to introduce Wiki, and with no further ado tugged him into the brightly lit ballroom.
The temperature immediately rocketed, fueled by the heat of what looked like a million candles. The room was huge enough for a thousand to dance. Men gossiped in groups about the fringes, while older women fanned themselves from the clustered chairs where they perched, but most of those present were galloping about the floor in the throes of a hectic Boston waltz.
Everyone, Wiki immediately saw, was wearing white, just as Madame had predicted. He, by contrast, was wearing black. However, he was not the only one to stand out, because Captain Wilkes and the other officers from the expedition were wearing uniform. Wiki glimpsed Midshipman Keith’s stunned expression just as Madame de Roquefeuille stepped into his arms.
She was definitely laughing, Wiki decided as he took charge of their revolutions, because he could feel her quivering. Her face, pressed against his upper arm, had gone quite pink. Across the floor and round and round they charged, while Wiki’s braid flopped up and down between his shoulders, and Madame’s copper hair started to tumble out of her chignon. Her merriment was so infectious he had trouble not to laugh out loud while he swung them both round and round.
“The gossip was true—you really can waltz,” she gasped when the music slowed, and she was able to loosen her convulsive grip on his hand. “And very well, too,” she added.
“Gossip is putting it mildly,” he said, intent on keeping on the far side of the crowd from Captain Wilkes. “Are you sure you don’t have a husband
?”
“I’m a widow.”
“Oh,” he said, thinking he should have guessed, and added, “I’m sorry.”
“I am sorry, too. He was rich and generous. I liked him.”
“A lot?”
“Definitely too much to let any other man take his place,” she said.
Wiki thought about her widowhood as they revolved in intimate circles, meditating, too, on how young and lithe and alive she felt—far too young to be a widow, though it was patently obvious that she managed to enjoy herself. She was the perfect height to fit against his shoulder as they slowly circled, their bodies close together. He could feel her every breath, and smell her warm scent.
Forcing himself to think about her dead husband, Wiki asked, “He was French?”
“His father was French, but he—Pierre—was as Brazilian as the rest of us. Unfortunately, he was a very keen horseman.”
“He died while riding?”
“With Sir Patrick, yes. They were playing a Persian game that Pierre’s father learned in India—it is called polo. The players ride round and round on fast horses, chasing a wooden ball with clubs called mallets, which they toss from hand to hand with astounding skill. When Pierre fell he was accidentally hit with a mallet on the head. It was very sudden and sad, but he died doing what he liked most.”
She let go his hand to make a casual, flyaway gesture, and as if at a signal, the orchestra stopped. “Let’s go,” she said abruptly. “Come, quick, before the captain who is staring this way arrives with difficult questions.”
Wiki was more than willing. There was a door open nearby, and he briskly followed her through it. The night was cool, and the stars twinkled in their multitudes. He pursued the sound of her giggles down the path, then onto the lawn, and at last the bright windows of the ballroom were hidden behind the trees. Sir Patrick’s perfumed gardens enfolded them. Voices still drifted out from the long, lit windows of his house. It was as if they had never been away.
Instead of going back to the bench where she had been seated when Wiki had found her, Madame de Roquefeuille dropped to the grass on a slope that overlooked a bed of roses. Though the flowers were lost in the dark, Wiki could smell their heady scent as he took off his jacket and spread it on the ground. “Sit on this,” he said. “You’ll get grass stains on your dress.”
“And ruin my reputation?”
“I was thinking about my reputation.”
She laughed again, and shifted to sit on the coat. Then she saw the mere tucked into the back of his belt, and said, “What’s that?”
He showed it to her, and sat down on the grass with the mere in his hands, and told her about it.
She listened carefully. “And the lieutenant gave it to you—just like that?”
“He—at long last, he understood its importance. He doesn’t know as much about my people as he thinks he does,” Wiki added.
“So what are you going to do with it?”
“I must return it to its rightful owners.”
“But won’t that be very dangerous?”
“I’ll have to talk very fast,” he agreed.
She was silent a long moment, and then looked sideways at him with her characteristic twinkle, and said, “You won’t let me hold it, I suppose.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I am certain that women are commonplace—noa.”
He was startled by her astuteness. “How did you guess?”
“Because I am very sure that men are tapu.”
He laughed, and shook his head, but confessed, “You’re right.”
“And you have priests to make sure that men and women not only know their rightful places, but keep them, too. What do you call them, the priests?”
“Tohunga.”
“And these men, the tohunga, what would they say about a man who laid his tapu head in a woman’s noa lap?”
He was surprised into another laugh. “I don’t like to even think about it.”
“Well, I dare you to do it.” Her expression was full of mischief. “There are no tohunga here, you know.”
It was a completely irresistible challenge. Without another word, Wiki swung around, and then lay down with his head in her lap. Then he wriggled and eased himself into a comfortable position. She was too slender to make a good pillow, but it was very pleasant to recline there on the cool grass, his long legs crossed at the ankle, and the mere a smooth weight on his chest, held with both loose hands. He turned his face into the cradle of her abdomen and closed his eyes and breathed in, enfolded in her scent.
She said, sounding insulted, “Are you going to sleep?”
“M’m,” he said.
Then he felt her hands in his hair, playing with the loose strands, tugging at the ribbon and the braid. He opened his eyes, and ordered, “Stop that.”
“Because it is forbidden?”
“Because it takes a devil of a time to get it tidy again.”
“Tell the truth,” she said. “You didn’t braid it yourself.”
“How did you guess?”
“Because a woman can always tell. So who was it who fixed your hair?”
“Sua. He’s Samoan. One of my shipmates.”
“Is he of high rank?”
“At home, he is of very high rank, indeed. At sea, he is just a seaman.”
“Would you let me braid your hair?”
Of course he would; at that moment Wiki would have gladly allowed her any liberty with his body that she wanted. Instead of answering, though, he joked, “But I don’t even know your name.”
“Manuela Josefa Ramalho Vieira de Castro de Roquefeuille.” Then she added demurely, “You may call me Josefa.”
He sat up with a jerk, and swung round to stare at her, only dimly hearing the noise of the party breaking up as people started to take their leave.
He said, “Vieira de Castro was your father’s name?”
“It’s a very common name,” she said, rather defensively.
“So the coroner is related to you?”
“A distant cousin.”
“My God,” said Wiki, and stared at her very speculatively, indeed.
Nineteen
By first light next day, on board the Swallow all preparations were being made to sail. Having been warped out from the dock the afternoon before, she was moored in the stream, ready for the anchor to be raised. The two artists, Drayton and Agate, were on board, as were Pickering, and Dyes, Captain Coffin and Lieutenant Forsythe. However, Dr. Olliver and Captain Couthouy were conspicuous by their absence, not having come off from Enxados Island.
Finally, a boat was lowered, and Wiki was sent in it with instructions to hurry them up. It was a perfectly calm morning, the surface of the water glossed with low shafts of early sun. As the boat drew up to the stairs, the first ripples disturbed the serenity—the offshore breeze was arriving, Wiki saw, and knew that George would be chafing at the bit. To his relief, three men were waiting on the strand. However, while Couthouy was one of them, and the other two were surgeons, neither of the surgeons was Dr. Olliver. Instead, Wiki recognized Dr. Gilchrist, and quickly found that the other was Dr. Guillou, assistant surgeon on the Porpoise. Interest stirred immediately, and all at once he hoped the wind would be slow to rise.
Captain Couthouy, by contrast, had the fire of sharp impatience in his eye. “Goddamn the man,” he growled when Wiki inquired about Olliver. “He keeps on remembering another bit of dunnage he reckons he can’t manage without—and you know how silently he moves. He’s gone before I can grab him. Believe it or not, the last time I tracked him down, he was indulging in idle conversation with a marine about home remedies back in Maine, for God’s sake! And the marine was advising him that a sore throat could be cured by wrapping a dirty sock about the neck! Does the man have no sense of time at all?”
“He always turned up in good time for dinner,” said Wiki with a grin.
He sent Captain Couthouy off in the boat with instructions to the boat
’s crew to return as soon as he had been loaded onto the brig. As it rowed off, the two doctors turned to walk away, but Wiki quickly stepped in front of them.
“I’d be obliged if you’d answer a couple of questions,” he said.
Dr. Gilchrist hesitated, and then said, “In your capacity as sheriff?”
“Aye,” said Wiki, and hoped that he wouldn’t be asked to produce his letter of authority, because it was back in his chest on the Swallow.
“Questions about Grimes?”
Wiki nodded.
“But the case is over,” Gilchrist reminded him. “You were one of those under suspicion—you should be relieved, so why are you pursuing the matter?”
Ignoring this, Wiki said, “The coroner—Dr. Vieira de Castro—said something about tetanic convulsions. Did he mean lockjaw?”
“He did—but the similarities between tetanus and the convulsive attack that carried off Grimes are only superficial. If Dr. Vieira de Castro had been there at the time, he would not have entertained the theory for very long at all.”
“I wondered if Grimes could have been infected with lockjaw while he was still on board the Porpoise—I’ve heard that it can remain dormant for a number of weeks,” Wiki suggested, and both surgeons interrupted at once, Dr. Guillou declaring righteously, “He didn’t come to me with any open wounds,” and Dr. Gilchrist snapping, “I would have picked it up during my first examination of the patient, I assure you!”
Wiki looked at Dr. Guillou. “His state of health on board the Porpoise didn’t give you any concern?”
“He had a very severe cough, certainly, but he had an equally violent dislike of doctors,” Guillou said dryly. “I couldn’t persuade him to let me offer a word of advice, let alone give permission to examine him.”
“But you were surprised when you heard that he’d died?”
“You’re putting words into my mouth, young man. Doctors can only do their best; Providence is the ultimate decider.”
“Exactly,” said Dr. Gilchrist, and nodded pontifically.
“But weren’t you surprised when he expired so suddenly and violently?” said Wiki, remembering this man’s exclamation when he had first seen Grimes convulsing: “This man has been poisoned!”