Run Afoul (26 page)

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!”

“How was I to know that the bromide—a perfectly apt and sensible prescription—was polluted with strychnine?”

“But not enough strychnine to kill him,” Wiki reminded him.

Dr. Gilchrist cleared his throat instead of answering, and then said gruffly, “The case has been heard, and the case has been dismissed, Mr. Coffin. Face it, young man, there's no case for you to investigate.”

Wiki said doggedly, “I was reliably informed that strychnine is a cumulative poison, so, logically, if he had taken that medicine long enough on a daily basis, even that small amount would have killed him.”

“Who told you that?” Dr. Guillou demanded.

Wiki said reluctantly, “Dr. Tweedie.” And, with that, the question he had forgotten to ask the apothecary jumped back into his mind. “How long does it take for a man to die from strychnine poisoning?” he asked, and thought how stupid he had been not to think of this question back then, because it was the obvious follow-up to the revelation that it took a rat a week to succumb.

There was a long pause, and Wiki noticed that the two surgeons carefully refrained from looking at each other. Instead, they contemplated the path, rocking back and forth on their heels, and he began to form the indelible impression that they did not have a notion of the answer.

“It depends on the size of the dose,” Dr. Guillou said at last.

“And the state of the patient's health,” added Dr. Gilchrist.

“Strychnine poisoning is very rare,” pronounced a third voice. They all looked up, startled, to find that Dr. Olliver had joined the group in his usual silent fashion. When he encountered Wiki's inquiring gaze, the fat surgeon smiled blandly, and Wiki wondered how long he had been there.

“Mr. Grimes did not display symptoms of any kind of poisoning at all when Dr. Olliver first consulted me,” said Dr. Gilchrist very firmly. “Except for the diarrhea, of course,” he added. “Which could have been caused by anything that he had consumed in the previous ten hours—anything whatsoever.”

And with that, the two ships' surgeons nodded with an air of finality, and walked away, leaving Wiki alone with Dr. Olliver.

*   *   *

The boat arrived, and after Dr. Olliver and his dunnage had been loaded, it was rowed briskly back to the brig. Wiki shoved Dr. Olliver up the side, then clambered up himself, onto a bustling deck where six seamen were already at their places at the windlass.

“Heave away!” cried Captain Rochester with an air of relief, and the windlass clacked around as the seaman heaved down on the handles. Inch by inch, the brig worked up to the anchor chain, which rattled up through the water until the last links were straight up and down. “Anchor a-peak—anchor a-trip,” called a man from the foredeck, and: “Avast the heaving!” shouted Captain Rochester. “Lay aloft and loose sail!”

Men swiftly sidled along the yards, whipping off gaskets, working on earrings and buntlines as the men on deck tailed onto sheets and halyards. “Heave!” cried the boatswain, and yards creaked and squealed as they rose.

Wiki, at the helm, watched the
Swallow
put on her wings. When all light sails save jibs were set, and the brig was held back only by the taut, short anchor chain, he heard the loud command, “Man the windlass!” Clack went the handles, and slowly, but surely, the
Swallow
began to gather way, plucking up her anchor as she went.

On the top of the hill of Enxados Island a few men cheered, and signals lifted on the flagstaff at the boat stairs, wishing the brig a profitable voyage and a safe return. Wiki kicked off his boots so that he could feel the sway of the deck beneath his bare feet. Then he tested the helm, watching the spread sails progress across the scud of the sky, and listening to the silky rush of the current against the coppered hull. They were off, he thought—at last they had sailed, complete with their cargo of scientifics and their equipment.

They were soon to get rid of them, too—at the Praia Grande beach, where Sir Patrick Palgrave was waiting impatiently on horseback, along with a string of horses and mules and a dozen retainers. He was a fine figure, straight-backed and elegant, his blunt-featured face so haughty with annoyance that he looked loftily patrician. There were some pointed remarks passed about unwarranted tardiness, during which everyone looked at Dr. Olliver, and the plump naturalist looked surprised that anyone should care about the passing of time when so much of the day still lay ahead. After that, the mules were meticulously loaded by sweating sailors and servants, while the scientifics shrilly supervised, and the sun became increasingly hot.

When it was finally all organized, another problem arose, because Dr. Olliver proved to be so inept on a horse. First, he had to be bodily hoisted into the saddle, and then he sat like an unyielding sack of wheat. His steed immediately realized that this was no master, and disliked the massive weight of its rider as well, so it impudently cavorted in frisky circles while the surgeon wobbled dangerously from side to side. He was hastily taken down, and put on board a huge, meaty mule, which looked annoyed but did consent to walk after a lot of persuasion and prodding.

At long last Wiki watched the procession trail off across the sloping meadows toward the woods. When the party had disappeared into the forest he and the sailors, hugely relieved, rowed back to the brig. Again the sails were set, and again the anchor was raised, and, with Wiki at the helm, the
Swallow
coasted out of the harbor on the breath of the balmy wind.

They passed between the two sentinel ports with a dip of the flag, and then steered due east, coasting along under short sail, and hugging the shore. The colors were intense, the bright sun striking gold off the cerulean of the sea, while beyond the beaches the forested hills rose rhythmically against a lapis lazuli sky in shades of dark green, interspersed with the glossy emerald of the occasional banana plantation. Once, Wiki saw the sublime white of an ancient convent on the top of a hill. Every now and then the scientific party could be glimpsed by anyone who wielded a spyglass. Inevitably, however, the brig drew ahead.