HF - 04 - Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

  Conversation, too, was encouraged in whispers. Mr Mortlake himself sat at a table in the corner of the room, and was liable to gaze with a forbidding frown at anyone who raised his or her voice so that it could be heard at even the next table. The Park Hotel's reputation had improved. Not only was it the place in town to stay—the number of the rooms having been doubled by the addition of an annexe—but it had also become a place to dine. And on a Saturday night it was invariably full, every table displaying a couple in evening gown and dark broadcloth sack coat, regardless of the heat, and laden with the best food and the best wine Kingston could provide, while in the corner an orchestra, consisting mainly of fiddles, scraped away to make each conversation even more private. Saturday night was an occasion to gladden any hotelier's heart, especially as on this most special night in the week Mr Mortlake felt entirely justified in doubling his prices.

  Yet he was not a happy man, this Saturday night. He occupied his usual place in the corner, and looked across the tables and his customers, watched his girls scurrying about their duties, and attempted to listen to as little of the poorly played Mozart as possible. And watched the couple on the far side of the room, aware that every other person in the room was doing the same, equally surreptitiously, but with equal interest.

  He had no reason to complain about them, certainly. The man might be as disfigured as a nightmare, but his clothes were good, and he had paid for his room, as he would pay for his dinner, in gold coin. And he was a quiet-spoken, reserved fellow. The woman was quite charming, her colouring a delight to the eye as the candlelight sparkled in her titian hair, her gown, in royal blue silk, the most expensive in the room. She wore no jewellery, not even a wedding ring, but that was her choice, surely her choice. No one could doubt she could afford it if she wished. Her children were noisy, but by eight o'clock on a Saturday night were already in bed.

  Looked at in a purely commercial sense, they were the most promising customers the Park Hotel had entertained for some time. But Mr Mortlake worried. Rumours were sweeping the town. They had certainly reached the ears of all of his other guests. As they had reached him. He did not know whether to believe them or not. He only knew, as he dipped his spoon into the soft green flesh of his avocado pear, the most delicate and digestible of vegetables, that his stomach seemed filled with a leaden sense of foreboding.

  What did they discuss? For the first time in his life he wished to overhear a customer's conversation. The man smiled, and the woman smiled in return. When she smiled she was beautiful. When he smiled he was the most terrible thing Mortlake had ever seen. But not, apparently, to his wife. And they seemed happy. And confident. Yet they could not be unaware of the rumours, having started them.

  He scraped the last of his avocado, raised his head with the spoon, and swallowed before the food actually reached his mouth. The lead in his stomach redoubled its weight, so that he felt quite incapable of rising.

  He looked through the opened doors of the dining salon into the hotel lobby, and thus could see anyone who entered the hotel from the street. As Mr and Mrs Anthony Hilton had just done. And as now one, and then another, of his guests, had also just noticed. Heads were beginning to turn, and the whisper of conversation was beginning to become a murmur, rising above even the scrape of the fiddle bows.

  Mr and Mrs Hilton had dined elsewhere, it seemed. Mrs Hilton wore a crimson gown beneath a white cape; her hair was up, and there were diamonds at her throat and hanging from her ears. Mr Hilton wore black. Nor were they alone. Two other couples entered the lobby behind them, both also planters, the Treslings of Orange Lodge, and the Evans of Green Acre. They also wore evening dress.

  Mortlake put down his spoon, hastily rose to his feet. 'Play,' he growled, as he passed the orchestra. 'Play, damn it.'

  The fiddles recommenced their wail. Mortlake reached the doorway. 'Mrs Hilton,' he said. 'What an honour. Mr Hilton, welcome, sir, welcome. Harvey. Harvey. Prepare a table for Mr Hilton and his guests. Why, Mrs Tresling, how good to see you. Mr Tresling, sir, you are looking well. Mrs Evans . . .'

  ‘I would see the monster,' Ellen Hilton said, speaking in her loudest voice.

  'Eh?' Mortlake realized to his horror that the fiddles had again stopped.

  Gwynneth Evans gave a high pitched giggle. 'We've come especially, Mortlake. To see the monster.'

  'The monster,' Grace Tresling cried. 'The monster.'

  Mortlake scrabbled for his handkerchief. Three of the leading planters' wives in all Jamaica, and every one drunk. Well, at least, two were drunk. He did not feel Ellen Hilton was anything less than deadly sober.

  'It will be entertainment,' she declared, and swept into the dining room, her husband at her elbow, her friends spreading out to form a flanking movement. The other diners stared at her. Mortlake dared not look across the room, but even from the corner of his eye he observed that the man with the disfigured face had risen.

  'My God.' Ellen Hilton pointed, her fan forming an extension of her fingers. 'It is a monster.'

  'A monster, a monster,' chanted Gwynneth Evans.

  'Gad,' John Tresling remarked. 'What a horrible looking Mow.'

  Ellen crossed the room, her skirts swinging, causing the other diners hastily to pull their chairs closer to their tables. One couple got up and left the room. Mortlake wished he could do the same.

  'Ellen,' Dick said. 'My God, Ellen Taggart. How simply splendid to see you. Why did not someone tell me you were still in Jamaica?'

  'My God,' Ellen said, coming to a halt before them. 'It is a monster.' She glanced at Cartarette. 'Are you the creature's minder?'

  Cartarette watched Dick.

  'Tony?' he asked. 'What farce is this? When did Ellen return?'

  'I'll trouble you to mind your tongue, fellow,' Tony said, also speaking very loudly. 'You are addressing Mistress Hilton, of Hilltop.'

  Dick gazed at Ellen for a moment, and then could not stop himself laughing. Once, he remembered, he had feared she would look like her mother, as time went by. He had been pessimistic. Her face had hardened, and become more gaunt, her teeth were prominent. But her wealth, her arrogance, shrouded her in splendour.

  'Mistress Hilton, of Hilltop? Well, well. So you achieved your ambition after all. And I must say, my dear Ellen, the position does suit you. What a pity you will have to give it up.'

  The forced humour had left her face. The pink spots he remembered so well were gathering in her cheeks. And now she swung her hand.

  But he caught her wrist without difficulty. The force of her blow carried her onwards, so that she half fell against him.

  'Mr Hilton,' she cried. 'The beast is assaulting me.'

  The hubbub became uproar. Women screamed, men scrambled to their feet with a scraping of chairs and a scattering of crystal and crockery. Mr Mortlake stood in the doorway and tore his hair.

  'Scoundrel,' Tony bawled, starting forward, supported by Evans and Tresling. 'Wretch, I'll have you whipped, by God.

  I'll. . .' He gave a gasp and fell to his hands and knees, Cartarette having allowed one of her feet to creep out from under the table and catch his ankle. ‘By God, madame,' he spluttered.

  Dick had by now completely turned Ellen round, so that her back was to him, while he retained his grip on her wrist.

  'I see you, at the least, have not changed at all, Ellen,' he said. 'How is your dear mother?'

  'You . . . you . . .' She wriggled and tried to kick backwards, and only succeeded in dislodging her hair, which fell forwards down her face, fluttering as she tried to breathe.

  'Why, Ellen,' Gwynneth Evans remarked. 'You are coming undone.'

  Tony held on to the table to pull himself to his feet. Cartarette prudently rose as well, backing against the wall.

  'John,' Tony bawled, waving at Trcsling, who had stopped and seemed uncertain what next to do. 'Arrest that man.'

  'Who, me?'

  'You are Chief Custo,' Tony bawled. 'Arrest him. Throw him in gaol.'

  'On what charg
e, would you say?'

  'Why, common assault. Look at the way he is manhandling my wife.'

  'You may have her back,' Dick said, giving Ellen a gentle push which sent her into the arms of her husband.

  'You must call him out,' Evans said. 'Oh, yes. He has insulted you, Tony.'

  Tony gazed into his brother's eyes. 'Call him out? Call that . . . that monstrosity out? I fight with gentlemen, Evans. Not renegade nigger lovers.'

  'And perhaps not with your brother,' Cartarette said, speaking for the first time.

  Tony glared at her, then turned back to his friend. By now the other diners had retreated to the far side of the room, where they clustered around Mortlake as if protecting him, or seeking his protection themselves.

  'Arrest him,' he said again. 'I'll prefer the charges. Fraud. Perjury. Oh, I'll prefer the charges.'

  Tresling took an uncertain step forward.

  Tf you come one step closer without a warrant,' Dick said, speaking quietly, 'I shall break your head.'

  'My word,' Tresling said. 'My word.'

  'Oh, Ellen,' Gwynneth whispered, loudly. 'You do look a mess.'

  'Am I to take it,' Dick remarked, 'that you intend to persist in denying that I am Richard Hilton, that you intend to attempt to hold on to your possession of Hilltop, illegally?'

  'Why, you . . .' Tony's face was dark with blood.

  Ellen finally gave up trying to blow her hair away and used her hands, scraping it to either side of her face. 'We intend to charge you with attempted fraud, with perjury, and with assault,' she said, also keeping her voice under control. 'We are going to see that you go to prison for the rest of your life. Mr Tresling will obtain a warrant in the morning.'

  Dick gave her a slight bow. 'And tomorrow morning, Mr Hilton, I shall file formal claim to Hilltop and Green Grove, as Richard Hilton. I look forward to seeing you ladies and gentlemen again, in court.'

  15

  The Witness

  'His Excellency will see you now, Mr ... ah, Hilton.' The secretary was a small, precise man, with a pince-nez. 'And . . . ah, Mistress Hilton, of course.'

  Dick rose, gave his arm to Cartarette. He had abandoned his uniform in favour of a severe black broadcloth coat over white buckskin breeches, to look the perfect picture of a planter. As Cartarette, in dark blue, was also most soberly dressed. There could be no questioning her utter support, her utter loyalty. As if he had ever questioned that.

  But it was amazing to consider that this was the first time he had ever set foot in Government House since leaving his card, twenty years before.

  The double doors were opened, the long sweep of the Governor's office stretched in front of them; at the rear french windows led to the garden, an expanse of lawn. It was a large, pleasant, cool room. But the floor needed polish as the walls needed paint.

  The Earl of Belmore stood behind his desk. He looked tired, and his heavy features had dissolved into jowls. He wore a black band on his arm, as the flag on the staff beyond his window drooped at half mast, as some of the shops on Harbour Street were draped in black crepe. But the news of the King's death had had little impact on Jamaica; George IV had not been the most popular of men. People hoped for more from his brother, who at least had a personal acquaintance with the West Indies.

  'Mr Hilton,' he said. 'Madame. You would prefer me to use Hilton?'

  'It is my name, your Excellency.'

  'Of course. Of course.' Belmore peered at Dick's features. 'Of course,' he said a third time. 'Please be seated. Lomas. Chairs.'

  The secretary had already placed two straight chairs before the desk; now he held one for Cartarette.

  The earl lowered himself, slowly. His hand flapped on the desk. 'A warrant, for your arrest.'

  'I understood there was to be one, your Excellency.'

  The earl sighed. His hand flapped on another piece of parchment. 'An affidavit, attested by Mr Reynolds, claiming that you are Richard Hilton, the rightful owner of Hilltop. The warrant alleges intent to defraud, conspiracy, assault. To prove your innocence of that charge, you will have to prove the validity of the affidavit.'

  'I intend to do so, your Excellency.'

  'Exactly. There have been representations. By the planters, to ignore the affidavit until the criminal charges have been proven.'

  Dick waited. He would not have been invited here had the Governor intended to take notice of the planters.

  'That of course, would be a grave injustice, if you are Richard Hilton,' Belmore said. 'So I will hold the warrant, for the time being. Or perhaps I should say, I am inclined to do so.' He sighed again, and looked at Cartarette. His features relaxed just a little before once more tightening. 'If I am persuaded.'

  'By my proof?'

  The Governor's head turned, slowly, back towards Dick. 'That in a moment. Are you familiar with events in Jamaica? Present events?'

  'I am rapidly becoming so.'

  'Matters are rushing to a crisis,' Belmore said. 'Between Great Britain and the planters here. Depending upon what happens in the general election in England, now King William is on the throne, the crisis may already be upon us. There is a spirit of rebellion abroad. And the planters' leader is Hilton of Hilltop.'

  'So I have heard.'

  'I never knew Richard Hilton,' Belmore said, half to himself. 'I have heard he became involved in scandal, and social ostracism, almost immediately upon his arrival in Jamaica. But I have also heard his reputation, as a man who looked after his people, brooked no unnecessary ill-treatment. I have heard that he dismissed his entire bookkeeping staff for brutality, within twenty-four hours of his arrival on Hilltop.'

  'That is incorrect, your Excellency. The bookkeeping staff left Hilltop because of that very scandal you have just mentioned.'

  The Governor gazed at him for some seconds. 'Do you know,' he said at last, 'I am beginning to believe in you, Mr Hilton.' He picked up the warrant, folded it into two halves, and then tore it across, dropping the pieces daintily into the wastepaper basket beside his desk. 'I am assuming you have not changed your point of view.'

  'I have not, your Excellency.'

  'Yet you will understand my personal belief in your ability to recall one or two things which Richard Hilton may be expected to remember will not win you your suit. When I sit in judgment, I must be entirely impartial. Have you any plan of offence, or defence for that matter?'

  'I have written to my mother,' Dick said.

  'A good beginning. She knows your handwriting, no doubt?'

  'Unfortunately, that too has changed,' Dick said. 'Slightly, but enough to remove the difference between the real thing and a skilful forgery. At least according to Mr Reynolds.'

  'Hm,' said the Governor. 'Hm.'

  ‘I must also tell you that this is the first letter I have written my mother for sixteen years.' 'Why?'

  'Well. . .' Dick bit his lip. 'I was very ill, following my shipwreck, and when I recovered my senses, it was to discover myself as you see me now. I doubt my own mother would have recognized me then. And I was myself upset by my appearance. I put off writing to my family, until I felt more familiar with my new self, but then I became enrolled as an officer in Christophe's army, and in the midst of that brutal war I could no longer bring myself to believe in Richard Hilton, or that my mother would wish to recognize me.'

  'Hm,' the Governor said again. And looked at Cartarette. 'But you know the truth, madame?'

  She flushed. 'I know nothing that will be of value to a court, your Excellency. I met my husband as Matthew Warner. But I believe in the truth of what he says, as I know the man.'

  'As you say, hardly proof,' the Governor mused. 'What do you hope of your mother, Mr Hilton?'

  'That she will write back and acknowledge me,' Dick said. 'I have fisted in my letter certain events which happened in my youth, which she should remember.'

  The Governor sighed. 'I should say that in the application for your arrest as a fraud, Mr Hilton, your . . . ah . . . brother dismisses your claim to
remember certain events on board the Green Knight twenty years ago, as being possibly told to you by the real Richard Hilton, his words, before his decease. The same stricture could be made with regard to boyhood incidents. Nonetheless, I agree that acknowledgement by Mistress Hilton of you as her son, would be of the greatest value to your case. Obviously we must put back the court hearing until such word is received. And just as obviously your opponents will wish it held as soon as possible. You may leave that in my charge. It is a civil case, and these matters always take a great deal of time. However, I do feel that you would be well to attempt to obtain some additional proof of your identity.'