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'No thank you. I'd be grateful if you could tell us a little more about this Winston Sinclair. You see, we never knew this relative existed.'

Chuck Martin leaned back, took a metal tin from a drawer and a pipe from a rack. 'The truth is, neither did I until two weeks ago. The man was a poorist. He had no family that we're aware of. He lived alone on West Road in a one-room apartment. West Road is in Trench Town. Not even Jamaicans go there. The landlady found him dead in bed with an empty bottle of rum. She cleared his room and found the papers in a box with your father's name and address on it, and she brought it round here. That's all there is to tell.'

'He must have come from somewhere,' I said.

The lawyer smiled bleakly. 'Sure. The landlady said his skin wasn't Ghana-black. He had some white in his blood from way back. Sure, Winston Sinclair came from somewhere.' He opened the lid of the tin and started to pull dark tobacco into the pipe with his forefinger. I thought I was detecting a chip on the man's shoulder.

Dalton asked, 'And there's no way to say where he got the papers from?'

'Lacking evidence to the contrary, I'd say he inherited them himself.' Now he was compressing the tobacco, pushing it into the bowl. 'So how he got your father's name and address, Miss Tebbit, and why he should think he was related to the Tebbits, is a mystery to me.'

I said, 'The journal was a diary, Mr Martin. It was an account of a voyage to America in Elizabethan times. The writer was stranded in Carolina. How it got from America to here is an even bigger mystery.'

'Well he sure didn't walk. I guess the journal must have been picked up by some passing Spanish warship or slaver.' The lawyer touched the leg of his spectacles and looked at Debbie as if he was trying to focus them. 'What's your purpose exactly, Miss Tebbit?'

'Genealogy.' It wasn't exactly a lie. 'Our family tree goes back a thousand years on the European side. We just didn't know there was an American branch.'

'You've come quite a way to search for your family tree, Miss.' I wondered if the man believed her. He searched amongst the clutter on his desk and found a matchbox. For some reason he struck the match on the underside of his desk. He started to puff at his pipe. Blue smoke drifted around the little office and he leaned back with an air of satisfaction. 'Jamaica was under the control of the Spanish in Elizabethan times. If you want to chase this up, you could try our National Archives. I'd say it's a mighty long shot. The only people in Jamaica then were Spaniards and slaves and the Arawak Indians. I don't imagine your family is descended from any of them.' He smiled to show that he was joking.

'Where are these archives?' Debbie asked.

'Spanish Town, of course. No point in going there today, they'll be closed soon. But my feeling is it will be a wild goose chase. You may have come a long way for nothing, Miss Tebbit.' He was tapping down burning tobacco.

We thanked him and went back down the narrow stairs and out into the intense heat. Half a dozen young men were rocking the car from side to side and Zola, inside it, was gripping the seat in front. One of the youths, with yellow string vest and baseball cap worn back to front, leered at Debbie and said, 'How 'bout you climb aboard the big bamboo, white gal?' She gave him the Tebbit look.

Dalton had adopted a sort of Trench Town swagger; he approached the man close up, right in his face. I thought, We
don't need this, they might have knives.
But then Dalton was speaking in a soft, conciliatory tone. 'Bredda, nuh badda wid di war vibes, wha you say?'

The effect was magical. The young men stepped back respectfully, and then we were in the car and accelerating away, Debbie at the wheel. I turned to Dalton and gave him an astonished look. He grinned.

'I want out of here,' said Zola, tense and tight-lipped. I wasn't sure whether she was referring to the car, the city or the island.

'They were just fooling around,' Dalton said.

Debbie seemed to be driving purposefully. 'Where are we heading?' I asked.

'The Blue Mountains. I've booked us into a hotel. It's called Moonlight Chalets and it's just past a place called World's End.'

'Why there?'

'I read in
Hello
magazine that Mick Jagger uses it as a hideaway.'

'That's a recommendation?'

'Find World's End on the map if you can, Harry. If Mick Jagger can use it as a hideaway, so can we. It's nowhere.'

'So, you're from Jamaica, Dalton?' I asked.

'Actually Birmingham.'

The transition from bustling city to isolated mountain was surprisingly abrupt. There was a busy square, queues of people at bus stops, and then suddenly just a single-track potholed road rising steeply towards the Blue Mountains. Within ten minutes we were into Maroon territory; we could have been a million miles from anywhere. The descendants of escaped slaves looked at us morosely as we drove past their shacks.

The road steepened even more. At first there were low parapets, but even these eventually vanished. Debbie took us round hairpin bends with no telling what was coming in the opposite direction. Here and there, boulders were strewn over the road, the end results of heavy rain and landslides. I sat beside her with sweaty palms and a jaw painful with tension, while she took the wheels to within inches of thousand-foot drops. There was dead silence in the back of the car. Near the summit we ran into thick cloud and Debbie used headlights. At least now I couldn't see what lay beyond the edge of the road. Finally, out of the mist, as if from a Dracula movie, there emerged tall gateposts with a notice saying: Moonlight Chalets. It seemed about as remote, and hopefully as safe, as any place on the island.

'How could they possibly have known about Jamaica?' I asked.

We were spread around a circular jacuzzi, its water warm and bubbling. We had tall glasses with pink rum punches on a ledge. At this altitude the air was cool. Kingston was mapped out by a million twinkling lights far below us, and the dark Caribbean lay beyond. The moon broke through cloud and I could just make out the silhouette of mountains around us, with fingers of cloud glowing gently between them. Underwater lights lit up the jacuzzi, the inverted illumination making faces look mysterious, even unnatural. An elderly couple, Americans, were enjoying the pool some yards away.

'I wasn't followed, if that's what you mean.' Debbie was wearing the skimpiest of blue bikinis. 'Picardy House can't be seen from the road and nobody would know who was coming or going.'

'Harry and me likewise,' Zola told her. 'We took precautions.'

I nodded my agreement. Dalton said, 'And they don't even know I exist. At least, I hope they don't.'

'Did you tell anyone you were heading for Jamaica, Debbie?'

She looked at me sharply. 'Of course not. Do you think I'm an idiot?' Then she added, 'Only Uncle Robert. We had a flaming row about it. He thinks you're a trickster after my money in some way.'

So that was it. Uncle Robert.

Debbie looked suddenly aghast.

Zola asked, 'What can you tell us about your Uncle Robert?'

Debbie waved a dismissive hand. 'I know what you're thinking and it's just silly. Why would Uncle Robert give anything away? How could he even know these people?'

Zola exerted a gentle pressure. 'Tell us anyway. About your uncle. How did he get on with your father, for instance?'

Debbie made a face. She was beginning to sound a bit distressed. 'They had rows every time Uncle Robert came to the house. I wasn't supposed to hear them, but I did and I know what they were about.'

'Top up your drinks, people?' The pool attendant had appeared out of the dark. He was carrying something like a long fishing net. We shook our heads and the man disappeared into the blackness like a ship in the night.

Debbie continued, 'It was about money. Uncle Robert owned horses. He kept racing them, and he kept betting on horses, and he kept losing money and he kept getting into trouble. I think Daddy bailed him out for years. With my money,' she said, 'or at least money that would have come to me.'

Zola said, 'That makes your uncle an idiot, nothing more.'

I didn't know how to raise the next bit. The question of inheritance.

'You have inherited Picardy House, I suppose?' Dalton asked the question casually.

'I expect so. So what?'

I was beginning to feel like a lobster. 'Debbie, if you fell under a bus, who would inherit?'

'This is so stupid.'

I waited. Then Debbie was saying, 'Uncle Robert, of course. Daddy had no other brothers or sisters.' She started to cry.

Dalton said, 'We're all exhausted, jet-lagged and everything else. I'm for sleep. What about you, Debbie?'

Debbie nodded tearfully. When they had gone, Zola said angrily, 'Did it occur to you that Uncle Robert may be the only family Debbie has? And you're suggesting he's trying to grab the icon. Maybe even wants her bumped off?'

'Why else is he so hostile? Am I the only person with sense hereabouts?'

'Sense? She's a child who's just lost her father, and you, Harry Blake, are the most insensitive idiot I've ever come across.'

CHAPTER 24

George the Third by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, King and Lord Defender of the Faith. To my trusty and well-beloved Patrick Smith and William Farrell, esquires, know ye that we have constituted, authorised and appointed and by these presents do constitute, authorise and appoint each or either of ye to administer an oath unto Thomas Higgins and William Middleton, gentlemen, that they shall well and truly, according to the best of their judgments and consciences, inventory and appraise all and sundry of the goods, chattels, rights and credits of Edward StClair, late of the parish of Trelawney, landowner, general practitioner and physical surgeon, deceased . . .

(signed) on behalf of his Grace William Duke of Gloucester, captain general and governor of our said island, and lieutenant of Iago de la Vega. This 11th day of November anno domini 1815 and the 56th year of our reign.

George Clayton, secretary.

'Hey!' Debbie hissed excitedly in my ear. 'StClair!'

We were in the air conditioned coolness of the National Archives, sitting at a heavy circular teak table. Next to us was a trolley filled with bound volumes, each about three inches thick and eighteen inches tall. The volume opened in front of us had a distinct spicy smell. The paper was brown with age and the ink was faded; here and there it was almost illegible.

I said, without really believing it, 'Could be a coincidence, Debbie. Let's look at the inventory.' We read on:

Inventory and appraisal totalling £13,110, the bulk being the sum of various slaves as follows:

59 female slaves named and valued as follows:

Nancy £100, Phoebe £150, Nefertiti £75, Agnes £75,...

97 male slaves named and valued as follows:

Tom £100, Old Howe £30, Billy £100...

Total value of slaves £11.600.

One bull at £30

12 cows at £15 each = £180

5 cows at £12 each = £60

Five bull calves and three cow calves at £5 each = £40

Total value of cattle £250.

44 hogsheads of sugar, as shipped by William Baker on the Kingston consignment to Robert Message and sold by him as appears by the account of January for the sum of
£2303.11s.2d.

Several pages were devoted to 'sundry items':

Portion of rum
£20.

Medical instruments
£30.

A gold watch with gold chain
£10.

Sundry books £10 each =
£160.

Ship's compass
£30.

Navigation device £2.

Two journals £1 each =
£2.

Two mahogany tables =
£13 4s.

24 chairs, 4 mirrors, 4 wardrobes, 4 beds, assorted bedding and clothing, two portraits, three Bibles, assorted kitchen utensils and pots =
£50.

And so on.

For some reason there were a few more slaves in the list of 'sundries', but that wasn't what was suddenly holding my attention.

'Do you see it?' Zola asked. There was a feverish gleam in her eye. She pointed to an entry. 'Two journals.'

'And a navigation device, Zola. What possible use could a GP cum plantation owner have for a navigation device?'

Debbie was bubbling over. She was having difficulty keeping her voice quiet. 'These are my ancestors! We're on the trail, we're on the trail! How far back can we go?'

I flicked the pages back. 'We need a lot more than this for your genealogy, Debbie. And let's keep our eye on the ball here. What we want to know about is the other journal. The one that could lead us to' — I lowered my voice — 'you know what.'

'I'm hiring you, remember?'

'There are nasty people on our trail, remember? We can't hang about here longer than necessary.'

'How could they possibly find us here?'

'The lawyer?'

'But how could they know about the lawyer?'

'Your Uncle Robert?'

'You know, Harry, I hate you so much.'

'I know.'

Zola broke into the tense silence. 'There are slave registration returns.'

'The Sinclairs weren't slaves,' Debbie said. 'They were slave owners.'

'But the returns will show the owners,' Zola pointed out. 'Let's ask the archivist.'

The archivist was about thirty, with a round face, heavy spectacles and shiny black hair to match her skin. 'Are you with the other people?' she asked.

'The other people?' I suddenly had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

'The people who were here yesterday. They been asking the same question.'

^!
'That's a rival academic group,' I said. 'Yes, we are in competition. I'm sorry if we're making you duplicate your work.'

'That's okay,' she said. 'What can I get you?'

Over the next hour we gave the archivist a hard time. The table began to pile up with slave registration returns, electoral office records, tax rules, jury lists, baptismal registers and more plantation inventories. We skipped lunch. We forgot that Dalton was outside the register office, keeping an eye out for Cassandra and friends. We forgot about the clock until, in the late afternoon, the archivist politely cleared her throat. 'We close at four thirty,' she said.