Chapter Twenty-Six

Cam and Poppy sat at opposite ends of the long dining table. Poppy’s meal was untouched, her knife and fork idle in her hands.

How could Ben have let her down so badly? She’d thought of him as a friend, someone she would have trusted with her life, yet he’d been so careless of her feelings that he’d goaded her into making a stupid slip. And now she was in the most ghastly bind, with Watkins’ outrageous demand for money. She’d thought of nothing else since she’d left the man that morning, yet still no solution came to mind. There was simply no way she could pay Watkins his blackmail money. She had no option but to appeal to Cam.

Surreptitiously she examined him, wistfully imagining that some sort of miracle might occur. Seeing him listening attentively to her tale, his face wreathed in sympathy, taking her in his arms and assuring her that it didn’t matter. That he would see to the captain, that she would never have to worry on his account again.

‘You’re very thoughtful tonight.’

Placing her knife and fork together on the plate, Poppy dabbed her fingers on a napkin, seizing on that small act to delay her confession.

‘That’s … that’s because I have something to tell you. ‘I’ve …’ Her throat closed over. ‘I’ve done the silliest thing.’

‘You sound very serious,’ said Cam, his attention fully on Poppy as she hesitated, gathering her courage.

‘That horrible man, Captain Watkins, knows of the child you treated for diphtheria. The one who died as you performed the tracheotomy.’

‘He what?’ Cam’s jaw slackened with shock.

‘Oh, Lord,’ Poppy sighed. Too embarrassed to look Cam in the eye, she kept her gaze firmly on the congealing gravy on her plate as she haltingly explained.

Cam’s fury was every bit as bad as she had feared.

‘I can scarcely credit your idiocy!’ he snapped, abruptly standing, the sudden movement bumping the table, sending pieces of cutlery scattering across the tablecloth and crashing against the serving dishes.

‘One hundred pounds! That unspeakable swine wants us to give him one hundred pounds?’

‘In cash,’ Poppy said, gripping the hem of the tablecloth in her hands and twisting it as if she might wring courage from it.

‘The swine deserves to go to jail!’

‘Jail is too good for him,’ Poppy quickly agreed. ‘But Cam — think of the consequences if we refuse to pay him.’

‘You ask me to think of the consequences? Are you mad, woman? If you’d had the good sense to keep your counsel, we wouldn’t be in this dilemma. Just what sort of cosy tête-à-tête were you engaged in with Corbett that you should suddenly have felt the urge to confide in him, I wonder? How long have you been meeting with the man without my knowledge?’

It was Poppy’s turn to be shocked. How could he think such a monstrous thing?

‘All I’m guilty of is defending you. Of being foolish enough to let Ben Corbett’s belittling remarks about your skills goad me into a slip of the tongue. It was you who brought this whole thing about because of your drinking!’

The colour drained from Cam’s face. He couldn’t have looked more shocked if she had slapped his face. And in a sense she had done exactly that. An icy anger had pushed aside any feelings of guilt or remorse and, with a dignity belying her fury, she turned and walked out of the dining room, quietly closing the door behind her.

Cam stared at the closed door, seeing not its polished kauri surface but rather Poppy’s face, coldly contemptuous in her condemnation of him. Whatever had possessed him? Practically accusing her of adultery, blaming her for his own shortcomings. Damn and blast Corbett!

With a sick wrench of his gut, he imagined the scandalised faces of his patients if Watkins should tell all he knew. Not everyone would believe the man, such was his unsavoury character, but mud had a habit of sticking. How many patients would entrust their care to him after this? There was no way around it. The man would have to be paid. The sooner this mess was behind them the better, and there was simply no way he could allow Poppy to meet with the man again. Striding out to the stables, he saddled Lucifer, donned an oilskin coat and set off for the Nile Wharf.

Shrouded in shimmering moonlight, the river and steamer held a forbidding, almost ghostly ambience. Or was that notion a result of his over-fertile imagination, knowing the unpleasantness of the task ahead?

Dismounting, he secured the reins to a hitching post. He moved cautiously up the gangway of the Mizar, expecting to be challenged at any minute. As he made his way towards a lighted cabin toward the stern he stumbled over an object in his path.

‘Damn and blast you,’ a voice cried.

Cam’s heart slammed against his ribs as the night watchman, the worse for wear for drink, rose to his feet and staggered off the boat into the darkness. God only knew how far the man would get before collapsing again, Cam thought, recoiling from the reek of liquor that still lingered. Striding to the cabin, he hammered on the door.

‘What the devil?’ Oliver Watkins, eyes bloodshot and dull, opened the door, tottered, and slid to the floor.

Cam stepped over him and into the cabin.

Catching hold of the hem of Cam’s oilskin, Watkins attempted to haul himself to his feet.

‘Get your hands off me, you damned swine.’

‘Ha! Dr Ainsley himself. Come to pay your respects, have you?’

‘If you weren’t already on the floor I’d knock you down,’ Cam snapped, fastidiously flicking his fingers against his oilskin where Watkins had touched it. Watkins lurched to his feet. ‘Sit … sit y’self down, doctor,’ he hiccoughed, gesturing at the only chair in the cabin. ‘I’ll get us a tipple. I take it you’ve come to pay me more than your respects, so this is really a celebration, is it not?’

Grabbing an opened bottle of whisky, he took a swig, then handed it to Cam.

Brushing it aside, Cam pulled a cheque from his pocket. ‘One hundred pounds you wanted?’

Watkins plucked the cheque from Cam’s fingers. Holding it to the lamp, he studied its details, unlocked a roll-top desk and placed it inside. ‘I’d sooner be having the cash, as I instructed your good lady wife, but I’ve no doubt a fine gentleman such as yourself would never dream of breaking your word and this will do me as well as a bundle of cash. Pleasure doing business with you.’

‘I assure you the feeling is not reciprocated.’ Cam strode to the door.

Watkins swayed against the bunk. ‘Much I care about that, you pompous windbag. You and that simpering wife of yours thinking you’re above the likes of me. How many other poor fools have you killed, I wonder?’

‘You insolent damned cur!’ Cam strode back to Watkins and gripped him by his collar. ‘Another remark like that and I swear I will not be responsible for my actions!’ he said, and thrust Watkins aside.

The captain fell back, his head making a sickening crunch as it bashed against the wooden surround of the narrow bunk. He slumped to the floor.

Cam kneeled and rolled him over, examining his head for injury. A reddened mark stretched across the back of his scalp, but there was no open wound or bleeding.

Watkins’ eyes flickered open.

Relieved, Cam sat back on his heels. If Watkins died he’d be no loss to humanity, but he didn’t want the man’s blood on his hands. Straining under Watkins’ stout build, he helped him to his feet and sat him on the chair.

‘I’ll have you locked up for this, damn you,’ Watkins muttered, rubbing his scalp.

‘And admit your devilish blackmailing scheme to the authorities? I think not.’

‘What blackmail, you fool? I was minding my own business when this madman came aboard my ship and set about belting me.’

Cam’s gut crawled with contempt. If he let Watkins get away with this then he was no better than the blackmailing swine. The realisation sickened him. Snatching the cheque from the desk, he took a tin of matches from the desk, struck a match and burnt the cheque to blackened flakes.

‘You fool!’ Watkins shouted, lumbering to his feet and raising a fist. ‘I’ll see the whole town knows about your murdering butchery. You won’t have a patient to call your own.’