The Secret Fate of Mary Watson Read Online Free Page A

slightly. ‘It’s habit. The world can’t pull the wool quite so easily over my eyes if I’m watching what everyone is knitting.’
    He guides me to an empty table next to a shaft of fermentinglight near a window. Dust motes have lazy fits inside it. I look at the clock on the wall: four thirty. His hand is light under my elbow. I quite like the sensation.
    ‘Interesting that you think the world has a special balaclava with no eyeholes just for you,’ he says, laughing and indicates a stool. ‘What will you drink? They tell me a shot of absinthe can lead to high levels of enlightenment.’
    ‘I think I’ll stick to my lowland deductions rather than risk madness,’ I say. ‘Ginger ale, thank you.’
    Percy heads off to the bar for our drinks. I sit on the stool and look around. Blackbeard catches my eye and nods.
    I’m not sure what mischief is in me, but I stand and walk over to his table. The man he’s speaking with sees my approach and sits back abruptly, as though someone has hit him. Blackbeard’s hooded expression doesn’t change.
    ‘Mary Oxnam.’ I offer my hand. ‘I just thought I’d introduce myself.’
    Blackbeard looks down at the offending object on the end of my arm and, for a moment, I think he won’t take it. But finally he lifts a long, black sleeve and touches my fingers with his own.
    ‘Samuel Roberts,’ he says. His voice is low and deep, as self-contained as the rest of him. Like something long settled on the seabed, undisturbed by currents or surface ripples. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
    I’m determined not to lower my eyes in submission, but the effort is considerable. He apparently never blinks.
    ‘Interesting poker game, wasn’t it?’ I comment.
    He doesn’t answer. His face is a mask. After a few long seconds, there’s nothing to do but turn and walk away. I take two steps, and his deep voice taps me on the shoulder.
    ‘You’ve a sharp eye.’
    I turn slowly. ‘So have you.’
    The man with him flinches — on my behalf, no doubt. Apparently I deserve compassion for my ignorance of beast-in-lair protocols.
    Samuel Roberts makes an odd sound. Of amusement, I assume, but it’s hard to tell. Acoustics on the seabed are somewhat distorted. It could be just a shifting of sand in his throat.
    I walk away for good this time, satisfied with the exchange. He knows there is at least one person in the room who is not frightened of him.
     
    Percy stands stock-still near our little table, two drinks in hand. I ignore the thunder brewing on his forehead and sit.
    He puts the drinks down, reaches into his shirt pocket for his pipe and a plug of tobacco. He tamps the leaf into the bowl, inspects it, puts the stem to his mouth, then lifts his eyes again.
    ‘How do you know the Captain?’ he asks.
    ‘I don’t know him. But the way everyone was reacting to him upstairs, he’s obviously someone important. I wanted to meet him. That’s all.’
    There’s a small flare, then a wet, popping sound as he draws in. A smell of plums on the turn and splinters reaches my nose. He shakes the match out and drops it on the table. He’s looking at his drink, not me.
    ‘I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,’ I say. ‘Who is he?’
    Percy takes the pipe out of his mouth and inspects it. ‘I thought you said you introduced yourself. Didn’t he respond in kind?’
    ‘I know his name. But who is he? What’s the nature of the kingdom he lords it over?’
    Smoke escapes in a small worm from the corner of his mouth. He takes a swallow of beer.
    My foot is tapping the floor and it takes an act of will to stop it. Suddenly, I’m excited again. And wary. Without meaning to, I’ve managed to start a conversation with people who have real money. One of them owes me a favour. Time to be careful. And clever.
    ‘Samuel Roberts is a steamer captain. Out of Townsville.’
    ‘Oh? What cargo does he carry?’
    ‘Back in the heyday of the gold rush, prospectors and their packhorses to