by Sarah Maine
Evelyn opened her paint box and surveyed the range of colours. Even with an infinite number of shades she could not begin to capture the scene before her: the dark forest and, beyond it, the solemnity of the cliffs, rosy pink in parts, slate grey in shadow. Such an immense landscape— She would attempt a detail of it, perhaps, so she studied the trees which were growing above the rocks beside the river, seeing how the branches hung from the trunks in ragged half-loops, each one a worthy subject, each one unique. Some were very dark, green-black, while others had a blue-grey hue which made a pleasing contrast to the flame colours of the maple and poplars; so much more vivid than the mellow golds and bronzes of autumn at home. There the woodlands were generally sunny, open places, and the trees were rounded or fan shaped, some standing alone, others in small copses set against a backdrop of hillsides, which had been grazed to a soft felt by generations of sheep. There could be no greater contrast.
She looked across at Clementina, who was writing briskly, absorbed in her task. ‘Is this what you had expected when Papa asked you to come?’ she asked.
Clementina raised her head and considered. ‘I don’t really know,’ she replied. ‘He arranged matters with George, you see, once I’d agreed to come. All George told me was not to expect much comfort, and warned me about the flies, so I wasn’t sure what I was coming to.’ She paused, looking around. ‘But I did expect there to be rather more people, other fishing parties. And at least some houses.’
Evelyn looked back across the river to the high cliffs. ‘We might be the only people in the world.’
Clementina gave a theatrical little shiver. ‘It’s rather terrifying, don’t you think?’ But Evelyn knew that as long as George was close by Clementina would simply abdicate responsibility to him in the certainty that he would take care of her. That too fell within the sphere of womanhood.
Then Clementina leant close and spoke in a low tone. ‘And I didn’t expect to be living in quite such close quarters with the natives. I woke last night and swear I could hear them snoring! And have you seen the size of the knives they carry around? Like brigands!’
‘So should we feel more safe, or less, I wonder.’
‘And they have a rather peculiar smell. Sort of composty—’
‘But then they haven’t the benefit of a folding washstand.’
‘They could wash their clothes more often, though.’
Evelyn looked at her and saw that she was quite serious. She dropped her head to hide a smile and opened her paints and began trying to establish a palette: vivid crimsons, soft umber, so many shades of green— Had Clemmy expected some sort of rustic shooting party with attention given to style and elegance, the natives servile and well groomed, and with the distinctions of class preserved and venerated? Perhaps so—
The divisions were there right enough, and class preserved in the siting of the tents and shelters, and in the two fireplaces.
‘But they’re very attentive to our needs,’ she said.
‘Yes, though they do stare so.’
‘And not just the natives. I’ve caught both Louis and James watching you, you know, when you aren’t looking.’ Evelyn fixed her attention on her paints. Had James really been watching her? ‘George won’t stand for any nonsense if I mention it to him, and I’m surprised your father has not remarked it. Perhaps I should say something.’
‘Please don’t—’
Clementina frowned. ‘You need to become aware of these things, Evie. Your impudent groom would not have …’ Evelyn raised her head, and Clementina stopped. ‘Alright. No more on that, but do maintain a distance. It’s very important—’
Was it?
Clementina was looking out to the river where the canoes had now vanished from sight. ‘And I’m not sure I like us being left alone with them.’
Evelyn glanced over to the recumbent forms of Tala and Machk, now both sleeping, and then at the two youths, who were squatted down by the water’s edge scrubbing the pans from last night’s dinner, talking, and quite indifferent to them. Did Clemmy not see that they were entirely dependent on these men she despised and mistrusted? This was no place for mannered condescension.
She picked up a pencil and began blocking out the shapes of the trees against the cliff face, then lightly sketched the course of the river upstream. Unchartered waters—
The men in their party were able to deal with the guides on different terms, of course, and there were fish and rods and reels to talk about. She noted that her father treated them all with an unfailing courtesy, as did Mr Larsen and George, but Rupert seemed to subscribe to Clemmy’s view that a distance must be maintained, and so treated them as he might treat servants at home. And yet, she sensed that he was not entirely at ease, and he stuck close to George, as if a little wary of the two older men, while in return Papa seemed to study Rupert with an oddly detached air. Calculating acreage and income, perhaps?
The fishing that morning had been good, and the men returned at noon in high spirits. Seven trout were neatly laid out on the rocks for inspection when the two women went down to greet them. Fine specimens, with their hues of purple, gold, and silver.
‘What beauties!’ said Clementina.
Seven fish. And they had come three thousand miles to catch them— Their colours faded even as Evelyn studied them, and their eyes dulled. The largest had been landed by her father.
‘What a brute. I watched you playing him,’ remarked George. ‘He put up quite a fight.’
‘As befits his class,’ her father agreed. ‘A prince among fish.’
‘Must be near on ten pounds,’ said Rupert, watching as they suspended the fish from the scales.
‘Eight,’ her father replied.
‘I quite thought you’d lost him once.’
‘Perseverance and patience, my dear Dalston, wins the day.’ He turned to address Evelyn. ‘And you, my dear, how did you spend the morning?’
‘Doing nothing very useful,’ she said, and moved aside as James passed her carrying rods and paddles.
‘What is it about fish that corrupts us, do you think?’ Mr Larsen remarked as they sat down to eat their midday meal half an hour later. A pan of beans and bacon had been quickly prepared and they had assembled around the table to eat it, together with the inevitable bannock. ‘I’ve known men who, in every other aspect of their lives, are the very souls of probity, but who will shamelessly add two or three pounds to the weight of any fish they’d caught—’
‘After consuming it,’ her father murmured.
Mr Larsen smiled and continued. ‘And yet they would not sway from the truth in their other dealings, not by as much as a hair’s breadth.’
‘Strict accuracy can be overlooked in these matters, surely,’ George remarked as he flattened a mosquito on his wrist.
‘You make Larsen’s point for him, George,’ said her father, between mouthfuls. ‘I’d have sworn that there was no soul of greater probity than George Melton. Except, it appears, when it comes to fish!’
Everyone laughed and Clementina nodded. ‘George’s fish grow by an inch every time he talks about them.’
‘And there’s always the monster that gets away,’ said Rupert. ‘There was one this morning, I swear. If we’d just stayed another ten minutes—’
‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ said Evelyn. ‘We’ll be heartily sick of trout by the end of the trip.’
‘Heresy!’
‘Well said, missee,’ said Skinner, nodding. ‘Some folk just keep on catching ’em to string ’em up fer the camera, and then throw half of them away.’
‘Well, we shall eat ours tonight, I assure you,’ said Mr Larsen. ‘And any others we catch.’
When the party broke up after lunch Evelyn overheard Mr Skinner telling James to go and clean the morning’s catch and she observed him going down to the shore with a bucket. Her father had disappeared into his tent, and George and Rupert had taken out a pack of cards; Clementina sat beside her husband, watching him deal, and Mr Larsen was aslee
p.
This was her chance— She glanced over to where the water-closet screen had been re-erected a little distance downwind from the camp. At first Clementina had refused to contemplate using such an arrangement until Evelyn heard George quietly explaining that she had no choice, assuring her that she would not be sharing it with the natives. It would be quite alright, he said, provided that she remembered to display the red rag tied to a stick when behind the screen. Evelyn glanced around the camp again. No one would question her if she headed towards it and, screened from view, she could slip away through the trees to join the short trail to the shore, leaving the rag signal in place. It might buy her some extra time, and later she could claim to have forgotten to move it.
She crossed the camp as unobtrusively as possible, and paused behind the screen. Flies buzzed around the collapsible box arrangement which had been positioned above a shallow pit scratched into the thin soil. She waited just a moment, and then headed down through the woods towards the shore where, at the end of the trail, she stopped. The spreading branches of a larch hid her from view, and she could see James down at the water’s edge, rinsing fish guts from his hands.
Would he speak to her?
She stood, twisting her fingers in the sharp needles, and felt a strange new ache swelling deep inside her as she watched him. How much she had missed him! And she remembered how once he had crouched beside another river, and how he had turned to grin at her, an uncomplicated grin, boasting how he could catch trout with his bare hands. She had not believed him, so he had stretched out full length on the riverbank, bidding her be silent, his cheek pressed against the turf as he dangled his arm into the river. Minutes passed, then he had rolled over with a whoop and flung a dart of silver into the bushes behind her. She had clapped her hands in delight and insisted on trying for herself, so he had spread his jacket on the bank, gravely pulling up her sleeve to above the elbow, his eyes smiling down at her.
He turned now, as if alive to her thoughts, and saw her standing there. But he did not smile—
Straightening, he slowly shook his hands dry then wiped them on his trousers, not moving from the water’s edge but looking steadily back at her. She took a step forward, then hesitated.
‘James—’
He turned away, picked up another fish, and crouched to his task again, and the blade of his knife caught the light of the sun along its length.
She went towards him. ‘James. I need to talk to you—’
His hands stilled and he looked up again. All the words, all the questions shrivelled at his expression, and she could only stare back at him.
‘Go back to the camp,’ he said.
‘I have to ask you—’
‘I said go back to the camp.’
He glared back at her, a hostile stranger, but she might never get another chance. She had not expected this to be so hard, and so took her courage in her hands. ‘Was it true what you said to me that night?’
It came out in a breathless rush, and the glare was replaced by a frown.
‘About Papa—’
His frown deepened and then he shook his head, returning his attention to the fish. ‘Go back to camp.’
‘You told me Papa had Jacko’s blood on his conscience—’
‘His conscience!’ He slit open the fish with a swift clean cut, and the mess of guts slid over the rocks to foul the water. ‘Has he one? If so, then yes, Jacko’s blood is on it. Now go back to camp.’
Panic swamped her then, driving her pulse hard, but there was no going back. ‘So he killed Jacko?’ – James seemed to freeze – ‘and let you take the blame?’
He swung round on his heel with a strange expression on his face. ‘No! That is— Yes, at least—’
Then the branches of the larch at the trail’s end were pushed brusquely aside and her father appeared. He stopped there, a little breathless, to take in the scene.
‘Here you are, my dear,’ he said, and came quickly down onto the little beach. ‘I wondered where you’d disappeared to.’ He joined them at the water’s edge and stood there, looking from one to the other. ‘Go back to the camp, Evelyn,’ he said, with quiet authority. ‘And I’ll join you directly.’
‘No.’
James had straightened and faced him, the knife held loosely in his hand.
‘This is neither the time nor place, my dear, so go.’
‘James said—’
Her father raised his hand. ‘James will do well to remember what I said to him.’ He spoke with a finality that was impossible to counter. ‘And neither of you will force my hand. Now do as I say, Evelyn, and go back to camp.’ He gripped her shoulders and turned her firmly towards the trail. She took a step, then looked back to where James stood with the knife now gripped in his hand, and her eyes fixed on the bloodied tip.
Her father gave a snort. ‘We shall do each other no damage, I promise you. Now go.’
‘What did she want?’ Ballantyre asked as Evelyn disappeared down the track.
James turned back to Ballantyre and regarded him. ‘Answers. Same as me.’
‘And what did you tell her?’
‘Nothing.’ He crouched again and resumed his task, shaken by what Evelyn had asked him. Whatever had he said that night that had made her believe such a thing—?
Ballantyre narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you sure?’
Should he tell him now what his daughter had asked, what she had believed for five years? He ought to. ‘Nothing,’ he repeated.
Ballantyre grunted. ‘Keep it that way, and leave her out of this.’
James rocked back on his heels, balancing the knife in his hand, and squinted up at the man. For once Ballantyre was looking rattled. ‘Did you ever ask yourself what she made of that night’s events—?’
‘She was a child.’
‘— two men dead, and the dogs set on me. How did you square it with her?’
‘Leave Evelyn to me,’ Ballantyre spoke softly. ‘I will tell her everything in due course.’
‘But she’s asking questions now.’ James bent his head to slit open the next fish. She thought Ballantyre had killed Jacko. Good God! And somehow he had planted that worm in her brain. ‘And you need to talk to her.’
Ballantyre went to stand at the edge of the water. Small ripples gurgled over a fallen branch out in the current, and midstream a fish jumped. ‘Evelyn is my concern, not yours.’
‘And yet she’s keeping company with a killer—’
Ballantyre turned back. ‘Dalston is a fool and a braggart, but he offers her no threat.’
He paused, contemplating James, then added, ‘You and I will go fishing this afternoon, my friend, just the two of us. Out on the far side of the river. A good spot, don’t you think—? And in the meantime, be patient or you will throw my plans into disarray. It’s taken me too long to reach this point.’
As James lifted his head to retort he saw that Marcel was standing at the end of the trail. He came forward, gesturing to the fish at James’s feet. ‘Not finished?’ James shrugged and Marcel pulled out a knife, crouched beside him, and took up the next fish as Ballantyre turned on his heel and returned to the camp.
Chapter 16
‘Alright, old girl?’ When Evelyn emerged from the trail, Rupert was sitting alone by the fire, smoking a cigarette. She needed some time to herself and had hoped to find refuge in her tent. She could get used to finding pine needles in her bed, and to the persistent mosquitoes, but it was difficult to get used to the lack of privacy.
James had been so terribly changed – and she was more confused now than ever. What had he meant? No, but yes—
‘You look … stormy.’ Rupert pulled out a seat beside him. ‘Sit down, and tell Uncle Rupert all about it. Shall I get you some of that ghastly coffee?’ A quick glance around the camp indicated that Clementina was in their tent, probably sleeping. Then Marcel went past, ignoring them, and headed down the trail. So whatever was being said down there would have to be cut short.
R
upert had filled two mugs with coffee and passed her one. ‘Pour it away if it’s terrible,’ he said. She gave him a tight smile and muttered her thanks. ‘Now then. You promised me you’d come fishing, you know.’
‘Did I?’
‘Good as, at any rate. George and I decided there’s to be a ladies’ fishing competition, and we’ve been laying wagers. I’ve put my shirt on you, dear one, so you simply can’t pull out. We’re going to try from the shore, out on that shingle bar.’
‘Are we?’ Did he realise that his knee was exerting a steady pressure against her leg? She tried to move but was caught there between him and the table.
Then her father emerged from the trailhead, and his face was grim.
Rupert glanced over his shoulder, following her look, and shifted his seat slightly. ‘Aha!’ he said softly, turning back to her. ‘A tiff with Papa was it?’ He pulled on his cigarette, his eyes twinkling at her. ‘Poor Evelyn. He terrifies me.’
Her father stood a moment looking across at them and then came over. ‘Where are the others?’ he asked. His tone was light but Evelyn sensed the tension in him.
‘Larsen’s reel has been giving more trouble,’ Rupert replied, ‘so he and George went to test it again. They are out on the cobbles.’ He pointed downstream to where the men could just be seen, partly shielded from view by overhanging branches. ‘And Clemmy’s in her tent having a nap.’ He paused. ‘If it’s alright with you sir, I thought I’d take Evelyn out there later to fish. With George and Clementina too.’
Her father nodded and glanced at her. ‘Of course. If she wishes to go. And I shall take to the water again, I think, with one of the guides. But for now, I’ll join George and Larsen.’
When he had gone Rupert leant close, his shoulder next to hers. ‘So – what’s the tiff about?’
‘There was no tiff.’
