The Detective and the Devil (25 page)

‘Husband, this is Ken, and his burly companion is named Hippo, though not to his mother. Ken here will take us to a good place to stay.’

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, mister,’ said Ken, somewhat regally. ‘And what brings you to St Helena?’

She raised a warning eyebrow. Charles smiled in return. After weeks at sea, weeks in which they had spoken only in their cabin and he had spent a good deal of time working as a sailor while she
watched and conversed with the steward, it felt like a reunion of sorts. In any case, he seemed to have guessed her meaning.

‘My name is Horton, young fellow,’ he said. ‘And my business here is none of yours.’

Ken said nothing else as they walked along James Town’s single street. The fact that they were doing so suggested that her husband’s story had been believed by the Governor.

‘I will be,’ he had said, somewhere north of the line as they had lain in their tiny cabin aboard the
Martha,
‘a botanist.’

She had laughed little enough since Rat’s death, but she laughed at that.

‘A botanist? Husband, you know as little of flowers as I know of whaling ships.’

He had smiled at her.

‘I have a letter from the President of the Royal Society that
says
I am a botanist, and that I am voyaging to St Helena to assess its suitability for a royal botanic
garden,’ he had said. ‘And besides, I have a botanist with me, do I not?’

She remembered an old conversation about the naming of plants, and she wondered at how their lives had changed. The former nurse and the former Naval lieutenant, carrying a letter from the most
famous scientific personage in England, pretending to be botanists.

But here they were, walking into James Town. Charles had not been arrested on the spot. Had a cat been set among the Governor’s pigeons? Or were they just another pair of do-gooders from
the North, come to transplant species as Bligh had once come to Otaheite?

Ken stopped them outside a plain-looking two-storey building. There was no indication that it was anything other than a normal residence. A man was sleeping on its doorstep. He snored loudly.
The house could have been a crofter’s summer residence: square, plain, its roof covered with what looked like a cross between brown mud and stone, dropped as if by gods from a Norfolk village
onto this strange lonely island.

Its only notable feature was the man sleeping on the ground in front of its door, and the name of the house, which was painted on an old piece of wood nailed to its gate.

The man was dressed plainly, in cotton breeches and a white shirt. He wore his dark hair long and tied in a plait at his neck. There was something politely piratical about him. He could have
been a sailor or a stevedore, and he snored as loudly as a pig.

The care taken in the sign was in stark contrast to the discombobulated figure snoring below it. The wood had been smoothed at the edges and corners, and the house’s name was painted in
careful, elegant letters: ‘Castle of Otranto’.

‘Delightful!’ exclaimed Abigail.

‘What is?’ replied Charles.

‘You do not recognise the reference in the name?’

‘I do not.’

‘
The Castle of Otranto
is a book by Horace Walpole. It is a favourite of mine.’

‘Is it about natural philosophy?’

‘No, of course it isn’t. It is a novel.’

‘Ah. A long book about things that never happened.’

Abigail glared at him.

‘This is the place?’ Charles said, doubtfully, to Ken.

‘Aye – that’s Seale, there, a-lying on the ground. He keeps a room. Now, mister. As to payment
.
’

Horton took out a leather purse. He fished out a shilling and handed it over. Ken gawped at it and looked back at Horton with new-found respect.

‘There’s more for you, lad. If you help me. Now you have friends?’

‘Friends?’

‘Other boys. Like Hippo here. Though perhaps with more . . . understanding.’

‘Yes. There are others.’

‘Well then. Keep an eye out for me, here and about James Town. There may be errands I need running.’

Ken looked at him carefully.

‘Well, now,’ he said. ‘I’ll consider it, mister. I will consider it. But you’re somewhat mysterious, you are.’ He put the coin in his pocket.
‘We’ll see, shall we? Come, Hippo.’

And with that strange little speech, the boys made their way back down into James Town.

‘Your story, husband?’ she said. Charles watched the boys walking away.

‘My story was believed, I think.’ He looked at her. ‘The Governor was surprised, but Sir Joseph’s letter carried weight and was well composed. I gained the impression
that the Governor is expecting a great change in the island’s fortunes – as if its status was shortly to be changed. How or why I do not know. But what will be will be. Our story means
we have no need to creep around like footpads. This is an island. No one will escape it until a ship comes. Captain Burroughs will, I am sure, soon know of our arrival.’

‘How will he respond?’

‘I have no idea. We are, as it were, locked into a cage with the creature we are pursuing. So we may have to bring the game to him. Who knows? Perhaps he already has his little
spies.’ Another look at the boys, then Charles turned towards the house.

‘Now, let us see about this Castle of yours.’

Charles knelt down and shook the man who was sleeping at the door by the shoulder.

‘Hello? Hello?’

The man sat up and spluttered slightly. He smelled strongly of liquor, and as he stood Abigail saw he was hopelessly intoxicated. Turning to the door he banged on it with his fists.

‘Eliza! Eliza! Let me in, I say!’

A muffled woman’s voice shouted back from within the house. He turned back to Horton and Abigail.

‘One kiss! One bloody kiss! And now see!’

He turned to bang on the door again. His transition from sleeping drunk to angry drunk had been sudden and violent, and Charles looked to be about to pull him away when the door opened and water
was violently ejected from within, all over the man and all over Charles.

With a roar, the man plunged into the house, pursued by Charles, who grabbed for his waistcoat but could do no more than slow him down. Abigail followed them both inside.

The door gave onto a small parlour which was surprisingly dark after the bleached-white sunshine of the street. But it was also cool. A young woman in a dirty muslin dress stood in the middle of
the room holding an earthenware jug, the water from which now dripped down the front of Charles and the owner of the house.

‘Monstrous creature!’ shouted the man. ‘How dare you take occupation of my residence so?’

‘I saw you! I bloody saw you!’

‘It was a solitary kiss! A single solitary kiss! Can a widower not kiss a girl?’

The woman threw the jug at him, and he ducked, and Charles swerved away, and the thing smashed into the wall and was destroyed. The woman followed its trajectory, slapping the man in the face as
she left, and exited without giving Charles or Abigail even a glance.

The man collapsed with a half-roared sigh into an ancient chair. He looked about to fall asleep when he noticed them.

‘Who in the name of God are you?’

‘My name is Horton. I am just arrived on the island. This is my wife.’

‘Well, you appear to be standing in my house. Would you please make yourself scarce? And close the door behind you.’

And with that, he fell asleep.

They talked about finding another room, but Charles argued they should wait until the man awoke again. ‘He spoke with the drink before,’ he said. ‘He may
think differently. All we need is a room, and this place is pleasant enough.’

For herself, she was happy to find out more about this man and his oddly named house. To find a dwelling with such a name as the Castle of Otranto out here on the rim of the known world and not
to investigate its owner would be drearily complacent.

The man slept for an hour, no more. When he woke, he saw the two of them sitting in chairs looking at him.

‘Who in God’s name are you?’ he asked, for the second time.

‘My name is Horton,’ said Charles. ‘We seek a room to lodge in for a fortnight, no more.’

‘Didn’t I tell you to clear off?’

‘You told us so, yes. And yet here we are.’

The man blinked, and made as if to stand. But Abigail got up first and passed him a cupful of the clear water she’d taken from a jug in the little kitchen. She’d tasted the water
– it was the coldest, sweetest liquid ever to have passed her lips. It must have made its way down from those mountains in the island’s interior.

He looked at her as he took the cup, and she smiled, and despite what must be the beginnings of an enormous hangover, he smiled back, and drank with relief.

He was young, tall and well built. He needed to shave. Despite his drink and his incipient headache, he looked astonishingly healthy.

He drained the cup, closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

‘What happened to Eliza?’ he said.

‘She left,’ said Abigail. ‘In something of a hurry.’

‘Dammit. No one’s secrets are truly secret on this bloody island.’ He looked at her again. ‘My apologies, ma’am.’

‘No apology is necessary, sir.’

‘One should not speak thus in front of one such as thee,’ the man said, somewhat wolfishly. Despite her husband’s presence in the room he seemed unembarrassed to talk so. He
was a man with an easy way with women, it seemed.

‘We seem to have interrupted a terrible disagreement,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid the matter of a room is an urgent one to us. Can you accommodate us?’

He smiled at her, and then he frowned.

‘Your name’s Horton?’

‘That’s right,’ said Charles.

‘And your business on the island?’

Charles’s face did not change. It was odd, watching him lie so smoothly.

‘I am a botanist.’

‘A what?’

Charles did not quite know what to say to that, so Abigail replied for him.

‘My husband is an associate of the Royal Society, sir. He is an investigator of plant species and their uses and habitats.’

The man smiled at her.

‘And what, pray tell, good lady, is the
Royal Society
?’

For a moment, she did not know how to answer. The Society was such a part of her life in London that the question seemed extraordinary, as if he had asked her
what is the Thames?
But
then, why should a young man on the far side of the world know anything of the Royal Society?

‘It is a society appointed by the Crown to pursue natural philosophy and investigation,’ she said, smoothly. ‘For the benefit of King, country and mankind.’

‘Indeed? Then I am blessed by the presence of its representatives, am I not?’

‘Blessed, sir? I think not. We will have you classified and registered before the sun goes down.’

The man sat back in his chair smiling and rubbing the stubble on his cheek. Then he stood and went towards the kitchen. Before he got there, he turned to Charles.

‘Your wife is handsome and clever. There must be something about you. You may stay in my house.’

He went into the kitchen. Charles looked suddenly angry.

‘His tone is insulting,’ Charles said.

‘He meant no disrespect.’

‘One does not make so free with remarks about a man’s wife in London.’

‘He is not from London. We shall seek to adapt ourselves, as any creatures must when in a new environment.’

The man came back from the kitchen. ‘My name is Abigail, sir,’ she said. ‘Now, you have our names. Might we have yours?’

He looked at her while she spoke, and she saw that this man was a consumer of women as well as a charmer of them. His eyes twinkled with the crackle of male energy. She found herself liking him
enormously. So refreshing, this lack of manners.

‘My name is Seale, ma’am. Robert Francis Seale. I am the assistant storekeeper here, with the rank of Captain.’

‘And you are an admirer of Mr Horace Walpole?’ said Abigail.

‘Not I, madam.’

‘Your house has rather a striking name, Captain Seale.’

‘Yes, but it is not mine. My wife must have been an admirer of this Mr Walpole. I confess to not having read his works. I never did understand the reference.’

‘Forgive me, but your wife is deceased?’

‘Yes. She fell ill, soon after we were wed. Her name was Harriet.’

It was an odd little echo, the name Harriet. A reminder of Wapping, so many thousands of miles away, where John Harriott might already be dead.

Stop it
, she told herself, dismayed by the way her mind ran along such dark rails.

‘You have always lived on the island?’

‘My family has been here for some five generations. I was sent to school in England when my father died.’

‘To what part of England?’

‘Marlow. I chiefly remember the cold and the rain. I came back here eight years ago. I do my work, I drink my drink, and since I lost poor Harriet I make as free as I possibly can. It is a
lonely life, but not a terrible one.’

‘You know the island well?’

‘Better than anyone! I have these past eight years been charting it extensively; I have my own little boat to explore the shores. You won’t find better maps than mine, Horton. I
could show you some likely places for growing weeds.’

They made small idle chatter as the night came down, and grew comfortable with each other. Money was exchanged, and as the evening aged Abigail found herself cooking a meal for the two men, who
talked in the parlour. It felt good to her to be cooking again, after so many weeks and months of travelling, of eating poor food prepared by a steward who had cared little for taste. Making
something fresh and tasty was a positive pleasure.

Outside the window, it was night on the island. When she looked into the glass and saw her face reflected, there came a single moment of fear. Might someone be looking in at her, even now? Might
she move her face forward and look into the glass and see the eyes of someone looking back at her – the same someone who wanted her dead back in London? The same someone who had smashed in
Rat’s poor face with the poker from her own fire?