CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The stench increased, causing Mendick to gag even as the sea slid up the length of his body. He rolled over and pushed himself upright, straining for air. The swell increased, surging up his body, breaking against his chest, splashing water against his face and into his nostrils. He closed his eyes: this was not how he had visualised his death, a slow drowning on a sandbank at the mouth of the Firth of Tay. But Emma would be waiting, always with that soft smile. He could almost see her, pointing, shouting something he could not understand.

“Man ahoy!” The voice was male, the accent born in the streets of Dundee. The voice faded slightly but the words carried above the hush and spatter of the sea.

“There’s some lunatic standing on the sandbank, lads. Pull closer and we’ll have a look.”

Mendick’s knees buckled as he tried to turn and he slipped beneath the surface and emerged, choking and spluttering, “Ahoy! Who’s there?”

The boat was so close to him the port oars almost cracked his head, but the oarsmen shipped in time and glided alongside. Bearded faces stared at him as if he were a ghost. A man with an iron-grey beard and huge hands hauled him on board and left him lying face down on the thwarts. “You lie there a minute, son, and get your senses back.”

Mendick glanced along the line of legs to the stern to where a cloaked and hooded figure held the steering oar.

“He’s naked,” the man with the beard spoke again.

Mendick retched and vomited seawater into the boat, heaving and gasping as he emptied his lungs and stomach of the burning salt.

“Tied up, too,” somebody said. “There’s been foul work here, I wager.”

There was the snick of metal in leather and a knife sliced through Mendick’s bonds. He wriggled his hands and feet, gasping at the prickled torture of returning circulation. He tried to thank his rescuers but he could not speak. Salt sea water had combined with the biting cold to rob him of the power of speech. He tried to stand, to see who steered this providential boat, but the bearded man thrust him hard down onto the middle thwart. “You just sit there, lad. Keep still or you’ll have us over.”

The muffled figure in the stern gave an order in the light voice of a youth and the oarsmen thrust in again. The boat pulled for the northern shore of the Tay with all four oars dipping and rising simultaneously in the practised stroke of an experienced crew. Despite his exhaustion, Mendick admired their skill and watched the phosphorescence gleam from the oar blades and reflect from the bubbling wake. He began to shiver until someone threw a soft cloak over him. It smelled of salt mingled with a strange, floral aroma he recognised, from where he could not say.

Iron-beard tapped his shoulder. “Rest easy, lad. You’re safe now.” He nudged Mendick’s arm and passed him a flask. “Go on, drink. It’ll help.” The voice was rough but not unfriendly and the eyes that scrutinised him were worldly-wise, bright blue behind a web of wrinkles and deep with knowledge and compassion.

“Thank you.” Mendick sipped from the flask. He coughed on fiery rum and sipped again. Liquid fire seeped into his throat and exploded inside his stomach. He breathed out slowly and closed his eyes. It seemed an age since he had followed that green-cloaked pickpocket across the High Street although he guessed it was just over 24 hours ago. He swayed slightly but righted himself as the oarsmen eased past the towering bulk of Broughty Castle and towards the lone gleam of a single lantern. The second the keel of the boat kissed and furrowed the soft sand of Broughty Beach, the oarsmen shipped oars in unison. Hard hands helped him gently from the boat and onto the beach.

There were six men in the boat. Iron-beard and another guided Mendick, two carried bundles carefully wrapped in oiled canvas, one carried a cask and the slim, hooded figure walked the length of the boat from the stern to the bow before stepping dry-shod and erect onto the beach.

Lights flickered from the windows of the clustered fisher cottages as the men headed directly for the solitary yellow glow of a lantern in the upper window of a larger house.

“That’s Unicorn Cottage,” Mendick’s voice was harsh in his own ears. “That’s Mrs Gordon’s house.”

The men ignored him, their feet silent in the soft sand as they hurried to a door in the garden wall. The young man in the hood unlocked it and without hesitation they marched to the back door and eased inside, where the young man lit the gas light.

They were in a stone-flagged kitchen dominated by a range black-leaded to a gloss, with racks and spits and spoons dangling from hooks. The room smelled of soap and polish. The men carefully placed their burdens on a scrubbed deal table, while iron-beard pulled out a chair for Mendick.

“Sit you there, lad.” He guided Mendick down. “You’ll be fine after a wee rest.”

The young man stepped inside the pool of lamp light and pulled back his hood. When he shook his head his auburn hair cascaded around his shoulders. “Thank you,” Johanna said softly. “You’d better get back to the old Rose now.”

“What shall we do with the castaway?” Iron-beard hesitated, one hand rested on the hilt of his knife. His eyes were no longer so friendly.

“Leave him to me,” Johanna said.

“He’s naked under your coat,” his bearded escort reminded her.

“And I am naked under my clothes too,” Johanna smiled and shook her head. “Thank you, Iain. I know this man. I am in no danger from him.” She waited until the last man left. “That was Iain Grant, he is a harpooner on the whaling ships, and a good man. But you, Sergeant Mendick, you seem to have got yourself into a pretty pickle.”

Mendick rose from the chair, swore softly as Johanna’s cloak flapped open and did not fail to notice the humour in Johanna’s eyes. “So have you, Mrs Gordon; you have a naked man in your house and if I am not mistaken, those are smuggled goods sitting on your table.”

“Indeed they are, Sergeant.” A dimple appeared on Johanna’s left cheek as she smiled. “Do you intend to arrest me for a little fun, Sergeant?” Her eyes laughed at him. “Don’t tell me you have never done anything just for the excitement of the thing?”

Mendick frowned, “Normally when I challenge somebody about their activities, they respond with evasion or defiance. Not by questioning me.”

“A question you did not answer, Sergeant, so I will ask again. Have you ever done anything that was not right?” She swivelled one of the kitchen chairs and drew it beside him, so close he could feel the heat from her body. “I am waiting, Sergeant.”

“I think I should be asking the questions . . .” Mendick began, but Johanna was having none of it.

“I don’t think you should, Sergeant. I really don’t.” As she stood up her hip brushed against his shoulder. It was an accidental, fleeting touch but it sent a thrill through him and he gasped so audibly he knew she should have heard.

Johanna stood over him with her mouth slightly twisted and her dimple deep beside her mouth. “I think you just follow the path of duty and never spare time for fun or for yourself,” she said.

Mendick shook his head. “We are discussing your illegal activities, Mrs Gordon, and what I should do about them, not my pursuits.”

As Johanna shook her head a few tendrils of auburn hair snaked across her left eye, an imperfection that made her appearance all the more entrancing. “Not so, Sergeant Mendick. It is more important to wonder what I am going to do with you?” Her smile broadened. “How can I explain to my husband that I have a naked man in my house?”

“If you send a message to the police office that I am here, they will send a constable with some clothes.” Mendick tried to rise but swayed and sat down heavily.

Johanna’s smile combined sweetness with iron in a manner Mendick had not seen since the death of his wife. “You wish me to inform the police? That is undoubtedly the most effective way of informing all of Dundee, including Mr Gordon, that I have a naked man here.” The flash of anger in her green eyes altered quickly to concern as Mendick slid down the chair. “Well, it seems the solution to that little problem will have to be postponed, Sergeant. You need rest.” She leaned closer and touched the purple bruises on his jaw and the top of his head. “And some patching up, I see.”

The slavering jaws of the dog were gaping around his throat, the fangs polished ivory, sharp as a curved row of razors. Then they changed, flattened; evolved into the dark hardness of that chute and then again eased into the liquid surface of the Tay, soft surging around his head as he sunk slowly down, down to the depths. His feet struck something solid and he swore. Death was so easy when Emma was waiting for him, her eyes wide in promise and her arms wide in welcome, the jolt meant he had to continue the struggle. He rolled with the sea roaring in his ears and the white hot agony of expanding lungs in his chest. Onward, rolling, pushing, he thrust towards the agony of life, away from the delights of peaceful death: the light was there, glaring in its brightness, harsh in its offering, and he surfaced in an explosion of pain.

Mendick woke to the sound of seagulls and the scent of beeswax, paint and perfume. He sat up with a jerk, unable to recognise his surroundings.

“Relax, Sergeant.” Johanna sat at the bottom of the bed; her perfume wafted towards him. Light and floral, it was pleasant rather than heady, relaxing rather than stimulating. “Or perhaps it is I who should be afraid? I have a bold man in my bed.”

Mendick breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent. “You are safe with me.” He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in Johanna’s eyes, but knew he must be mistaken. “But am I safe from your husband?” Mendick considered his position − naked, unarmed and lying in the bed of a woman who might be China Jim’s wife. Even more dangerous, no-one knew his whereabouts or even whether he were alive or dead.

Johanna shrugged. “If I am safe, Sergeant, then so are you. Gordon never calls here unless he wants me for something, and that is a rare event.” When she looked away Mendick saw the hurt in her eyes.

“That is undeniably his loss,” he said softly.

“Did you sleep well, Sergeant?” The briskness was back as she rose from the bed and walked to the window. He realised he was watching the swing of her hips and looked away quickly. Johanna was another man’s woman and the wife of a possible suspect. He could not, should not look, but her skirt was neat around her hips and reached to just below her ankles. It matched the loose grey mantle that thumbed its nose at a fashion which demanded a tight waist and balloon sleeves. Johanna then, was a woman who wore what she liked in defiance of what was expected.

Her sudden turn took him by surprise and her eyes were bright and clear as they met his. “You were unconscious for long enough,” Johanna said, “so you must have slept well. Now,” she clapped her hands together as if making a decision, “you must be hungry. I know I am.” She lowered her head so her hair flopped forward. “Do you swim, Sergeant?”

“Do I what?” Once again this woman had caught Mendick by surprise.

“Swim, Sergeant. Can you swim?” She smiled at him, “You do understand the word?”

“Why, yes, but I do not understand why . . .”

Johanna patted his arm. “Good. Then you shall join us in our morning swim.” She stepped towards the door. “John and I always take to the water in the morning. Eat first though, you need to build up your strength.”

He knew he should report to the police office. He knew he should be hard on the trail of China Jim now he had new information and new knowledge, but as soon as Johanna gave him that slightly lopsided smile, and spoke with that laughing voice, his resolve melted clean away. Duty disappeared and something else took its place. He did not know or perhaps he did not want to admit what it was. He only knew he had not felt this way since Emma died.

“I have no swimming clothes,” Mendick temporised.

Johanna smiled. “I can provide them.” She looked down for a moment and smiled again, “unless you are too good to go swimming with me of course.”

Mendick thought of all the questions he should be asking. About Gordon and his movements, about his business, about the night of Milne’s murder and Torrie’s murder. Instead he bit into a hunk of fresh bread and cheese, sipped tea from a chipped, china cup, enjoyed the childish chatter of young John and worried vaguely about swimming clothes and what he might wear when he eventually rose from this bed. Somehow, when he was in Johanna’s company he did not care. She would work something out, he was sure.

Johanna took hold of John’s hand and slipped through the door in a shiver of skirts. She reappeared ten minutes later, still holding her son but dressed in an outfit so shocking that Mendick spent a long moment simply staring before he recollected himself and paid a mumbling compliment. Her dress was of thin linen, with a bodice top and baggy trousers that reached only to mid calf, leaving the lower leg, ankles and feet quite exposed.

“You like it?” Johanna gave an unselfconscious twirl. “I designed it myself. It is far more comfortable than these heavy serge things that weigh you down and drag you to the depths.” She tossed a small bundle onto the bed. “This is yours, I will leave you to get changed,” the light in her eyes was pure mischief, “unless you want me to help?”

“I think I can manage.” Mendick waited until Johanna left the room before he rose and quickly pulled on his own linen costume. It was light and simple but left him feeling very exposed. Designed to the same pattern as Johanna’s, it was tight around his chest and baggy at his waist and hips. He felt supremely self-conscious when he padded out of the bedroom but within seconds Johanna put him entirely at ease.

“It’s all right,” Johanna had waited for him just outside the room. “There are no servants here, just you, me and John.” She slid her gaze over him. “If you do not mind me saying so, Sergeant, you cut a fine figure!”

“And you are utterly enchanting,” Mendick said, and looked away. The words had escaped before he had the chance to stop them. However it seemed that Johanna had not heard for she merely smiled and gestured for him to follow down a short flight of stairs into a room whose walls seemed to be entirely glass.

“My studio,” she said.

Paintings filled the room. There were seascapes and landscapes, paintings of ships and of breaking seas, but mostly there were portraits. Mendick stopped to admire Johanna’s skill, looking at a group of men who posed on the deck of a ship. There were six of them, from a handsome youth with an embarrassed smile to a familiar iron-bearded man with knowing eyes. The bearded man also featured in another portrait as he sat on the deck of a ship, splicing a line onto a harpoon.

“That is one of my favourites,” Johanna said quietly. “That’s Iain Grant. You met him yesterday morning.”

Mendick nodded. He knelt down to study the canvas. “You have caught something of his character there. I can see more than just the face. There is a light in the eyes and an expression of something.” He struggled for the word, “Durability I think, yes, durability.”

“Do you think so?” Johanna touched his shoulder, a light touch although her fingers left an impression like fire on his skin beneath the thin linen. “Thank you, James. Nobody has ever said anything like that before.” There was a catch in her voice that intrigued him and for a second he sensed a vulnerability that he craved to ease, and a loneliness he would not have understood if he had not already learned of her loveless marriage.

“It’s beautiful,” Mendick said. He meant, “You are beautiful,” but he could not say that. Not to another man’s wife.

“I try to catch the character of all my subjects,” Johanna said, “people, ships, places. When I paint, the light is important. Some ships have their own atmosphere, and people . . . I love portraits, and capturing the hidden sides of people.” She stepped back and looked away, “It is good to be appreciated, Sergeant Mendick. I only wish that Mr Gordon . . . shared my interest.”

“You have a rare talent,” Mendick said. He was unsure if he meant her painting skills or something else. He waited for a response but Johanna seemed unable to accept a compliment.

“Come, Sergeant, before the morning’s sun has gone.” She took John’s hand and hurried out of the door.

Sunlight sparked from a myriad waves, glittering like a layer of diamonds scattered on a carpet of undulating blue. Mendick watched as Johanna waded deep, ducked under and began to swim with strokes more powerful than he had ever seen from a woman. John followed, as fearless as the divers Mendick had once seen off Ceylon, as he gambolled in a display of splashing water.

“Come on, Sergeant!” Johanna shouted back to him, waving her arm. “Race you!”

She was like a puppy, Mendick thought; all fun and frolics, teasing and tormenting for his attention. She turned and dived under water, jack-knifing. For an instant he had a splendid view of her rounded bottom with every curve and contour closely caressed by wet linen and then she was gone, swimming beneath the surface. He smiled and shook his head. She was a creature of the water, a nymph, an auburn mermaid. He should be asking her about Gordon, but that would be to acknowledge the fact she was married and he did not want to do that, not yet. Dear God, he never wanted to admit that, not even to himself.

The hands took him by surprise, grabbing at his legs and he floundered and ducked under. Johanna was there, smiling at him and for a second they grappled like lovers then surfaced in a fountain of water that rose, suspended in the air for a long instant as the morning sun played a hundred rainbows with the water droplets and then cascaded downward to join the surface of the sea. For some reason Mendick knew he would never forget that tiny fragment of time. It encapsulated his feelings about Johanna − a magic escape from reality, a relationship doomed by circumstance yet blessed by fate and the God of Love.

Love. He had admitted the fact to himself. He was in love with Johanna Lednock and there was not a thing he could do about it.

“I just could not resist that,” she said. “You looked so staid and respectable, and good of course. I thought you were obviously thinking of your duty when you should have been enjoying yourself for once.”

“I am enjoying myself,” Mendick told her, and he was not lying.

From their vantage point he could see the sunlight reflected on the great glass windows of Unicorn House with the village of Broughty Ferry spread on either side. Mendick looked to the west, where the factory chimneys of Dundee serrated the horizon, some extinguished in this time of depression but others oozing smoke into their already leaden sky.

He saw the steeple tower of St Mary’s, prominent despite the fire of 1841 that had destroyed much of the fabric of the church, while the great green mound of the Law provided a backdrop like a mother caring for her brood. Dundee: the town of his nightmares and here he was spending a day in a dream more perfect than he had experienced since Emma died. An oxymoron of experiences jostled his senses, but at that second he would rather have been here and with Johanna than anywhere else or with anyone else in the world. Including Emma, God forgive him, including Emma.

They bobbed together on the surface of the sea, and Mendick was content to just be. He glanced over at Johanna and she was watching him, her eyes narrow, thoughtful and green; or were they grey? He could not decide. He did not really care, he just enjoyed the sensation of her gaze.

“You look better now, James.” Johanna said quietly. “You looked terrible when we picked you up. I think it’s time you told me what happened.”

Mendick nodded. When had she started to call him James? He shrugged. Did it matter, as long as she did?

Unicorn Cottage greeted them with warmth and a ready-laid fire that Johanna lit even before she dried and changed herself. Mendick watched as she walked around with the wet linen clinging to her, moving with her, enhancing each contour and curve and when she looked up and caught his gaze he did not look away.

“I know,” she said so softly he almost missed her words. “I feel just the same way.” She pulled a towel from a corner cupboard and passed it to him. “Best get dried, James.” She smiled again, the mischief so evident her eyes sparked. “I won’t watch.” When she left the room Mendick’s eyes were busy on her.

She returned with a small bundle of clothes, withdrew politely until he dressed and took him upstairs to the room in which he had first interviewed her, with the tall windows looking out to the Tay and the pictures adorning the walls. John was running around like a boy demented, with the same cheerful maid serving tea and the same fire casting its heat. Johanna, who had been so confident in the water, made straight for the heat and shivered in front of it.

In borrowed clothes and without his notebook and pen, Mendick hardly felt able to conduct a proper interview.

“You mentioned that your husband habitually lived in Mandarin House. Does that mean he was there on the night of the murders and you were here?”

Johanna accepted a cup from the maid and sipped gracefully. “He is there every night, Sergeant, unless he is out hunting or shooting. And I am here every night unless he requires me for some reason.”

Mendick raised his eyebrows but made no comment and Johanna laughed and shook her head.

“No, Sergeant. Not for the reason you are thinking!” She pointed to where John lay on the floor making strange noises and looking up at the ceiling. “He is the only reason David and I ever indulged in that sort of activity. He wanted an heir. I gave him one.”

“And a very handsome young heir, too.”

Johanna smiled. “I like to think so.” She was quiet for a minute. “John is my life,” she said at last. “John and my painting, and water. Here I have the sea. At home I had the rivers.”

“So you must get a little bored,” Mendick said, “which explains the smuggling of duty free rum and tobacco.”

The sadness was fleeting but definite. “It could be a lot worse,” Johanna said. “I have a lovely house, a lovely son and everything I need except affection and adult companionship.” She shrugged. “But I am very lucky compared to most . . . I think that is enough information about me, now.”

“Not quite,” Mendick said. He would have liked to listen to Johanna speak all day and every day, but he had to focus on his duty. At that moment he detested his duty, keeping him from her. “Mr Gordon made his money in the Chinese Opium Trade, is that correct?”

“I believe so,” Johanna said.

“So tell me, how does he spend his time now?” Mendick lifted his cup, watching changing emotions chase across Johanna’s eyes.

“Are you asking this as Sergeant Mendick or as James?” The smile was back, still slightly lopsided, but her eyes were cool. The laughter had disappeared.

“Both,” Mendick said.

“In that case, Sergeant Mendick, I do not know.” She faced him directly and her voice dropped. “He is my husband, James, and the father of my son.”

“If I was your husband . . .” Mendick stopped himself. He had learned while in the army never to venture unsupported into dangerous territory.

“James . . .” Johanna held out both hands. “I think there is something we need to do.”

“Johanna? Or Mrs Gordon?” He smiled. They were both living dual lives. He was the duty-bound policeman, she the dutiful wife, but beneath the mask of duty lay the turmoil of emotional reality. Life was a matter of layers with the truth concealed behind the public face.

“My name is Johanna Lednock,” Johanna’s voice was soft. “Come to my bed, James.” Her hand was held out in invitation and her eyes wrapped their love around his heart.

They lay side by side under the tangled sheet with the afternoon sun ghosting through the window and their fingers entwined. Mendick looked at her as she slept. With her eyes closed and her mouth relaxed she looked very young indeed and for a moment Mendick thought of Emma, but he shook away the memory. That was unfair to both women. Emma had been his wife; loyal, devoted, loving. This was Johanna; another man’s wife but now joined to him by a bond he could neither define nor deny.

Her eyes opened, focussed and smiled. “Hello James.”

He smiled back. “Hello, yourself, Johanna.”

Her hand squeezed his. “That was unlike anything I have experienced before.”

“I hope that is not an insult,” Mendick smiled.

He lay back. Love-making with Emma had been gentle and soft, he had needed to take his time and woo her. Johanna had been ready before he was, had matched him in every way, anticipated his desires and climaxed as fully as he had. She had been a ready and willing partner, laughing with open glee and enjoying their mutual pleasure. He had thought he had known about women but Johanna’s reaction had been so unlike Emma’s he had been at first astonished, and then met her energy with his own.

“Gordon is not . . .” Johanna hesitated, “I do not like to be disloyal, James, but Gordon is not . . . the most enthusiastic of husbands in the bedroom.” She stirred and looked away. “We have been married seven years, James, and he has bedded me less than that number of times.”

There was nothing Mendick could say to that. For a moment he wondered if Johanna was merely using him because of her naturally frustrated desires, but one glance at her eyes assured him she was not. What they felt, whatever they felt, was genuine.

“You have me now,” he said, and she smiled and moved closer.

“I have you now,” she confirmed. As she moved, the sheet slipped clear of her breasts. Rather than cover them back up as Emma would have done, she left the sheet where it was and lay natural and unashamed at his side. “You know a lot about me, James, but I know so little about you.”

Mendick could not escape the magic of her eyes. “I think that after the last couple of hours you know a great deal about me, Johanna.”

Her hand slid down and patted him. “Not the physical, James. We all share some needs there. I mean you. Who are you, where are you from, what made you a police sergeant?” She turned to face him with her head propped up on her hand. “Tell me about yourself, James.”

He had been a climbing boy for as long as he could remember; he had been a climbing boy since his father had died of fever and his mother had signed him onto a seven year apprenticeship. He knew nothing else except that life was a nightmare of misery, pain and work.

Mendick shrugged. “There is nothing much to tell,” he said. “I was apprenticed to a chimney sweep as a boy, ran away to sea and then joined the army.”

He knew she was looking at him, watching every expression on his face as she tried to work out what made him tick, but he did not care. For a second the images returned; the horror of his early life, the hardship at sea and the mud and humidity of India and China. “The regiment came home in 1843 and I joined the police.”

“Tell me more,” she demanded. “Tell me all.”

Mendick did so. For the first time in years he revealed his inner self. He spoke of his fear as a climbing boy, his adventures at sea and the sordid horrors of the Chinese campaign. When he finished, there was interest and even compassion in Johanna’s eyes. “I will never look at a chimney sweep in the same way again, James.”

Mendick looked around the room, so fresh in its bright colours, so civilised with its paintings and books. He could not imagine Johanna understanding the persistent misery of his early life and for a moment he resented her casual acceptance of her wealth and position. He chased that thought away as being unfair to a woman who had shown him nothing but kindness. She touched him, softly.

“Are you all right, James?”

No, he thought; it was not kindness. It was something far greater than kindness. He did not dare to admit the depth of her feelings for him, but as he watched that small dimple, and the slightly lopsided smile, he knew she felt as he did, or nearly so. As her fingers sought his, some of the bad memories faded; they would never disappear completely, but Mendick knew he could push them to the back of his mind, at least when he was with Johanna.

“So you were a seaman as well, James?” Johanna sat up, allowing the covers to slide further down her body. She smiled as Mendick’s eyes followed and did nothing to cover herself up.

“Seaman and soldier both and now I am a policeman.” Mendick felt suddenly embarrassed and looked away. The room was obviously a woman’s domain. The wallpaper was light and simply patterned, and vases of spring flowers adorned most surfaces, while the oval mirror on the dressing table reflected the whalebone mirror, comb and hair brush and the collection of pots and potions that reminded Mendick so much of Emma. “Are these all your paintings?”

“All mine,” Johanna said.

He heard the pride in her voice, and the undertone of doubt.

“They are beautiful.” Mendick slid out of bed, unconcerned about his state of undress, and examined the pictures once more. He stopped before the largest, a canvas a full three feet square. Two ships sailed side by side down the Tay with Dundee as a backdrop. In the foreground four men pulled at the oars of a small boat while a slim, hooded figure sat in the stern. He did not need to be told who that slim figure was.

“That could be in an art gallery,” Mendick said. “Are these real ships or from your imagination?”

Johanna did not smile. “They are real ships of course: that is Evelyn Berenger and Rose Flammock of Gilbride’s Waverley Whaling Company.”

Mendick turned around and ignored Johanna’s wicked smile. “What did you say their names were?”

“Evelyn Berenger and Rose Flammock,” Johanna pointed to the names painted on the stern of each ship. “They are characters in Scott’s The Betrothed. Gilbride names all his ships after Scott’s characters . . .”

“Dear God! Of course!” Mendick suddenly remembered Johanna had ordered the smugglers to get back to the old Rose but he had not thought anything of it at the time. “Rose. It’s a ship’s name and I have been wasting my time dilly-dallying with you.” He stopped and turned as he realised what he had said. “I did not mean that as it sounded. I did not mean that I had wasted my time with you in any way at all.”

Johanna was lying on her back, her head propped up on her pillows, watching him. “I did not think you did, James,” she paused and sighed. “No, you are not my James now. Sergeant Mendick is back, all duty and gruffness.”

My James. Mendick closed his eyes. My James. The phrase spoke of ownership and belonging; it spoke of someone who cared for him, and a home and hearth to call his own. While duty compelled him to thrust on, search for China Jim and solve these horrendous murders, there was a huge part of him that wanted to forget he had seen that picture, to forget about Rose Flammock and climb back into bed with Johanna. But he knew he could not; life was not so easy. He had made his commitment and he must stand by it. He looked down at her. She suddenly looked so alone.

“I must go back to the police office,” he said.

“I know you must.” Johanna slid out of the bed and stepped towards him. She held him close, her head against his chest and the scent of her hair sweet and clean. “I know.”

When she stepped back, the mischief was back in her eyes. “But you had better put some clothes on first. Maybe James can parade himself around as stark as nature intended, but I do not think Sergeant Mendick should arrive at the police office in quite so unclad a condition.” The laugh gurgled in her throat, but now Mendick knew there were hidden depths behind Johanna Lednock; and deep desires.