'I don't mean to interfere, but surely this reluctant Chinaman is not the only signaller you could get for Liz ... I mean, the island?'

Too late to pull back the word. Nowhere in the notes was Lizard Island specifically mentioned. And the Chinaman's role was only hinted at obliquely.

'There are many islands around here. What makes you suspect it is the Lizard?'

The voice is silky, non-threatening, but something about the stillness of his head is more alarming than if he'd yelled the words in my face. He's testing me. If I say the wrong thing now ...

'Charley Boule introduced me to Bob Watson. Charley thinks that if Bob and I get married and I go to live on Lizard Island, I might signal boats for him. His own smuggling operations no doubt require some such communication. I made it plain I'm not interested, of course,' I add hastily. 'But Bob and Charley put Lizard Island and its signalling hill in my head. And, of course, Percy works on the Lizard with Bob. So when an island and a signaller appeared in your notes, I put two and two together ...'

I'm trying to make it sound as though anyone would draw the same conclusion with the information at hand. But his eyes have hardened.

'It never occurred to you, I suppose, that it's not part of your job to consult your abacus?'

Roberts is attempting to stare me down. And succeeding.

'Back in Brisbane, I thought you'd make a good poker player,' he says. 'But you're too impetuous. You haven't quite got your timing right. Perhaps it's your age.'

I don't answer, just attempt to look chastened. I can't work out if I'm off the hook or on it.

'I'm not surprised Boule's approached you,' he continues. 'He's incapable of relinquishing short-term profit for long-term gain.'

Having just had my fingers burned, I don't dare fire him up with another question, but I find his comment puzzling. What long-term gain might Charley be missing?

Roberts pauses again, as if weighing the risk of explaining himself. Or of letting me wander around Cooktown with too much impetuosity at the tip of my tongue. His next words do nothing to clarify my position.

'As for the Chinaman, he's not hiding from us. There's a lynch mob of his own kind after him. He robbed and killed a Chow shopkeeper. He knows what will happen if they catch him. He'll be pinned by his ears to a tree for a few days, until they've agreed on a suitable punishment.'

'That's barbaric.'

Something snags in the back of my mind. A wanted poster I've seen plastered in a few shop windows. I didn't take much notice of the Chinaman's face, as it was in profile, but his raised hands left an impression. Veined and knotted, ugly fingers with long nails like chicken's feet. So that's why he had been so difficult to locate.

'It's nothing compared to what's meted out to thieves and murderers in China,' Roberts says. 'They behead them in the town square. Then the crowds dip their money in the blood as it gushes out of the neck. It's supposed to be lucky.'

'Depends on whether it's your head that's been disconnected, I'd think.'

My nerve is returning; I wouldn't have thought two minutes ago that I'd do anything but stare dumbly at him. But curiosity hasn't quite killed this cat ... so far, at least. I risk another one of my nine lives.

'Why would you want a man who's on the run to work for you on the Lizard?'

'What better reason for him to co-operate? He's delivered from vengeful compatriots and put in a safe haven in the middle of the ocean. It's not just that he can't escape. He can't even want to.'

'I see.' His last remark reminds me of my own situation. 'What am I to do now, Captain? Who do I pa.s.s the messages on to?'

He grabs his beard under his chin and tugs on it like a bell rope. 'That part of your job has come to an end. You can go back to the same surveillance work that occupied you when you first came to Cooktown.'

'So I'm being demoted?'

He scratches his cheek above the beard. 'Did you think you would rise through the ranks in measured increments and then end up with a nice fat pension? This is not the Civil Service.'

I feel my shoulders sink. He's right, of course. There's nothing civil about this business. And not many of his employees, I would imagine, need to worry about saving for their old age.

'I was hoping my loyalty might count for something,' I say.

'It does. There's a direct correlation between your loyalty and the state of your health.'

The sense of foreboding that started this morning with the absence of Dirty White Neckerchief, and reached a breaking point when Roberts appeared in French Charley's, is back. I know enough to see a lessening of my duties as a very bad sign indeed. Roberts and Percy will soon have their base on Lizard Island. The small-time intelligence I can supply from Cooktown will be of only peripheral interest to them. At best, I'll be ignored, left to languish, playing piano in a brothel. At worst, I'll outlive my usefulness altogether.

What are my options? Would they let me go now? Could I walk away? Even so, I'd only have enough money to get back to Brisbane, where I might live frugally for six months. Then, back to where I started. No prospects. No future.

I take a shuddery breath. I have to talk myself back into the game. I've risked so much, come so far. I'm still as good a player as any of them. My motto in Brisbane when talking to Percy comes back to me: may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I hold my sweaty hands together in front of me.

'Captain Roberts, what if I could position myself on Lizard Island? I could be your signaller.'

He's relaxed, not taking me seriously. 'And how exactly would you propose to do that? Get out the lampblack? Disguise yourself as one of the Kanaka crew on Watson's lugger? At least the Chinaman, if he ever materialises, will pa.s.s as a servant.'

'I told you that Charley Boule introduced me to Bob Watson. Bob's fond of me. More than fond. If I married him, we would live on Lizard Island. But not to signal for Charley; to signal for you. What could attract less suspicion than a dutiful wife, helpmeet to her husband in his sea-slug-fishing business?'

'You would go so far for mere money?'

'I'm not un-fond of Bob,' I say, a trifle defensively. 'And there's nothing mere about money to me. It means a new life. A new start. If I continue to prove my loyalty, that is. I a.s.sume it would be a well-paid position?'

'Oh, indeed. It's risky work. For which I naturally pay a generous stipend.'

'All the more reason, I would think, not to entrust such an important task to a nervous Chinaman who's stupid enough to murder a countryman in a much-too-public way.'

Roberts puts one finger to his temple. His black stare dares me to falter.

'What would you do when your job on the Lizard was finished?' he asks. 'Would you stay with Watson?'

'Would that matter to you?'

'Probably not. But if you mean to go and start this new life of yours, it would be an extra complication. You'd have an irate husband trying to track you down.'

I project as calm a demeanour as I can manage. 'You'll allow I don't let much get past me? Bob Watson has a chequered history with women. He would just chalk up the loss of another to experience, I think. One more disappointment to feel bitter about. How many sensible marriages are built on romance, anyway?'

I can feel the pulse beating at my temples. It's as though someone far older and more cynical is putting the words in my mouth. How could I possibly know how Bob would react if I left our hypothetical marriage? I hardly know the man. And what of me? Could I really accomplish such a charade? Could I live with Bob? Go to bed with him? That strange, two-sided face sweaty and intense above me ... Am I really setting the bar too high? Or am I perversely setting it too low? Maybe I've convinced myself that real contentment with a man is not the province of a homely girl like me, and I must orchestrate the future on my own terms. There's enough truth in this to make me feel squeamish.

I realise that Roberts has been talking and, for the first time since I met him, I haven't been hanging on every word. I must sustain a firm argument with this man, whether or not I'm convinced, myself. He'll see even the smallest hesitation, and discount me because of it.

'Marriage? I've never been locked up in that particular inst.i.tution, so I'm no expert,' he says. 'But it seems to me it's a fairly irrevocable step for a young girl like you.'

My quick wit dog-paddles frantically, trying to keep an inch ahead of him. 'On the contrary. Because I have few years behind me, I have many more before me. I may make any number of new starts in my lifetime.'

Silence descends, for perhaps five painful minutes. I don't allow myself to fidget. I resist the urge to jump in with further justifications. I do have time, however, to ungag my internal voice of caution and listen to its slightly hysterical opinion that my sane mind's been sent on a slow boat to China.

'It might work,' he allows finally. 'You certainly seem cold and logical enough.'

I don't mind logical. But cold? Hardly a compliment. And he should talk!

'It would certainly be a further test of that ingenuity you love to exercise,' he adds.

I open my mouth to thank him, then close it again. There's never a c.h.i.n.k in his armour, no place on that hard face or body for any softness to land. Besides, he hasn't really committed himself one way or the other.

He stands smoothly, with none of the awkwardness most people experience trying to lift themselves from a lounge chair, and walks over to a small window that looks out on the night.

I remember something then. And wonder if I'm not signing Charley Boule's death warrant with my next words.

'I must tell you, Captain, Charley has asked me to deliver some messages for him. He's at least partially aware of what you're doing. He knows that I gather information for you. I think he knew from the moment Percy recommended me as a piano player.'

'What are his messages about?'

His voice comes unsurprised from the shadows. He doesn't seem even slightly disturbed that Charley might have sniffed out the rudiments of his operation. That fact alone tells me that my intuition is right. French Charley's, as a base for gathering information, is fast outliving its usefulness to Roberts. And if I don't pursue this risky new bet, then so will I.

'I don't know. I've made it clear I've no intention of delivering the notes.'

'Go ahead, do what he asks. Just make a copy of any message he gives you and pa.s.s it on. To me, personally, when next I'm in town. Along with anything else you find ... significant. Boule is a gnat trying to pierce the hide of an elephant. I'll know if he causes any real trouble. I am, however, interested in any talk of further expeditions to New Guinea.'

'Percy mentioned that. But I haven't picked up on anything. Why would you want Charley to stay away from New Guinea?' There I go again. 'Sorry ...'

He walks back into the light and takes his seat again. Apparently the subject isn't especially delicate. His tone is light. 'The French are establishing themselves in the New Hebrides: buying up the best land from natives and Europeans alike. But it's the Germans who want New Guinea. This is a delicate time in European diplomacy. Disraeli's still in office, but word is that his time is over. The Grand Old Man will be prime minister again next year.' He lifts one booted foot and rests it on his knee. 'Gladstone is particularly reluctant to provoke German sensibilities, and England wants no part of New Guinea. But it's clear they'll be forced to intervene if - no, when - the Germans go too far. In the meantime, men like Boule are an accelerant. If they're allowed to collect the kindling and keep feeding the fire, that is.'

'But Charley's French, not German.'

'You must have gleaned something of his character by now.' His mouth twists slightly. 'Boule knows everything there is to know about whoring. Makes his decisions not out of patriotism so much as the proud tradition of selling himself to the highest bidder. The question then becomes: which of two undesirable clients will he lie down with in order to turn the most profit? He figures, quite rightly, that he'll be in a better position to exploit New Guinea if the Germans take control. England wouldn't tolerate his like.'

I digest this. It would explain Roberts's occasional 'pirating'. He is probably a privateer. German expansion into New Guinea would necessitate all sorts of maritime traffic, and the British flag would be unwelcome. A privateer could disrupt those activities without adverse political implication.

He draws a piece of paper from his pocket and holds it out to me. 'Fuller will be on the Lizard most of the time from now on. If something happens that requires our urgent attention, send a telegram to this address with the message: Your new saddle has just arrived.'

I take the paper and slip it into the pocket of my skirt.

'Otherwise, I'll see you next time I'm in town,' he says. 'Do you have anything else to tell me?'

'Only more about the French gnat, I'm afraid.'

I tell him about the Chinese junk some weeks back that docked with, so the rumour went, opium charcoal for the goldfields. It was well known that the Chinese diggers handed it out to the blacks to burn on their fires. Once they were addicted and docile, they could be bribed into ambushing European camps. What was new was that Charley had shown an unhealthy interest in the whole illicit venture, and I suspected he was somehow sponsoring the operation.

Roberts sighs deeply. 'Where's Fahey when you need him?'

'Organising another ball?'

He nods. It's a long-running joke in Cooktown, dragged out when Bartley Fahey, now the water police magistrate, pays no attention to what's going on at the docks. The original ball in question, given mainly for the benefit of the upper cla.s.ses on the hill behind Cooktown, was organised when Fahey held a position as sub-collector of customs. The size and grandeur of the event is still talked about; including the extravagance of shipping in tons of ice from Townsville for the occasion.

'Good enough,' Roberts says. 'You'd best get back to work.' He dismisses me with a curt nod.

There's nothing to do but leave. I think he's forgotten about Lizard Island, the signalling job, but when I'm almost at the door he delivers his last words on the subject.

'It's clear that you understand the further you go in this operation, the more money there is to be made. Have you considered, however, that the deeper your involvement, the more you have to lose?'

10.

Who is the puppeteer?

Who is the puppet?

Sometimes it's not quite clear

just who's pulling the strings.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 7TH DECEMBER 1879.

'You frightened the life out of me!'

The next night, I'm almost home from work, dodging mud puddles, when he steps out of the shadows in oversized boots. I recognise the warm conversation mints on his breath, but the battered old muleskin coat and cabbage-tree hat are unfamiliar. In the dark, the effect is sinister, his face almost hidden by the brim.

'You've put your trust in the wrong man.' His voice is a low growl.

The aftermath of a storm drips warm pencil-lengths from the eaves of the Federal Hotel. Gaslight catches his twitching hands.

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Fingers close around my wrist. 'You only think he's on your side.' His voice sounds older, more confident. Then I realise the habitual stammer is absent, as if he's drawing power from the anonymity of the dark. It's enough to give me pause.

'Who, Heccy? Who is it I can't trust?'

'He's killed before. He'd kill you now, if he thought he could get away with it.'