“And what good did it do him? He got killed, Uncle.” He glared at the lamp. “I’ll have Mister Fleming’s car ready in the morning, don’t worry. And I’ll take the dogs back to Dominique.”

  “Thank you for that. Tell her Mister Fleming is grateful,” said Cesar, regarding his nephew with troubled eyes. “What makes you think this way? Surely not Father Dermott?”

  “He’s worse than Fleming! Fleming isn’t a fool, exactly, and he thinks a little about the world. But Father Dermott?” Joshua burst out. “No, I do not listen to the priest.” He straightened up. “No. Monsieur Soleilsur—he is a friend of Dominique’s. Sometimes he visits her, and when he does, he talks to me, and to a few of my friends. He tells us about how the world is changing, and how we must be ready to make the most of it.”

  Cesar shook his head. “You should not be talking to Dominique’s … companions.”

  “Why? Because she runs a woman’s house?” Joshua challenged. “It is all right to use her dogs, but not to speak to those who visit her, is that what you are saying to me, Uncle?”

  “No, Joshua, I do not say that to you. I tell you that such men as come to her in secret, and that whatever else they may do, it is well to know nothing about it.” He tossed a mango to his nephew. “The police are bribed, but if they should have to act, the less you know, the better.” Cesar wagged a finger at Joshua. “If you object to accommodating the English, why should you risk anything for the men like that Monsieur—”

  “Soleilsur,” Joshua provided.

  “French,” Cesar said firmly. “They have nothing to boast about, you know. They have their colonies, as the British have. And one hears stories about them that show the French very badly.”

  “I know,” said Joshua. “And he is not French, not entirely. He is Moroccan on his mother’s side. He knows how it is for people like us. He says we must learn to turn the might of our oppressors against them, that we must erode them from within, through their own failings. We must halt their greed without hesitation or mercy.”

  “That’s appalling,” said Cesar.

  “It is the only way, according to Monsieur Soleilsur,” Joshua maintained.

  “Be sure that Monsieur Soleilsur is not telling you this to make you his pawn.” Cesar held up his hand. “You are ardent: you are young. As much as he says he will turn the English against themselves, remember he may well be doing the same to you.”

  “You can’t see it,” Joshua said, shaking his head slowly. “You have allied yourself with them.”

  “It may seem that way to you.” Cesar shook his head. “Well, keep to yourself when you take the dogs back in the morning.”

  “I will, Uncle. Besides, Monsieur Soleilsur is not there any longer. He left yesterday, I think. I will not see him again for some time, he said. I may never see him again—who knows? I hold him in high regard, no matter what.” He was about to leave the kitchen when he added, “Do you think something bad has happened to Sir William?”

  “I fear it may have,” said Cesar, very serious now. “It is never a good thing when a man vanishes.”

  “Especially an English official,” Joshua added with a kind of determined satisfaction.

  “As you say,” Cesar conceded, not wanting to argue with his nephew anymore.

  Joshua reached the door. “I think someone killed him and put his body in the sea.”

  “It may be so, though I pray not,” said Cesar, aware of how closely his nephew’s view coincided with his own. “Go rest. We must be up and about early tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” said Joshua, pausing in the door. “But, Uncle, don’t you ever want more than we have here?”

  “What has wanting more ever brought but trouble? We have a good place to live, we have a little money saved, we have bicycles, we never go hungry, and a reasonable man employs us. I have saved enough to keep us for two years without difficulty. You have a school to attend. My wife has a sewing machine and an icebox. How many can say as much? That is enough for me.”

  Joshua shook his head. “Monsieur Soleilsur says that if you do not want more you will never have more.”

  “Or you may lose everything. If you are not the one to reap the reward, what good is the sacrifice,” said Cesar, an admonitory finger raised. “Off with you, boy. It’s time you were asleep.” He watched his nephew go with worry in his eyes, and set about the last of his evening chores.

  Cesar was putting the compost out on the steaming heap near the rear door when the excited barking of two dogs reminded him that Dominique’s pair were on guard for the night. He spoke soothingly to the animals, using their private names, saying, “Be calm, Legba, I am a friend, Ghede, your friend,” which only served to aggravate them. Ghede sprang to the end of his chain, snarling at Cesar. As he was preparing to retreat into the house, he saw Fleming appear on the balcony above him. “Sorry to disturb you, sah.”

  Fleming chuckled. “I wondered what could have set them off.” He lifted his hand, showing he held a pistol. “Don’t fret. I won’t shoot, either you or the dogs. I’m glad they’re so … enthusiastic.”

  “They’ll be quiet when I come inside,” Cesar said with more hope than certainty.

  “Unless someone or something disturbs them, I hope,” said Fleming, retreating into his bedroom and pulling the door closed behind him.

  Cesar stood still for a moment, wondering if he should say anything to Fleming about what Joshua had told him. He decided against it, reminding himself that his nephew was young, just coming into the age when he would have to test himself to show what kind of man he might become. Most youngsters went through many phases in the years between their first beard and the time they were counted as men, and Joshua was no different than many others. Time enough to speak to Fleming if the boy still clung to those resentments and theories—and the mysterious Monsieur Soleilsur—in a year or two. In the meantime, Sir William’s disappearance was a more pressing problem, and one with a greater chance of resolution than the frustrations of youth.

  Chapter 6

  MORNING WAS heralded by a vast number of cocks crowing, a duet of thunderous barks, and the rumble of the motor on Fleming’s 1935 Lagonda Rapier. The classic sports car was the envy of all Fleming’s neighbors, for he kept it in perfect running condition and its blue-green finish polished to a high shine.

  Joshua met Fleming at the side of the house, standing by the automobile with deep pride in the machine. “She’s all ready, sah. Petrol at three-quarters full, the oil changed last week.”

  “I’ll bring back a set of spark plugs, Joshua,” Fleming said as he stepped into the vehicle, putting down one of Sir William’s two bags on the seat beside him. “I should return by evening. Please ask Cesar to have his guards here no later than three.”

  “As you wish, sah,” said Joshua, stepping back to allow the splendid auto to roll past him, leaving a curling wake of dust in the glowing morning.

  The road into Kingston was crowded, and there was only one opportunity for Fleming to put on a burst of speed: the section of road leading to the airfield that had been paved seven years before, to ensure that troops could be transported between airplane and Kingston in any weather. He took full advantage of it, roaring along the stretch of blacktop with the exuberance of a boy. In his capable hands the Rapier responded as if it wanted to race, dodging around the occasional saloon car and lorry with panache. Then they reached the outskirts of town and had to slow down once again to accommodate the carts, bicycles, autos, donkeys, children, and other occupants of the road. Fleming headed for the Government House, with its white-washed Georgian facade and imposing wrought-iron gates. He parked his car in one of the stalls set aside for visitors, took Sir William’s bag from the seat, dropped his ruined coat over his arm, pulled the canvas hood over the seats and steering wheel, then loped up the stone stairs into the impressive lobby of the building.

  Two guards were on duty, and a secretary sat behind a broad mahogany desk, dressed more for Pall Mall than the Caribbean. He sized up Fleming in his well-pressed linen suit and asked, “How may I help you, Mister Fleming?”

  “Hello, Stowe. I’m here to see Lord Broxton, if he can spare me a minute,” said Fleming, doing his best to sound at ease.

  “Lord Broxton is out just now. I expect him to return in an hour. Would you like to wait?” Stowe maintained a neutrality of tone that Fleming might have admired under other circumstances.

  “Not unless he will be back within ten minutes,” said Fleming.

  “It is unlikely,” said Stowe.

  “Well, in that case, will you be good enough to tell him I must talk with him? It is urgent,” he said, putting the bag down and folding the slashed coat on top of it. “And if you will hang onto this for me? Keep it safe, if you will. It isn’t something I want to haul through the streets. I’ll just take care of a chore or two while I have the chance.”

  Stowe was puzzled. “If you want to leave your bag, you may prefer to put it in the cloakroom with the attendant. I am sure it Would be more appropriately left there.”

  “Ah, but it isn’t my bag,” said Fleming, tapping his nose. “That’s part of what I must speak to him about.”

  More perplexed than before, Stowe nodded. “All right. I will keep them here behind my desk. Shall I give them to him when he returns?”

  “If I’m not back yet, I should be grateful if you would hold them for me. Ta,” he added and started for the door.

  “Mister Fleming,” Stowe called after him.

  Fleming turned. “Yes? What is it?”

  “Lord Broxton has a meeting at ten.”

  “Thank you, Stowe. I’ll keep that in mind. I shouldn’t need more than thirty minutes with his lordship.”

  “Very well. But return promptly. No later than half nine, if you would,” said Stowe.

  “I’ll be here,” Fleming promised, then went out into the splendid sun and down the steps. He decided against taking the Rapier. It was only a half-mile to the shops he sought and he would make as good time on foot as in the auto. His long legs carried him swiftly to the bustle of the marketplace, and to the shop of Henry Long, where every kind of automotive and nautical equipment and supplies could be found. The chandlery was vast and dark, the shelves filled with items that shone brass and steel in the muted light.

  Henry Long himself was seated behind the front counter, a vast man with a dark face and a voice that rumbled out of his cavernous body, low and resonant, just the way a mountain might speak. He paused in the act of cleaning his glasses—absurdly small, round spectacles that perched on his broad nose like an attenuated species of insect—and waved vaguely. “Welcome to my chandlery. Come in, come in.” He offered a dark-brown cigarillo to Fleming, who accepted it, and a light.

  “You’d welcome the devil himself, wouldn’t you.” Fleming laughed as he conducted a quick perusal of the aisles, satisfying himself that no other customers were in the chandlery. “Put your specs on, Henry. You’re hopeless without them,” he said, coming up to the counter and grinning.

  “Ah, Mister Fleming,” said Henry as he fixed the temples behind his ears. “It is good to see you, sah.”

  “It is good to see anything with eyes like yours,” said Fleming good-naturedly; they had joked about his poor sight for more than a year.

  “The bane of my life, sah,” Henry agreed. “How are Cesar and Bathsheba Holiday?”

  “They are well, thank you,” said Fleming, not bothered by this inquiry after his houseman and his wife, for islanders were notoriously casual about such things.

  “Tell them I would be glad to see them one day soon.” He ducked his head. “But here I am, so what am I going to do for you?”

  “I need spark plugs for the Rapier,” Fleming began, “and a two-gallon tin of kerosene for the house; I’ll pick that up on the way out of town. And I was hoping you might know something about a man disappearing from my cove last night.” He said the last as easily as he spoke the rest, but there was an urgency in the inquiry that caught Henry’s attention.

  “A man disappearing?” Henry repeated, a questioning lift at the end. “Now why should I know that, man?”

  “Because you know everything that happens on Jamaica,” said Fleming easily, a hard smile adding to his endorsement.

  “Perhaps,” said Henry. “Tell me more about this disappearing man.”

  “From England. Came in by plane.” Fleming had lowered his voice, in spite of his certainty that they were alone.

  “A public servant, that sort of man from England?” Henry inquired.

  “Yes,” said Fleming, certain now that Henry Long knew something. “What have you heard?”

  Henry shrugged. “I don’t know, man, but I was told that a fast boat was rushing around your cove last evening. I think it might have taken someone aboard. It was a strange meeting, if it happened.”

  Fleming sighed, knowing this was apt to be an inconclusive and protracted exercise. “Who told you about this?”

  “The spark plugs you want are on aisle four, third shelf down.” Henry reached for a churchwarden’s pipe and tamped tobacco into the bowl. “Bring them here, man, so I can write them up.”

  “About the man and the fast boat?” Fleming asked as he went to fetch the spark plugs.

  “I am trying to recall,” Henry announced, lighting his pipe with a wooden match and sucking on it to draw the smoke.

  “Continue your efforts, by all means,” said Fleming, spotting the spark plugs and taking the whole box, carrying it back to the counter and setting it down. “There. I’ll have the lot.”

  “It will cost you, man,” said Henry, and neither of them thought he meant the spark plugs.

  “So I supposed. Write them up.” Fleming reached for his wallet inside his linen jacket while Henry pulled out a tattered receipt book.

  “The fast boat might have been a cigarette boat, according to Micah, the fisherman who was setting out to sea last evening. He heard it, but he admits he didn’t see it. He went out an hour early, to get ahead of Samuel, his brother, who is a poacher,” Henry said as he wrote an incomprehensible scrawl on the receipt book with the stub of a pencil. “He came in this morning for a new wrench and told me of the boat.”

  “Is he sure about the boat? Does he know anything about its owner?” Fleming asked, pulling two ten-pound notes from his wallet.

  “I cannot say, but Micah is a truthful man, except when he is drunk,” said Henry, taking the money and slipping it into his pocket. “Seven pounds, two, and six,” he went on, handing the receipt to Fleming, and a small paper bag for the spark plugs. There was no change offered.

  “Thanks,” said Fleming, scooping the spark plugs into the bag. “If you should hear anything more, will you send word to me, please?”

  “If I am able to,” said Henry.

  “Yes.” Fleming understood what he meant. “I will be glad to pay for any reliable information you may have, of course.”

  “Very good of you, Mister Fleming. I will have the kerosene ready for you in an hour. Two gallons you wanted, sah?” Henry held his pipe between his big white teeth and chuckled. “You are a most curious man, sah. You do not think of your own safety, but of the safety of your guest.”

  Fleming stopped still. “Is that some kind of a warning, Henry?”

  “You may take it however you wish, sah,” said Henry with a beaming smile. “So long as you pick up the kerosene.”

  “I won’t forget,” said Fleming, and stepped out of the chandlery into the full glare of the morning sun. He dropped the cigarillo in the street and stepped on it to put it out, using this commonplace activity to take a quick look around the street. He squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand, then when he was sure he could see, he loped off up the street toward the Government House, arriving a few minutes later to find Stowe frowning in displeasure.

  “Lord Broxton has arrived,” Stowe announced. “He is in his office. He says he can give you ten minutes.”

  “Good enough. May I have the bag and suit-coat I gave you?” Fleming said as if this slight meant nothing to him.

  “Of course,” said Stowe, and brought it out from behind his desk. “A fine piece, if I may say so, sir.”

  “I suppose it is; it isn’t mine, you know,” said Fleming, enjoying the chance to tweak the supercilious Stowe. He took the bag, adding, “You needn’t tell me the way. I know where Lord Broxton’s office is. End of the hall, with the double doors, do I have it right?” he asked, knowing he had.

  “Just so, sir,” said Stowe woodenly, and retreated behind his desk while Fleming went down the main corridor toward Lord Broxton’s inner sanctum.

  The walls were deeply wainscoted in mahogany, with dark-green above, a color more suited to Lord Broxton’s Cottswold home than to Jamaica. The furniture was mostly Restoration vintage, heavy, carved oak intended to impress. The draperies flanking the tall windows were a dull-gold velvet. This all served to remind Fleming why he preferred to live in this place than at home, and nothing contributed more to his conviction than General Lord Peter Broxton himself.

  Standing by the first of two tall bookcases, Lord Broxton was a tall man, top-heavy with broad shoulders and barrel chest over long, spindly legs that seemed to have come from another man. His face was square and florid, made more startling by a mane of greying hair that framed his features in a silvery halo. His habitual expression was indignant, rather like an owl. He was wearing full diplomatic kit, and had the look of a man who has become out-moded without knowing it. He glowered at Fleming, ducking his head to take advantage of his thicket of eyebrows. “Well, Fleming, what have you got to say for yourself?”

  “I hope I see you well, Lord Broxton,” he replied, aware that the General was a stickler for formality.

  “As well as this poisonous climate will allow,” he said. “What brings you to me in this harum-scarum manner?”

  The old-fashioned expression almost made Fleming laugh, but he managed to keep his countenance. “I am afraid I have a possible abduction to report to you,” he said gravely.