As Pyke watched Malvern amble into the house, he tried to imagine how such a placid, unassuming man could satisfy a woman as beautiful as Mary Edgar. But he was rich and white and that was perhaps sufficient to explain the attraction. Earlier in the conversation, Malvern had tried to paint himself as one of a new breed of men forever altered by their exposure to the lush, tropical environment and by the rigours of establishing their dominance over it, but in actuality he came across as peculiarly English, belonging to a particular class of expats determined to recreate a version of ‘England’ in whichever environment they found themselves.
Dinner was a stiff, awkward affair in which Pemberton dominated the conversation, to the point where Pyke almost forgot that Malvern was in the room. In fact, Malvern said very little throughout the three courses; as did Dalling, the bookkeeper, who contented himself with a number of furtive glances across the table at Pemberton’s young wife, Hermione. It didn’t take much imagination to guess why Dalling might be interested in Hermione Pemberton; there were two very apparent and sizeable reasons staring back at him across the table and the lady didn’t appear to be shy about showing them off. For his part, Dalling was attractive in a swarthy, roguish way — certainly more so than Michael Pemberton — and Pyke could easily see how the two younger members of the dining party might fall into each other’s arms.
Sweating from having eaten too much of the roast pork and imbibed too much of the Madeira, Pemberton seemed oblivious to the sexual tension that sparked between Dalling and his young wife. Instead he spent the best part of the evening interrogating Pyke on the best way to make rum; whether to slake the cane juice with fresh lime in order to make it granulate. He also wanted to pick Pyke’s brain about the most appropriate way to treat former slaves and how to manage the rotation of cane fields. Hermione Pemberton asked a seemingly innocuous question about the parties and society events in Antigua; to which Pyke replied that he didn’t have time to socialise. That drew an approving nod from Pemberton, but across the table Dalling raised his eyebrows. ‘I’d always heard that Monty Squires was the last to leave any party.’ The bookkeeper waited for Pyke to look at him and then smiled. ‘But people get older and change their ways, don’t they?’
Pyke didn’t think anything of it until a little later in the meal when the subject turned to the role of the British army in keeping the peace, and Dalling, who, as far as Pyke could tell, had once served in the army himself, asked which regiment he’d belonged to. This time he studied the bookkeeper’s face more carefully. Dalling was younger than Pyke but with the same muscular build, olive skin and dark-coloured hair. But as far as Pyke was concerned that was where the similarities ended; Dalling’s nose was pointy and thin, his eyes were too far apart, his forehead protruded too far over his eyebrows and his eyes were almost translucent in colour, reminding Pyke of staring into a basin of water.
The first time he asked, Pyke ignored the question and asked Pemberton how he kept order on the estate — which produced a lengthy monologue about reward and punishment, with the emphasis on the latter rather than the former.
‘I’m quite sure I know a fellow in the Fourteenth Dragoons. That was your regiment, wasn’t it?’ Dalling ran his finger down a scar that cut his left cheek diagonally in two.
They were seated opposite one another, with Pemberton just to Dalling’s right, and this time he too took an interest in the bookkeeper’s question. Pyke’s expression remained composed but he could feel the perspiration dripping down his back. Dalling knew something; that much was beyond doubt.
‘Perhaps you do, sir, but I have a terrible memory for names and an even worse one for faces.’ He looked towards Pemberton and Malvern. ‘And I do find reminiscences about the old regiment terribly dull.’
After that, Hermione intervened and persuaded Dalling to join her for some air on the veranda, leaving Pyke, Pemberton and Malvern to smoke their cigars and drink the rest of the brandy. More tedious conversation about the ‘nigger problem’ ensued, dominated by Pemberton, and it was only after he’d risen from the table and announced he had to ‘attend to’ his wife that Pyke could steer the conversation back to the subject of Mary Edgar.
‘When we talked before dinner, I didn’t mean to imply that London was, by definition, a dangerous city. I hope I didn’t cause offence. I’m sure that living here carries just as many risks…’
Malvern’s hollow cheeks were flush from the Madeira and brandy he’d drunk at dinner. ‘Never a truer word spoken, sir,’ he muttered, before realising he’d perhaps said too much.
‘Do you mean to say it is dangerous here?’
‘Dangerous is maybe the wrong word. But please, sir, credit me with more intelligence than to believe you are entirely unaware of our current difficulties.’
‘I’ve heard, of course, that some of the workers are striking over rates of pay.’
Malvern nodded glumly. ‘It’s not all the blacks’ fault, of course. Some planters have been demanding extortionate rents, almost as much as they offer to pay in wages, and a few have even forced those that can’t or won’t pay from their homes and their provision grounds. It’s poisoned the whole atmosphere and driven the blacks up into the mountains, and also these damned free villages that missionaries like Knibb have been establishing with money donated by congregations in England. In his dotage, I’m told my father has corresponded with Knibb and is on good terms with him so I wouldn’t want to disparage the man, but he’s certainly given the blacks ideas above their station. Owning their own homes and gardens? The idea is absurd. Let them have their freedom, that’s what I say, but they need to work, too.’ He paused. ‘Most of our workforce is refusing to harvest the cane, and unless an agreement is reached in the next few days, the whole crop will be ruined. You know, I offered them almost two and a half shillings a day but they still turned me down, demanded three. Three shillings per day? I’d be ruined within a week.’
‘Give them three and they’d demand four.’ The voice came from somewhere behind them. Startled, they both turned around and saw Pemberton standing there. He had been listening to their conversation.
‘But why not compromise at two and three-quarters and at least make sure the cane is harvested?’ Pyke looked at Malvern rather than Pemberton. ‘Can you afford for the whole crop to be lost?’
This perception seemed to upset Malvern. He stood up quickly — too quickly perhaps, because the sudden exercise after a heavy dinner seemed to make him dizzy — and said he was going to retire and that Pemberton could answer any questions about the management of the estate. But when Pyke looked behind him for the attorney, he too had gone, and for a few moments Pyke sat there at the empty table, contemplating the scene he had just witnessed and what it suggested about the health, or otherwise, of the estate.
There was a quiet knock on Pyke’s bedroom door, shortly after he had retired for the night.
Quickly buttoning up his shirt, Pyke walked across the hardwood floor and opened the door slightly. William Dalling pushed his way into the room and waited for Pyke to close the door. ‘This is a nice room, this one, probably the best in the house,’ he said easily, as though his opinion had been invited. ‘The view of the mountains is spectacular first thing in the morning.’
‘I’ve had a long day, sir, and am not in the mood to play games. Tell me what you want and then leave.’
Dalling didn’t appear to have heard him. ‘Of course, it’s quite right to give the bedroom with the finest views to the guest of honour.’
‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me. So, this one time, I’m going to pretend you’re simple rather than rude and let it pass.’
‘But let’s just say the guest of honour wasn’t who he claimed to be? How quickly would such a man be turned out of the finest bedroom in the house?’
Pyke felt the moistness on his palms. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Dalling circled around him, nodding his head, as though amused by what Pyke had said. ‘What would yo
u say if I told you I’d met Montgomery Squires? Well, maybe not met him, but I’ve certainly been in the same room as him.’
Pyke’s expression remained composed but inside he was trying not to panic. ‘I’d say that Montgomery Squires isn’t such an uncommon name. I’d also say that you need to be very careful about making insinuations without knowing where they might take you.’
‘Oh, I know very well where they’re taking me.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A long way from this place, that’s for sure.’
‘And why do you think this?’
‘I can see you’re not short of a penny whereas I’m always just a few steps ahead of the poorhouse. Perhaps we should both look at this as a chance to even things up a little.’
Pyke took the measure of the man circling around him. ‘That sounds like a very risky strategy, not one I’d want to pursue if I were you.’
But this seemed to entertain rather than unnerve the bookkeeper. ‘Oh yes? And why is that?’
‘If you start making accusations about people, anything could happen.’
‘Is that some kind of a threat?’
‘If I were threatening you, you’d know about it. You wouldn’t have to ask.’
Dalling just grinned. ‘Fancy yourself as a tough one, eh?’
‘I’m just trying to make you aware of the situation.’
‘I appreciate the warning, so what I’m going to do is lay my cards on the table.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat. ‘Let’s say a hundred pounds will ensure that not a word of this conversation will be repeated to anyone in the house.’
The situation was starting to deteriorate beyond Pyke’s control and there was nothing he could do about it. ‘Why would I even think of paying you this kind of figure?’
Dalling stepped into the space between them, so close Pyke could smell the stale Madeira on his breath. ‘Because you don’t want Pemberton to find out what I know. Because if he does, I’d say your chances of making it off this estate are next to none.’
‘Why?’ Pyke paused. ‘What would he do?’
‘If Pemberton thought you were trying to cheat him, the question is, what wouldn’t he do.’
Pyke looked into Dalling’s eyes. ‘And if he thought someone was cuckolding him?’
Later, Pyke would reflect on Dalling’s expression with relief and some pleasure, but he knew, just as Dalling knew, that the bookkeeper would be able to make things unbearable for him unless he paid what the man had demanded. It meant that Pyke had to make plans of his own.
SIXTEEN
The following morning Pemberton was eating his breakfast alone in the dining room. He greeted Pyke’s arrival with as little enthusiasm as it was possible to muster. Pyke poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot and sat down opposite the attorney.
‘I’m guessing that you actually run the estate,’ Pyke said, after a while, his eyes never leaving Pemberton’s.
‘I do my job.’
‘A hard job for a fixed wage.’
‘I’m not complaining.’ Pemberton put a pastry into his mouth and began to chew.
‘But it must be hard, knowing that all your hard work and acumen are benefiting someone who is clearly not your equal.’
The lawyer continued to chew his pastry and took a sip of coffee. ‘Would you have said that if Charles were sitting here?’
Pyke picked up his coffee cup and stood up. ‘On that note, perhaps you could tell me where I can find Charles?’
Pemberton directed him out on to the veranda, where the young planter was slouched in a wicker chair staring blankly out at the view. The sky was absolutely clear and, for the time being, the air around them was fresh and cool. In the distance, over the buzzing of insects and the chirping of birds, Pyke could hear the flow of the river. After they had greeted one another, Pyke took a chair next to Malvern. For a while, the two of them stared in silence at the vista of green that extended as far as the eye could see.
‘It’s beautiful up here, isn’t it?’
Malvern turned to face him. ‘Imagine waking up to these views every morning. If you buy this place, you won’t regret it, I assure you.’
Pyke nodded amiably. ‘I was told that it was your father who built this house.’
‘My grandfather, actually. Or he built the main part. My father added this veranda and the upstairs bedrooms.’
‘I can certainly understand why you’re so loath to let it go.’
‘Loath?’ Malvern put his coffee cup down and shook his head. ‘Oh, I’m not loath at all.’
‘But at one point you told me you’d imagined never leaving Ginger Hill, or the island.’
‘Yes, I thought I might be able to live here. That’s to say, we might be able to live here in peace.’
‘But that didn’t prove possible?’
‘I thought, perhaps naively, that free from my father’s disapproval, we might be accepted as equals. Mixed marriages are unusual in this part of the world, and they’re certainly frowned upon, but they’re not unheard of.’
‘Your fiancee is black?’ Pyke asked, trying to muster the appropriate level of surprise and even consternation.
‘Mulatto actually.’ Malvern smiled dreamily. ‘I suppose you think less of me now?’
‘What a man does in his private life is none of my concern.’ Pyke waited for a moment. ‘But you were saying something about not being accepted as equals?’
‘The prejudice is as much on the blacks’ side as the whites’. They wouldn’t leave her in peace. Things happened. She became unsettled, frightened even.’ Malvern stopped, perhaps sensing he’d said too much, especially to a prospective buyer of the estate.
‘Frightened?’
‘It’s nothing that should concern you.’ Malvern tried to smile but Pyke could tell he’d realised his mistake.
‘I’m thinking about making you an offer for the estate. Anything and everything about the place concerns me.’
Malvern picked up his coffee and took another sip. ‘There’s this primitive slave religion called Obeah. It’s superstitious nonsense, you understand; a kind of black magic. Obeah men and women are said to be able to summon the spirits of the dead. One of these figures set out to ruin the happiness I was beginning to enjoy with my fiancee. I could see that it was all in her mind, but eventually it got too much for her. They’d leave bloodied feathers, chicken legs, parrots’ beaks in her bed, that kind of thing. I tried to make her see it for what it was but even though she’s educated and has read more widely than I have, she told me she couldn’t stay here. That’s when we first talked about settling in England. I tried to talk her out of it, of course. I know the place. I was schooled at Harrow and spent much of my adolescence there; a cold, dreary country, nothing to recommend it. But she’d read about England in the novels of Jane Austen — that’s what she imagined it would be like, and who was I to try to convince her otherwise?’
‘And so you decided to send her ahead of you to London,’ Pyke said, trying to keep his tone neutral, ‘to stay with your family perhaps?’ But he was thinking about what the captain of the Island Queen, McQuillan, had said about Mary Edgar: that she had the ability to commune with the dead. Would such a person, in turn, really be frightened of a parrot’s beak or cat’s paw?
This made Malvern sit up in his chair. ‘My family?’ His face was damp with perspiration. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘I thought you told me that your father and sister had relocated to England as well.’ It was something Malvern had mentioned the previous night over dinner.
‘Mr Squires, I mean Monty…’ Blood was vivid in Malvern’s cheeks. ‘My father helped to build this estate into what it is today and, in the end, he earned the respect of the slaves who worked here. In turn, he came to appreciate their grudging work ethic and loyalty. But do you really think he would ever consent to me, his heir and only son, marrying a mulatto girl? Enjoy carnal relations with her, perhaps, but marry? Ne
ver. He’d string me up before allowing it to happen.’
Pyke considered what he’d just been told and whether it implicated Silas Malvern in Mary Edgar’s murder. What if the old man had found out about the proposed marriage? What if he’d told Elizabeth and she’d tried to frighten Mary off using Jemmy Crane? What if all of that had failed?
‘Then surely you’re taking a risk,’ Pyke said, as though the thought had just come to him, ‘by planning to marry in the city where he now lives?’
‘But he doesn’t know about the engagement. He doesn’t even know Mary is in London,’ Malvern said, puzzled. ‘I’m hoping that when we finally do marry, he’ll come to accept us. I mean, he’ll have to, won’t he?’ Malvern’s naivety was both endearing and pathetic.
‘So you’ve made arrangements for her to stay with friends until you’re able to conclude your affairs here and join her in London?’ Pyke did his best to suppress an urge to ask Malvern directly about William Alefounder, whether he’d stayed at the great house and, if so, whether he’d shown any interest in Mary.
Malvern looked at him quizzically, perhaps taken aback by the personal nature of the question. ‘My godfather was happy to take her in and will look after her for as long as is required. You see, Uncle William lives on his own in a large house in Mayfair.’
Pyke took note of this detail. It explained why Mary had asked McQuillan about that part of the city but didn’t begin to shed light on why she’d also taken a room at the lodging house on the Ratcliff Highway. ‘I’m pleased for your sake this man is more enlightened than your father.’
‘He just wants me to be happy. I wrote to him and explained the problem towards the end of last year. Indeed, it was his idea. And I know for a fact he won’t say a word about it to my father.’ Malvern looked over at Pyke, frowning. ‘Anyway, why are you so interested in my personal affairs? They have no bearing on the status of Ginger Hill.’
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