The chime of the clock in the hall striking eleven brought Mungo back to himself. He lifted up the cushion. Rutherford lay there, eyes closed, showing no sign of the violent death he had suffered.
Quickly, Mungo stretched Rutherford out on the sofa and laid a rug over him so that it would look as if he was asleep. He threw the pieces of the cheque on the fire. He folded Rutherford’s arms across his chest, and put the empty whiskey glass in the dead man’s hand.
He glanced at the bureau. What other secrets might he find in there? He was tempted to look, but at that moment a noise from the hallway reminded him of his danger. He had to get away.
He went out. Carter, the butler, was still standing in the hall, stiff in his frock coat. Mungo searched his face for any sign he had heard what happened. The old slave’s features gave nothing away, but then slaves were well used to hiding what they knew.
Carter was the only man who knew Mungo had been there that night.
‘Mr Rutherford is taking a nap,’ Mungo told him. ‘He said he wasn’t to be disturbed.’
Carter nodded. Wordlessly, he opened the door to show Mungo out. As Mungo brushed past him, he thought how easy it would be to break the old man’s neck, to end his life just as he had Rutherford’s. Then there would be no witnesses to what Mungo had done.
‘Goodnight,’ Mungo said.
He stepped out of the door into the night air. He could not say why he had let Carter live. Perhaps it was mercy – or maybe something in the butler’s lined face and white hair had reminded him of Methuselah. After what he had done to his own grandfather, he could not believe it was conscience.
He hoped he would not regret it.
It was nearly midnight. There were no horses to be had at that hour, and Mungo did not dare linger in Richmond until morning. He set out on Baltimore Road, walking at a brisk pace that he could keep up for hours. The moon was high and the way was clear; if any robbers or cutpurses lurked at the roadside, they did not bother him that night. Perhaps they recognised in him the kindred spirit of a murderer. He was left alone with his thoughts.
He felt no guilt about what he had done. Rutherford had betrayed Windemere, he had let Oliver St John be murdered, and he had bankrolled Chester Marion. Killing him had been the first blow struck for Mungo’s revenge. If anything, Mungo felt a strange elation. Everything that had tethered him to the world was gone. Even the memory of his family had been torn down. He felt himself floating free, apart from the world, unrestrained by the considerations that bound lesser men. He felt in his heart there was nothing he was not capable of. The knowledge was liberating, like jumping off a cliff and discovering that you could, after all, fly.
The sun had risen in a soft pink dawn. Mungo was just starting to think about where he might find some breakfast when he felt a shudder in the road under his feet. Horses were approaching at speed. He turned, and saw them already coming around the bend. Half a dozen men in militia uniforms, the brass on their coats gleaming in the morning light.
There was no time to get off the highway and hide. He moved to the verge and stood aside to let them pass. But they did not ride by. Instead, they reined up in front of him. The horses’ breath made clouds in the morning; their flanks steamed. They must have ridden hard.
The militia captain leaned forward in his saddle.
‘Mungo St John?’
Mungo nodded. They could not have found him by accident, and there was only one man who could have given the militia his name. He should have killed Carter when he had the chance. Now – against six armed men on horseback – he had no hope of escape.
‘What is this?’ Mungo asked, as casually as he could.
‘We heard you might be on this road. Come with us.’
‘Is there a reason?’
Did Mungo imagine it, or did the captain’s hand creep towards the butt of his pistol?
‘It concerns Mr Amos Rutherford.’
‘My grandfather?’ Mungo’s brow furrowed. ‘I left him a few hours ago. Has anything happened?’
‘I cannot say any more at present. You will find out in Richmond.’
They had brought a spare horse, so at least Mungo’s legs were spared the return journey. He mounted up and rode in silence. What had taken all night to walk needed barely two hours to retrace. They rode into Richmond and back up the hill to the Rutherford house. It was now the middle of the morning, but all the shutters were closed and black crepe hung from the windows.
‘What has happened?’ said Mungo, acting as if he was surprised. ‘Who has died?’
‘Come inside.’
The militia captain ushered Mungo up the steps he had mounted only a few hours earlier. Carter held open the door, giving Mungo a hard, penetrating stare. Mungo returned it with a nod. A slave’s testimony would not go far in a Virginia courthouse. But it might be enough to hang him.
Thankfully, they did not take him to the drawing room. Instead, a servant dressed all in black showed Mungo to Rutherford’s office. A man was waiting there, sitting at the desk in front of a pile of papers. Mungo did not recognise him. He was a short dumpling of a man, with thinning hair and a drooping moustache. The handshake he gave Mungo was as limp as a dead fish.
‘My name is Shelton. I am your grandfather’s attorney. Do you know why I have summoned you?’
Mungo had a fair idea. But he had played – and won – enough bad hands in poker to keep bluffing to the end.
‘Am I still wanted for bail jumping?’
Shelton’s moustache twitched in surprise. ‘No, sir. Mr Rutherford had me take care of all that a year ago. The charges of slave stealing were dismissed – and since there were no charges, ipso facto, there could be no issue with the bail.’
‘Then why did you bring me here? And why is the house decked in mourning? Where is my grandfather?’
Shelton looked at him sternly. ‘You were here last night?’
There was no point denying it. He had already admitted as much to the militia.
‘I was.’
‘Mr St John . . .’ Shelton clasped his hands together. ‘I am profoundly sorry to have to tell you this, but some time after you left, your grandfather passed away.’
Mungo bowed his head, as if the news was too much to bear.
‘They found him on the couch. We presume he suffered a seizure or a stroke as he lay there.’
Mungo’s head jerked up so quickly he almost cricked his neck.
‘A seizure?’
‘He had been drinking whiskey. His doctor had warned him of the consequences if he drank liquor, but evidently, he did not heed their advice.’
‘But . . .’ The shock on Mungo’s face was entirely real. Inside, his mind raced. ‘He seemed perfectly well when I left him. He complained he felt a little tightness in his chest – he was going to lie down.’ He bit his lip. ‘If only I had stayed longer with him.’
Shelton put on his most sympathetic face. ‘I am sure there was nothing you could have done. The end must have been instantaneous, and surely without pain. Were you close?’
‘He was almost all the family I had.’
‘Of course, of course. My condolences. The loss of a loved one . . .’
Shelton flapped a hand, as if the realm of emotions was entirely beyond his purview. Instead, he hoisted a large black paper-case onto the table.
‘It seems callous to talk of business in the hour of your grief. However, there are certain legal formalities that must be observed.’
Mungo nodded. The attorney opened his case and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
‘This is Amos Rutherford’s last will and testament. He wrote it some years ago, but it is all valid and in order.’ He put the papers in front of Mungo. ‘As you can see, he names me as executor. The bulk of his fortune he leaves to his son in Charleston, but there is a significant bequest also to his daughter Abigail.’
‘She died four years ago,’ said Mungo.
‘Indeed, indeed. But Mr Rutherford had not update
d the will since her tragic death. Therefore, as Abigail’s sole heir, the bequest goes to you.’ He snapped shut the paper-case. ‘I am sorry I had to summon you back so abruptly. Since last August there has been a great deal of uncertainty about your whereabouts. So when the butler said that you had visited with Mr Rutherford only last night, and that you might still be in the vicinity, I naturally felt I must seize the moment to get hold of you. I apologise if it seemed a little excessive, to send the militia after you, but I felt it was my only recourse.’
He fell silent as he noticed Mungo’s yellow eyes staring at him. The attorney shifted uneasily, discomfited by their gaze. He fiddled with the latch on his case.
‘Is there something else?’
‘You mentioned a bequest,’ said Mungo.
‘Indeed, indeed.’ The lawyer’s face brightened again. ‘Forgive me – perhaps I did not make myself entirely clear.
‘What I meant to say is, you are now worth fifty thousand dollars.’
For a month, Camilla was treated like a queen. She and Isaac were moved into the second-largest bedroom at Bannerfield. Isaac was given a crib carved from teak by a French cabinet maker from New Orleans, while Camilla spent her nights in the biggest bed she had ever seen. She could stretch out her arms full width and still not touch the sides. At night, she no longer had to fear for the sound of Chester at her door.
The baby was her joy. He had a button nose, and fat legs, and a little bow mouth that was always puckering up in search of the nipple. His skin was the colour of almonds. Camilla worried he would be too dark for his father, but Chester proclaimed himself delighted.
‘He can pass for a white man,’ he said. He was less enthralled with Isaac’s frizzy black hair: ‘But we can iron that out when he is older.’
Dressmakers came from as far away as Charleston and Savannah with bright bolts of silk and muslin. They sewed these into gowns for the baby, trimmed with lace and gold.
‘It is a waste to put such finery on a baby,’ Camilla fretted. ‘He will sick up his milk on them and they will be ruined.’
‘Then we will make more,’ said Chester. ‘And you should not complain. You are doing very well out of this yourself.’
The seamstresses did not just clothe the baby. They also dressed Camilla, running up beautiful dresses from the same fine cloths, artfully sewn so they could be taken in as her body returned to its natural shape after childbirth.
‘What will I do with all these clothes?’ Camilla wondered, eyeing herself in the long bedroom mirror. ‘I cannot wear them to pick cotton.’
‘You will not be going back to the fields,’ said Chester. He lay on the bed, eyes half closed, enjoying the sight of her in her finery. The neck was cut very low, accentuating her breasts, which had swelled plump from nursing. ‘You are destined for greater things. Undress.’
Camilla turned away, letting the maid unbutton the gown. She stepped out of it and stood wearing nothing but her shift. She studied her figure in the mirror. She had already shed most of the weight she had put on during her pregnancy, almost back to the slender body she was used to.
‘Pack that into a trunk along with the other clothes,’ Chester ordered the maid.
Camilla looked around. ‘Are we going somewhere?’
‘I am taking you to New Orleans. There are some important men I want you to meet, and you must look your best.’
‘I did not know.’
She tried to smile – she could see he wanted her to be pleased – but inside she was afraid. Amid all the joys of motherhood, she never forgot who she really was. And now that the baby was born, she had lost the only hold she’d had over Chester. If anything, the situation was worse. With Isaac in his power, he could hurt her in ways that whips and hot irons never could.
‘Is it wise to go to New Orleans?’ she asked. ‘For the baby, I mean. The air in the city is very foul. There are fevers and fluxes he might catch there.’
‘Isaac will stay here.’
‘But who will look after him?’
Chester reached out and pulled the bell-cord. A few moments later, a woman Camilla had never seen before walked in. She had red hair, full hips and a gap-toothed smile when she opened her mouth.
‘This is Hattie. She will look after Isaac while we are gone.’
Camilla looked at the woman with her crooked teeth and white skin, and wanted to claw her eyes out.
‘So soon?’
Isaac started to cry, as if he could sense his mother’s distress. Camilla went to the cradle to comfort him, but Chester stopped her.
‘Let Hattie take him. He will have to get used to his new nurse.’
Camilla had to watch as the strange woman lifted her baby out of the cradle and pressed him to her large bosom. Isaac’s nose twitched at the unfamiliar smell of the nurse’s skin. He tipped back his head and began to bawl. The sound almost tore Camilla in two.
‘Take him away,’ said Chester.
Hattie curtsied and waddled out. Camilla bit her lip and forced herself not to cry.
‘Good milk,’ said Chester, watching her go. ‘He will grow into a strong boy suckling on her.’
Camilla said nothing. Staring out of the window at the cotton fields, she thought of all the times she had dreamed of flying far away to a place where Chester could not touch her. Now even that gave her no comfort. Isaac had made a bond of flesh and blood between her and Chester, an umbilical link that would keep her tethered to Bannerfield even when she screamed to be free of it.
There was only one man who could free her from this ordeal. But where was he?
• • •
Tippoo arched his back and pulled on the oars. With his strength to power her, the little dinghy leaped through the placid water of Baltimore harbour like a mayfly. In the stern, Mungo watched the port glide by: the red brick warehouses that lined the wharves; the chandlers and dry docks and shipyards. Schooners and sloops flitted across the bay, while a squat paddle steamer chugged her way south. Beyond, the spires and civic monuments of the city rose above the skyline.
‘If you are so rich now, why can you not pay someone else to row?’ Tippoo said. He was teasing – he had barely broken a sweat.
Mungo laughed. ‘Because I have better things to spend my money on.’
He had remained in Richmond for a week after Rutherford’s death, just long enough to cash in his inheritance. He did not go to the funeral. He knew it would cause a minor scandal in Richmond society, but he did not care. He was never going back.
He returned to Baltimore and found Tippoo passed out drunk in a brothel, with three whores wondering how to shift him so that the next client could have use of the room. Mungo had helped move the giant to more salubrious accommodation. When he came round, Mungo told him what had happened in Richmond, and the fortune he had inherited.
Tippoo, who had never had more than a few dollars to his name, had taken the news pragmatically.
‘You can buy me a drink,’ was all he had said.
Now Tippoo leaned back on the oars. ‘When will you tell me why are we here?’
‘There is something I want to show you.’ Mungo looked ahead. ‘Steer right a little, towards those slips.’
‘Sometimes I think you only like to watch me row,’ Tippoo complained. ‘Do we go all the way to New Orleans?’
The smile faded from Mungo’s face as quickly as a cloud covering the sun.
‘Not yet.’
For the last week, there had only been one thought in his head. Rutherford had helped Chester seize Windemere, disgrace Mungo, murder Oliver and Camilla. Now Rutherford had given Mungo the means to get his revenge.
A small steam launch powered past, not far off their starboard side. Black smoke belched from her funnel, and the clatter of her engine drowned out every other sound. She was an ugly vessel, Mungo thought, a bulldog among the clippers and schooners whose white sails graced the harbour like swans. The launch’s bow wave rocked the little rowing boat.
‘I have un
derestimated Chester at every turn,’ Mungo said. ‘I will not make that mistake again.’
‘Next time, take more guns,’ said Tippoo.
‘I cannot defeat him with brute force alone.’
All across the Atlantic and back on the Blackhawk, Mungo had had plenty of time to contemplate his revenge. A powerful man like Chester would be well protected – it would not be easy for Mungo to get close enough to put a bullet in him. And even if he could, that would not be enough.
He would repay his debt to Chester in full. Humiliate him, bankrupt him, reveal him to the world for the monster he was. It would not restore Camilla or Oliver; probably he would not even get back Windemere. But it would be justice.
And then he would kill him.
‘His wealth is the source of his power. I must wait to move against him until I am rich enough to match him.’
‘You have fifty thousand dollars,’ Tippoo reminded him.
Mungo nudged the dinghy a little to starboard. ‘To a man like Chester, fifty thousand dollars is pocket change. I need half a million at least. A million would be better. So I am going back to Africa.’
Tippoo crooked an eyebrow. He said nothing, but the expression on his face spoke eloquently: You are going slaving again?
Tippoo had never asked what had happened on the Blackhawk – how the slaves had managed to unlock their shackles and take the ship. But the giant was no fool. Mungo had no doubt he had worked out what had happened.
‘I do not intend to follow in Sterling’s footsteps,’ Mungo said. ‘The rewards of the slave trade do not outweigh the risks.’
He said it as if it were a simple business calculation, the balance of entries on opposite sides of the ledger. Whatever might be in his head – the stench of the slave decks; the hiss of metal charring branded flesh; the heartbreaking wail of the captives; the look of terror on a young girl’s face as she was brought out for Lanahan to debase – his yellow eyes gave no sign of it.
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