‘It will be late when they get to the town,’ continued Rider; ‘and that virtuous and somnolent place retires early. Now, what sort of business can be taking Mrs. Palmer to Montego Bay tonight?’
‘You are very curious,’ observed Robert with a short laugh, but he too was conscious of a great curiosity.
‘I am curious,’ confessed Mr. Rider. ‘I have already said so. Mrs. Palmer’s doings have exercised a good deal of fascination over me ever since I came to this part of the island. Who is she? What is she? She has had three husbands and—well, it is a fact that she has had three husbands and that all three of them have died. She is a determined woman; she can bend people to her will; she is feared; she can call spirits from the vasty deep—or things that look like spirits. And last night she threatened a young coloured woman with condign punishment, and nearly inflicted that punishment herself. Now she goes riding out at night, with but one boy attending her, and that is hardly what any other white woman in Jamaica would do. She is a mystery. I can’t say that I like mysteries unless I can solve them.’
‘She can be very friendly when she wants,’ broke in Burbridge haltingly. ‘And she is our employer, after all.’
‘I am here for just so long as it will take Ashman to get someone else to fill my place.’ said Rider derisively. ‘I am merely a convenience and therefore not affected by that strong spirit of loyalty (which seems to me indistinguishable from self-interest) that the ordinary bookkeeper may be expected to display. I am here today and gone tomorrow, friend Burbridge, and the benefit of such a situation is that I can speak my mind plainly now and then, knowing that once I depart from any estate, I am not likely to be employed on it again. Anyhow, after what happened on Rosehall last night, I don’t wish to remain here long. A few weeks will be sufficient for me; it would be a few days only were not my exchequer in a deplorable condition. I am now going to keep watch and ward over the still-house, which is a den of thieves. I shall endeavour, myself, to keep my hands off the rum.’
He laughed but made no movement to leave. Instead of that he lapsed into thought as though something were on his mind.
‘We know what she is, more or less,’ said Robert, as if to himself, ‘but down in the Bay, I remember now, even the rector was puzzled as to who she was and where she originally came from. He said something of the sort to me when he learnt I was coming here to work. The matter seems to have been much discussed, but no one is any the wiser.’
‘The matter has been much discussed,’ said Rider, waking out of his reverie; ‘all personal matters are canvassed in this country with a good deal of energy and even more impertinence. Witness our conversation now. But Mrs. Palmer has not been communicative. Still——’
‘You know something?’ quickly inquired Burbridge.
‘Merely rumours, but I fancy they are true. You see, she lived in Kingston before she appeared as a bride in St. James, and Kingston is a town where news spreads far more rapidly than it can down here. I was in Kingston when it was said she was going to marry John Palmer, and as he was known as one of the biggest of the planters, and the owner of the finest residence in rural Jamaica, naturally there was some talk about the woman he had selected as his wife. Some of this talk came my way; I was then curate in the parish church, and the proper thing is that all the gossip should be related to the clergy; apparently it assists them in their spiritual work.’
He paused for a moment, and the other men waited expectantly, not wishing to press him to detail the early history of a woman, but eager to hear it nevertheless.
‘I forget now what her maiden name was,’ resumed Rider, ‘but that doesn’t matter. The story was that she came to Jamaica from Haiti.’
‘Haiti?’ cried Robert; ‘then she is French?’
‘Probably both French and negro,’ suggested Burbridge; ‘I hear there is a lot of mixture of blood in Haiti; she may have some. That might account for her witcheries!’
‘There is hardly any need to find the blood of the negro in every villain, male or female,’ chuckled Rider, ‘though that seems to be the fashion in the West Indies. The world is not divided into black devils and white angels; anyway we three could hardly claim to belong to the angelic confraternity, could we? Besides, there were plenty of white people in Haiti once.’
‘Yes, but after the French Revolution the negro leader Dessalines had them all driven out or massacred,’ Robert reminded him. ‘Those who seemed to be white and were allowed to remain really could prove that they had some negro blood in their veins. I was told that in France. Annie may be one of those.’
‘You forget, my friend, that Henry Christophe succeeded Dessalines as ruler of the northern part of Haiti, and he allowed white people to settle there; why, his own doctor was a white man. And in the south, Petion, the President, encouraged white people to remain. No; you are quite wrong about Annie Palmer’s origin. Her mother and father were said to be Irish; she herself was born in England or Ireland—both countries have been mentioned—but they took her over while she was yet a little girl. She speaks English perfectly; she would have learnt it from them. She probably speaks French fluently, though no one here has heard her speak in that language. She must have heard and seen some strange things in Haiti; it was there, if anywhere, that she discovered she had powers out of the ordinary. As a growing girl she must have been even more beautiful than she is now, and if her parents were in favour with either Christophe or Petion she would have been regarded as a sort of goddess by the common people. White, lovely, imperious, strong, fearless: don’t you see she was just the sort of girl that a superstitious people would have worshipped?’
‘I can understand that,’ said Robert; ‘but what follows from that?’
‘This—it is merely a deduction of mine, but I don’t see why it shouldn’t be true—the voodoo priests there, who are versed in all the old African sorcery, and who do understand how to influence the minds of their dupes in all sorts of extraordinary ways, may have seen in this wonderful young girl great occult possibilities, and have taken pleasure in teaching her how to develop those possibilities. She knows how to terrorise the people on her own estates; she has always known it. She can beat down the resistance of white men weaker than herself. I have spoken about the Haitian priests. As a matter of fact, the priestesses of Haiti are quite as powerful, in every way as influential, as their male colleagues. Given a woman of that description thrown in contact with Annie Palmer when she was growing into womanhood, when her mind was maturing, when her curiosity was at its keenest, and anything might happen. She may have had a voodoo priestess for nurse when her parents took her to Haiti; it is quite likely. And Haiti, we all know, is the very stronghold of devil-craft in this part of the world. There the people see visions and the dead are brought out of their graves, or seem to be.’
‘It is all guess and hearsay,’ murmured Burbridge.
‘It is most of it conjecture,’ admitted Rider. ‘I said as much at the beginning; and that is why I have never mentioned the matter before. Still, she did come from Haiti to Jamaica, and she was of English or Irish parentage; so much was believed in Kingston, and that belief would not have got about if it had not its foundations in fact. The rest may not be true, but I think it is. The circumstances suggest that it is.
‘But I have been talking too much,’ he added abruptly; ‘I must go on to the still-house now.’
He rose quickly, nodded to the others, then went his way. Robert turned to Burbridge.
‘That fellow has been saying some peculiar things,’ he remarked. ‘Tell me, do you believe these stories about Mrs. Palmer’s murdered husbands?’
‘Good God, Rutherford!’ exclaimed Burbridge, ‘do you want to get me in trouble?’
‘That question alone is an admission,’ said Robert grimly. ‘Rider clearly believes that there is some sinister history connected with this place, and so do you. And I am coming to believe it myself. That is the worst of it. My mind is plagued with doubts and suspicions.’
‘But you’—Burbridge hesitated a moment, and then pursued the topic resolutely; he felt he could trust Robert. ‘You are not like us, as Rider just said; if you don’t like staying here you can leave when you please, unless——’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless—you won’t mind my saying so?—you are in love with Mrs. Palmer. I can understand that you should be. She is a wonderful woman.’
‘I will be frank with you, Burbridge; I am and I am not. She is wonderful, as you say, and she has been extraordinarily kind to me. But since you know what happened here last night—of course Psyche told you—I don’t mind admitting that I am startled and disgusted and afraid. I am not afraid for myself, but for Millicent. I don’t know what is going to happen, but I feel that something is. I feel mean when I speak like this; I feel as if I were a traitor. Yet’—he broke off abruptly. ‘Have you any idea where Millicent may be?’ he asked, as if changing the subject.
‘There is no particular secret about that. She has an aunt who lives just outside of Montego Bay, on the road to Hanover. I suspect old Takoo took her there last night, but I don’t suppose he will keep her there for long. He will remove her as soon as he can, if he wants her whereabouts to be unknown. Meantime, as she is over twelve miles from here, she should be safe for the present.’
‘Safe from whom?’
Burbridge did not answer.
Robert, who had suddenly decided that he was interested in Millicent’s welfare, was frankly and sincerely worried; Burbridge, though personally indifferent, felt that perhaps there might be much to be worried about.
‘You or Rider, said a little while ago that Mrs. Palmer was going in the direction of Montego Bay,’ insisted Robert. ‘Do you think——?’
‘I would not dare to think anything,’ replied Burbridge, lowering his voice. ‘I don’t want to get mixed up with this business, Rutherford; I have enough of my own difficulties to contend with.’
‘But surely she wouldn’t dare!’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Burbridge guardedly, ‘but I believe Millicent is perfectly safe where she is, for the present at any rate. She is probably in bed by now, and even in Jamaica a man or woman is secure in bed. There is nothing to worry about.’
‘Will you find out for me, tomorrow, without fail, just where she is?’ asked Robert. ‘Can you get the information? I will pay any expenses that may be incurred. Will you?’
‘I will try,’ promised Burbridge. ‘I can send a boy I can trust down to the Bay on an errand, and he will go to the place I told you about. If Millicent is there he will find out.’
‘Send early,’ urged Robert; ‘I want to know before evening.’
‘Very good.’
Both men sought their rooms.
Chapter Thirteen—PUTTING ON DEATH
MEANWHILE, Annie and her attendant were pushing on towards Montego Bay.
High above moved the moon, which now threw into soft relief the hills on the one hand, the gently moving waters on the other. The sky was pale blue, stars thickly studded the luminous vault, and moon and stars gave forth an illumination which, in that clear cold air of the night made possible the perception of objects far away. A murmur came in from the sea and was answered by the whispering breezes from the mountains, and tiny waves were silver where they touched the shore.
Now and then the coastline was obscured by thick clumps of mangrove and by patches of seagrape. The mangrove marked the site of swamps; it grew to a height of several feet, with fleshy, unhealthy-looking leaves of bottle-green. Its roots, gnarled, twisted, lengthy, black, protruded for a foot and more above the oozy soil from which rose a rank unpleasant odour, and looked like thousands of snakes contorting themselves under the shadow of the trees and in the slime. There was something sinister about these mangrove swamps; and there indeed prolificated the dangerous mosquito which could convey to the human body the germs of the dreaded blackwater fever, from which recovery was almost hopeless. But that was not known in those days. If men shunned the mangrove it was mainly because of its appearance and of the difficulty of making way among those protuberant, snaky roots which at any moment might trip up the most careful pedestrian and cause him to plunge headlong into fetid mud.
The road to Montego Bay made rough and tortuous riding. It was full of ruts, and the surface of some of the slabs of stone with which it was strewn was slippery. Along the roadside and among the swamps swarmed myriads of crabs reddish-black in hue, swift on their pointed legs, with claws uplifted in self-defence or menace. They were of small size, but so numerous that they created a distinct sound as they scuttled to hiding or dashed from one spot to another as the riders went by. Annie knew it was quite possible that at any moment she might come upon a crocodile which, crawling out of a swamp that edged the road, might stretch itself across the way like a log of wood; but she knew also that the creature would be frightened by the approach of the horses and would hurry away rather than attack. In this part of the country, too, they were not plentiful. Yet she kept an eye on the path before her, since there was no reason why any unnecessary risk should be run, for hers was no crocodile hunt.
When she came to the entrance of the town itself she rode as quietly as possible, giving a signal to her attendant to go slowly. She did not wish to be perceived. She hoped that, even should there be anyone about at that hour, she should escape recognition; nevertheless she knew that the mere presence of a white woman riding through Montego Bay at that hour of the night would awaken considerable curiosity. It would be commented upon the following morning; conjectures would be afloat. It might of course be thought that some belated woman had been pressing on to her home, perhaps the wife of one of the smaller planters; certainly no lady of position. That would render her safe from detection, but she preferred that no living soul should have a glimpse of her going or coming, and on the whole she trusted that no one would.
She trusted rightly. The little town, built upon a sloping, crescent-shaped sweep of land backed by low hills to south and east, lay in obscurity. There was no lighting save that from the moon and stars, and the moon was now steadily dropping towards the west, and the buildings in the town threw parts of the streets in shadow. All was silent, save for the staccato barking of starveling dogs that wandered about the thoroughfares hunting for food among the garbage and offal that stood exposed in heaps and in open boxes in front of shops and dwellings. Smells arose, assailing the nostrils; the dust lay thick upon the ground, but served to deaden the thud of the horses’ hooves. Not a human being was abroad.
On the eminences commanding the town and overlooking the wide bay from which the town derived its name stood the residences of the larger merchants and the urban homes of a few of the neighbouring planters. These too were shrouded in darkness, but Annie gave them not so much as a glance. She directed her horse westward, passing entirely through Montego Bay; presently she had left the town behind her and was riding along a road which cut a sugar estate in two, an estate which began almost on the border of Montego Bay. Here she quickened her pace. Stray cattle might be encountered, but human beings hardly; besides, they would not seek to come near to her or to speculate about her presence there, as would the townspeople. Soon she was passing through a sombre avenue formed by overhanging trees, great trees that grew to a lofty height, with huge branches covered thickly with the heavy foliage of the tropics. Here and there the moonlight streaked through, but thin and wan and ghostly. Fireflies danced among the underbrush: the darkness was irradiated by the swift flashing of thousands of phosphorescent green-gold points of light at one moment, to be rendered denser when, as at a signal, every one faded out as though myriads of tiny lamps had been extinguished by the turning of a switch. Then the trees disappeared and Annie crossed a bridge under which rolled a river, dark-gleaming, and about a mile farther on she pulled up her horse and reconnoitred.
A little while before she had been the subject of discussion on her own estate, and Rider had suggested to his friends he
r probable origin. By a coincidence her thoughts at this moment ran on Haiti, as she reflected upon what she was about to do. Rider, with the intuition of an educated man who, before his downfall, had studied the history and condition of all the West Indian countries, had almost hit upon the leading circumstances of Annie Palmer’s youth. Annie often thought of her youth in the near-by island. Her father had been a merchant there, attracted by the chance of making money under a black king who did not pursue the policy of his predecessor and forbid white people to enter that part of the country over which he ruled. She had known King Henry Christophe, a tyrant, a brute often, but yet a man of outstanding personality, who forced his subjects to work and maintained order with an iron hand. One class, however, though he had made war on them at first, he had never been able to suppress. The priests and priestesses of the Voodoo defied him in act if not by word, and in lonely valleys and in the depths of dark forests they sacrificed to the great green serpent which symbolised their chief deity, and the sacrifices were sometimes human. She had known a high priestess of this cult. The woman had been no nurse of hers, as Rider had suggested; she had been a woman of position and property in Cape Haitian, a woman who had marched with the armies of Dessalines and Christophe when these set out to free Haiti from the French domination. This woman had been in the habit of bringing the pretty little child some presents and once she had given Annie a beautiful diamond necklace of great value. She seemed to care for the girl; she was childless, and her husband was dead. Annie’s parents thought it more advantageous than otherwise that a woman, whose husband had actually been a baron of King Christophe’s black Court, should be kindly disposed towards Annie, and consequently towards them. Her friendship was well worth having. Its benefits were seen in the number of the Haitians who patronised the Irish merchant—for he was Irish. Her enmity might have been a thing unpleasant to contend with.
The White Witch of Rosehall Page 12
