The taunt in his voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kle to attention.

'What haven't I worked out, Ah Leung? I'm sure you'll be happy to tell me.'

He scratches his cheek with one of those long, dirty claws, just below the birthmark. 'I tell you one thing you don't know.'

'That's magnanimous of you. What is it?'

'You don't leave here soon, you die. And all because you trust the wrong people.' He shakes his head slowly in mock sympathy.

'You're a fine one to talk about trust. You're a murderer and a thief.'

His sudden laugh is full of phlegmy bullets. What's amused him? My naivety? My intuition tells me that he's not sophisticated enough to bluff.

But what is it that I haven't taken into account? Who have I trusted that I shouldn't have?

What have I left untended that might jump out and bite me?

Cooktown Summer, 1880

46.

Some towns never lose their talent

for lowering the spirits.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 4TH DECEMBER 1880.

Back to a muddy street with shops nudging each other along its mournful length. Back to sagging verandahs and stray dogs. Back to a heavy waterbag of air hanging under a sky as bristly as a horse's underbelly.

'Mary ...' Carrie bites her bottom lip. There's nothing more to say.

Her trunk is already on board. All of the money Percy gave me for the last drop is in a pouch stashed in her deepest pocket. She's about to walk the small gangway from sh.o.r.e to steamer. Nothing to do but stare at her for a long few seconds, then wrap my arms around her.

'I'll miss you,' I say. 'Be careful. Remember what I told you about Brisbane. Merry Christmas, Carrie.'

I watch her walk onto the gently swaying boat. She turns to stand at the railing.

'Write to me,' she yells. 'Let me know about the baby. Remember what you said. I love you, Mary.'

'Be careful, Carrie.' I say again, then mouth an 'I love you' back at her. I wave my handkerchief until my arm aches and the steamer is a tiny, puffing speck in the distance. Her smell still hangs on my blouse, mixed with my own sweat.

I make it halfway back up Charlotte Street, then, suddenly, outside the National Bank, I stop and take a deep breath. Something's clogging my throat.

'Mary?' It's Porter. He's been shopping in Walsh's Emporium and has tobacco and a new pipe clasped in the money clip of his three-fingered hand.

I fumble in my sleeve for my handkerchief. Wipe my face. 'Carrie's gone.'

He lifts his arm - to console me, perhaps - then decides I haven't invited his sympathy and lowers it again. He's looking clean and polished after a trip to the barber for a haircut and shave. And he's bought himself a pair of new Blucher boots from Madden's down near the wharf. There's also a bright red-checked kerchief around his throat.

'Are you off courting, then?' I look him up and down, smiling now, and he blushes in a slow tide from the neck upwards.

'No, not really. Who'd want an old sea dog like me?'

There's a flash of lightning over the water. It scatters a noisy flock of white c.o.c.katoos from the paperbarks. The sky's turning the dull colour and texture of cob cottages back in Cornwall: straw, bound with glutinous grey clay. For a second, I fancy I can smell the seaweed and waste pilchards used to fertilise the turnip fields. And almost see, in the distance of my mind's eye, the ever-shrinking patches of fertility separated by swathes of balding land, poisoned by a.r.s.enic from the silver mine.

Porter counts the seconds until the copper full of rocks tilts its thunderous load into the sky above us. 'Four miles off. I reckon it'll be a pelterer.'

The wind's picked up and I hold my fluttering hat down on my head. 'We'd better get inside. Where's Bob?'

'Nursing a tot in the Sea Wah.' His tone suggests it's more likely a pot than a tot. 'How are your hands now?'

'Healing. Thanks to you.'

I hold my free palm out to show him. He runs a finger lightly across its scarred surface, as though preparing to read my fortune. He looks up and into my face. His bottom lip twitches with something important to say. But when he breaks eye contact, it's clear he's thought better of it.

'Where are you off to?' he asks.

Another flash. The air vibrates. I pull my hand back, a little disturbed by his gentle touch.

'I thought I might make a call on my old friend Charley Boule.'

Charley ushers me into his stuffy office. I'm reminded of the last time I was in this room, just after Nicole's death. Porter's 'pelterer' arrives in an instant, carried by a huge wind flapping the wing of the awning outside. Horizontal rain peppers the window.

Charley sinks into his noisy leather chair and lights a cigar. 'How is the Lizard, cherie?' It's hard to hear him over the rain.

'Scaly and cold-blooded,' I reply, thinking of Bob, Percy and Ah Leung. 'I'm having a child.'

He lights the lamp on his desk. It accentuates the shine on his forehead and nose. 'Incroyable!' An amused grin. A flash of white teeth.

'I can a.s.sure you, even a plain woman's reproductive capacities can be quite serviceable.'

'You misunderstand me. It is not that ...'

He doesn't elaborate and, not particularly caring for his opinion on my pregnancy, I don't pursue it.

'How much do you know about that Chinese servant on the Lizard, Ah Leung?' I ask instead.

A small jerk of surprise? It's hard to tell with the lamp's flickering. But his smile has definitely gone. He leans back. The chair emits a slippery squeak. He blows a mouthful of smoke towards the ceiling.

'He once had a salon on the waterfront, non?' He picks up an onyx paperweight and rolls it in his palm, his thumb stroking its surface.

'I suspect it was he who strangled your girls,' I say.

'I think not.'

'How so? The murders stopped after he left, didn't they?'

'And also after you, Watson, Green and Fuller left. Not to mention that stupid boy Heccy Landers, who went back to Brisbane at the same time.'

'Ah Leung robbed and killed a Chinese shopkeeper. Did you know?'

'I did not,' he says smoothly. 'But what matter? The sooner they all kill each other, the sooner business in town will revert to the Europeans.'

I feel my frustration rising. 'I didn't suspect you would be interested in justice for the girls themselves, but I had imagined the idea of revenge would heat your French blood somewhat.'

'Touche. I am ready to combust at any moment. But where is your proof?'

I tell him about Ah Leung's joss with the ribbon around its neck.

'Pah. That is all you have?'

I pull in a quick breath. I felt so sure he would show an interest. Now I'm flummoxed as to where to take the conversation.

Charley saves me the trouble of responding. 'I am tired of this salon, anyway,' he says. 'Charley Boule is not much longer for this town.'

If in doubt, fall back on sarcasm.

'Perhaps you should return to Paris, Charley. A man of your ambition and patriotism needs a large canvas to work on.'

He looks up. 'Sans importance. A true Frenchman, he carries his country with him.'

I look out the window. The rain is still torrential, but vertical now. The wind's died. Charlotte Street is a muddy series of runnels that won't dry out completely for months. Someone's once white glove floats by in a mini river.

'Why did Heccy leave?' I ask.

'A family crisis I believe.'

'I saw Laura scrubbing floors at the Federal Hotel. Isn't she working here any more?'

'Non.'

His curt response brooks no further questioning. Which doesn't stop me.

'Why?'

He gives me a long look that I can't decipher. Then he shrugs. His eyes flit away.

Something occurs to me. Some way I might pierce his armour of indifference. I think of the afternoon I heard him arguing with Percy.

'How well do you know Percy Fuller, Charley?'

He doesn't miss a beat. 'About as well as you think you do, cherie.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

But he's giving me that blank look that tells me our grand reunion is over.

'If you will kindly excuse me. I am a busy man. Give my regards to the blacks on the Lizard.'

47.

The eleventh hour creeps up

on not-so-little feet.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 11TH DECEMBER 1880.

Bob has spent the week since Carrie left soaking up alcohol and the mercurial charms of the gambling table. As for me? I've kept to myself, lonely, but unwilling to seek out the kind of company that Cooktown keeps. At least on the Lizard, isolation is left to its own devices. Not crammed to bursting with false bonhomie.

Ten thirty at night. I've kicked my boots off, and sit on the lumpy bed with my back against the headboard. To rest, but not to sleep. Our tiny room at the Sea Wah Hotel is suitable for slumber only during the day, when the drunks and gamblers are recovering from the previous night's binge. Bob's down there somewhere, spending up big at the bar. He got a good price from Will Hartley for his slugs, enough that he doesn't seem worried about donating a substantial portion of his earnings to his new best mates, all better poker players than he is. Shouts, curses and the sound of breaking gla.s.s rise through the floor.

I bend my knee, bring one foot closer to my chest. It's swollen, either with the heat or pregnancy. The five toes poke out like little piggies on their way to market. I push deeply on the instep. All day I've been on my feet, trying to catch up with Percy. He disappeared soon after Carrie left, as soon as Bob handed him his share of the profits. No sign of him all week. I spent the whole morning on the dock while the packet steamer for Melbourne took on supplies and pa.s.sengers. Either Percy was already aboard and in no mood to talk to me, or he left Cooktown earlier in the week, having lied about his plans. Regardless, Captain Roberts will soon know I'm pregnant - if he doesn't already.

I start the same treatment on the other foot, relieving the pressure. Bob's planning to take us back to the Lizard the day after tomorrow, weather permitting. Ah Leung will no doubt be waiting on sh.o.r.e, ugly and painful as a stonefish when he realises I'm on board.

I chew on my bottom lip. For the tenth time, I think: perhaps I should telegraph Roberts. But what would I say to explain myself? I can't think of anything that would shift his mind if it's already made up. Truth is, I'm stuck. At an impa.s.se. My thoughts like anxious mice running around a closed wheel in my head.

It's still too hot to sleep, even if, by some miracle, the noise from downstairs abated. But I feel myself drifting away in a sort of semiconscious dream. I'm back home on the Lizard. In the rocking chair. The ocean growls and the wind is up. Heavy gusts disturb the kerosene lantern's flame, rattle the barred door. The rattling grows louder. Louder, and more regular. As if someone is tapping with a stick.

I open my eyes, back in the Sea Wah. Someone's knocking.