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.
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.
‘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.
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.
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.’
‘Pemberton might have made the arrangements but Charles Malvern would have been there to see her off.’
Pyke tried not to show too much interest but felt his skin prickle with excitement. ‘So Charles Malvern and Mary Edgar are attached?’
‘Engaged to be married, as far as I know,’ Harper said.
‘And Charles is Silas’s son?’
‘That’s right.’
Briefly he assimilated this new piece of information. He wondered whether it explained why Elizabeth Malvern had sent Crane and his men to try to frighten Sobers and Mary Edgar into fleeing the city. He certainly couldn’t see Silas Malvern welcoming Mary into his family with open arms. But it raised other questions, too. If Mary had been engaged to Charles Malvern, why had she taken a room in a lodging house on the Ratcliff Highway? And why had she been dallying with Alefounder?
‘I was told Silas’s daughter, Elizabeth Malvern, had sailed for this part of the world.’ By Pyke’s calculations, she would have left two or possibly three weeks before him, and if she’d come by steamer, she should have been there for a number of weeks already.
‘Not as far as I’m aware.’ Harper’s elbows were resting on the desk. He was trying to appear relaxed but Pyke could see the tension in his shoulders.
‘Are you certain about that?’
‘You want her, ask for her up at Ginger Hill.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Pyke said, still trying to work out whether he liked the big newspaperman. ‘It can’t have been easy for people to take, a mulatto girl being engaged to a rich white planter.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I’m guessing his family have objections, too. The father, for example. You knew him when he was here?’