Beyond Sunrise (17 page)

Her smile faded slowly, leaving an intensely earnest expression in its place. "Does the Admiralty really mean to hang you?"

Jack met her gaze squarely. "They do indeed."

"For causing the sinking of your ship, and the death of all those men?"

"Yes."

"And did you do it?"

He looked away, his chest lifting as he sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Those men who died... they were my shipmates, my friends. And yet..." He paused, his jaw hardening. "I was glad to see them die. Yes."

She came to kneel on the hard, dirty floor beside him, her features pinched with an unexpected sadness. "They had just killed your wife, and your unborn child," she said softly, her hand coming out to touch his shoulder, briefly, before drifting away. "I can understand that you might in your grief have found some grim satisfaction in what happened to them." She paused. "But did you cause it?"

He swung his head sideways to look at her. "And if I said I didn't, would you believe me?"

She didn't even blink. "Yes."

"Not many would."

"Perhaps." She held his gaze steadily. "Did you deliberately sink that ship?"

He swallowed, as if he could somehow swallow the old, old pain that welled up from deep within him. "I was responsible, yes."

Reaching out, she touched her fingertips to his lips. "I didn't ask if you felt responsible. I asked if you deliberately sank that ship."

He could hear, in the distance, the sound of the surf crashing against the offshore reef, and the rustling of the fronds of the wind-ruffled palm trees edging the beach. Even here, in the Chinese trader's locked storeroom, he could smell the familiar, evocative fragrances of the South Pacific, of frangipani and gardenia and orange blossom, and, beneath it all, the briny breath of the sea. A strange, weightless kind of dizziness engulfed him, until along with the thrum of the surf and the whispering of the palms, he thought he heard, for one brief, heartbreaking moment, the sweet lilting of a woman's laughter, lost all too quickly in a roar of guns and the sucking, deadly cold rush of water.

"No," he said at last, his lips moving against her fingers. "No, I didn't."

Chapter Twenty-one

The store was run by a tall, incredibly-thin Chinese man named Johnny Amok. He had pale, parchmentlike skin and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses he wore perched on the end of his nose, and could have been anywhere between fifty and eighty in age. While a gendarme stood guard, it was Mr. Amok who had wielded the long iron key that admitted India to Jack Ryder's prison, and Mr. Amok who locked the thick door again when she left—all without uttering a word.

"I should like to make a few purchases," India said when the trader would have turned away.

He paused, then nodded silently, leaving her to follow as he shuffled up the muddy, hibiscus- and acacia-shaded path that led to the trading post's crooked veranda.

Inside, the shop itself was every bit as dusty and cluttered as the storeroom that served as Jack Ryder's prison. Looking around, India saw hemp bales and fencing wire, cook pots and tins of canned beef, all jumbled together in what appeared to be an untidy confusion. "First of all," she said, extracting from her pocket the list she had prepared, "I require a dress. No, not that sort," she added briskly when he held up a dark red, voluminous Mother Hubbard. They were ugly, shapeless things, Mother Hub-bards, developed by the missionaries to clothe the scandalous nudity previously practiced by island women. India had never considered herself vain, but she had her limits, and she drew the line at wearing a Mother Hubbard. "What else do you have?"

Mr. Amok regarded her unblinkingly for a moment, then turned away. After some minutes spent rummaging through an odd assortment of yellowing, smashed boxes, he held up a fine white linen shirt, meticulously worked with neat stitches and lit
tle
pleats down the front. It was beautiful—but it had never been intended for a woman.

"That's a man's shirt," India said.

Mr. Amok shrugged, and put it away. Then he turned to look at her expectantly, his hands folded into his long, flowing sleeves.

She stared back at him. "You don't have anything else?"

He shook his head.

India glanced at the next item on her list,
new pantalets,
and sighed. "How much is the shirt?"

She waited, expecting him—finally—to open his mouth and say something, but he didn't. Picking up a pencil, he scratched a figure on a slate lying on the counter, and shoved it toward her.

She'd come to the conclusion the man simply couldn't speak when, twenty minutes later, as he was wrapping her purchases up into a brown paper bundle, he suddenly peered at her over the rims of his glasses and said in perfect, Australian-accented English, "Are you Jack's friend?"

Caught in the process of opening her purse, India jerked in surprise, the movement sending a shower of coins to bounce and ring all over his counter. "Yes," she answered unhesitatingly. "Why?"

He regarded her steadily for a moment, his dark eyes unblinking. Then he answered her question with another question. "How good of a friend?"

Since the trading settlement of La Rochelle lacked anything even remotely resembling a rest house, India had no choice but to accept the commissioner and his wife's reluctantly offered hospitality in the French compound's bungalow.

"I would have lent you one of my own gowns to wear," said Madame Poirot, lingering in the doorway of the small guest room while a young, dark-skinned girl in a loose-flowing gown of brightly patterned cotton hauled in bucket after bucket of lukewarm water to fill the tin hip bath, "but you are so much bigger than I,
n'est pas?"

"N'est pas,"
agreed India, unwrapping her brown paper bundle. "Fortunately, Mr. Amok was able to furnish me with a shirt and sundry other necessities."

Françine Poirot crinkled her little nose as India spread her purchases over the white counterpane of the high, turned-post bed. "But it is a man's shirt. And—
alors!
A man's smallclothes."

"I noticed that."

"I suppose you do not mind," she said slowly, as if reaching to try to understand this enormous peculiarity, "since you already wear the trousers."

"It's a split skirt." Turning away, India emptied her knapsack of the few personal items she carried. "Not trousers."

"And do you wear it always, this split skirt?"

"Only when trekking through jungles, or in other rugged terrain."

"You do this often?" The shock in the other woman's voice was profound.

"It's how I make my living. I'm a travel writer."

"It is a strange thing for a woman to do, to willingly travel to such dangerous and unpleasant places."

India looked up. "I enjoy it."

Françine Poirot blinked at her. "You never married?"

"No."

She sighed in sympathy.
"C'est dommage."
It's a pity.

"Is it?" It struck India as a strange thing for the woman to say, given the obviously unhappy state of her own marriage. But then, for most women, an existence outside of marriage was unthinkable. They identified themselves by the man to whom they were attached, and so did society. "Tell me," India asked, "how do you happen to know Jack Ryder?"

A secret smile played around the other woman's lips. "My father is the commissioner in Tahiti, at Papeete. Jacques spent some months there once."

Taking the pins from her chignon, India let her hair fall about her shoulders, and set to work brushing it. "And did you find him a good lover?" she asked with studied casualness.

The boldness of the question brought a heat of embarrassment to India's cheeks, for she was not at all the sort of woman who normally indulged in discussions of this nature. But it was obvious Françine Poirot found nothing either untoward or awkward in the topic. As India watched, the other woman's lips parted, her half-closed eyes gleaming with the banked fires of a long-ago passion and remembered ecstasy. And India, her brush clutched forgotten in her hand, knew a swift, unexpectedly vicious stab of emotion that left her throat feeling tight and painful.

"Mon Dieu,"
said Françine on a soft, breathy sigh, her smile turning wistful as she wrapped her arms across her breasts and hugged herself. "I have never known another such as he."

India stared at the other woman, and found herself struggling to suppress all sorts of improper questions that threatened to come tumbling off the tip of her tongue.
What makes a man a good lover, as opposed to a bad one? How was Jack Ryder different from the other men you've known?
And,
How many have you known?
Instead she said, only a slight tremble in her voice betraying the extent of her agitation, "Then why didn't you marry him?"

Françine's peal of laughter was instantaneous and unforced. "Marry Jacques?
Mais non."
Her open hand flashed through the air in a very Gallic gesture of dismissal. "He is an adventurer, a renegade, a penniless fugitive.
Vraimant,
he is dashing and exciting, but one does not marry men such as this." She wrinkled her nose in that way she had that somehow managed to be both attractive and endearing, whereas India knew that if she tried it, she'd only succeed in looking as if she'd smelled something foul. "At the moment, Pierre's position is not so good, but he is his uncle's heir. One day, he will be rich."

Of course, thought India; in a world where a woman is identified by her husband, it made sense that the choice of that husband be guided largely by financial considerations.

"Besides," the Frenchwoman added, a wry smile touching her lips, "Jacques never asked me."

India met her gaze in the mirror. "Then why the duel?"

Françine jerked her shoulder in a dismissive gesture. "Pierre was jealous."

Pierre was obviously still jealous, India thought, but she didn't say it.

Françine tipped her head sideways, her expression growing thoughtful as she studied India. "I would not have thought it, but I see you are a romantic,
n'est pas?
You would marry for love."

"I have no intention of marrying at all," India said, jerking her brush through her hair in long, quick strokes.

"But only because you have not been in love, hmmm?"

India turned away to test the temperature of the water in the tub. "I don't believe in love."

"I think perhaps you do." Françine smiled. "If you did not, you would not have been shocked that I chose Pierre Poirot over Jacques."

India straightened slowly, her gaze caught by the view through the open window, where a slice of palm-fringed turquoise waters was just visible over the top of the palisade. As she watched, the westering sun struck the sails of a British naval corvette, the billowing sheets of white canvas turning to gold. In the corvette's wake came a sleek little schooner-rigged yacht, its masts stark against the tropical blue sky. The
Sea Hawk.

"It's the
Barracuda,"
said Françine, coming to stand beside India.

Her gaze still fixed on the sun-spangled lagoon below, India curled her hands around the rolled metal edge of the tub and gripped it tightly. A moment ago, she had been thinking about how different they were, she and this petite, beautiful, pragmatic Frenchwoman. Now she realized they were not so different, after all. They stood as if one, united by a mutual, unspoken concern for the man who lay on a filthy mattress in Johnny Amok's storeroom.

"Will they take him tonight?" India asked after a moment.

Françine Poirot shook her head. "Now. It must all at least be seen to be legal. In the morning, Pierre will hold an official hearing, decide that Jack is an 'undesirable element,' and order him expelled from Takaku—on the
Barracuda."

"It doesn't sound exactly legal."

Again, that Gallic shrug, although there was no missing now the distress that pinched the woman's pretty face. "It doesn't matter. No one will care as long as the correct forms are observed."

"I care," said India softly.

The other woman turned to regard India though wide, steady eyes.

"What is it?" India prompted when Françine Poirot said nothing.

But she only shook her head, and smiled an odd, sad smile. "I think it is something you must discover for yourself,
n'est pas?"

Confused, India pressed the other woman for an explanation. But she never did get one.

"It bothers you, doesn't it?" said Alex Preston, glancing sideways at his captain's hard, closed face. "Having the French take Ryder?"

Simon Granger kept his gaze on the back of the unkempt, potbellied gendarme who had been detailed to escort them from the island's French compound to Jack Ryder's makeshift prison. Alex had expected the commissioner himself to accompany them, but the handsome little Frenchman had declined. They had left him sitting alone in the darkened office of his bungalow, his frowning gaze fixed on a pair of dueling pistols that hung like crossed swords on the wall opposite his desk.

"Smacks a bit more of revenge than of justice, don't you think?" Granger said after a moment.

Alex shrugged. He didn't know exactly what had happened between the French commissioner's wife and Jack Ryder, but he'd heard and seen enough to figure most of it out. "Pierre Poirot's revenge, perhaps. But British justice."

"Yes, of course," said the captain, although Alex heard the unmistakable note of doubt still in his voice.

Located strategically between the island's two small churches, one Catholic and the other Protestant, the store run by the local Chinese trader stood at the far end of the row of half-dozen or so ramshackle plank and iron-roofed houses that formed the settlement of La Rochelle. Here and there, in the fork of an orange tree, or nailed to the side of a building, someone with a perverse sense of humor—presumably the departed Georges Lefevre—had stuck up a series of crudely lettered boards that read avenue de triomphe, or boulevard de ste. marie, although as far as Alex could tell, the muddy, rubbish-strewn bush track they followed was the only street in the place.

Detouring around the pig snorting through a pile of fly-buzzed garbage rotting in the hot sunshine, Alex followed the gendarme to the stout plank door of a stuccoed lean-to jutting out from the back of the store. There they were met by a tall, scholarly-looking Oriental man with a thin, lined face and a queue that hung limply in the moist, hot air.

"Donnez-moi la clef,"
growled the gendarme, his stubble-covered jaw jutting out in an ugly scowl as he took a menacing step toward the Chinese trader. Producing a long iron key from his sleeve, the trader opened the door's rusting old lock with an audible click, but whisked himself sideways when the gendarme made a grab for the key.

"Donnez-moi la clef,"
snapped the gendarme again, but the old man tucked the key once more up his sleeve and silently shook his head, his face set in enigmatic lines.

"Wait out here," Granger told the gendarme in that stern, slightly bored voice that so effectively intimidated every seaman and officer on the
Barracuda.

Responding instinctively to the tone of command, the gendarme pulled back his shoulders and clicked his heels as he stood aside to let them pass.
"Oui, monsieur."

After the glaring brilliance of the tropical light outside, the interior of the storeroom was dark, stifling. Giving his eyes time to adjust, Alex paused just inside the door- way and heard a glib, broadly accented voice say, "Do come in, gentlemen. I hope you won't take offense if I don't get up, but my head hurts like a sonofabitch."

Alex stared with interest at the man who sat on a filthy mattress thrown into one corner of the room, his back braced against the wall, his legs sprawled out in front of him. He was ragged and unshaven, his dark hair too long, and clumped with sweat and blood and dirt. More blood and dirt stained the ripped remnant of the shirt he wore hanging open halfway down his chest. He looked degenerate and disreputable; everything Alex had expected of such a man, and then some.

Simon Granger stopped a few feet shy of the mattress, his face unreadable as he stared down at his former friend. "I heard you'd resisted arrest."