Enemy in the House

by Mignon G. Eberhart

“I found a hidden place, rocks and bush. I could look down at everything that went on.”

  “All day?”

  “I’ve had two days of lurking around the place like a highwayman. Today I saw all the people gather round this woman, it must have been the obeah woman. I didn’t dare get closer but—there was something about the way she walked, regal as a queen. Independent. But—try it. I’ll go with you. There’s a path going off to the left of the driveway. You’ll see a big banyan tree. Enormous, like a huge tent. Wait for me there.”

  “How will you get out of the house?”

  “The way I came. This is not the first time. I got in here while you were at supper the first night—”

  “I knew—I thought it was a maid! Why didn’t you wait for me?”

  “I did for a while. I looked before crawling in the window and recognized your trunk. I opened the door, just enough to hear a little, and when China came with you along the hall I took French leave. I barely got out as you and China came in. I was on the ledge outside when she began to question you about your father’s will. One of the vines gave way though and so did I—”

  “I heard that! I went to the window—”

  “Yes, I saw you against the light. But I knew China was still in the room. Now then. It’s dark. Nobody will see me. And if Madam and China are as far gone in their cups as they sound, they’ll not see you leave.”

  He was right. China didn’t even look at her when she went through the lounge. Aunt Grappit gave her a surprisingly shrewd and sensible glance and then blinked sleepily.

  It was dark but there was the luminous vanguard of moonlight in the sky. It was not difficult to find the path going off to the left of the driveway. Here, however, it was darker. The great shrubbery and trees along each side of it were like walls. Twigs and branches reached out to catch her skirts. The full chorus of insects and frogs and night creatures was throbbing now, all around her.

  When full darkness fell over her like a tent, she looked up and saw the huge canopy of the banyan tree spreading out so densely that it shut out the faintly luminous sky. Simon was already there, his face light against the somber shadows. “It’s this way.”

  He found the way although with several halts to get his bearings, during one of which they had ventured a little too close to one of the cabins and set a dog barking. The obeah woman’s cabin stood well beyond and at one side of the cluster of huts and cabins, off toward the western mountain, as if royalty had the right to seclude itself.

  “I’m sure this is the one,” he whispered. There was a gleam of light from a window curtained with gauze.

  “Stay here.”

  “No, I’ll go in with you.”

  “Simon, let me prepare the way. If she refuses to help, if she decides to report your presence, I’ll let you know somehow. I’ll delay her—”

  “And give me a chance to run for it?” He gave his light, soft laugh but yielded. “All right, then, I’ll wait just outside.”

  The cabin was small. There seemed to be a garden around it, for there was the heavy fragrance of tuberoses. Amity took a deep breath and knocked at the door.

  It swung open almost as if Selene had been waiting for her. “Come in,” she said politely.

  Selene was the same, but dressed with a surprising difference. Her blue-black hair was twisted up into a neat, shining knot; her scarlet hibiscus flowers were gone, her bracelets were gone. Instead of the white, priestesslike dress, she wore a lime-colored muslin, starched and clean. There was a fire in a small fireplace, a kettle on the hob and an appetizing smell of soup. The little room glittered with cleanliness. There were three woven cane chairs. There was a great vase of red and white flowers on a table. A door leading to another room gave a glimpse of a snowy counterpane and a polished chest of drawers.

  “Will you have some soup?” Selene asked pleasantly. “I prepared enough for two.”

  “No, thank—Were you expecting me?”

  “There was a murder in the great house—in the garden. That means trouble. I can tell you now, what I will tell anybody who investigates, the murder was not done by any of my people. There was not one of them missing from our meeting today except those unfortunates in the hospital, and I had seen that a nurse whom I can trust remained with them. None of the sick is able to walk and in any event the nurse tells me that none of them left the hospital, even during the earthquake. The magistrates and the Custos will believe me.” She went to stir the soup. “So you see,” she said in a conversational way, “it seems clear that your nursemaid was strangled by one of you. That is, by Mr. Grappit or his madam wife, your young stepmother or her brother, young Mr. Neville or you. Or the man dressed like a seaman, who has been about the penn, in the forest, sleeping two nights in a deserted hut.”

  “Sim—” Amity began and caught herself.

  “A stray horse wandered onto the place yesterday. I told the children to watch for a stranger.” Selene put a great iron spoon down neatly in a saucer. “You want my help.”

  Amity swallowed hard. “I—yes.” Now she was in for it. With one flick of her hand the beautiful young woman opposite her, eyeing her so coolly, could send Simon to the gallows.

  It was a mistake. A dreadful mistake. No, she couldn’t risk it. Selene said, “Is he your husband?”

  “How did you—Yes.”

  “Did he kill this girl?” Selene asked quietly.

  “Kill—No! No, believe me; he didn’t—he wouldn’t—You must believe me!”

  Selene’s eyes were strangely direct and penetrating. After a moment she said, “You want me to hide him.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know,” Selene said thoughtfully. “Hiding an officer of the American Continental Army, if he were found would threaten my own position.”

  “How did you know—” Amity began and stopped. Perhaps Selene did have strange powers.

  Selene half smiled. “Simple. He is wearing seaman’s clothes, so he is not traveling under his right name or position. You could only have married an American—and an American would be either of the King’s party or the colonial party. Since he is hiding I take it that he is of the colonial party. I also take it that he has some sort of military purpose in coming to Jamaica.”

  “He is not a spy!”

  Again Selene’s eyes were remarkably penetrating. She said quickly, “Very well, then. Don’t tell me any more. But, of course, he is in danger of arrest as a prisoner of war. Since this nursemaid has been very brutally murdered, he and you realize that there will be investigation and his danger increased immeasurably.”

  She paused. After a moment Amity said huskily, “Yes. I need your help. I need it so much—”

  “You love him,” Selene said.

  “Yes! He is my husband.”

  Selene’s dark eyes were thoughtful.

  I’ve made some mistake, Amity thought, in despair; I’ve said something wrong; it’s no good. “I’m sorry. I see that it would be dangerous for you—”

  “Bring him in,” Selene said. “He’s just outside the door.”

  Amity stumbled over her long skirt; she opened the door and Simon came in.

  It was the first time Amity had seen him in the light. He did wear a seaman’s clothes, rough kerseys, a heavy cotton shirt; a knitted cap stuck out of his pocket. Selene said, “You were reckless in coming here directly, sir. A hundred and thirty-six pairs of eyes are watchful.”

  Amity caught her breath. “Are there that many—”

  “I was counting the children. Their eyes and ears are the keenest of all.” She looked at Simon.

  Amity was reminded of her manners; it was rather as if the Queen had said, Present him to me. “This is—my husband, Simon Mallam—”

  Simon bowed. “Madam.”

  “Will you sit down?”

  They all sat down. It was like an audience.

  Selene studied Simon for a moment, thoughtfully and frankly. Whatever she saw in his face seemed to satisfy her. She said at las
t, “If the gentlemen reach Punt Town at all, for the roads are bad tonight, they should return with officers of the law very soon. If I undertake to protect you, Mr. Mallam, I require from you unquestioning obedience.”

  “You will have that, I promise you,” Simon said quietly.

  “You do realize that in protecting you I would be jeopardizing my task.” Amity thought vaguely, What is her task? What does she mean? Simon replied, “If I’m caught I promise to shield you.”

  Selene’s lovely hands rested for another moment on the arms of her chair. Finally she rose and Simon rose quickly as if she were a great lady. And she is a great lady, Amity thought suddenly. She bit her lips to keep from pleading.

  Selene went to a cupboard, took a bottle and turned to Simon. “They may bring dogs. Leave my cabin, go out into the forest toward the mountain. If you can find it in the darkness, cross the path you took down from the mountain. Toward the north, that will be to your right about thirty paces, there is a small stream. Walk through that for some distance. Then drench your boots with this—” She handed him the bottle. “Pour what you can over your clothes and come back here. You must do all this and return here very quickly.”

  “Thank you.” Simon didn’t waste words. He took the bottle, turned to Amity, drew her up to him, kissed her lips quickly, bowed again to Selene and slid out the door so swiftly that it was as if he hadn’t been there at all except that Amity’s heart thumped as it had the night she boarded the smuggler and Simon had said good-bye.

  The cabin was very quiet. Selene said presently, “He’s some distance from the cabin now. You may go.”

  “Where will he be hidden?”

  “It’s better not to know. Don’t come here again. If necessary I’ll come to you.”

  “Thank you—thank you—”

  The murmurous night fell upon her. The moon was coming up, lighting the sky and casting black shadows along the path. In any event it was done now. She had to trust the obeah woman.

  Her senses seemed to throb as tumultuously as the noisy night. The obeah woman and her beauty, her clearly educated vocabulary and clipped, pure accent—her task? What was her task?

  Lights from the great house at last streamed out into the pallid night. There were no horses, no shouts, no voices of searching men.

  But when she entered the lounge, Grappit and the overseer, McWhinn, were quarreling.

  Grappit was white with two red spots on his cadaverous cheeks. McWhinn wasn’t white, he merely looked stony, planted solidly on his bowlegs.

  Neither Neville nor Charles was there. Aunt Grappit and China had disappeared, too. A table had been spread with linen and silver, and platters of cold meat, cheese and bread.

  Grappit gave her one sliding glance and turned back to McWhinn.”—you are taking sides against your own people! I don’t believe you. Nobody will believe you!”

  “It’s the truth,” McWhinn said.

  “Then—then you can get out! Leave! Get off this penn! Without a character, too!”

  “I’ll take my character with me, thank you,” McWhinn said.

  Amity grasped what she could of the quarrel. “Wait—Uncle —we can’t dismiss McWhinn. We need him.”

  McWhinn gave Amity a curious, almost a sardonic look. “I felt it my duty, ma’am, to tell your uncle that none of our people on the place murdered that poor girl. I doubt very much whether any intruder would have ventured upon the place.”

  So he doesn’t know about Simon, Amity thought swiftly. Not yet. He went on. “We Jamaicans have learned to lie low when there’s something amiss in the weather. Your uncle takes exception to my statement. He seems to feel that I have made a certain accusation.”

  “You did make an accusation!” Grappit shouted. “By heaven, you as good as said that—that I killed her! Or my son, or my niece, or—or Madam Mallam, or my wife!” He remembered Charles and added with a burst, “Or Charles Carey!”

  “You said it, sir. I didn’t.” McWhinn started for the door.

  “McWhinn,” Amity said. “My uncle is very troubled, naturally—he didn’t mean to dismiss you.”

  “I did mean it!” Grappit shouted and wiped his forehead with one of his absurdly ruffled pink shirtsleeves.

  “But it’s my decision,” Amity said clearly. “Mine and China’s. McWhinn’s to stay. If he will.”

  Unexpectedly, yet clearly as a prudent second thought, Grappit yielded. “Perhaps it is not wise just at this juncture. No. You can stay, McWhinn,” he said as if he threw a bone to a dog.

  “You can apologize for calling me a liar.”

  “I—” Grappit encountered the little Scot’s stony gaze and said, “Well—yes—I lost my temper.”

  “H’mm,” said McWhinn and then cocked an ear toward the door. “Horses—”

  Charles and Neville, Amity thought, were returning with the constabulary. In searching, they would search Hester’s room, of course. She had a box, Simon had said; there might be something there to prove her identity—or explain her murder. The search should be left to the officers of the law, certainly. It was their duty. Even so, as Grappit and McWhinn moved to the door, Amity hurried to Hester’s room.

  Dolcy sat there, fanning herself beside a shaded candle. Jamey slept beneath a mosquito curtain. The enormous chest still lay at an angle on the floor, its drawers spilling out slippers, dresses, ribbons, stockings. Amity knelt to search and Dolcy said quietly, “No use looking, lady. Madam take the papers away with her.”

  13

  AMITY SAT BACK ON her heels. Dolcy’s face was pleasant, open as a child’s, and knowing as the ancient Eve’s. How much they all knew—and told the obeah woman!

  “Madam?” she said.

  Dolcy jerked her turbaned head toward China’s room.

  “What papers?”

  “Papers—” Dolcy waved a palmetto fan.

  “I see—yes—” She saw only that China, too, had determined to discover what there was to discover of Hester.

  She looked at the scattered clothing on the floor, the demure gray and brown nurse’s dresses, the pathetic fripperies of silk and lace—given Hester by Madam Tooke?

  “Put those away,” she told Dolcy and went to China’s room.

  A candle was guttering in its holder. China lay flat on the bed, snoring loudly.

  So her rum had taken its toll and a good thing, Amity thought grimly, for clasped lightly in one of China’s dimpled little hands was a sheaf of papers, folded tightly and tied with a blue ribbon. In a second Amity had dislodged the roll of papers. In another second she decided, grimly again, not to arrange China so she could sleep off her rum more comfortably. She did adjust the thin muslin curtains of the bed, since blotchy mosquito bites were already appearing on China’s bare arms. She tiptoed out, clutching the folded papers.

  There were men’s voices coming from the lounge. She slid into her own room, across the corridor, closed the door, and of course the room was entirely dark. She stumbled over a footstool, found her way to the dressing table, hunted for a candle, a tinderbox, and could find nothing.

  She had to have a light. The tightly folded papers crackled tantalizingly in her hand. Well, then—hide the papers, go out into the lounge and get a candle. She groped her way to the huge bed, shoved the papers beneath the pillow, and went back to the lounge.

  Charles and Neville had returned and returned alone. Charles was standing at the table, cutting off slices of meat. Neville was pouring wine. Aunt Grappit sat in a rumpled mass of silk looking very flushed. Grappit was pacing up and down. McWhinn stood perfectly still, his eyes like flints.

  “—so we came back,” Charles said. “Nobody on earth could get through that road. We tried every way.”

  Neville’s face showed red, from thorn scratches. Charles’ hair was ruffled, the lace on his cuff torn. Charles saw Amity. “We couldn’t get through to Punt Town,” he told her. “Some rock slides from the earthquake blocked the road.”

  Neville handed him a glass of wine. “It�
��s the very devil of a road anyway,” he said. “Rocks and cliffs and brush—”

  “You should have got to Punt Town somehow,” his father snapped. “Now what are we going to do?”

  McWhinn unexpectedly answered. “Bury that poor girl.”

  “Why, certainly, of course, tomorrow after the authorities—” Grappit began.

  McWhinn said, “Better tonight. Unless one of you gentlemen want to sit up with her. She can’t be left in that rat-ridden shed. No telling when we can get through to Punt Town. Better bury the girl now. I can tell them how we found her and the way she was murdered. They’ll believe me.”

  Grappit stroked the thin strands of hair over his shining skull. “Well—well—perhaps you are right. Get some men, McWhinn, to help you.”

  “Where?” McWhinn said elliptically, looking at nothing.

  “Why—why—there must be a place—servants don’t live forever—”

  Charles eyed a long, ugly scratch on one wrist. Neville put down his glass with a thump. “She’s got to be buried in the family lot! I’ll not hear to anything else!”

  “Neville! That girl—that poor girl, tragic and all that,” Grappit said as if making allowances, “but she was a servant.”

  Neville picked up his glass and thumped it down again. “I tell you it’s going to be in the family graveyard. Decent. She was pretty, she was—I’ll not have her just dumped somewhere—I’ll not have it—”

  “Neville!”

  Neville looked as if he were going to cry. Charles said quickly, “I think he is quite right, sir. We—my sister employed her, we brought her here. She came to a terrible—The least we can do is bury her properly. Get a clergyman later.”

  “I’ll see about it,” said McWhinn, neatly ending the discussion, and walked out the door.

  “You’d better eat, Neville.” Charles sat down at the table.

  Amity started for the nearest candlestick and as she did so China screamed, “Amity—”

  Charles started up. Grappit said, “She’s drunk as a fiddler’s —that is, drunk. Pay no attention.”

  “China?” Charles was surprised. “Why, she never—”