‘How would you describe her, for a start?’
‘Didn’t really know her. Black folk aren’t often asked to dine at the great house.’
‘Mary was.’
Webb licked his lips. ‘That was different.’
‘Different or not, I can’t imagine Charles’s family welcoming her with open arms.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ Harper said.
‘But you don’t know what Elizabeth thought about her brother marrying Mary?’ Pyke said to Webb.
‘Don’t imagine she cared for the idea one little bit.’ He wiped perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Why? You think she killed Mary?’
‘It’s possible she might have been involved.’ Pyke paused. ‘I heard that Charles and his sister used to be — how should I put it? — too close.’
Harper glanced across at Webb. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘Didn’t you hear the rumour, too?’ Pyke said, addressing Webb.
But Webb seemed unmoved. ‘Fucking about the only thing the white man is good at.’
Harper grinned and slapped Pyke on the shoulder. Pressing the rum bottle into his hand, he said, ‘Have a drink and try not to look so serious. I’ll be honest with you. Like Isaac said, you should go home. Mary’s dead and she ain’t coming back. This is our struggle.’
That seemed to remind Harper of something because his expression suddenly became serious. ‘When we first met, you asked me to tell you when the Island Queen arrived.’
‘And has it?’
The big man rubbed his chin, as though contemplating some deep thought. ‘ That’s why you came, isn’t it? There’s someone on board who knows something about Mary’s murder.’
A moment passed between them. Pyke’s jaw clenched. ‘Alefounder fled London on the Island Queen.’
Harper nodded, as if he’d been expecting it. ‘And you think he might have killed Mary?’
Pyke shrugged. ‘When did the ship dock?’ he asked eventually.
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Which means Alefounder could be on his way to Ginger Hill right now.’
Harper looked at him. ‘It’s possible.’
Pyke nodded. ‘That’s why I’ve got to go back there.’
‘Go back? Are you out of your mind?’ Harper shook his head. ‘You weren’t too wrong when you said half the island was out looking for you. On the ride up here, we were stopped by three different sets of soldiers.’
‘But you know this land better than anyone,’ Pyke said to Webb. ‘You could show me the way back to Ginger Hill and I’ll wager you wouldn’t even need a road or a track.’
Webb looked at him for a while, trying to make sense of what he’d just been asked to do. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ He waited for Pyke to nod and then continued, ‘Why are you really here?’
‘You mean, have I really come all this way to find out who killed Mary?’
‘If you like.’
‘Strange as it may sound, the answer would be yes.’
Webb rubbed his eyes and sighed. ‘And now you want me to take you back to Ginger Hill and risk getting killed?’
‘Yes.’
Webb looked over at Harper and shook his head. ‘Man either too brave or too stupid or both.’
‘But you’ll take me there, won’t you?’
This time it was Harper who spoke. ‘You’ll have to wait until nightfall. Even if you cut across the cane fields, you might run into some men with dogs.’ He stood up, stretched his legs, and stared at the darkening sky. ‘In Falmouth they were talking about a storm heading this way. Maybe the best idea would be to stay here for a couple of days, lie low, wait for it to pass.’
‘I don’t have a couple of days.’
‘Then you should get plenty of rest. It’s a long way from here to Ginger Hill.’
EIGHTEEN
By the middle of the morning the air had grown cool and moist and the wind, coming from the north, smelled of sea salt; it blew through the village, tearing straw thatches from the roofs of houses and stripping leaves from their branches. It started to rain shortly afterwards and by lunchtime the conditions had deteriorated so much that Webb reckoned it would be safe to start their journey. No one, he assured Pyke, would be looking for them in this weather. For his part, Pyke felt inclined to agree and was just as keen as Webb to get going as soon as possible, although he did wonder about Webb’s volte-face; why it was Webb rather than him who was suddenly forcing the timetable. They left after lunch, armed with rum, fruit and water, and wearing hats and boots borrowed or procured by Harper from the villagers. The track down to the cane fields was already muddy and treacherous and the wind, if anything, had picked up, so much so that by the time they made it down to the plain, some of the cane plants had been flattened. The rain continued to fall and the wind blowing through the cane made it impossible to hear what the other was saying, so they walked in silence, Webb leading the way, Pyke following.
For a while in the middle of the afternoon the wind dropped and the rain eased. They stopped for a rest under a leafy mango tree, Webb drinking from the rum bottle before passing it to Pyke.
‘You smell the salt?’ he said, looking up at the sky.
Pyke nodded. ‘Is that a bad sign?’ He swallowed some of the rum and shuddered.
‘This far up into the mountains it is.’
Pyke handed the bottle back to him and waited. ‘Can I ask you a question about what we discussed earlier?’
Webb took another swig of the rum but didn’t answer.
‘Why do I get the impression you don’t want to talk to me about Mary?’
‘I answered your questions.’
Pyke stared at him. ‘If I said the words “kill-devil” to you, what would they mean?’
Webb stiffened slightly. ‘It’s what folk sometimes call rum.’
‘The captain of the ship that took Mary and Arthur Sobers to London overheard them talking, reckoned it was some kind of code.’
‘A code?’ Webb offered him a cool stare. ‘For what?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you.’
Webb continued to look at him, perhaps about to speak, but something changed his mind and he replaced the bottle in his knapsack and told Pyke they needed to get going.
The rain was light and patchy for the rest of the afternoon and they trudged in silence through field after field of mature cane plants. As Harper had predicted, they didn’t see anyone, and after six hours of hard walking, they crossed the Martha Brae river by the stone bridge — just downhill from the great house. It was already dark and the rain had become more persistent. The wind was beginning to howl now, and the palm trees on the track up to the great house were bent over, their fronds sometimes almost touching the ground.
‘I’m afraid this is as far as I go,’ Webb said, pointing at the deserted boiling house. ‘I’ll wait for you in there until morning. If you don’t come by then, I’ll take it you no longer need my help.’
They parted without shaking hands, but as Pyke continued up the track he heard Webb call out, ‘Good luck,’ and then, ‘You’ll need it.’
Pyke had read about tropical storms in books but he had never been caught up in one, nor had he ever expected to be. Still, he had to question his sanity for being outside and indeed for coming back to a place where every sentient male within a ten-mile radius doubtless wanted to hang him from the nearest tree. As he steeled himself against the blasts of wind, and from the rain which was now falling horizontally, he heard a tree trunk snap and looked behind him just in time to see a giant logwood topple on to the track where he’d just been. Farther up the track, a plank of wood whistled past his ear. A rumble of thunder and a sudden crack of lightning followed, suddenly illuminating the great house at the top of the hill. It looked like a mast-less vessel riding on the top of the tallest of waves.
Rather than approach the great house from the main track and risk being spotted, Pyke circumnavigated the hill and climbed up from the other side, so that he finally emerged near the stone counting house. There, he found the hole he’d dug a few days earlier, and the shovel and pickaxe next to it, and carried them up to the counting house. The rain now tasted of salt, as though whole swathes of the sea had been sucked up by the wind and dumped on the mountains. Still, he was a long way past caring about getting wet — he was already soaked through. The wind was now uprooting mature coffee and wild fig trees as though they were made of papier mache, tossing tree branches on to the lawn in front of him as though they weren’t any heavier than toothpicks.