Read Kill-Devil and Water Online
Authors: Andrew Pepper
Tags: #Jamaica, #Murder, #England, #Sugar Plantations, #London (England), #Mystery & Detective, #Prostitutes, #Crimes Against, #Fiction, #General, #Investigation, #Historical, #London, #Crime
Kill-Devil and Water (27 page)
‘Do you think I’m abandoning my son?’ He stared into the empty fireplace, then turned to face her.
‘Why are you asking me?’ Her tone was gentle but measured.
‘Because I value your opinion.’
Her expression remained inscrutable. ‘But nothing I say will make you change your mind, will it?’
‘So you
do
think I’m abandoning Felix.’
do
think I’m abandoning Felix.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ She took a sip of wine and then put the glass down on the floor and retrieved what turned out to be a purse from the folds of her skirt. Putting it down in between them on the sofa, she added, ‘Here. Take it. Pay me back when you get the chance.’
Pyke looked down at the bulging purse and then up at Jo’s face. ‘You’d really do that for me?’
She shrugged, as though the offer wasn’t a generous one. ‘There’s seventy pounds. If you need it, it’s yours.’
‘I can’t.’ Pyke tried to swallow. ‘I couldn’t possibly take your money. But I’m touched more than I can say. That you’d even think about offering me your life savings is ...’ He couldn’t think how to finish the sentence.
‘Felix will be all right. Godfrey and I will keep a close eye on him. I
promise
.’ This time, when she looked at him, her eyes were glistening in the candlelight.
promise
.’ This time, when she looked at him, her eyes were glistening in the candlelight.
He picked up the cloth purse and held it out for her to take. As she did so, their fingers brushed against each other. It was just the faintest of touches. Pyke didn’t dare look into her face but noticed that she hadn’t withdrawn her hand. She let the purse fall back on to the sofa. Neither of them moved. Finally he raised his eyes to meet hers. He felt a pull in his stomach. Extending his fingertip, he touched one of her knuckles. She didn’t flinch.
‘Pyke ...’
Their fingers were coiled around one another; he could feel his heart thumping. ‘Yes?’
‘What’s happening?’
He edged towards her, close enough to smell her sandalwood musk, and see the line of her creamy smooth neck. ‘I don’t know. Do you?’
She shut her eyes and allowed him to touch her cheek. ‘No.’
Leaning towards her, he kissed her on the cheek and whispered, ‘I don’t want to lose you.’
‘You won’t.’ Jo hesitated. ‘You couldn’t.’
‘But it will complicate matters, won’t it?’
This time Jo put her hand around his neck and pulled him into an embrace. ‘From where I’m sitting,’ she murmured, ‘it’s already complicated.’
Pyke opened his mouth and allowed his tongue to touch hers. Jo let out a slight gasp. ‘Yes, how did it happen?’ But he was already too far gone to think about the wisdom of what he was doing.
PART II
*
Falmouth, Jamaica
JUNE 1840
Falmouth, Jamaica
JUNE 1840
FOURTEEN
The captain of the two-mast brig had to wait until early afternoon for the right wind in order to negotiate a path through the treacherous channel between the adjoining reefs, but finally, they docked safely at the wharf at Falmouth. It was hot by then, hotter even than it had been at midday, and the sky was cloudless, a brilliant glazed blue that merged at some indistinguishable point with the gin-clear, turquoise waters. Ever since they had first entered the tropics, about a week earlier, the days had become hotter and hotter, and now Pyke felt as if he’d stepped into a giant brick kiln. In the distance, the shoreline, covered with mangrove swamps, shimmered as though it were not really there.
The steamer had docked in Kingston late the night before, after less than three weeks at sea, and at dawn Pyke had transferred to a much smaller brig, which, making use of favourable trade winds, had managed to negotiate a path around Morant Point and along the north coast of the island to Falmouth. The scenery had been spectacular - waterfalls tumbling from lush, mountainous terrain on to white-sanded coves - but after the greyness of London it was almost too much for Pyke’s senses to take in. The sky was
too
blue, the sea
too
clear, and somehow none of it seemed real.
too
blue, the sea
too
clear, and somehow none of it seemed real.
There were a couple of tall ships anchored beyond the reef but neither was the
Island Queen
. Nor did Pyke expect to see that particular vessel for a week or two, for although the winds had been favourable for both vessels for much of the journey across the Atlantic, there had also been lulls where the wind had dropped to almost nothing. On those occasions, the steamer had turned to its giant paddle wheel and proceeded at pace, while the
Island Queen
would have been left idling, with nothing to do but wait for the wind to return. Alefounder would not set foot in Jamaica for at least another week, possibly two, which would give Pyke time to prepare for his arrival.
Island Queen
. Nor did Pyke expect to see that particular vessel for a week or two, for although the winds had been favourable for both vessels for much of the journey across the Atlantic, there had also been lulls where the wind had dropped to almost nothing. On those occasions, the steamer had turned to its giant paddle wheel and proceeded at pace, while the
Island Queen
would have been left idling, with nothing to do but wait for the wind to return. Alefounder would not set foot in Jamaica for at least another week, possibly two, which would give Pyke time to prepare for his arrival.
As they neared the shoreline, buildings came into view, a mixture of one- and two-storey dwellings built mostly from wood in the Georgian style with gingerbread fretwork, hip roofs and sash windows. Soaring above these was the occasional cabbage palm, a church tower in the far distance, and what appeared to be the town hall or courthouse, an impressive edifice with four Tuscan columns supporting an ornamental portico and pediment. ‘The most fashionable port in the New World,’ one of his travelling companions from Kingston had claimed. Pyke had told him that he’d reserve judgement until he saw the place for himself.
The whole town, it seemed, had come to meet the brig, for as soon as Pyke stepped off the gangplank, he was surrounded by a swarm of children fighting for the privilege of carrying his solitary suitcase. Pyke swatted them away and took a deep breath; if anything, it was hotter on land than it had been on the ship. There, at least, a stiff sea breeze had kept them cool but, here on terra firma, there was a barely a puff of wind.
Taking out his handkerchief, he mopped his brow and looked around the dusty wharf, where people and animals - mostly dogs, goats and fowl - were milling around on ground baked hard by the fierce sun. Workers, with their sleeves rolled up and floppy hats pulled down over their eyes to protect them from the glare of the sun, had already started to unload crates and sacks from the hold of the brig.
Someone had recommended a guest house on Seaboard Street, run by a jovial Scottish widow called Mrs McAlister, and having taken instructions, Pyke needed only a few minutes to find his way there. The street was dusty and deserted, and the guest house, a freshly painted, two-storey brick and timber building, looked directly out over the sea. Pyke put down his suitcase on the covered veranda and called out, ‘Hello?’ He’d taken off his coat, which was slung over his shoulder, and had unbuttoned some of his shirt. Pools of sweat were clearly visible under each armpit but he didn’t care. A plump, matronly woman who introduced herself as Gertrude McAlister greeted Pyke a few moments later and led him to a room on the upper floor with a veranda overlooking the road below and the ocean. A young woman with braided hair and glistening, blue-black skin, brought him a glass of fruit punch, which he drank down in one gulp.
About an hour later, after Pyke had bought a light cotton jacket and matching trousers, together with three cotton shirts and a straw hat, and had bathed in a copper tub in the deserted yard of the guest house, he decided to have a walk around the town, to the dismay of his host. She tried to dissuade him from venturing any farther afield than the veranda but wouldn’t give a reason, alluding only to ‘trouble’ that might take place later that evening.
When Pyke asked whether the town had a newspaper, the landlady’s chest puffed up and she told him it boasted three or perhaps four newspapers, if you counted the
Baptist Herald
, which she didn’t because it was published only monthly and she didn’t care for its tub-thumping agenda. Only marginally better, she added, was the
Falmouth Post
, which was still new and was agitating for further reform - ‘as if there hasn’t been enough upheaval already’, she said, shaking her head. No, if he wanted a newspaper that reflected the concerns of respectable folk he should consult either the
Cornwall Chronicle
or the
Cornwall Gazette
, both of which were solidly committed to defending the Crown. Pyke asked her where he could find the offices of the
Falmouth Post
. She told him, of course, but admonished him under her breath.
Baptist Herald
, which she didn’t because it was published only monthly and she didn’t care for its tub-thumping agenda. Only marginally better, she added, was the
Falmouth Post
, which was still new and was agitating for further reform - ‘as if there hasn’t been enough upheaval already’, she said, shaking her head. No, if he wanted a newspaper that reflected the concerns of respectable folk he should consult either the
Cornwall Chronicle
or the
Cornwall Gazette
, both of which were solidly committed to defending the Crown. Pyke asked her where he could find the offices of the
Falmouth Post
. She told him, of course, but admonished him under her breath.
The orange sun was low in the sky by the time Pyke ventured out, and the air felt a little cooler, though it was still balmy. He wandered along Seaboard Street as far as the courthouse and, from there, made his way up to the main square. The town, as far as he could tell, had been constructed according to a grid pattern, with streets running parallel and perpendicular to each other, making it easy to navigate. It was also surprisingly clean and the houses were, on the whole, respectable and well maintained. Most of the people he passed on Seaboard Street and on the main square were white, but as soon as he ventured farther afield, even by a block or two, the houses were smaller, and the faces in the doorways and windows were predominantly black. Though Pyke didn’t feel unsafe, he didn’t feel comfortable either. On the steamer from Southampton he’d been told over and over that Jamaica was an extension of the ‘mother country’, but in these hot, dusty streets, surrounded by alien faces and accosted by unfamiliar scents, he felt a long way from what he considered to be home.
*
The offices of the
Falmouth Post
occupied a timber and brick building on Market Street. Pyke found its proprietor, a tall, heavy-boned man with curly, black hair and light coffee-coloured skin, who introduced himself as John Harper. He was busy instructing his younger assistant in the craft of typesetting.
Falmouth Post
occupied a timber and brick building on Market Street. Pyke found its proprietor, a tall, heavy-boned man with curly, black hair and light coffee-coloured skin, who introduced himself as John Harper. He was busy instructing his younger assistant in the craft of typesetting.
‘Now, how can I help you, sir?’ Harper eyed Pyke cautiously as he pushed his wire-framed spectacles farther up his nose. They had moved into his private office.
‘Call me Pyke.’
‘How can I help you, Mr Pyke?’
‘Just Pyke will do fine.’
Harper nodded.
‘Do you know a man called Michael Pemberton? I’m told he’s a lawyer here in town.’
It was the name Pyke had been given by McQuillan, captain of the
Island Queen
; according to him, it was Pemberton who had arranged Mary Edgar’s passage and seen her off at the wharf. Pyke felt that a newspaper was as good a place as any to start asking questions about the town’s dignitaries; and a newspaperman committed to a reformist agenda might be more willing to talk candidly than one set on maintaining the status quo.
Island Queen
; according to him, it was Pemberton who had arranged Mary Edgar’s passage and seen her off at the wharf. Pyke felt that a newspaper was as good a place as any to start asking questions about the town’s dignitaries; and a newspaperman committed to a reformist agenda might be more willing to talk candidly than one set on maintaining the status quo.
Harper’s expression remained wary. ‘He’s an attorney here all right, but he spends most of his time up at Ginger Hill.’
‘Ginger Hill?’
‘It’s a plantation about two hours’ ride from here, up in the mountains.’ Harper spoke in a deep, clear voice that suggested only the faintest trace of an accent. ‘He’s the estate manager.’
‘But he has an office in the town?’
‘You can sometimes find him at his house on Rodney Street, and he also owns a small plot of land a few miles south of here, just outside Martha Brae.’ Harper studied him carefully, perhaps trying to work out Pyke’s interest in the attorney.
‘What kind of a man is he?’
‘That would depend on who you’re asking.’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘To a complete stranger, I’d say he was ambitious and hard working.’
That made Pyke smile. ‘I think I understand.’ He sat forward on his chair. ‘What about Mary Edgar?’
Harper’s expression remained unchanged. ‘What about her?’
‘You do know who I’m talking about, then.’
The big man’s eyes never once left Pyke’s face. ‘This is a small community, sir. People tend to know each other.’
‘But did ...
do
you know her in particular?’ Pyke waited, hoping Harper hadn’t noticed his slip.
do
you know her in particular?’ Pyke waited, hoping Harper hadn’t noticed his slip.
A short silence hung between them. ‘Perhaps I should ask why you’re so interested in these people.’
Pyke considered telling him the truth but didn’t yet know whether he could be trusted. ‘If I said I was an old friend, would you believe me?’
‘No, but I’m curious none the less. You do know Mary Edgar sailed for London about three months ago?’
‘And Pemberton arranged her passage.’
The newspaperman frowned. ‘Pemberton?’
‘I’m told he saw her off at the wharf.’
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