‘Because I owed him; because I gave him my word that I’d help him with his research; because he helped me when no one else would. I suppose it’s what families do.’ As he said this, he wondered whether Felix regarded Jo as family or not.
She studied his expression for a short while. ‘You have a son who adores you. I should know. You must have done something right.’
That made him smile. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to show his gratitude, but did nothing in case she misunderstood his gesture.
The entrance to the West India Dock was heavily guarded, and when Pyke tried to pass himself off first as a docker and then as a warehouseman, he was rebuffed and told to ‘get lost’. When he tried a second time, about half an hour later, the foreman was summoned and Pyke had to retreat to a nearby side street to plan a new means of gaining entry. He had heard two stevedores chatting about the Island Queen — which was apparently still in the dock — and this snippet of information made Pyke double his efforts to find a way into the premises.
The fifteen-foot brick wall that ran around the perimeter was too high to scale, at least without drawing attention to himself, which left the river as the only remaining route. Half an hour later, Pyke found a waterman sitting in his wooden skiff near Limehouse and he told the man he’d pay him a crown if he rowed downriver as far as the entrance to the West India’s export dock.
It was a cool, clear morning and the murky brown water of the Thames was dappled with rays of sunlight so that it almost looked attractive. The gnarled waterman wasn’t interested in having a conversation and rowed in silence, apart from the occasional grunt, leaving Pyke to enjoy the sensation of being out on the river, the sound of choppy water slapping hard against the skiff’s wooden hull. Above them, seagulls glided and swooped in the sky, their squawks punctuating the sound of the oars moving through the water.
It took the waterman the best part of an hour to row as far as the outer entrance to the docks and, once there, Pyke had to pay the man his crown, and then another half-crown, to tie up the skiff and wait for him. From there, his route into the dock was unimpeded, and he found the Island Queen without any difficulty. A gang of stevedores was busy transferring a collection of wooden crates stacked up on the quayside down into the ship’s belly. This was how the system worked, Pyke thought as he watched them: you plundered another country’s resources, shipped whatever you could lay your hands on — coffee, sugar, rum, teak — back to the mother country and then sent those same ships back to the colonies packed with overpriced goods for the people there to buy.
One of the stevedores pointed out the ship’s captain, McQuillan, and when Pyke met him on deck, he was inspecting the rigging on the port side of the vessel.
‘They told me you were the captain of this ship.’
‘Aye, they told you right.’ McQuillan put his hands up to his eyes to protect them from the sun. He was a disconcertingly short man with a wobbling chin that disappeared into the folds of fat under his neck.
‘Belfast,’ Pyke said.
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re originally from Belfast, aren’t you?’
‘So I am.’ McQuillan stopped what he was doing and looked at Pyke. ‘How in God’s name did ye know that?’
‘I was there about ten years ago. It’s not a brogue you can easily forget.’
‘People here in London often mistake me for a Scotsman. No one’s ever guessed I’m from Belfast.’
‘Am I right in thinking you docked here on about the twenty-third of last month?’
‘The twenty-fourth.’ McQuillan glanced up at the sky. ‘And if this breeze holds, we’ll be sailing tomorrow or the day after.’
‘Back to the West Indies?’
‘Jamaica.’ Lines appeared on his forehead. ‘Mind if I ask why you’re so interested in my ship?’
‘I’m interested in one or possibly two passengers you brought with you from Jamaica. Mary Edgar and Arthur Sobers.’ He noted the lines in the captain’s forehead deepen. ‘I can tell from your reaction you know who I’m talking about.’
‘I’m sorry?’ McQuillan said, squinting.
‘Mary Edgar and Arthur Sobers. She’s a mulatto, he’s black.’
‘Am I supposed to know them?’
‘I suspect you’ve been warned about speaking about them.’ When McQuillan didn’t say anything, Pyke added, ‘Was it Rowbottom who approached you, by any chance? You see, he’s already told me everything he knows so I don’t think he’d mind if you talked to me.’
‘And why would he do that?’ McQuillan asked cautiously.
‘Because I held a knife to his throat and told him that unless he did, I’d slit it.’ It was gamble, telling him this, but Pyke didn’t think that a seafaring man like McQuillan would have much time for Rowbottom.
For a while, McQuillan stared at him, as if trying to make sense of what he’d said, but then, all of a sudden, he broke into a loud laugh. ‘I’d like to have seen that, surely I would.’ Then he seemed to remember his instructions and his eyes glazed over. ‘So what is it you want to know?’
‘Did Rowbottom ever tell you why you weren’t supposed to talk to anyone about Mary Edgar or Arthur Sobers?’
The captain shook his head.
‘Mary Edgar’s dead. She was murdered, strangled. Her body was found a few days ago near the Ratcliff Highway.’
From his reaction, Pyke could tell this was news to McQuillan. It was as though the wind had been kicked from his stomach.
‘Aye, she came with us from Falmouth,’ he said eventually. ‘Her and the other fellow, Sobers.’
‘Why? I mean, what reason did they have for wanting to come to London?’
McQuillan shrugged. ‘She didn’t say and I didn’t ask her.’ He waited for a moment and added, ‘I was told by an attorney in Falmouth, Michael Pemberton, to look after her and keep my crew away from her. I got the impression from him that she was spoken for, if you know what I mean.’
‘But not by Pemberton?’
McQuillan just shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘And Sobers?’
‘What about him?’
‘How well did they seem to know each other?’
McQuillan considered this. ‘They knew one another, that’s for sure, but I wouldn’t say they were lovers. They didn’t share a cabin. In spite of his size, he seemed in awe of her. He deferred to her, rather than the other way around.’
‘What else can you tell me?’
The captain sighed. ‘Not a great deal. Like I said, they didn’t reveal too much. I didn’t ask. I was glad to have him onboard, though. He was strong and willing to work.’
‘And her?’
McQuillan didn’t answer him immediately. ‘Mind if I speak bluntly?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘To be honest, I couldn’t work her out. Most of the time, she’d keep herself to herself. No trouble at all. But with a little rum in her, she was a different person.’
‘What kind of person?’
‘Devious, I’d say. Reckoned she had special powers.’ He paused. ‘There’s an old slave religion…’
‘Obeah,’ Pyke said, interrupting.
‘You’ve heard of it?’ McQuillan seemed surprised.
‘It’s a kind of witchcraft.’
The captain nodded. ‘She reckoned she could commune with spirits. I didn’t believe her for a second but this fellow, Sobers, he was terrified of her.’ He licked his lips. ‘I didn’t mind it, just the two of them chanting away. But then some of the crew started to consult her, about old lovers they wanted her to curse, that kind of thing, so I had to put my foot down.’
‘And how did she respond?’
‘She’d just mimic my voice and laugh in my face. She was a good mimic, I’ll say that for her.’ McQuillan waited for a moment. ‘She was educated, all right, and a lot of the time she was perfectly fine. But she was a tough one, that’s for sure. I’d say she knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it, too.’
‘Was there anyone on the ship apart from Sobers she became friendly with?’ If one of the crew had developed an unhealthy interest in her, it was possible they might have followed her into the city.