Luck is indeed the residue of design.

A pity design can be so easily tampered with.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 6TH DECEMBER 1879.

Sat.u.r.day night, nine thirty. French Charley's, like a sickening carousel, throbs with laughter and movement. I can't block it out, but neither can I focus on my playing. The morning's drama is too fresh. Dirty White Neckerchief's failure to make our rendezvous is still thumping the piano keys in my head. Riley Robinson, the town's oldest ex-prospector, slides into the chair next to me, cradling a beer. Seventy and toughened to ox-leather, he's the only man who comes to French Charley's just for the music - and only then, Charley says, because he's half-deaf and doddery. But Riley is neither deaf nor senile. He's a kindred spirit ... in an uncomfortable way. He sees and hears far more than most.

Usually, he minds his own business. But he clicks his tongue when I mention my walks with Bob Watson. It's true these outings are endurance events. I feel sorry for Bob's graceless attempts at courting. And slightly fond of him, in the abstract way one is fond of a lame duck trying to swim towards a piece of bread whilst going around in circles. I've amused myself during his broguish babble by making a study of his habits. The clink of his medicinal b.a.l.l.s, which have a language all their own. The way he holds his hat in front of his trousers, then rides the boundary of its brim with his fingers. How his scar twitches when he doesn't want to answer a question I've posed. The whole rusty machine of his social skills cranked up on each occasion by his nerves. He must, I tell Riley, be very lonely to put himself repeatedly through such an ordeal. That, or he is quite enamoured of me.

Riley runs a withered hand over his jaw. Puts the gla.s.s to his mouth. One beer lasts him all night. He swallows, and his wrinkled Adam's apple drops down the shaft of his throat like an underground miner with his protective hat on sideways. Comes back up again. He licks the foam off his upper lip.

'Dirty business, slugs,' he says. 'Men go slugging when there's nothing else left for them.'

My nostrils twitch. Someone in the darkened corner is smoking an opium pipe.

'Gold prospecting's hardly the employment of gentlemen,' I say. 'Besides, Bob and his partner own the station on the island. A business like that could expand in all sorts of ways: trochus, pearl sh.e.l.ling. One found pearl is worth a fortune.'

I don't know why I'm defending Bob's profession. It's not him I'm interested in, after all, but Percy and the island. At the moment Bob's just the closest I can get to either of them.

'Grand plans of expansion, eh? Does Watson know you've already mapped out his future?'

I let this pa.s.s. 'What do you know about him? Is he a murderer, a rapist, a pillager? In these parts that would add up to a run-of-the-mill chap.'

My tone is light, but Riley answers seriously.

'There was some talk of a woman a year back. Disappeared under strange circ.u.mstances. His woman, they say. Though he wouldn't want to claim her, I'm sure.'

I run a sweaty finger under the high collar of my blouse. There'll be a reddish ring left on my skin when I get undressed tonight, as though someone began to garrotte me and then lost interest.

'A wife? And what do you mean he wouldn't want to claim her?'

'Not exactly a wife. It was before he got that partner of his - Fuller. Before they took over the station from Bowman.'

He's avoiding my eyes. I wish the drugged air would do better work of loosening his tongue. Cause him to lay his reticence down on a soft divan and relax into mind-expanding gossip.

'Who's Bowman?' I ask, hoping to bring him back to the topic by roundabout means.

He takes another swallow of his beer. 'Bowman built the station, the curing shed and the house on the island. The woman went missing from the goldfields, though. Watson did some commercial travelling for a while - pencils, bamboo racks and what not. Ask Inspector Fitzgerald. Me, I keep my own counsel.'

'You must think Bob was involved in her disappearance or you wouldn't have mentioned it.'

He shrugs. 'Lots of things happen on the goldfields. And it's not my place to comment. It's something to do with the Lizard, though, I'll wager.'

'Lizard Island. What, is it cursed?' I laugh.

He pulls back a little more into his sh.e.l.l. 'All I know is bad things happen there. And the wild blacks are drawn to it, like a fingernail to a scab.'

'You said Bob's woman went missing from the goldfields. Is it a kind of moving curse, then?'

He ignores my dismissive tone. 'The past casts lengthy shadows.' He opens the lid of a metal spittoon, then clicks it shut again without using it. 'You more than anyone should know that.' His gaze is suddenly overbright and I turn away from it. 'Fancy the idea of hitching up with Watson, do you?' he asks.

'Don't be ridiculous, I hardly know the man!'

He rubs a grimy thumb over his gla.s.s. The condensation smears. 'He doesn't usually come to Cooktown so often. Reckon he must be sweet on you. If you don't feel the same way, you should let him know. Soon.'

'Yes, Riley.' I give him a sideways, dutiful-daughter glance.

One of the girls in a darkened corner shrieks like an exotic bird. The sound cuts through the chattering jungle of the dim room. I finish playing the last few notes of Chopin, then stop for my break. I stretch my fingers and pull the cover down. I love that moment when it slips so neatly into place. Like soothing a fractious animal; the bared set of key-teeth covered up by a polished brown lip. The background noise in the room is suddenly an octave louder.

'How did you meet Watson in the first place?' Riley asks.

'Charley introduced us.' I tilt my head over my shoulder to where le raconteur is in a deep and heavily gesticulated conversation with some harried-looking man who probably owes him money. Charley untangles himself long enough to frown at me, then look forcefully at the piano. I point to the clock on the wall in return.

Riley brings my attention back. 'What's that scheming so-and-so up to this time?'

'Who knows?'

He peers at me intently, the skin around his mouth tightening. 'You know, Mary, there are some things beyond even your cleverness.'

'Charley's not beyond me,' I say. 'I may not be able to glean the particulars of any given contrivance, but I know the way his mind works.' It helps to have had the example of a scheming father all my life. 'He's just a petty shyster,' I add, scratching the top of one foot with the other through my boot. 'Blasted mosquitos.'

'I'm not talking about Boule. Time will take care of him. He can't dodge the guillotine forever.'

His voice and eyes have boiled down to their essence. 'I have some money. Why don't you take it? Go home to your family.'

'Thank you, Riley, but home is backwards,' I tell him.

'What's wrong with that? Death's in the future.'

'Don't say that to a Cornish girl!'

'You still have time to back out,' he says.

'From what? Another walk?'

He sniffs audibly. 'I'm not as old or as foolish as you think. I watch and I listen. I'm like you in that way.'

I give him a smile and head for the door, through the breathless heat of too many bodies. On the verandah, I take a deep lungful of what pa.s.ses for cool night air in the tropics. Riley's a cagey old coot, but far too morbid. I pull the threads of his words from the velvet dark around me. Death? Not for me. Not now; not soon. And when it happens, it won't be Bob Watson or his island that will get the credit. Look at Cooktown. If ever a bone's had a target to point at! And I've managed to survive here.

9.

When your predecessors have all lost their heads

on the chopping block,

it's wise to heed the warning

of a scratchy throat.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson Something's changed in the bar when I come back from my break. No immediate sight or sound alerts me, rather it's my sixth sense tw.a.n.ging. I look up and realise what my intuition already knows. He's sitting alone in the corner, a fresh beer untouched on the table, his arms folded across his chest. Dressed in black.

Captain Roberts holds my eye. Fondles the pet of his beard.

I try to swallow, walk slowly to the piano. It's no good. I still feel his attention: through the material of my dress, between my shoulderblades, digging deeper, through skin and muscle, reaching the spine, making it vibrate like some ghastly xylophone. My fingers are full of stuffing. I lift the lid and sit, start playing automatically. I hear the music from a long way off. What does he want? What have I done?

After a few moments I realise I can't go on until I know. I take a deep breath, wipe my palms on my skirt, close the lid, turn, and meet his stare. His head kinks almost imperceptibly towards the door. He stands and stalks into the night. It's clear that I'm ordered to follow. Two men I've never seen before peel off the far wall and follow him out. Bodyguards?

I quickly scan the room. Charley's nowhere to be seen. Hiding in his office, probably, his usual obnoxious bravado headed down the nearest rabbit burrow. Heccy Landers is behind the bar, polishing a gla.s.s with a rag. He frowns as I walk past. I plaster on a smile so brittle it's a wonder my face doesn't crack. The worry deepens on his face.

'Ma-Ma-Mary?'

I put a hand up to still his question. Place one foot in front of the other until I'm through the door.

Outside, the air is warm and fragrant, the texture of talc. Voices bubble out from inside Charley's, breaking into faint fragments the further I move away from the safety of illumination, the security of a crowd.

Roberts steps into the alley adjacent to the salon. His two human guard dogs follow obediently, scanning the street as they move. They're watching me, too. I hurry to catch up, my heart a few gallops in front of me. The narrow corridor leads to the back of the Federal Hotel, where a door has been left open. A faint mulled-pear light shines from inside. Roberts's thugs take up position either side of the door, but not before peering over my head and down the alley. Roberts is walking up the stairs, not bothering to check if I'm following. It's an effort to lift my legs. At the top, he takes a lantern from its peg on the wall and steps into a small, dimly lit room. I follow him in.

Roberts positions the lantern on a pale wooden writing table near four tatty smoking chairs. Dead c.o.c.kroaches lie on their backs on the hearth of a disused fireplace. The air smells of dust, neglect and the wild, wet-paper stink of mouse droppings. A piece of flypaper dangles from one corner of the ceiling with a dozen desiccated victims stuck to it.

He chooses a chair facing the door; the dry leather breathes out noisily as he sinks into it. He lifts his big feet onto an upended crate. My eye fixes on his left boot. It will need to be resoled soon; there's a worn patch the size of a shilling at the ball. I remain standing, but he doesn't speak, doesn't gesture for me to sit.

'I wish you'd just get it over with,' I say finally.

He doesn't respond. Just steeples his forefingers, taps his lips. I glance back towards the door. He doesn't seem to mind if it stays open. I take that as a hopeful sign. But if he doesn't blame me for the morning's disconnect, then I don't know what purpose his silent stare would serve. He might be waiting for me to explain.

I meet his eye. 'Permission to speak freely?'

One dark brow rises minutely as he thinks about this. 'Permission granted.' There's a flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt deep in those black eyes. He's mocking me. 'Have a seat, Mary Oxnam.'

I sit. Carefully. In the chair furthest from him, back to the door. My mouth opens and all the nervous energy tumbles out. 'The man who is supposed to receive my messages - Dirty White Neckerchief. He wasn't at the dock this morning.'

'You mean Collins.' It isn't a question.

'n.o.body told me his name.'

'Do you always do that?'

'Do what?'

'Caricature people with nicknames?'

'Sometimes. At the poker game back in Brisbane, I did it to all of you. Charley Boule was Dandy. The older man who drank too much was Sideburns ... and so on. The man who pa.s.sed messages to Wilson was Cobweb because of a piece of web stuck to his head. I guess shoddy grooming turned out to be the least of his worries, didn't it?'

I didn't mean to add that last sentence. Not quite. I lean back in my seat. The stiff old leather squeaks.

'What name did you have for me?' he asks.

'Blackbeard.'

'Not original. But apt, I suppose.'

'Are you a pirate, Captain Roberts?'

'On occasion, when it's necessary.' This said without pause, and casually, as though I asked him if he was a member of the polo club. He threads those large fingers together on his lap. 'I know Collins wasn't there this morning. He's had an accident. He won't be your contact any more.'

'What sort of accident?' I can't not ask.

'A low branch knocked him off his horse, I believe. Act of G.o.d.' He pauses, watching me. Before I can think how to respond, he asks, 'What was the message you had for him?'

'China man not found replace. I think a question mark may have been intended after the last word. The grille didn't align perfectly.'

I'm not sure whether to believe him about Collins, but I don't have time to think about it now. If ever there was an occasion to keep my wits about me ...

'I see.' He stares into the fireplace.

Dare I say anything? As usual, my mouth decides before my brain has thought it over.