Before Pyke could answer, he had headed off across the polished floor in the direction of his bedroom, leaving Pyke to ponder the reasons for his outburst. Later, over the sound of a stiffening breeze in the trees and the shutters rattling in their fastenings, Pyke thought he could hear Malvern sobbing, but when he tried to investigate, Josephine appeared suddenly from her quarters carrying a lantern. She didn’t say anything and remained there until Pyke turned around and headed back to his bedroom.
He removed his shirt and took off his boots, hanging the former on a hook attached to the back of the door.
In his undergarments, he went across to the bed and pulled back the fresh white sheet.
A hot spike of bile licked the back of his throat.
It wasn’t a human eyeball. From its size, it had once belonged to a goat or a sheep and it lay there like a hard-boiled egg, just the faintest trace of crimson visible on the otherwise spotless sheet.
That night the rain was like nothing Pyke had ever experienced before; bullets of water hammering into the shutters and pounding the roof until he felt certain that either the roof would fall in or the shutters be ripped from their hinges. The storm lasted for two or three hours, and during this time Pyke drifted in and out of sleep, moths throwing themselves at the glass of the whale-oil lamp next to his bed. When he woke up, his back was drenched in sweat and his throat was dry and scratchy. The rain had stopped and the air around him felt damp and cool. He lay there, disoriented, wallowing in the strangeness, and when he woke again, bright sunlight was flooding in through the shutters. It was at such times that he missed Emily the most; when his longing for her — her company and her presence next to him — caused him a physical ache. He stood up, and tried to put the thought of her lying bleeding in his arms out of his head.
From his small balcony there was little evidence of the previous night’s deluge; just a few pools of water glistening in the red clay. The sky was a piercing blue, the air smelled of jasmine and cinnamon, and the still-wet foliage of the nearby orange and mango trees sparkled with renewed vigour. Pyke dressed and went downstairs, where a pot of coffee and a plate of fresh fruit and pastries awaited him in the dining room. He ate his breakfast and drank the coffee, which was delicious and strong, then asked one of the servants where he could find Malvern, Pemberton or even Dalling. Malvern, he was told, was unavailable, while Pemberton and Dalling were attending to matters on the estate. He finished his coffee and wandered across to the counting house and, from there, to a potting shed on the other side of the overgrown lawn. He found a shovel and a pick and entered the tropical forest via a gate and a set of stone steps at one end of the lawn.
The spot he was looking for — a small clearing no more than five or six hundred yards downhill from the counting house — took him ten minutes to locate. Setting the shovel and pick down on the ground, he removed his shirt and draped it over a tree branch. It was cool and shady under the foliage of the cotton, coffee and logwood trees and in the distance he could hear the river, with the croaking of bullfrogs and buzzing of mosquitoes. Looking around, to make sure he was alone, Pyke took the pick and set to work.
It took him an hour and a half to dig a hole big enough for Dalling’s body, and by the time he’d finished, a pile of red earth thick with ants sat next to him. Leaving the shovel and pick next to the hole, Pyke ventured farther into the forest, towards the river, and found a bathing pool under the shade of a large mango tree. He left his clothes on a rock and dived into the clear, cold water. Coming up for air, he looked up into the trees, and his thoughts turned to Mary Edgar; whether she, too, had swum in this spot and whether there was anyone else on the island, apart from Charles Malvern, who would mourn her death.
Lunchtime had been and gone by the time Pyke returned to the great house, but as far as he could tell it was still deserted. In fact, none of the servants appeared when he called, and he decided to take the opportunity to give the rooms a quick search. He started in Malvern’s study but didn’t find anything of interest in either his davenport or the chest of drawers in the corner of the room. From there, after he’d made quite certain it was unoccupied, Pyke moved to Malvern’s bedroom, where he found a bundle of letters in the oak davenport: none, as far as he could to tell, from Elizabeth or Silas. There was one letter that took his interest, however. The seal, embossed in red wax, had been broken, and Pyke was about to read its contents when he heard footsteps, and so he slipped the letter and envelope into his pocket.
Outside in the passage, Josephine must have seen him come from Malvern’s bedroom because she stood there, arms folded, perhaps trying to decide what to do.
She was a slight person, less than five feet tall, and shuffled rather than walked, but her physical presence was sufficient to make Pyke jump.
‘What you doing in Massa’s room?’
‘I went in there by accident.’ He tried to smile. ‘A house this size, it’s easy to lose one’s bearings.’
The old woman wetted her lips with her small, pink tongue. ‘You going to buy Ginger Hill, be the new massa?’
‘I might.’ Pyke looked into her small, shrivelled eyes. ‘I’m sure you could tell me quite a bit about this place.’
‘I seen folk come and go.’
‘Like Silas’s wife, Bonella?’
Her irises, green and rimmed with circles of black, contracted slightly. ‘I see you talked to folk already.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Curious sort, you. Too much curiosity can be a dangerous thing.’
‘I heard she fell down the stairs.’ Pyke waited. ‘Or was she pushed?’
‘Ask a lot of questions, too.’
‘You’d probably know all about Charles and Elizabeth when they were younger, wouldn’t you?’
They stood there for a short while, contemplating each other’s expressions. This time, she didn’t answer him.
‘Last night I found a sheep’s eyeball in my bed. Was that your handiwork?’
Her face remained unreadable. ‘Why you think that?’
‘Tell me what it’s supposed to mean, then.’
‘Finding an eyeball?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe someone trying to conjure a bad spirit, scare you a little.’
‘But why an eyeball? Why not a cat’s paw or a rabbit’s foot?’
‘Paw, foot, eyeball. All you doing is offering a sacrifice.’
Pyke allowed a short silence to settle between them. ‘What if the eyeball belonged to a human?’
Josephine looked at him and then gathered up her linen skirt. ‘I should go.’
‘One more question,’ Pyke said, before she could get away from him. ‘Why is Charles frightened of you?’
‘Frightened of me?’ She seemed amused by this idea. ‘That boy jump at his own shadow.’
Later, in his bedroom, Pyke put on a fresh linen shirt, found the bottle of rum that Harper had given him, uncorked it and took a long swig. The fiery liquid scalded the sides of his throat. He poured some into his cupped palm and splashed it over his face and neck, to try to ward off the mosquitoes. From his window, which faced westwards over fields of sugar cane towards the conical-shaped mountains in the distance, he watched the bulbous orange sun sink down over the horizon. As the breeze picked up once more, Pyke listened to the great house creak on its foundations and thought about the secrets it held, the things that had taken place within its walls.
Somewhere out there, William Dalling would be preparing himself, too.
Pyke’s linen coat was hanging from a hook on the back of the door and, when he put it on, he found his sheath knife in one of the pockets and the letter he’d taken from Malvern’s bedroom in the other.
Taking the envelope to the lantern next to his bed, he turned it over and inspected the wax seal. It looked genuine enough. Pyke removed the letter and scanned the contents. The writing itself was full of old-fashioned loops and flourishes. It was short, barely even a page, and its author apparently wanted to reassure Malvern that all the arrangements — whatever these were — had been made. It was signed ‘Uncle William’. Pyke looked at the top of the letter where the address had been transcribed: Norfolk Street, London.