The Poisoned Island (34 page)

Horton is sent on to Soho Square while Harriott and Graham travel to Bow Street to interview the chaplain. He is by no means happy about this. Nott and Critchley hold the keys to the case, he believes. But Harriott is adamant that any available information at Sir Joseph Banks’s residence must be pursued, and quickly. Banks has given his permission, and another day cannot be allowed to pass without some action being taken on it. Horton, however, sees the truth. Harriott is snared on the story of Peter Nott as firmly as a trout on a hook, baited with the bright myths of the
Bounty
and William Bligh. There is no force in the world that will keep John Harriott from finding out more about that epic from two decades ago.

So Horton goes to inspect the papers relating to the
Solander
, in a foul temper and with his mind elsewhere. Normally, he cherishes these trips west, in the same way as a farmer’s wife might cherish a trip to Bath: they fascinate and enthrall
him, but also throw into relief the great qualities of his own part of town. They might knock you down and rob you in Wapping, but they wouldn’t smile while they were doing it.

Today, though, the brittle charms of the West End only serve to irritate him. His purpose seems random and redundant. Banks’s house sits in the corner of Soho Square, but he catches only glimpses of it as he is shown through to the room at the back. The house is wider than it looks; its relatively narrow frontage on the square widens out into a spacious, elegant interior which sprawls through to Dean Street at the rear. There, in a library surrounded by books and red cedar boxes, he meets Robert Brown, Sir Joseph’s librarian, who has made the
Solander
papers ready for him. Brown seems tired and distracted, and not a little resentful at Horton’s presence. It is clear to Horton that they’re not much used to officers of the law digging around in their archives at Soho Square. Neither man wants to be there: Horton’s head is full of the questions he would be asking Peter Nott even now, while Brown’s attention is barely on his visitor.

Brown shows Horton through to a little room off the library. In the room a small pile of ledgers and a box have been placed next to a nondescript table and chair. A window looks out onto a brick wall.
So, my prison for the day,
thinks Horton, and the frown which has framed his face since Wapping deepens. Brown seems unembarrassed by the spartan nature of the provision.

“This will be sufficient, I take it?” he asks. His eyes have dark shadows beneath them, as if he hasn’t slept.

“Yes, Mr. Brown. This will be adequate. I may spend the day in here should I need to?”

“That is my instruction. I will not be here; I am going to Kew today. But if you need anything you may ask the servants
for it. Though I imagine everything you require will be in here. There are no other papers.”

“Thank you. Sir Joseph was also going to arrange for me to talk to the
Solander
’s gardeners.”

“Was he? He has made no mention of it to me.”

“Will it be possible?”

“The gardeners are all living and working in Kew for at least another week. Can you get down to Kew?” This last question asked as if Horton were a child, not used to traveling alone.

“I can take a carriage there.”

“I will mention your request to the head gardener, and to Sir Joseph if I see him. When do you plan to travel?”

“Today, if possible. This afternoon.”

“Well, it is difficult, but not impossible. Shall we say four o’clock at Kew?”

“That will suit perfectly.”

“I shall tell them to expect you then, unless you hear otherwise.”

“My thanks to you, Mr. Brown.”

The librarian nods his austere Scottish nod, and makes to leave, but then stops.

“How many men have now died?” he asks.

“I believe six. All crewmen of the
Solander
.”

“Is such a slaughter . . .
usual
when a ship returns?”

“By no means, Mr. Brown. I have seen nothing the like of it.”

“And you have no sense as to what lies behind it?”

“At this stage, none whatsoever. Do you have any ideas?”

“Me? Why, no, none at all. But these new murders—six deaths is rather more than three.”

“It is indeed.”

“Were there any shared features between the deaths?”

“Why do you ask such a question, Mr. Brown?”

“I am a natural philosopher, Constable. A botanist. I am rather skilled at categorizing plants by viewing their affinities and appearance, and finding shared characteristics. It is perhaps a skill you could make use of.”

“Well then. Of the six men killed, five were found on their beds, as it were asleep. One had been strangled, the other four had had their throats cut. Their sea chests and kit bags had been searched but nothing of any apparent value was taken. Three of the dead men were marked by strange smiles upon their faces. It seems to me they were killed in their sleep, but it must have been a profound sleep indeed. And all five of these men were holding cups of one kind or another, at the bottom of which seemed to be the residue of some kind of tea. Mr. Brown, are you perfectly all right? You look like you should sit down.”

“No, I am . . . I am perfectly well. Please. Continue.”

“The final man seems to have been killed in a different way—strangled with a ligature rather than with hands, probably from behind, probably by someone entering the room behind him. He was standing, not lying upon a bed. He was, presumably, awake.”

“You have a suspect?”

“One, a Jeremiah Critchley, the ship’s carpenter. He seems to have been close to the other men, but he is not to be found at his lodgings, which leads us to suspect him even further. My fellow constables are searching for him now.”

“What do you know of this Critchley?”

“Very little. I will examine the papers here, and then I will speak to Captain Hopkins—once I have spoken to the gardeners in Kew.”

“Very well.”

“And how do you
classify
these deaths, Mr. Brown? Do they seem capable of ordering?”

“I see you have already ordered them, Constable. As you say, five of the deaths seem to belong to one genus, the sixth to another. I suppose your challenge is to work out which family of death the members of the genus of five belongs to.”

“I know little of such things. My wife is the botanist and natural philosopher in our household.”

“Ah, indeed? An enthusiast?”

“Yes, sir, a great enthusiast. Our rooms are filled with books on the subject.”

“She sounds like an interesting woman.”

“She is rather more than that, Mr. Brown.”

“Well then. I think you have all you need, and now I will leave you to your work. Good day, Constable.”

“One more thing, Mr. Brown. Would you have any idea what might have been in the cups the men had drunk from? Did something come back from Otaheite which might have caused them to sleep so deeply?”

The librarian’s austere Scottish face looks momentarily tortured, like a priest wrestling with a crisis of faith. Horton knows he is going to lie before he says anything.

“I cannot imagine what that might be, Constable.”

“There has been no discovery which might explain these matters?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. Now, I must really be leaving for Kew. I will alert them as to your plans. Good day, Constable.”

“Good day, Mr. Brown.”

*  *  *

Horton watches Brown leave and shut the door behind him. He then ponders the odd conversation he has just had. He
sets it in his mind and, as it were, walks around it, considering the way the light falls on each curve and line, trying to pick out the unity of a whole. Brown had seemed disturbed even before the conversation began, and shaken in particular by Horton’s description of the murder scenes. He had clearly lied about whatever had come back with the
Solander
, which opens up intriguing possibilities. And then that odd little interlude on
classification
, which seemed to speak to matters of which Horton knows little. He must talk to Abigail of it tonight.

He hadn’t seen her the previous evening. By the time he reached home it was after ten, and Abigail had gone to bed. She’d left him some food on the table in their little sitting room, and a carefully tended fire was still burning. He’d looked at the books on the shelves which surrounded the little room, and felt unaccountably sad at the sight of them; he associated Abigail’s intellectual interests with their failure to have children, as if she was filling an empty space which existed between them. She herself would have recognized such an explanation, but would not have mourned it as her husband does.

He’d looked in on her before sitting down to eat. She’d been lying on her side, her blond hair lying across her face and one hand placed on the pillow in front of her, the other arm lying along her side. He could see the shape of her legs beneath the bedcovers, and could hear the soft sound of her breathing, which soon, he knew, would break into bestial snores which she would not hear and did not believe in. For now she was at peace, and Horton felt a wave of fearful affection wash over him. He’d traded friends and shipmates for a life with this woman. The fear came from knowing he would do it again, and from knowing he still could not protect the life which lay before him. The head on that pillow was a fierce
and unique one, a hot and kind and brave and soft heart beat beneath that stretched out arm; and it was this being whom he’d placed in harm’s way only three days before. The horror of that moment sat with him like a pox of the soul, but it was only part of the horror that was always there, the horror that someday he would be parted from his wife and thus his humanity, and that horror rises up before him like a gigantic Pacific wave.

Life doesn’t have to be hard, Charles.

That’s what she would say. And she would smile. And he would not believe her.

*  *  *

The papers in Soho Square tell the story of the
Solander
, but in a fragmented and oddly half-baked fashion. It is clear to Horton that Sir Joseph Banks is not one for keeping detailed records; there are several bits of handwritten stuff in among the papers with a scribbled “Sir Jos—B” at the bottom of them, the handwriting almost illegible, the spelling execrable and the grammar worse. Sir Joseph is a man of words, but spoken ones. Writing clearly bores him to tears.

The papers confirm that Banks paid for the trip virtually out of his own pocket. The stated purpose of the voyage was to “botanise in Otaheite and take the oportunity to bring back as many Samples of the Island’s plants as posible, at a time of recent Uncertainty among Islanders which may lead to future Missions being impossible.” Horton knows little of Otaheite or the “recent Uncertainty,” but he suspects Harriott does. The old man keeps a close watch on Britain’s far-flung Empire, and reads newspapers and journals assiduously.

The ship itself was acquired in Whitby by agents working for
Banks. It seems that up to this point Banks had been running the project single-handedly, but now he had appointed Captain Hopkins to be in charge of things: to sail the collier, already renamed the
Solander
, round to the Thames for a fit-up, and to supervise the mission from that point on.

Hopkins had been recommended to Banks, it seems, by William Bligh; there is a letter from Bligh to Banks among the correspondence. Horton imagines the conversation now taking place in Bow Street between his magistrate and the man who claims to be the son of one of Bligh’s cursed mutineers. It is odd how these stories are winding around each other.

Government House, New South Wales, 1807

Sir Joseph,

It was a delight to receive your missive, and I was flattered to discover your willingness to promote my application to be a Fellow of that great Society which you preside over. My unbridled thanks for your attention and solicitude.

You described your great new Project to me, and asked me to consider if I knew of any captains who might suit the purpose of running it. A name has sprung to mind. He is Thomas Hopkins, a fine man who was made post captain some four years ago but who is not, to my understanding, currently in a position of command on any vessel. Hopkins is a capable man who rose through the ranks with great distinction, but there are dozens of such men. What makes Hopkins particularly appropriate for your voyage is, I think, his experience of Otaheite. He was a Lieutenant on the Pandora—the ship that was despatched to bring back those evil men who mutinied against me on that ship we both know so much about.

This recommendation may smack of obsession on my part, I realise—sending a man to you who was one of those instrumental in my revenge against those who rose up against me. But this would be a mistaken assumption. Hopkins is a man of parts, and can do the job you require of him with discretion, speed and ability. I commend him to you.

My thanks again for your generous support in my application.

I remain Yours

William Bligh, Governor

Horton feels an odd disjointed sense of something at this point; here he is, inside the nest of the great Sir Joseph Banks, searching through his letters and files like a French spy, furtive and hurried. And he is reading a letter from one figure of fame to another: Bligh to Banks. A letter sent, what is more, only months before Bligh himself was seized by a second rebellion, on land this time, and incarcerated for two years by his own soldiers. What would the correspondents from the
Chronicle
or the
Times
give for access to such a treasure trove?

Hopkins has never mentioned his previous voyage to Otaheite. The captain lives, he knows, in Putney, which is not that distant from Kew. Horton wonders if he has time to speak to the Kew gardeners and then to visit Putney on his way back to London. He believes he might.

He has been looking at the papers for two hours, and they have revealed little. He tidies up the desk and then leaves, shutting the door on the room and telling one of the servants that he has finished for the day, but to leave the papers in the room lest he need to investigate them further. Then he goes out into the square and hails a carriage to take him to Kew.