He raised his head toward me very slowly. His eyes were red with tears.
I realized at once what this was about, before he confessed.
“You’re a fool to think Belial wouldn’t do such a thing. But he did not. I did.” He closed his eyes and let out a sigh from deep in his chest. “Charlie. Damned Charlie saw me searching through the papers in Stevenson’s library, after I came across those original pages from Jekyll and Hyde. The damned dog was always sneaking up right behind us silent as Golgotha. You see how loyal the natives are to Stevenson. Charlie was likely to talk sooner or later, and Stevenson’s slowed pace with his book meant there was more and more time for Charlie to reveal something that could sabotage us. I had to do something.”
“You gave Charlie the mixture you gave me onboard the ship, didn’t you?”
He shook his head again. “No, a different one. Stronger. But still quite . . . well, harmless enough.”
He gestured weakly toward a square leather case in his trunk. I opened it to find several rows of glass vials of powders and oily liquids. “I wasn’t the first person you sedated, then.”
“That case accompanies me on the most precarious missions, and I was well trained by an apothecary who had assisted Kitten and some of the finest bookaneers of old. My preference is to leave this untouched, and I have concealed it from you in the past because I knew you would disapprove. But there are, on occasion, people who need to be safely removed or kept temporarily quiet on a mission. Never before have I had a problem with these. Harmless as a blank shot. You must have known; you must have at least guessed I had some methods out of your view. Didn’t you, Fergins?”
“Why is Charlie dead, if it’s all so harmless?”
As usual when pushed, Davenport shifted blame. “Those damned herbal leaves and ointments from the island the witch doctors were giving him. The combination of those tinctures with what I gave him just seemed to make him sicker and sicker at every turn of their so-called treatments. I merely wanted him out of the way until Stevenson was finished writing—I thought if nosy Charlie fell ill briefly, Stevenson might send him away to his home village for a couple of weeks to recover, or at least would think him confused if he mentioned anything about seeing me dipping into his papers. What should have happened is they left him to get better himself, without their potions. Those so-called doctors concluded that a devil spirit had entered his head through his ears. Damned savage fools, this whole island is full of damned fools who never so much as laid their hands on a book!”
I had not seen him so distraught since Kitten’s disappearance. I suppose I should have offered words of comfort, some wisdom of an older friend that could assuage his mind from the torment it inflicted on itself. But I could only think of poor, kindhearted Charlie, bound by sheets and straps, his hands and legs trembling uncontrollably, his oncoming death chilling his blood and ours. My thoughts then turned to the black dots that had overtaken my vision, to the collapse that had stolen the life from me for nearly two days aboard the Colossus. Charlie was me, unluckier.
The bookaneer was in shambles on the floor of our hut, actually pulling out his hair in thick handfuls. I heard him call my name out before I exited, but I did not pause to show that I heard him. I withheld even that. I walked out of the hut, and kept walking along the bank of the stream, though after a quarter of an hour I had only the light of the moon, and I was hearing strange noises in the bush, which I hoped were just the tree frogs and crickets. There was such a strong wind my spectacles were pinned hard against my face and filling with dust. I took them off and I closed my eyes, the soothing breath of the stream becoming the roar of the Thames, then our little winding stream again. Coming from nowhere, leading nowhere. Never had I felt so pried away from home. My life, so it seemed, was somewhere on the other side, the stream impassable.
Even after I heard a rider approaching, it took me a moment to consider how unusual that was out here, especially as night fell. By the time I had gathered myself, I watched the slow approach of a medium-sized black mare I had seen around Vailima, and a blurred figure riding sidesaddle. I fished my spectacles out from between the buttons of my vest. There was a lamp hanging from the saddle of the horse. Fanny Stevenson wore mourning black.
I helped the short but muscular woman down. I braced myself for the confrontation that had been waiting to occur for several days now, though I still did not know what had prompted it. Had Charlie somehow told her about Davenport’s snooping while she was tending to him? Had she come to discover it through other means? Perhaps she had found something else: our true purpose in being in Samoa, or worse, Davenport’s negligence and its role in Charlie’s death.
There was no forthcoming recrimination, nor was there an explanation given for her appearing at our remote plot of land. Instead, she began peering around with her light with a surveyor’s concentration. Though my anger toward Davenport still burned high, part of me hoped he had heard the approach and would come out to save me from saying the wrong thing.
“I have not been here before, Mr. Fergins,” she finally said. “Do you have many birds flocking here? They say that the last dodo birds in the world are somewhere on these islands.”
“I have seen some ducks, and a pigeon or two. Dodos?”
“Yes. It would be delightful to possess the last dodo on earth for a pet, though our cats might have a different opinion.”
“Fanny, once again, if I may express to you my condolences about Charlie, and say how admirable your nursing of the poor fellow was.”
She remained distracted by the flora and fauna illuminated by her lamp. “The lima beans started coming up today in my garden, and some of the cantaloupes are ready. I brought one for you and Mr. Porter. Here.”