‘You once owned two thousand acres of land and kept five hundred slaves. Do you really imagine a gift of a paltry hundred acres or so will buy you a place in heaven?’
Pyke could see that the old man had heard him well enough but Malvern whispered, ‘Come closer, boy, so I can see you. My eyesight isn’t so good these days.’
Pyke crouched down and looked into Malvern’s translucent eyes. ‘I came to your house to ask you questions about Mary Edgar.’
‘I remember you, sir. Reckless and rude you were. I don’t forget that kind of behaviour in a hurry.’ Up close, the old man’s breath stank of rancid meat.
‘I asked you, then, if you knew Mary Edgar or had intervened in the investigation to find her killer.’
‘I remember, sir, and the moment I threatened to call the police you slunk away like a whipped dog.’
Pyke allowed Malvern his brief moment of triumph. ‘I’ve just returned from Jamaica.’
That made Malvern sit up in his chair.
‘I had a revealing discussion with William Alefounder. He told me that you conspired with him to withhold information from the police about your family’s attachment to Mary Edgar and Lord Bedford. He also told me that you forced him to flee the country, fearing he might implicate you and your family in these two murders.’
‘What rot. Did he tell you all this?’ Malvern’s face momentarily lit up, as if he relished the opportunity to refute Pyke’s accusations. ‘I might have had a quiet chat with Alefounder, assured him of my innocence in the unfortunate affairs you’ve just referred to and counselled him about the wisdom of unnecessarily sullying my family’s good name. As for forcing him, the moment that I mentioned that my daughter, Elizabeth, had sailed for Jamaica to relay the tragic news to her brother, he jumped at the chance to go.’
Pyke studied his expression and concluded that Malvern hadn’t yet heard about his son or the destruction at Ginger Hill. But this didn’t prevent him from leaning forward, until he was almost on top of Malvern, and whispering in his ear, ‘I think you’re a liar and a hypocrite. Only time will tell whether you’re a murderer, too, but if you had anything to do with either death, I’ll make it my mission to ruin what little of your life is left.’
Malvern rose in his high-chair. ‘You had better get your facts straight, sir. I had nothing to do with Bedford’s death. Haven’t you heard? The valet was tried in a court of law according to due process and was found guilty by a jury of his peers. The evidence was heard and argued over and the man was found guilty. He killed Bedford and that’s all there is to it.’
Pyke contemplated what the old man had said. He’d already heard about the trial but didn’t have any faith in the verdict. ‘And Mary Edgar?’
‘That little harlot? She appeared one day, uninvited, at my home and announced that she was going to marry my son, Charles. Tried to rub my nose in it. I told her it was out of the question — she’s a negro, after all, and she used to serve Charles, for God’s sake. We came to an arrangement. I paid her, quite a handsome sum in fact, and arranged for her passage back to Jamaica. That’s the last I saw of her. The fact she ended up being murdered has nothing to do with me. Probably started spending some of the money I gave her and was killed for it.’ His cheeks glowed with righteous indignation.
Silence fell between them. ‘How, then, do you explain the manner of Mary Edgar’s death?’
This seemed to irritate Malvern further. ‘The manner of her death? What are you talking about?’
Pyke looked into Malvern’s eyes. ‘I’m talking about the fact that she had her eyeballs cut out with a sharp instrument.’
Malvern turned white and some of his bluster began to ebb away. He sank back into his chair and looked around for Knibb or his porters. ‘You’ll have to explain yourself better, sir.’
‘When I was in Jamaica,’ Pyke said, ‘I visited a small village in the middle of the island called Accompong. Do you know it?’
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘I had a long chat with a woman called Bertha. She used to work for you at the great house in Ginger Hill. Do you remember her?’
‘Bertha? What is this? A witch hunt? No, sir, I don’t recall a woman by that name. She may have worked for me but I’ve had hundreds of people in my employment and I don’t remember every single one.’
‘That’s interesting because she remembers you, and your brother Phillip. More than that, she remembers a night shortly after your wife died, when you sent the servants and your children away and…’
But Malvern wouldn’t listen to any more and gesticulated wildly to Knibb and the absent porters. Knibb broke off from his conversation and was joined at the high-chair by the two red-faced porters. ‘Take me home; this man is upsetting me. I didn’t seek out his company; he imposed himself on me and I want him removed from the building forthwith. Is that understood?’
Knibb stared at Pyke. ‘Will you do as the gentleman asks, sir?’
Pyke looked down at Malvern, who was trembling in his high-chair. ‘I’ve just returned from Jamaica. I’m afraid I have some bad news which I was trying to relay to Mr Malvern.’
Part of him wanted to stop, to turn around and leave without saying another word, but it was as if a squally wind had suddenly blown up behind him and was pushing him towards a destination irrespective of whether he wanted to go there or not.
‘What bad news?’ Knibb said, staring down at Malvern.
‘There was a terrible storm, the worst some people on the island had ever seen. It destroyed the great house at Ginger Hill and, I’m sorry to say, it killed his son Charles. A lawyer, Michael Pemberton, and a guest called William Alefounder also perished.’
Knibb stared at him, open mouthed. Pyke had already determined that neither he nor Malvern had heard about the deaths but correspondences from Jamaica, perhaps travelling on the same steamer Pyke had caught, would soon reach them.
Turning to leave, Knibb grabbed Pyke roughly by the arm. ‘Is it true, sir? Is his son really dead?’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
Knibb licked his lips, still trying to come to terms with what he’d just heard. ‘Just who are you, sir, and what business do you have here?’
‘I’ve already introduced myself to Malvern. I’ll let him explain everything to you.’
‘Just one minute, sir…’
But from the high-chair, they both heard Malvern mutter, ‘Charles? Charles can’t be dead. My daughter, Elizabeth, is bringing him home.’
‘You tell a father his son has died with all the compassion of delivering an order to the butcher. What kind of a man are you?’ Knibb stared into his face.
Pyke brushed Knibb’s hand from his arm. ‘Perhaps you should ask yourself whether you should be accepting gifts from a man who killed his own wife.’
Knibb stared aghast at Pyke’s departing figure while Malvern looked around him, like a boatman without oars.
Pyke took a few moments to assess the wreckage he’d caused, feeling no pride and little satisfaction in his handiwork. He had not only rubbed the man’s nose in his son’s death; he’d done so knowingly and with a degree of relish.
Outside, on the steps of the hall, he waited, exhausted. Perhaps he’d misread Silas Malvern and the situation. What the man had done years earlier, rightly or wrongly, had earned him the status of a monster in Pyke’s eyes, and he had drawn on these feelings to justify confronting him in such an abrupt manner. But he had now seen the man in the flesh and was beginning to have his doubts. What if the truth was not as he’d initially imagined? What if Malvern hadn’t killed his wife in the manner that Bertha had described? And what if the old man’s quest for forgiveness — to atone for his sins — was, in fact, well intended? More to the point, what if Malvern had told the truth? What if he was wholly innocent in the matter of the two murders?