by Cave, Hugh
Gazing at Peter, his mother said with a heavy sigh, "All day long so him talk, squire. Over and over again, same thing. He cold, he wet, he feel like he in some strange green place, and he can't move to get away. What must I do?"
Peter touched the boy's forehead and decided the perspiration there was abnormal, even for so warm an evening. The medic in charge of the little government clinic in Cedar Ridge was on leave, he knew. To find another would not be easy.
"We could drive him to the hospital," he said. That would be the Princess Margaret in the coastal town of Wilton Bay, twenty miles distant.
"But I don't think him truly sick, squire," Bronzie protested. "All of this is in the head."
"I agree. But still—"
"Better I go for Mother Jarrett."
Peter had never met the woman they called Mother Jarrett. She was said to possess certain powers, including an ability to heal the sick when doctors could not. "Where does she live?"
"In Pipers, squire."
"The vale or the gap?" The climb from one to the other on foot was a major undertaking. In a car it was probably impossible at this time because recent hard rains would have all but destroyed the road.
"The vale, squire. A little way up the gap road, but not far."
He hesitated. If he volunteered to drive her, they would have to walk back up to the Great House to get a vehicle, leaving the boy alone here. If she went to Pipers on foot, leaving Edith and him here to watch over the boy, it would take her more than an hour. As he looked at Edith, his indecision must have shown on his face.
"Why don't you take her, Peter?" the woman from England calmly suggested. "I can stay here with Gerald until you return."
"Would you?" He was astonished.
"Of course. Besides, I'm a nurse." She touched his hand. "Do run along if you think this Mother Jarrett may be able to help."
"When are you going to stop surprising me?" Peter said.
"But I really am a nurse. I thought you knew."
"I didn't mean that."
"Run along," she urged. "We're wasting time.'.'
7
AS HE WALKED BRONZIE DAKIN UP TO THE GREAT House they did not talk much. The climb left little breath for conversation. Then the need to concentrate on his driving kept him silent over the rough stretch of road to Cedar Ridge. Expecting they would be bringing Mother Jarrett back with them, he had taken the car, not the plantation jeep.
Once Cedar Ridge was behind them, however, and the road widened, he asked his passenger what she thought of her son's strange remarks about feeling cold, wet, and unable to move.
"That was not Gerald talking, squire," she said with conviction. "It was his brother Georgie."
"I don't follow you."
"The two of them are more than just brothers, squire. All their lives they been so close they could tell what each other was thinking."
Peter pondered that in silence for a time. From a small shop on the left, a sound of male talk and domino slapping disturbed the stillness. Then the car's lights picked out a barefoot girl-child, no older than six, whose eyes resembled table-tennis balls as, with a bucket of water balanced on her head, she stepped off the road to be sure the car would not run her down.
"You think Gerald is getting these thoughts from his brother, Bronzie?"
"Yes, squire. It happen before."
"I can't believe it."
"Mr. Peter, Gerald is not in no cold, wet place where he can't move. He is home in bed."
How to answer her? Silence took over again while they descended to the vale. In the dark, the old stone church there loomed like a fortress.
"She lives on the gap road, Bronzie?"
"Yes, squire."
He passed the church and turned left, shifting to low gear at once for the climb. Even under normal conditions, this was a road few drivers ever challenged at night. But he had battled its deep ruts and holes for only a few minutes when the woman beside him said, "You can stop here, please, squire."
He did so, and she got out. "Wait, please," she said. "Or turn around if you can. I will soon come."
He watched her disappear along a footpath, behind the glow of a flashlight she carried. To turn the car around he had to climb another hundred yards before the road widened enough to make the maneuver possible.
Back at the path he dimmed the lights and waited, trying to recall what he knew of the woman they called Mother Jarrett.
It wasn't much. A native of St. Alban, she had spent part of her life as a missionary in some rather remote parts of the world, including Africa and India. Now she was known as a healer and a mystic.
She was no obeah woman; of that he was certain. He knew the obeah practitioners in the district, and was also aware that a sizable portion of Armadale's wages eventually ended up in their greedy hands. Mother Jarrett did not charge for her services.
Because the evening was so hot, he opened the car door to let in more air. The ceiling light cast a lane of illumination up the path Bronzie Dakin had taken. Into the light strode a stranger.
What a remarkable woman!
She was easily seventy, yet taller than he and straight as a eucalyptus tree. All in white, even to a white head-cloth, she looked as though she ought to be striding down some hospital corridor on an urgent errand. When she reached the car, he found himself looking up into eyes that glittered like black opals set in as dark a face as he had ever seen. Not brown as were most of those in the Armadale area. Not even dark brown. This face was as black as though carved out of coal, and by an artist with a message.
"Good evening, Mr. Sheldon." Her vibrant voice was a series of dark, low tones played on a viola.
Answering her, he stepped out of the car to offer his hand. She used both of hers to accept it, yet calmly, quietly, not with exuberance. Coming up behind her at that moment, Bronzie Dakin introduced them. "This is the man who runs Armadale, Mother."
"I know. Our people love him."
Startled, Peter could reply only by holding the rear door open while she bent herself onto the backseat. Bronzie followed, leaving him to occupy the front seat alone. As he headed back to the house where he had left Edith Craig, the woman with the deep voice said, "Bronzie tells me the new owner of Armadale is here from England, Mr. Sheldon."
"Yes. You'll be meeting her."
"I hope she has not come to sell the property."
"I hope so, too."
"If she decides to keep it, will you continue to be in charge?"
"I don't know, Mother."
"I must talk to her."
As he turned along the side road to the village of Look Up where Edith Craig awaited them, the tall woman spoke to Bronzie. "This thing that happened to the boys took place at Blackrock Peak, you say?"
"Yes, Mother. Or as they came near there."
"I have heard stories about strange things happening at that place. Have you?"
"Yes, Mother."
"What have you heard?"
"That Lucifer lives there in some terrible place called the Devil's Pit. That people have been carried into it and never heard from again."
"Yes. There is said to be a place like that in Haiti, too—a cave called Trou Forban. There may be others in various places. Do you believe in such things, yourself?"
"Mother. . . I don't know."
"Very well, we can speak of it later, after I have talked with Gerald." Silence took over as the car followed its wildly bouncing headlight beams down the precipitous road to Look Up. Then: "Mr. Sheldon, may I ask if you have ever heard of our Devil's Pit?"
"A time or two, Mother."
"And you think?"
"It's just another duppie tale, I suppose. But there are folks who believe it. Gerald could be one of them."
"Yes." And she fell silent again, obviously not one who talked merely to keep a conversation going.
In the village a lantern glowed above a shop counter and three persons standing there turned to watch as the car passed. They knew whose car it was,
of course. They knew, too, that it had to be going to one of the village houses, for the road ended here. After a brief stretch of ruts, Peter stopped at Bronzie Dakin's gate.
Following the two women into the house, he was relieved to find Edith Craig still there. She rose from a chair in the sitting room and was introduced by Bronzie to the tall woman with the shining eyes. In reply to Bronzie's question she said the boy in the bedroom was sleeping.
"He fell asleep just after you left and hasn't made a sound since, except to moan a few times. I've looked in every few minutes."
"And now," Peter said, "you and I had better get back to the Great House and check on Alton, don't you think?"
"Won't you want to take Mother Jarrett home?"
He hesitated. The tall woman answered the question for him by saying quietly, "Oh, no. I will be staying. You have done enough, Mr. Sheldon. We thank you for your kindness."
"God bless you, squire," Bronzie added.
Edith and he said good night and departed.
Tell me something, the Englishwoman said as he drove homeward "Are Gerald and his missing brother twins?"
He shifted his gaze from the dark road just long enough to direct a frown at her. "Why, yes. Didn't I tell you?"
"Not exactly, but it makes me wonder. He talks of being cold and wet and—well, confused somehow. And obviously he's afraid. Could he be unconsciously echoing Georgie's thoughts, do you suppose?"
"Some kind of ESP, you mean?"
"In a way, but it goes beyond that at times, I believe. How much do you know about twins, Peter?"
"Not much, I'm afraid."
"We had a curious case in England, in a midlands hospital I worked at once. So curious that I later read everything I could get my hands on about identical twins. Gerald and Georgie are identical, aren't they?"
He nodded.
"A man about thirty—his name was Alfred Jones, I remember—was brought to the hospital in great pain, with what the doctors diagnosed as a burst appendix. They operated at once to save his life, and then were dumbfounded to find nothing wrong inside the man. He recovered and was discharged. And can you guess what happened afterward? A few weeks later he returned to tell us that his brother, Andrew Jones, an identical twin who was a ship's engineer, had died of a burst appendix that same day, that same hour, on a freighter in the Indian Ocean."
"I've read of such things," Peter said.
"Do you suppose Gerald's brother Georgie and those other missing scouts may be trapped in some place that is cold and wet? Mightn't it be wise for you to get in touch with the people searching for them?"
Peter was turning the car into the Great House driveway. "Would they pay any attention to me, do you think?"
"I'm sure I would if I were searching."
Having parked the machine in the old stone carnage house that now served as a garage, Peter walked with her the rest of the way in silence. On the veranda his housekeeper, Coraline Walker, was waiting for them.
Alton Preble was asleep, she said. "Should I make some coffee before I go home, Mr. Peter?"
He looked at Edith.
"Are you very tired, Peter?" she asked.
"Not at all."
"Then let's. Because we ought to talk a little about the future of this place, don't you think?"
"Without Alton?"
"He doesn't own Armadale, Peter. I do."
8
IN THE MORNING EDITH CRAIG HAD STILL ANOTHER surprise in store. Peter found her on the Great House veranda, gazing down at the roofs of Look Up. A sultry, dark red sun had just climbed clear of the mountains.
"Do you always get up this early?" he asked as she turned to the sound of his footsteps.
She smiled. "I'm sure I would if I lived here."
"Sleep well, did you?"
"Like a child."
She looked rather like a child this morning, he noted. Perhaps it was the ultra-simple white cotton dress she wore.
Looking past her, he saw his housekeeper trudging up the path and said, "Here comes Miss Coraline. She's early, too—probably in your honor.”
They had breakfast alone together, her barrister still in bed. Over eggs, bacon, and more of the plantation's own coffee, he said, "Yesterday you thought I should tell the people searching for those scouts about Gerald—what he's been saying about being cold and wet and confined in some way. Do you still feel that way?"
"Yes, Peter, I do."
"If I suggest he may somehow be in contact with his brother, they're likely to wonder about me, you know."
"But if he is in contact with Georgie and you don't tell them . . ." She looked across the table at him and waited.
Peter nodded. "All right. I'll run down to the police station and they can contact the capital. We've never had a phone here, as you know; the line ends in Cedar Ridge." He finished his coffee and stood up. "While I'm gone, why don't you be thinking of what you'd like to do today?"
"I already know. I'd like to see something of the plantation."
"And Alton?"
"He'll probably want to start looking at the books," she said with a little smile. "That's the way his mind works."
Peter drove the Armadale jeep to Cedar Ridge and walked into the little police station there. The corporal in charge was a man he knew well. Dropping onto a chair in front of the desk, Peter told of his visit to Bronzie Dakin's house, being careful to repeat everything he could remember of what the boy on the bed had said. He then told the corporal Edith's story of the Englishman who had mistakenly been operated on for a burst appendix.
Young Corporal Clement MacQuarrie, slim as a ballet dancer from rigorous training at the St. Alban police school, frowned in disbelief and said, "You want me to pass this along to the army, Mr. Sheldon?"
"It may be a clue to the boys' whereabouts, don't you think? At least, it can't do any harm."
The corporal considered it and shrugged. "I'm not sure I—well, never mind. I won't have to call them, anyway. We're expecting some Defense Force men here this morning."
"Are you? What for?"
MacQuarrie shrugged. "All I've been told is that they're coming and I must find a place to put them up. Eleven of them. You don't suppose—" He hesitated, but only briefly. "You don't suppose they could bed down at your place, do you? I don't have room here and can't spread them around with local families. They'll want to be together."
Peter wondered what Edith Craig and her fiancé, especially her fiancé, would say if he gave permission for eleven army men to make the Great House their headquarters.
"I doubt they'll be sleeping there except for a night or two maybe," the corporal said. "They'll just want to stow their gear while they're off in the mountains."
"Well . . . I suppose I can okay it. The new owner is here, you know. I really ought to ask her permission."
"Her?" A scowl changed the shape of MacQuarrie's boyish face.
"Mr. Craig's daughter."
"What's she like?"
"Younger than you might expect, and she seems to like our island. Especially Armadale."
"She won't be selling the property, then?"
"I wish I knew. Anyway, I'll take a chance and let you send the soldiers up. I believe she'll want to do anything she can to help find those boys."
"Thanks." The corporal got to his feet. "And I'll tell the army lads what you said about Bronzie's boy, though I expect they'll think us a little crazy. If they do, you can talk to them yourself."
Why, Peter wondered while driving back to the house, were the soldiers coming here? Armadale was not the nearest point of approach to Blackrock Peak, where the Scouts had reportedly become confused and lost their way. The old Farm Hill estate and Whitfield Hall were both closer, and Whitfield, now a guest house, was certainly better equipped to handle them.
He shrugged it off. They probably had a good reason, and if so inclined would tell him. Meanwhile, he had better think about his forthcoming walkabout with Edith. Armadale with its nearly six hundred acres, much of
it as wild as anything the scouts would have encountered higher up, was not a property you could explore in a few hours or even a few days.
He would take her, he decided, up the main track through the most important coffee fields, the way the scouts had gone. It might convince her that Armadale was too promising a property to be relinquished.
At the house he found Alton just finishing breakfast, and a casual conversation ensued.
"I hope you're feeling better."
"Yes, thank God."
"That road is rough on strangers sometimes."
"On anyone who isn't a mountain goat, I should think. And I hope to God I see it only once more—on my way out."
"Miss Craig has asked me to show her some of the Plantation this morning," Peter said. "Will you be coming along?"
"Thanks, no. I'll make a start on the books if you don't mind."
"Want them now, do you?"
“If it's convenient.”
"A drop of rum, too, perhaps? Or whiskey?"
"That's an idea. Scotch, please, if I may."
Peter went to his office, formerly one of the many bedrooms, for the books he had kept since being made manager. On the way back he picked up a bottle of Scotch from the pantry and called down to Coraline, in the kitchen, to bring up a glass and some ice. Where, he asked the barrister, did Miss Craig happen to be?
"She spotted a corral with some mules and donkeys in it from a window here, and said she wanted to make their acquaintance," Preble said dryly. "I expect she'll be back soon."
It was half an hour, though, before Edith reappeared. "Do you know," she said, her eyes aglow, "I have never in my life touched a mule or a donkey before? Not even once! And they came right to the fence to be petted!"
"They're pretty friendly," Peter agreed. "Which is uncharacteristic of St. Alban mules. Most of them just want a chance to kick you."
"Oh, come now!"
"Fact. Are you ready for our walkabout, Miss Craig?"
"I'd better change first, don't you think?"
"Well, if you have slacks . . ."
"I'll soon come," she said, and laughed. "That's how your people say it, no?"
