Pemberton had just stepped out on to the veranda.
‘If I’m buying anything — a horse, a house, an estate — I want to know exactly why the seller is willing to give it up,’ Pyke said. ‘In this instance, if my questions have been of too personal a nature, forgive me. But for my own peace of mind, I needed to ask them.’ He stood up and left the two men to discuss their affairs.
Pyke found his horse at the stables. It had been fed and watered after the long ride up from the town and, having saddled it himself, he mounted the docile creature and urged it into a canter with a kick of his boots. From the stables, he followed the flint track down the hill to where a stone bridge crossed the river; there, next to the river, was the boiling house, a larger building than he’d been expecting. It looked deserted but Pyke didn’t stop to check. A little farther up the hill on the other side of the river was the grinding house, a slightly smaller building, again made of stone, which was connected to the boiling house via a wedge-shaped trough. As Pyke understood it, the freshly cut cane was ground using vertical iron rollers powered by a waterwheel. The cane juice then ran down the trough into the boiling house, where it was rinsed, skimmed and emptied into copper vats; there it was boiled down into raw sugar and the skimmed molasses was turned into rum. But there was no one working in either of the buildings, and the whole place felt like a cemetery. As he rode up the hill into the fields on the plateau above the river, Pyke thought about the dilemma facing Malvern — pay a higher wage or risk losing the whole crop — and wondered why the planter hadn’t compromised in the short term. It seemed Malvern had been badly advised, and Pyke wondered whether the attorney really did have his best interests at heart. He also thought about what Malvern had just told him about Mary Edgar, and how distraught the planter would be when he learned about her fate.
There were more clouds in the sky than there had been the day before and the air was more humid. Pyke had ridden deep into the cane fields and the ripe canes, seven or eight feet tall, swayed in the gentle breeze. About a mile or so farther along the track, he heard some voices and then caught sight of Pemberton slouched on his grey horse, staring idly into the distance. Pyke didn’t think the attorney had seen him and climbed down from his own horse, tying the reins around a cotton tree. He hadn’t seen a single field hand anywhere during his ride and was therefore surprised to see a crew of about twelve men, all black, sitting under the shade of a giant mango tree, talking freely with one another and laughing. Pyke didn’t want to draw attention to his hiding place and so didn’t risk getting close enough to hear what they were talking about, but in all the time he watched them, they didn’t move from their spot, and Pemberton, for all his rhetoric about ‘nigger knocking’, didn’t make them. Certainly no one seemed too interested in the ripe cane plants and, from what Pyke could see, none of the surrounding fields had been harvested.
Back at the stables, Dalling was waiting for him. He was leaning against the gate, with a blade of grass in his mouth.
‘I was wondering if you’d thought any more about the conversation we had last night?’
‘I don’t carry that amount of money around with me.’
Dalling offered Pyke a lazy smile. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence. You strike me as a resourceful fellow. Go out and be resourceful.’
Briefly Pyke ran through his options, or lack of them. Dalling already knew he wasn’t who he claimed to be and Pyke had as good as confirmed it. But Dalling wouldn’t go to Pemberton or Malvern with his suspicions until he was absolutely convinced that he wouldn’t be paid. Until then he would keep his mouth shut, which, in turn, meant Pyke could ask him a question.
‘You must have known Mary Edgar, or at least you must have seen her around the great house.’
Dalling’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘What has she to do with anything?’
‘Did you get the impression that she and Malvern were as devoted to one another as he’d have people believe?’
That drew a snort of derision. ‘If you count fucking one of the field hands as devotion then maybe they were.’ Dalling’s nostrils were black with snuff. ‘Of course, given that he used to fuck his own sister, he isn’t exactly a saint, either.’
That stopped Pyke dead. ‘Charles slept with Elizabeth?’
‘You know her, then?’ Dalling smirked. ‘Well, if you want to know more, you’re going to have to pay more.’
‘Look, I’ll get you your hundred and I’ll give you another hundred on top of that if you tell me what you know about Charles, Mary and Elizabeth, the lot of them.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ Dalling’s eyes narrowed.
Pyke’s head was spinning with possibilities. ‘Did Charles know that Mary was sleeping with another man?’
‘Course he knew. That’s why he sent her away.’
‘What was the man’s name?’
‘I’m not that stupid. If I tell you, you won’t have to pay me.’
‘Two hundred for everything,’ Pyke said.
‘Gives you a thrill, does it? Imagining the brother and sister going at it under the sheets?’
‘I can get the money by tomorrow night,’ Pyke said, his throat dry from the heat. ‘But I’ll need the name of the field hand now.’
‘If you try to double-cross me, I’ll go straight to Pemberton. Is that understood?’
A silence hung between them. ‘Well?’ Pyke asked finally.
Dalling picked another stalk from the ground and made to leave. ‘His name’s Isaac Webb. But these days you won’t find him anywhere near Ginger Hill.’
Pyke found Charles Malvern on the lawn in front of the great house, standing over what turned out to be a camera obscura and a small copperplate. Malvern called him over and proceeded to explain how the process worked; he didn’t ask about Pyke’s tour of the estate or the strike or whether he was still interested in making an offer. He just wanted to talk about daguerreotypes and, in that sense, he reminded Pyke of a young boy who’d just found a new hobby.
‘You see,’ he said, pointing at the camera’s lens. ‘The light pours through here and projects an image on to the copper, here. But the plate has already been soaked in iodine and in about five minutes a very faint image will begin to appear. When that happens, I’ll take the plate inside and develop it over heated mercury; what happens is that the mercury amalgamates with the silver to make the image.’ He stood up, apparently pleased with himself.
Pyke glanced down at the camera and concluded, from the direction it was pointing, that the image would be of the house. ‘I’m surprised you’re able to keep abreast of such developments here.’
‘Actually I have my sister to thank for it. She’s been an enthusiast ever since she read about it in a newspaper. She sent me all I needed to get started and now I import the copperplates and iodine directly from a manufacturer in London.’
Pyke tried not to show his interest. ‘She sounds like a forward-thinking person.’ He was thinking about her attachment to Jemmy Crane, about his interest in daguerreotypes, and whether the two were connected.
‘She is.’ Malvern stopped what he was doing and looked up. ‘We used to be very close as children and our bond has remained strong. I’m not afraid to say I miss her dearly.’
Pyke looked searchingly into his face for signs that what Dalling had intimated was, in fact, true. ‘Then you must look forward to being reunited with her in London.’
‘Indeed,’ Malvern said, as though the matter were an awkward one. ‘I just wish…’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s nothing.’ He smiled weakly and turned his attention back to the camera.
‘When was your sister last here at Ginger Hill?’
Malvern screwed up his face. ‘A couple of years ago, I’d say.’ He looked around the garden. ‘Lizzy loved this place as much as I do. But she’s also devoted to our father; she has been ever since our mother passed away. When he announced he planned to retire in England, I rather hoped she might stay with me at Ging
er Hill but in the end she chose to settle in London. I’m sure it was the right decision.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘After all, this is no place to find a husband, is it?’
‘You found a wife here.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ Malvern looked up at Pyke, almost sounding surprised. ‘And I miss her terribly.’ He waited for a moment, as though distracted. ‘I wish I could show you a daguerreotype of her, so you could see how attractive she is. I developed a number of images but they were stolen in a burglary earlier this year, together with some coins and bonds.’
For a moment Pyke wondered whether he was referring to Elizabeth or Mary.
‘Really?’ Somehow it seemed amiss: coins and bonds could be fenced, but who would want to buy a collection of copperplates?
‘The Custos never did find the person responsible.’ Malvern looked up and saw a servant coming towards them. ‘I tried to persuade her to pose for me again but this time she refused; said something about it bringing bad luck.’
The servant, Josephine, told Malvern it was time for his afternoon sleep. She spoke with a faint French accent and later Malvern explained that she’d been born in Martinique and had looked after him ever since he was a child. Pyke might not have been there, for all she noticed him. ‘Massa need his sleep now,’ she said.
‘Were all the daguerreotypes stolen?’
‘Yes, all of them.’ Malvern looked at him. ‘Why do you ask?’
But Josephine had already threaded her arm through Malvern’s, and before Pyke could answer, she was leading him across the lawn to the house.
That night, Pyke ate with Malvern and Dalling as the Pembertons had been invited to dine elsewhere. The conversation was stilted and awkward. A few times Pyke tried to steer it towards the subject of Malvern’s family, hoping to learn something more about the mother’s death, but Malvern was morose and seemingly incapable of speaking more than a few words at a time. Dalling appeared bored without Hermione Pemberton’s chest to gawp at and managed to restrict himself to a few barbed remarks about Pyke’s or rather Squires’ background. The first time it happened Pyke let it go; the second time, when Dalling asked him where he had grown up, Pyke announced he needed to take the air and waited for the bookkeeper to join him on the veranda.
‘I thought we had an arrangement,’ Pyke said, after making sure Charles was still sitting at the table.
‘We do, but I’m just making sure you know I’m not to be underestimated.’
Pyke stared out across the lawn in the direction of the stone counting house. ‘How do I know that what you told me about Charles and Elizabeth is the truth?’
‘You don’t. I don’t even know whether it’s true or not. I’m just telling you what I heard.’
‘So it’s only a rumour?’
‘I’m not saying another word until you’ve paid me what we agreed.’
Pyke hesitated and then pointed at the counting house. ‘I’ll meet you there tomorrow night at seven.’
‘With the money?’
‘With the two hundred.’
Pyke had expected Dalling to object to this arrangement or at least argue for a more public meeting place but the bookkeeper simply said, ‘I’ll be there. If you’re not or if you don’t have the full two hundred, I’ll go straight to Pemberton.’
Back at the dinner table, Charles hardly seemed to have noticed his absence and made no comment when Dalling failed to return to his place. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather melancholic tonight, sir, and hence not good company. You’ll excuse me if I turn in early.’ He smiled. ‘The servants will take good care of you.’ Malvern stood up and shuffled past him, but as he did so, he turned suddenly and grabbed Pyke’s arm. ‘You will buy the estate, won’t you? I’m not sure I could take the disappointment if you didn’t. Name a sensible price, sir, and Ginger Hill will be yours. There’s five hundred acres, less fifty acres of the worst farming land that my father has earmarked for other purposes. I won’t haggle. I won’t even ask for what I know a place like this is worth. Make me an offer, sir, that’s all I ask.’
Before Pyke could answer, he had headed off across the polished floor in the direction of his bedroom, leaving Pyke to ponder the reasons for his outburst. Later, over the sound of a stiffening breeze in the trees and the shutters rattling in their fastenings, Pyke thought he could hear Malvern sobbing, but when he tried to investigate, Josephine appeared suddenly from her quarters carrying a lantern. She didn’t say anything and remained there until Pyke turned around and headed back to his bedroom.
He removed his shirt and took off his boots, hanging the former on a hook attached to the back of the door.
In his undergarments, he went across to the bed and pulled back the fresh white sheet.
A hot spike of bile licked the back of his throat.
It wasn’t a human eyeball. From its size, it had once belonged to a goat or a sheep and it lay there like a hard-boiled egg, just the faintest trace of crimson visible on the otherwise spotless sheet.
That night the rain was like nothing Pyke had ever experienced before; bullets of water hammering into the shutters and pounding the roof until he felt certain that either the roof would fall in or the shutters be ripped from their hinges. The storm lasted for two or three hours, and during this time Pyke drifted in and out of sleep, moths throwing themselves at the glass of the whale-oil lamp next to his bed. When he woke up, his back was drenched in sweat and his throat was dry and scratchy. The rain had stopped and the air around him felt damp and cool. He lay there, disoriented, wallowing in the strangeness, and when he woke again, bright sunlight was flooding in through the shutters. It was at such times that he missed Emily the most; when his longing for her — her company and her presence next to him — caused him a physical ache. He stood up, and tried to put the thought of her lying bleeding in his arms out of his head.
From his small balcony there was little evidence of the previous night’s deluge; just a few pools of water glistening in the red clay. The sky was a piercing blue, the air smelled of jasmine and cinnamon, and the still-wet foliage of the nearby orange and mango trees sparkled with renewed vigour. Pyke dressed and went downstairs, where a pot of coffee and a plate of fresh fruit and pastries awaited him in the dining room. He ate his breakfast and drank the coffee, which was delicious and strong, then asked one of the servants where he could find Malvern, Pemberton or even Dalling. Malvern, he was told, was unavailable, while Pemberton and Dalling were attending to matters on the estate. He finished his coffee and wandered across to the counting house and, from there, to a potting shed on the other side of the overgrown lawn. He found a shovel and a pick and entered the tropical forest via a gate and a set of stone steps at one end of the lawn.
The spot he was looking for — a small clearing no more than five or six hundred yards downhill from the counting house — took him ten minutes to locate. Setting the shovel and pick down on the ground, he removed his shirt and draped it over a tree branch. It was cool and shady under the foliage of the cotton, coffee and logwood trees and in the distance he could hear the river, with the croaking of bullfrogs and buzzing of mosquitoes. Looking around, to make sure he was alone, Pyke took the pick and set to work.
It took him an hour and a half to dig a hole big enough for Dalling’s body, and by the time he’d finished, a pile of red earth thick with ants sat next to him. Leaving the shovel and pick next to the hole, Pyke ventured farther into the forest, towards the river, and found a bathing pool under the shade of a large mango tree. He left his clothes on a rock and dived into the clear, cold water. Coming up for air, he looked up into the trees, and his thoughts turned to Mary Edgar; whether she, too, had swum in this spot and whether there was anyone else on the island, apart from Charles Malvern, who would mourn her death.
Lunchtime had been and gone by the time Pyke returned to the great house, but as far as he could tell it was still deserted. In fact, none of the servants appeared when he called, and he decided to take the opportunity to give the rooms a
quick search. He started in Malvern’s study but didn’t find anything of interest in either his davenport or the chest of drawers in the corner of the room. From there, after he’d made quite certain it was unoccupied, Pyke moved to Malvern’s bedroom, where he found a bundle of letters in the oak davenport: none, as far as he could to tell, from Elizabeth or Silas. There was one letter that took his interest, however. The seal, embossed in red wax, had been broken, and Pyke was about to read its contents when he heard footsteps, and so he slipped the letter and envelope into his pocket.
Outside in the passage, Josephine must have seen him come from Malvern’s bedroom because she stood there, arms folded, perhaps trying to decide what to do.
She was a slight person, less than five feet tall, and shuffled rather than walked, but her physical presence was sufficient to make Pyke jump.
‘What you doing in Massa’s room?’
‘I went in there by accident.’ He tried to smile. ‘A house this size, it’s easy to lose one’s bearings.’
The old woman wetted her lips with her small, pink tongue. ‘You going to buy Ginger Hill, be the new massa?’
‘I might.’ Pyke looked into her small, shrivelled eyes. ‘I’m sure you could tell me quite a bit about this place.’
‘I seen folk come and go.’
‘Like Silas’s wife, Bonella?’
Her irises, green and rimmed with circles of black, contracted slightly. ‘I see you talked to folk already.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Curious sort, you. Too much curiosity can be a dangerous thing.’
‘I heard she fell down the stairs.’ Pyke waited. ‘Or was she pushed?’
‘Ask a lot of questions, too.’
‘You’d probably know all about Charles and Elizabeth when they were younger, wouldn’t you?’
They stood there for a short while, contemplating each other’s expressions. This time, she didn’t answer him.
‘Last night I found a sheep’s eyeball in my bed. Was that your handiwork?’
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