Page 7
EDDIE
O ur first stop in the village turned out to be the statue of Josiah Nesmith. I examined the plaque on the statue’s plinth, and a seagull peered at me from the top of Josiah Nesmith’s head.
Erected in commemoration of Josiah Nesmith, the hero who delivered the people of Dauntless Island from the tyrant George Hawthorne.
“The tyrant George Hawthorne,” I said at last, and exhaled slowly. “They didn’t mince words, did they?”
“They really didn’t,” Joe agreed, with that quirk of his mouth that I was starting to figure out was as demonstrative in him as a broad grin would be in someone else.
I examined the statue again, sneaking glances to compare Josiah Nesmith to Joe, who was watching the boats in the harbour.
He raised his hand at a guy striding down towards the jetty.
The guy looked like he was about to wave back, but then he saw me and jammed his hands in the pockets of his orange jacket instead.
Joe’s mouth quirked again. “Will Harper,” he said. “My best friend.”
The guy seemed about as friendly as anthrax, but that was apparently the effect I had on people around here. Except for Joe.
Down the street, a woman stepped out of the little shop. She was carrying a tin of milk powder and still wearing her dressing gown, as though she’d been halfway through making breakfast when she remembered she was out of milk.
“Julie Dinsmore,” Joe said, when she caught me looking. “My third cousin, which is about as distant a relative as possible on Dauntless.”
The woman stepped into a house across the road from the shop.
It was one of the typical sandstone cottages that dotted the island and dated back to the 1880s, when the British government attempted to establish an outpost. The outpost had only lasted a few decades.
Dauntless Island might have been the centre of the world to the people who lived on it, but it was really just a tiny speck in a very vast ocean, completely insignificant—and forgettable—to an empire.
I took another look at the statue of Josiah Nesmith, and then me and Joe walked back down the street to the museum. Hiccup meandered alongside us.
“This was the old customs house once,” Joe said. The door was closed, but Joe lifted the latch and pushed it open without knocking. “John? You here?”
I followed him inside, my guts knotting up at the idea that John Coldwell might have been the man who attacked me last night. I wandered over to the postcards, all casual, and inspected them. Hiccup sat on my feet.
From here, I could glimpse into the main display room beyond the foyer and light shining on protective glass—but not what was behind the glass. Probably the mutineers’ flag, made from a piece of sailcloth from the HMS Dauntless herself.
Dammit, I’d wanted to see that!
But I didn’t like my chances of John Coldwell letting that happen.
I glared at a postcard with a goat on it.
Right on cue, John Coldwell appeared from out the back, his hair uncombed and a piece of toast in his hand. I hadn’t thought him particularly tough looking yesterday, but I couldn’t help wondering if he’d smashed my tent to bits last night—and tried to do the same to me.
“Red Joe,” John said with a nod, and then his expression hardened. “Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Bit of trouble last night, John,” Joe said mildly, as though he hadn’t even heard the ice in John’s tone. “Eddie was camping up on the point, and someone stole his laptop. Cracked his head open too.”
John squinted at me, and then blinked rapidly. “What? But who would do that?”
“That’s what we’re hoping to find out,” Joe said. “Yesterday Eddie told you about a diary he had, is that right?”
“A fake!” John flapped his hand dismissively. “Henry Jessup died on the island.”
“He died in Sumatra,” I said.
John snorted. “What piffle! It’s clearly a faked document!”
I bristled. “It’s been authenticated, and, anyway, these aren’t the Hitler diaries we’re talking about. It’s not going to make the front cover of Stern . Who would fake the diary of an obscure nineteenth century sailor?”
John bristled right back at me. “Oh, who indeed? What a surprise! Of course you would want to smear the good name of Josiah Nesmith, wouldn’t you? I would expect nothing less of a Hawthorne !”
I almost laughed in disbelief. “It was two hundred years ago!”
“Eddie.” Joe put a hand on my chest. “John, whether the diary is fake or not?—”
“It’s not,” I muttered.
John glared. “It is !”
“Whether it’s fake or not,” Joe continued firmly, speaking over the both of us, “Eddie was assaulted last night up on the point. He could have been killed. This is a matter for the police, John. It’s not something the community can just ignore.
If people on the mainland find out that this is how we treat guests here on Dauntless, what will that do for Short Clarry’s tourism push? ”
“I don’t give a damn about Short Clarry’s tourism push,” John said with a snort.
“Can you imagine it? Hotels built up along the street? Rental cars? A pub ? I don’t care a thing for tourism!
I care about the truth , Red Joe.” He shuddered and glared at me.
“You listen to me, young man. There’s no good ever come of a Hawthorne on Dauntless Island, and frankly you’re lucky you just got a knock on the head, and not the treatment we gave your man George back in the day. ”
My jaw dropped.
“Josiah Nesmith was a hero,” John continued, his expression pinched with anger. “I don’t care what nonsense your book tells you. It’s nothing but damned lies. And you, Red Joe, ought to remember where you come from instead of siding with a bloody Hawthorne.”
Joe sighed.
I opened my mouth and then closed it. Opened it again. “It was two hundred years ago!”
“Just put the word out that Red Joe Nesmith wants to know who did this, John,” Joe said, and grabbed me by the jacket to steer me back outside.
There was clearly nothing else we could learn from John Coldwell.
* * *
“I think ,” I said, standing in the sunlight and pinching the bridge of my nose, sending my glasses askew, “that I was just threatened with being hanged. That’s a first.”
Joe nodded and watched Hiccup nosing her way along the edge of the road. “Listen, Eddie, if you want to get anywhere with this, you’ll need to let me do the talking, alright?”
“I mean, they hate me,” I exclaimed, outraged. “They actually hate me just because I’m descended from George Hawthorne. This is crazy. I’ve come to a crazy place full of crazy people. It was two hundred years ago. Who cares ?”
“Well, you do,” Joe pointed out in an unfairly reasonable tone, “or you wouldn’t be writing a thesis about it.”
“I care because it’s interesting. I don’t care enough to smash anyone over the head about it!”
Joe shuffled his boots in the dirt. “Well, I suppose that’s a fine line for some people.”
I stared, and my mouth did the guppy opening and closing thing again before I could finally get the words out. “Not for normal people!”
Joe looked uncomfortable. “Outsiders never understand. You see the quaint cottages and the sweeping views of the ocean and think that Dauntless Island’s history is just a little footnote, something to buy on a postcard from the museum and then forget about.
But for us it’s living history. Our identity. It’s in our blood.”
I drew a breath and tried to understand what he was saying. “You’re saying I’m thinking like a historian, when I really need to think like an anthropologist?”
“It’s not just history to us,” Joe said. “It’s who we are. It’s two hundred years ago, but it’s personal.”
There was something in his quiet certainty that was unassailable. I sighed and shoved my glasses back up onto my nose. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay! I mean, I don’t get it, but okay. I’ll let you do the talking.” I peered at him. “Why are you helping me?”
“Because you asked me to,” he said, but I thought I saw his cheeks pinking up a little. It might have been the sun though.
“Okay, but you’re the lighthouse keeper. You work for the Transport Department. But back in there you told John Coldwell to put the word out that you wanted to know who assaulted me. And he looked like he was listening to you.” I shook my head. “No offence, but why would he listen to you?”
“You still don’t get it, do you?” he asked, and this time the quirk of his mouth turned into an almost-grin. “I’m Red Joe Nesmith, direct descendant of Josiah Nesmith. That means something on Dauntless, Eddie.”
“So you’re like royalty or something?” I asked slowly, because I couldn’t believe I was actually posing such a ridiculous question.
He shrugged. “Or something.”
“Holy shit.” It made a stupid amount of sense. “You are. You’re like the true king of the island, aren’t you? You’re Aragorn and I’m… I’m your Sauron!”
“My Sauron?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“It’s the bad guy from The Lord of the Rings .”
“I know what it’s from, Eddie. We have books and TV here and everything.” He rolled his eyes and snorted. “Come on, let’s go and see Mavis. She knows everything that happens on the island.”
* * *
“H ave you heard, Red Joe?” Mavis exclaimed as he pushed the door of the shop open. And then, seeing that I was bringing up the rear, she clamped her mouth shut.
“Heard what?” Joe picked up a packet of Minties on the way to the counter. He set them down and dug in his jeans for his wallet. “About Henry Jessup’s diary, or that someone attacked Eddie last night because of it?”
“Both,” Mavis said, peering around him to get a look at me. “I told you to mark my words, didn’t I?”
“You did, Mavis,” he said.
Mavis narrowed her eyes at him. “You trimmed your beard.”
Joe’s flush was back. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” Mavis looked at me, and then back to Joe. “Suits you.”
“Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “Did you see anyone going up to the point last night?” He glanced at me. “Mavis lives above the shop. You can see the whole village from your living room, isn’t that right?”