“Were you going to creep up to her cabin and try to listen?”
“That’s what you intended, I’ll be bound. But I can’t find my way in this deucedly tricky brush. I’ve ruined my best coat, too.”
A small—perhaps not so small—hope darted into her mind.
Grappit used his artful comprehension of people and their likely courses to his own purposes. Perhaps she could appeal to Neville’s butterfly good nature. In any event it would do no harm. “Neville, this marriage your father suggested—”
“Our marriage? We’d get along. Worldly marriages are made like this. Everybody accepts it. It’s a mere matter of—of—”
“Money?” she said.
“But that—I don’t see why you object.”
“For one reason I’m—” She caught her breath on the verge of saying, I’m married to Simon and I know he was not killed at Savannah.
Neville said, “You were going to say that you’re already married. I told Pa that’s what you’d say. But he said to leave it to him. He said he had ways of dissolving that marriage of yours. Why, he said you were as good as mine right now. And that was last night after China—well, after China refused me, as a matter of fact. Not that I cared. Of course, I don’t know why he didn’t tell me that Simon was killed at Savannah. It would have made everything simpler if he’d told you and me and everybody. I wonder why—” She could hear the gentle rasp of his hand brushing raindrops absently from his velvet coat. “Why—that seaman! Amity, was Simon on that ship you came here on? Is he that seaman they were talking about?”
She had not expected his quickness of perception. “Do you mean to say,” Amity asked, “that your father lied about Simon’s death in Savannah? You wouldn’t call your own father a liar!”
“Bah,” he said, which, in truth, covered that question. “Was he on that ship, Amity?”
“No,” she said firmly, a round, sound and, she hoped, convincing lie.
“You’d lie, too, if you had to! I’ll ask China. No, she said she was seasick and in her cabin almost the whole time. Well then, I’ll ask Charles. H’m,” Neville said thoughtfully, “I wonder if that’s why he’s been going around so—so quiet and secretive. But then he’s always that way. Too good to be true, Charles is. If Simon is this escaped seaman they’ll find him and unless I miss my guess he’ll stand an excellent chance of being hanged.”
“You heard Charles! He said that Simon was in America.”
Neville thought for a moment. “You didn’t shed a tear when Pa told you he’d been killed,” he said astutely. “I believe Simon is in Jamaica and—I believe you’ve seen him! I’ve hit on the truth, haven’t I? I know you, Amity. You’ll stick to Simon. You’ll never give him up—”
Charles came up beside them so suddenly and quietly that Neville stopped with a gulp.
Charles said coolly, “Are both of you curious, too, as to why Squire Wickes wanted to talk to the obeah woman?”
Neville said point-blank, “Was Simon Mallam on that ship, that smuggler?”
“Simon?” Charles’ voice sounded surprised but his handsome face was in the shadow. “Why, your father said he’d been killed in Savannah. I am truly sorry, Amity—”
“He could be that seaman they’re hunting. Tall fellow—red-haired—”
Charles laughed. “The King himself might have been on that ship without being recognized if he’d taken a berth as a seaman. You don’t know what a storm we weathered. I dare swear that some of the seamen scarce left the pumps for sleep! However,” his voice became grave, “if by any chance that was Simon, I sincerely hope, Amity, that he has contrived to escape the island by now. But then Mr. Grappit is sure of his death in Savannah—”
“H’mm,” said Neville.
“Why, surely you don’t think your father would lie in so serious a matter?”
“Well, he—he could have been misinformed,” Neville said.
“Oh, they’re coming!”
Amity saw the bobbing glow of a lantern, behind some bushes, coming from the direction of Selene’s cabin. She couldn’t go to Selene, then; she couldn’t make any credible excuse to escape Neville and Charles. She took Charles’ politely offered arm.
The bobbing glow of the lantern followed them all the way back to the house. Here a lavish supper was laid, with the usual great tureens steaming with highly spiced fragrances and huge silver candelabra lighted as for a festival. The two officers had been taking full advantage of the wine bottles, for their faces were almost as red as their coats and Grappit was pressing more wine upon them in his role of gracious host and even, with a great flourish, taking all of a teaspoonful himself.
Neville, looking down at his damp-spotted velvet coat with disgust, disappeared and presently returned, having changed to canary velvet with a lavishly embroidered white waistcoat and fresh lace ruffles, fit for a ball.
Grappit had poured wine for Squire Wickes. “You tell me that the obeah woman insists that everyone on the penn was accounted for when—this girl was murdered. But you can’t take her word for it, sir! The word of a slave. It’s not legal.”
“Selene’s word will be accepted as true by anybody in the parish,” Squire Wickes said. “She is a remarkable young woman. As a matter of fact, she is not a slave. Thank you, madam,” he added as Aunt Grappit ladled out a steaming plateful of soup and handed it to him.
“Remarkable?” Grappit frowned.
“Yes, and you see we all know Selene. We know her history and we know—no more pepper, thank you. Yes, we know her history. She was born in Jamaica. Her maternal great-grandfather was a Spanish grandee, her father an officer in the British Army. He took Selene to England where she had an unusually good education. After his death Selene returned to Jamaica and became, as you see, an obeah woman.”
“Why?” Grappit asked.
“She is a born Jamaican. She is devoted to one purpose and that is to improve the lot of people who, unfortunately, need help. Our present system, God knows, has its injustices. There are few obeah women—in fact I know of only one, Selene. Usually the obeah is a man and not always—shall I say, a desirable influence. But Selene understood the power of an obeah for good, if I might so describe it, and as Selene has directed it. She is extremely intelligent. Yes, there is not a man in this county who does not know and respect Selene. It seems a strange life for a young and beautiful woman. But it is the life she has chosen, one of unswerving, complete dedication. Excellent soup, madam.”
“Please to have another serving,” Aunt Grappit said.
So that was the explanation of Selene, Amity thought; that was the task she had spoken of. In a dim way she had sensed some such story. But how far would Selene consider herself justified in taking the risk of using that power of hers, and her established position, to protect Simon?
Grappit gobbled some ham. “Outrageous! Why, she could make all kinds of trouble! Slave insurrections—”
“Quite the contrary.” Squire Wickes’ mild voice was suddenly encrusted in ice. “Mallam Penn is the best run penn in Jamaica, less sickness, no runaways, good relations between landowner and slaves. And Selene, who has many sources of information, has put me greatly in her debt by bringing abuses to my attention. We have laws here, you know, sir, made with a view to controlling the absolute and regrettably sometimes cruel power of the landowners. Selene’s influence is an excellent one.”
“Well—well—be that as it may—” Grappit put down his knife with an air of decision. “All this is beside the point. I am perfectly sure, sir, that young Simon Mallam strangled this poor girl, Hester.”
17
AMITY WAS ALMOST TRAPPED into making another mistake. Her first impulse was to guard herself, show nothing—but she had shown no grief, nothing when Grappit announced Simon’s death and that was a blunder. She cried, “Simon! You said he was dead! You said he was killed at Savannah—”
“I must have been misinformed,” Grappit said smoothly.
“Why—but what do you mea
n, Uncle? I’m his wife! You must tell me! Where is Simon?” She demanded boldly and was cold with fright at her own daring.
Squire Wickes said, “This is a very serious accusation, sir. Upon what do you base it?”
“You suggested it yourself, sir. The seaman on the smuggler, the seaman who escaped. This girl, Hester, somehow discovered his identity. It is possible that she knew him in America. When the captain of the smuggler was arrested and Simon was forced to escape, he knew that he would be in danger from Hester who could say, definitely, that he was Simon Mallam, an officer in the so-called Continental Army, obviously in Jamaica on some spying errand. So he made his way here and—killed her. It’s only a matter of putting two and two together. Therefore Simon must be somewhere near, in hiding. When did you last see him, Niece?” he asked Amity, so smoothly that she knew he hoped to take her by surprise. “I saw him in Savannah, when we left! I’d have seen him on the ship! This cannot be true—” She had no need now to summon up agitation. Her words were sharp and clear.
“A moment.” Such was Squire Wickes’ authority, his mild voice brought about instant attention. He turned to Charles. “Mr. Carey, you were a passenger on the smuggler. Was this young Mallam disguised as a seaman?”
Charles replied at once. “The fact is, sir, I wouldn’t have recognized him. I saw him only once, at my sister’s wedding, and that was six years ago. Neville and I were talking of such a possibility just before supper. Neville described Simon—tall, red-haired. I’m bound to say, sir, that the storm was severe, the men were at the pumps the whole time, and if such a man was on the ship I might not have seen him. I really can’t answer your question.” It was moderate, it was true, and Amity wished that just once Charles was not, as Neville had said, too upright and good to be true, himself, and had said flatly that Simon was not on board the ship.
It angered Grappit. “You are attempting to shield my niece, sir. I see your motive perfectly. You hope that she is a widow. You want her and her estates for yourself. That has been clear from the first. You came to South Carolina, you were always hanging around her, riding, walking—God’s life, dancing together, while that little—I mean to say my poor deluded sister-in-law China, without knowing it of course, encouraged your suit. I daresay you hope to be appointed guardian for the boy and China!” And a far better guardian than Grappit, Amity thought swiftly.
Squire Wickes said, “Dear me, I really think some immediate inquiry—” He looked at the two officers, whose eyes were avidly taking in the entire scene. “Do you two gentlemen feel up to a ride in to Spanish Town tonight?”
“Why—why, yes, sir—”
“Certainly, sir. We’ve taken that road before this at night,” the lieutenant said, rather rashly as it proved, for Squire Wickes permitted himself a wintry smile.
“Yes, so I’ve been given to understand—arriving back at the barracks barely in time for morning parade something the worse for wear. Well, well—you’ll take a note from me with you. I wish the prisoner, this smuggler skipper, Captain Boyce, to be released in my custody. Bring him to me. And in no circumstances permit his escape. You understand Captain Boyce may be an extremely valuable witness. He will know, certainly, whether or not this escaped seaman was in fact Simon Mallam. He is very likely to know something of Hester. So guard him well, gentlemen. Sir,” he said to Grappit, “if you’ll be so kind as to supply me with paper and a pen—”
Grappit sprang up, his white linens flapping. In the little flurry and commotion, Amity made what she hoped was a calm exit. Once they brought Captain Boyce, the hunt for Simon would be on, full cry. She must see Selene now, at once, she must see Simon. She would have to wait until the house was quiet. Her heart was erratic, thumping hard and then sinking away like a heavy stone.
Dolcy was in her room. The candle was lighted but shielded from Jamey who slept under a mosquito gauze on the trundle bed. Dolcy said calmly, “The men, the militia officers, they to have that room, Madam Grappit say. We move the bed here. Is that right, lady?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
Amity looked through the mist of the mosquito gauze at Jamey, sound asleep, and suddenly, a forgotten yet an important question shot into her mind.
After the earthquake was over Dolcy had returned to the house with Jamey. She had taken him with her to Hester’s room. She had been there when Amity herself came to search Hester’s clothing. She had spent the night there. There had been no moment between the time of her appearance with Jamey and the next morning when anyone could have come to search Hester’s effects without being seen by Dolcy.
Amity said softly for fear of waking the sleeping boy, “Dolcy, the night of the earthquake, when my stepmother came and found the papers, you remember, tied with blue ribbon—”
“Yes, lady.”
“Did anyone else come to the room and—and search for anything?”
“Oh, yes, lady,” Dolcy said promptly. “Madam Grappit.”
“Madam—do you mean my aunt?”
“Yes, lady. And then Massa Grappit.”
“When did they come? After my stepmother or—”
“After, lady. The old lady, Madam Grappit, come in and search through the room. She don’t speak to me so I say not a thing to her. She find nothing and go away. Then late in the night Massa, your uncle, come. No word to me so I say no word to him. He find nothing. Madam Grappit find nothing.”
It was natural enough for both Grappit and Aunt Grappit to search Hester’s small possessions, and both of them had been too late, for China had got there first. The only odd thing about it was that the Grappits had acted independently, first Aunt Grappit, then Grappit. Amity had always assumed that they acted together, in each other’s complete confidence.
Surely, if those blank papers were significant as Selene believed them to be, the murderer would not have wasted a moment to search them out and destroy them. The urgent need was to warn Simon of Captain Boyce. After a moment she went to the window which Simon had used in entering and leaving her room. She opened the jalousie.
The moon was rising, which was unfortunate, for there was a white, clear light over the world which outlined every tree and every shrub. But a deep black band of shadow lay directly below the window. Beyond it, full in the moonlight, lay the grassy path which went between the house and the enclosed garden, on out of sight around the end of the house toward the sugar house and mill.
She leaned out the window. There were vines, creepers with toughly twining stems and thick old trunks, masking the entire wall. Directly below, though, there was indeed a ledge, fully wide enough for a foothold. The path sloped up a little from the front entrance so it was in fact not a long drop from the ledge to the ground and there was a thick mass of shrubbery to cushion a fall.
If Simon could climb up to the ledge, certainly she could climb down. She couldn’t return that way. But she could get out.
“Dolcy,” she said rapidly, “the two officers who were to sleep in Jamey’s room have gone to Spanish Town. But keep Jamey here and don’t let anyone in till I come back—”
“Don’t go,” said Dolcy suddenly.
“I have to.” She opened the jalousies wide. Dolcy padded over and pushed past her to look out into the black and white night. Her gold earrings flashed in the candlelight as she turned her head, peering into the night almost as if she sniffed for danger.
“Help me,” Amity said and swung her legs over the sill. Dolcy held her firmly until her feet found the ledge. She glanced up at Dolcy’s bright turban and anxious face, framed by the candlelight behind her, released Dolcy’s hands, got a hold on a vine, then another and it was no more difficult than going down a ladder except she had to grope for footholds and once a vine was too slender and tore away so she landed with a little jolt, but landed, with shrubbery scratching and rustling around her. Dolcy leaned out and then closed the jalousies, shutting off the light.
The veranda was lighted from the lounge but there was a band of darkness directly beneath it. Amity
slid lightly across the dangerous open stretch of driveway, tip-toed along in the shadow of the hedge until she found the path to the banyan tree and entered it.
The path was in deep shadow but the sky above was almost as light as day. The extraordinary hum of insects and night creatures covered any sound she might have made. Once, at a curve, she had a wide view of the sky and a glimpse of the true Southern Cross, blazing in glory. She paused for an awestruck second. Then the banyan tree spread its dark tent over her.
Selene’s cabin was dark, too. The heavy fragrance of tuberoses seemed sweeter in the moonlight. She knocked very lightly on the door but this time Selene did not open the door promptly and when she did open it, she was coldly stern. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“I had to. Where is he?”
There was only the pale light from the window. She could barely see Simon as he emerged from the door at the end of the room. “Amity! You gave us a scare! We thought you were the old Squire back again—What is it?”
“They’ve sent for Captain Boyce! The captain of the Southern Cross!”
Selene said, “We know that. McWhinn saw the officers leave and told me. Mr. Simon is to leave at once.”
“Does Captain Boyce know who you are, Simon?”
“Oh, yes. He drives a hard bargain. I had to bring considerable pressure—yes, he knows who I am.”
“Wait—that’s not all! Uncle Grappit says you killed Hester.”
“I killed Hester!”
The moonlight streamed so brightly through the window that Amity could see the startled jerk of Simon’s head. “Oh, I see. His idea is that Hester recognized me—”
“Yes, yes. Where are you going?”
“I’m staying here,” Simon said. “There’s a hiding place on the mountain—”
Selene interrupted. “You must go. I have done all that I can do. The men will return tomorrow. Put as many miles between Mallam Penn and yourself as you can, I can help you no more.”
Simon took Selene’s hand and kissed it. “You have been a very brave and wonderful friend to us. We both thank you.” He came to Amity. “If I know Captain Boyce, there’ll be some more bargaining. We may have more time than we think. Now go quickly when I open the door. But wait for me at the banyan tree.”
Enemy in the House Page 15
