That accusation seemed to sting the newspaperman. ‘I know folk who’ve had the soles of their feet beaten with lead, who’ve died still tied to the treadmill, who’ve been locked up for no reason and shot for no reason. That’s just the folks I know. So I’m not going to get up on my soapbox and give a speech about the evil white man, but I’m also not going to apologise for doing what I need to do.’
Pyke held his stare. ‘You do what you need to do, I’ll do what I need to do. How does that sound?’
‘Long as our interests don’t clash, that’s fine. But like my friend here said, you’d do well to leave as soon as you can.’
Coming from Harper, this sounded more like a warning rather than a friendly piece of advice. Pyke turned to Webb. ‘Did you know Mary Edgar while she was here?’
‘Everyone knew Mary.’
‘I heard you and she were lovers. Which is why Malvern decided to send her away.’
Webb stared at him, open mouthed, and Harper had to intervene. ‘Who told you that?’
‘So it’s true.’
They exchanged a quick look. Harper nodded, as though giving his assent. Then Webb said, ‘Yeah, man, I loved her, I did. I can’t believe she dead.’ He was staring down at his boots, shaking his head, but somehow his grief seemed unconvincing.
‘It can’t have been easy for you, after Malvern found out you’d been sleeping with Mary.’
Webb pulled up his shirt to reveal a lattice of barely healed scars on his back. ‘What you saw the other night weren’t nothing compared to what Busha did to me.’
‘Busha?’
‘Pemberton,’ Harper explained.
‘On top of that, Custos give me hundred lashes in the workhouse, made me dance the treadmill every morning and evening for a month, work in the penal gang during the day.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Webb shrugged. ‘Big man here told me you was looking for the man who killed her.’ His stare was hard and clear.
‘He also said you know everything there is to know about what goes on at Ginger Hill. Is that so?’
Webb just shrugged again.
‘Do you know a sugar trader from England called William Alefounder?’ He was about to explain that Alefounder had perhaps visited Ginger Hill some time during the previous year, but saw it wasn’t necessary.
‘He stayed up at the great house for a week, the end of last year. Took a real shine to Mary.’
Pyke studied Webb’s face. ‘And were these feelings in any way reciprocated?’
‘Mary had one white man in love wit’ her. That was enough. She didn’t need this other one sniffin’ around her.’
‘Are you suggesting she wasn’t in love with Charles Malvern?’
That drew an irritated snort from Webb. ‘Rich white massa offer you the world, what’s a poor black girl gonna do? Turn around and say no, Massa, I prefer workin’ in the fields, holing cane?’
‘So was Mary sent away to England or did she choose to go?’
‘Little of both.’
‘But why would she have agreed to go?’ Pyke hesitated. ‘Why not wait here for Malvern to sell Ginger Hill?’
Webb sighed. ‘He made the arrangements, she just did as she was told. Didn’t want to ruin a good thing, I suppose.’ His bitterness was self-evident.
‘And Arthur Sobers?’
They both looked at one another. ‘Who?’ Harper said, eyebrows raised.
‘A black man who was her travelling companion. She sailed with him to London and rented a room with him once they arrived.’
‘Don’t know no Arthur Sobers,’ Webb said. ‘Maybe she met him on the boat.’
‘Police in London reckon he killed her.’
‘You don’t agree?’ Harper asked eventually.
‘What bothers me,’ Pyke said, looking at Webb, ‘is your lack of concern that Mary might have shared a bed with another man.’
But Webb was slow to anger. ‘White man like you only understand the world in terms of possessions.’
It was a good answer but Pyke wasn’t quite convinced by it. ‘What do you know about Elizabeth Malvern?’
This sudden change of tack caught them both off guard. ‘In what sense?’ Harper asked, exchanging a nervous glance with Webb.
‘How would you describe her, for a start?’
‘Didn’t really know her. Black folk aren’t often asked to dine at the great house.’
‘Mary was.’
Webb licked his lips. ‘That was different.’
‘Different or not, I can’t imagine Charles’s family welcoming her with open arms.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ Harper said.
‘But you don’t know what Elizabeth thought about her brother marrying Mary?’ Pyke said to Webb.
‘Don’t imagine she cared for the idea one little bit.’ He wiped perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Why? You think she killed Mary?’
‘It’s possible she might have been involved.’ Pyke paused. ‘I heard that Charles and his sister used to be - how should I put it? - too close.’
Harper glanced across at Webb. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘Didn’t you hear the rumour, too?’ Pyke said, addressing Webb.
But Webb seemed unmoved. ‘Fucking about the only thing the white man is good at.’
Harper grinned and slapped Pyke on the shoulder. Pressing the rum bottle into his hand, he said, ‘Have a drink and try not to look so serious. I’ll be honest with you. Like Isaac said, you should go home. Mary’s dead and she ain’t coming back. This is our struggle.’
That seemed to remind Harper of something because his expression suddenly became serious. ‘When we first met, you asked me to tell you when the Island Queen arrived.’
‘And has it?’
The big man rubbed his chin, as though contemplating some deep thought. ‘That’s why you came, isn’t it? There’s someone on board who knows something about Mary’s murder.’
A moment passed between them. Pyke’s jaw clenched. ‘Alefounder fled London on the Island Queen.’
Harper nodded, as if he’d been expecting it. ‘And you think he might have killed Mary?’
Pyke shrugged. ‘When did the ship dock?’ he asked eventually.
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Which means Alefounder could be on his way to Ginger Hill right now.’
Harper looked at him. ‘It’s possible.’
Pyke nodded. ‘That’s why I’ve got to go back there.’
‘Go back? Are you out of your mind?’ Harper shook his head. ‘You weren’t too wrong when you said half the island was out looking for you. On the ride up here, we were stopped by three different sets of soldiers.’
‘But you know this land better than anyone,’ Pyke said to Webb. ‘You could show me the way back to Ginger Hill and I’ll wager you wouldn’t even need a road or a track.’
Webb looked at him for a while, trying to make sense of what he’d just been asked to do. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ He waited for Pyke to nod and then continued, ‘Why are you really here?’
‘You mean, have I really come all this way to find out who killed Mary?’
‘If you like.’
‘Strange as it may sound, the answer would be yes.’
Webb rubbed his eyes and sighed. ‘And now you want me to take you back to Ginger Hill and risk getting killed?’
‘Yes.’
Webb looked over at Harper and shook his head. ‘Man either too brave or too stupid or both.’
‘But you’ll take me there, won’t you?’
This time it was Harper who spoke. ‘You’ll have to wait until nightfall. Even if you cut across the cane fields, you might run into some men with dogs.’ He stood up, stretched his legs, and stared at the darkening sky. ‘In Falmouth they were talking about a storm heading this way. Maybe the best idea would be to stay here for a couple of days, lie low, wait for it to pass.’
‘I don’t ha
ve a couple of days.’
‘Then you should get plenty of rest. It’s a long way from here to Ginger Hill.’
EIGHTEEN
By the middle of the morning the air had grown cool and moist and the wind, coming from the north, smelled of sea salt; it blew through the village, tearing straw thatches from the roofs of houses and stripping leaves from their branches. It started to rain shortly afterwards and by lunchtime the conditions had deteriorated so much that Webb reckoned it would be safe to start their journey. No one, he assured Pyke, would be looking for them in this weather. For his part, Pyke felt inclined to agree and was just as keen as Webb to get going as soon as possible, although he did wonder about Webb’s volte-face; why it was Webb rather than him who was suddenly forcing the timetable. They left after lunch, armed with rum, fruit and water, and wearing hats and boots borrowed or procured by Harper from the villagers. The track down to the cane fields was already muddy and treacherous and the wind, if anything, had picked up, so much so that by the time they made it down to the plain, some of the cane plants had been flattened. The rain continued to fall and the wind blowing through the cane made it impossible to hear what the other was saying, so they walked in silence, Webb leading the way, Pyke following.
For a while in the middle of the afternoon the wind dropped and the rain eased. They stopped for a rest under a leafy mango tree, Webb drinking from the rum bottle before passing it to Pyke.
‘You smell the salt?’ he said, looking up at the sky.
Pyke nodded. ‘Is that a bad sign?’ He swallowed some of the rum and shuddered.
‘This far up into the mountains it is.’
Pyke handed the bottle back to him and waited. ‘Can I ask you a question about what we discussed earlier?’
Webb took another swig of the rum but didn’t answer.
‘Why do I get the impression you don’t want to talk to me about Mary?’
‘I answered your questions.’
Pyke stared at him. ‘If I said the words “kill-devil” to you, what would they mean?’
Webb stiffened slightly. ‘It’s what folk sometimes call rum.’
‘The captain of the ship that took Mary and Arthur Sobers to London overheard them talking, reckoned it was some kind of code.’
‘A code?’ Webb offered him a cool stare. ‘For what?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you.’
Webb continued to look at him, perhaps about to speak, but something changed his mind and he replaced the bottle in his knapsack and told Pyke they needed to get going.
The rain was light and patchy for the rest of the afternoon and they trudged in silence through field after field of mature cane plants. As Harper had predicted, they didn’t see anyone, and after six hours of hard walking, they crossed the Martha Brae river by the stone bridge - just downhill from the great house. It was already dark and the rain had become more persistent. The wind was beginning to howl now, and the palm trees on the track up to the great house were bent over, their fronds sometimes almost touching the ground.
‘I’m afraid this is as far as I go,’ Webb said, pointing at the deserted boiling house. ‘I’ll wait for you in there until morning. If you don’t come by then, I’ll take it you no longer need my help.’
They parted without shaking hands, but as Pyke continued up the track he heard Webb call out, ‘Good luck,’ and then, ‘You’ll need it.’
Pyke had read about tropical storms in books but he had never been caught up in one, nor had he ever expected to be. Still, he had to question his sanity for being outside and indeed for coming back to a place where every sentient male within a ten-mile radius doubtless wanted to hang him from the nearest tree. As he steeled himself against the blasts of wind, and from the rain which was now falling horizontally, he heard a tree trunk snap and looked behind him just in time to see a giant logwood topple on to the track where he’d just been. Farther up the track, a plank of wood whistled past his ear. A rumble of thunder and a sudden crack of lightning followed, suddenly illuminating the great house at the top of the hill. It looked like a mast-less vessel riding on the top of the tallest of waves.
Rather than approach the great house from the main track and risk being spotted, Pyke circumnavigated the hill and climbed up from the other side, so that he finally emerged near the stone counting house. There, he found the hole he’d dug a few days earlier, and the shovel and pickaxe next to it, and carried them up to the counting house. The rain now tasted of salt, as though whole swathes of the sea had been sucked up by the wind and dumped on the mountains. Still, he was a long way past caring about getting wet - he was already soaked through. The wind was now uprooting mature coffee and wild fig trees as though they were made of papier mâché, tossing tree branches on to the lawn in front of him as though they weren’t any heavier than toothpicks.
The house itself had taken a terrible battering; the shutters and doors had long since been bolted and fastened but the wind had torn off parts of the roof and shale. Lead slates and even a few timber beams lay strewn across parts of the garden.
Pyke had no idea how he was going to lure Pemberton outside; if indeed he was there at all. He needed to find a way of getting to the man and knocking him unconscious. While he pondered this dilemma, the wind gathered in strength until he heard an earsplitting crack; a palm tree then snapped at its base and cannoned like a battering ram into the great house, puncturing a large hole in the stone and timber wall directly under the veranda.
It was what he’d been waiting for.
Steeling himself against the wind, he staggered out on to the lawn, trying to keep his balance. One gust almost swept him off his feet; another carried a branch of a tree to within a few inches of his head. It took him a few minutes to clear the lawn, but eventually he made it and peered into the lower floor of the house through the hole made by the tree; then he saw a lantern coming towards him and heard footsteps. He hid from view, wrapped his hands around the wooden handle of the shovel and counted to ten. ‘Busha,’ Pyke called out. It was the name the black workers used for Pemberton.
Pyke swung the shovel through the air and caught the attorney squarely in the face with the metal end. Pemberton went down without a sound. Pyke checked his pulse; his nose might have been smashed and his skull dented by the blow but it hadn’t killed him. He picked up the man’s lantern and carried it up a flight of steps; at the top he opened the door and, as he did so, the wind, which had blown through the hole made by the palm tree, tore into the dining room, ripping paintings from the walls, knocking wineglasses and china plates from the sideboard and almost wrenching the cut-glass chandelier from its fixing. Using his back and putting his whole body into it, Pyke just managed to push the door closed and bolt it from the inside.
He found Charles Malvern and William Alefounder in Malvern’s study. Between them, they had drunk most of a bottle of brandy, and despite the foul conditions outside they seemed quite merry.
‘Do tell, what was that terrible crash, Pemberton?’ Malvern said, without even looking up. His cheeks were glowing from the alcohol he’d consumed. ‘Are we really all going to perish in the storm?’ Perhaps he hadn’t seen or comprehended the damage the storm had done to the great house.
Malvern hadn’t noticed Pyke but Alefounder had. For a moment, Pyke almost felt sorry for the man. Dripping with water, sodden, holding a shovel, Pyke must have been the very last man Alefounder had expected and wanted to see, and he reacted accordingly; his jaw went slack, his eyes bulged, and the colour fell from his cheeks. Alefounder had travelled halfway around the world to escape persecution from a man who had forced his arm into a pot of boiling liquid and now that same man had just walked into the room in the middle of perhaps the worst storm he’d ever witnessed. His teeth began to chatter, his hands trembled and his lips turned blue but in the end, he managed to stammer, ‘Y...y...you,’ as though this was all that was needed.
It could have been a pleasant scene, Pyke thought as he looked around the
room. Old friends getting quietly drunk while the elements wreaked havoc around them.
‘Squires?’ Malvern looked up at him through a fug of alcohol. ‘I thought you ... I thought you ...’ But he couldn’t finish his sentence.
‘That I was dead? Or that I’d been shot or arrested perhaps? Or that I no longer had any interest in buying Ginger Hill?’
Alefounder cowered in his chair like a whipped dog.
‘Where’s Pemberton?’ Malvern wanted to know.
‘I struck him over the head with this.’ Pyke held up the shovel and said, to Alefounder, ‘Have you told him yet?’
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