Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

‘All I’m saying is that there are always reasons why characters are drawn in the ways they are. They’re there to teach us, scare us, entertain us. It’s not the same as what you saw just now at the Rat’s Castle; there, people do what they have to in order to live. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?’

Felix looked through the glass at the darkened street but didn’t say anything. They rode in silence for a few minutes, the clatter of wheels on cobblestones filling the carriage.

‘I have to go away for a while,’ Pyke said quietly.

He waited for Felix to react but the boy just sat there, then nodded. ‘I heard you talking with Godfrey.’

‘And what do you think?’

Felix looked up at him. There were tears in his eyes, but he was trying not to cry. ‘How long will you be gone?’

‘Two months, maybe a little longer.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Jamaica.’

‘Why?’

‘I need to find the man who killed that young woman.’

Felix turned for a moment and looked out of the window in silence. ‘I won’t ever steal again, unless I have to.’

Pyke reached out and ruffled Felix’s hair, the way he used to do when he was much younger.

*

Later, after Pyke had put Felix to bed, he joined Jo in the front room. His uncle had already turned in for the night. Collecting a half-full bottle of claret from the kitchen, he poured out two glasses. Jo took one reluctantly. They sat down on either end of the sofa.

‘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.’

‘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.

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.

Falmouth, Jamaica

JUNE 1840

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.

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.

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.