Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

‘The door’s open. Let yourself in; I’ll meet you in the hallway.’ Pemberton disappeared from view and Pyke did as he’d been instructed. The room was cool, compared to the street, and as Pyke watched the attorney descend the stairs, one at a time, he tried to take the man’s measure.

Despite his size, Pemberton moved with easy grace and possessed an air of self-confidence that suggested he was used to getting his own way. He carried himself with a quiet authority but Pyke didn’t doubt he’d know how to use his fists, if the occasion presented itself. In his study, Pemberton called to his servant to bring them some fruit punch and invited Pyke to sit on one of the armchairs. He wore his shirt open at the collar, with a silk neckerchief under it. As they waited for the punch to arrive, he said he was sure they could find a way of addressing their dilemma.

‘And what dilemma is that?’ Pyke asked.

‘You’re not expected at Ginger Hill for at least another week.’

‘I came here first as a courtesy but surely I don’t need your permission to visit an estate that I may or may not make an offer on.’

‘But if you’re not expected…’

Pyke cut him off. ‘Let me be blunt. The fact that I’m not expected is exactly what I want. Then, I can see things as they really are, not some charade put on for my benefit. If I’m to pay, let’s say, ten thousand for Ginger Hill, then I want to see it, warts and all.’

Pemberton shuffled uneasily in his chair. He removed a neckerchief and went to mop his forehead. ‘I quite understand, but if I could prevail upon your patience to stay in Falmouth for another night…’

‘Out of the question. I’ve arranged the use of a horse and if you’ll give me instructions, I plan to set off as soon as I’m finished here.’

‘But Mr Squires…’

Pyke held up his hand. ‘Call me Monty. And I’m afraid you’ll find my mind’s made up on this one.’

‘But Monty…’

‘Of course, there are others in town who’ll be able to direct me to Ginger Hill, so strictly speaking, I don’t need to be here.’

The servant came in carrying a tray with two tall glasses filled with a red-coloured fruit punch.

‘Surely decorum will stop you from calling on the great house at Ginger Hill entirely unannounced…’

Pyke stood up, took one of the glasses and drank about half. ‘Delicious. Quite delicious.’ He turned to Pemberton and smiled. ‘When it comes to my money, sir, there is no such thing as decorum.’

As he let himself out of the front door, he heard Pemberton’s voice. ‘But it’s not safe, sir, to ride unaccompanied…’

This much had struck Pyke as probably correct, given what had happened to him the night before in front of the courthouse, but he wasn’t about to let Pemberton talk him around. Still, as soon as he’d ridden out of town on a track baked hard by the sun, heading due south for the village of Martha Brae, Pyke had wondered about the wisdom of what he was doing. As he quickly realised, the town belonged to the whites but the countryside — or at least those areas not part of the sugar plantations that extended from the coastal plains up into the mountains — belonged to the former slaves. Those men he rode past on the track acknowledged him with a curt nod or ignored him. Harper had assured Pyke he would probably be safe — probably — and as it turned out, he was right; no one paid him much attention.

The horse was an elderly spotted gelding, and perhaps because of the afternoon heat, it needed plenty of encouragement to remain at a sedate canter. The flint track flattened out after a while, with fields of tall, ripe sugar cane appearing on either side which swayed gently in the breeze. Farther along, they began another ascent, but this time the track was shaded by towering guano and cotton trees and logwoods whose recently discarded blossoms had been trampled into the clay verges. The occasional cloud floated across an otherwise limitless blue sky, and apart from the gentle clip-clop of hooves and the rustling of cane leaves, all was quiet. Up above, what looked like a vulture circled effortlessly in the sky, but elsewhere the heat of the sun had killed all activity.

He barely passed a soul for the first hour and a half of the ride, but as they neared what he guessed was the boundary of the Ginger Hill estate, more faces appeared at the sides of the track; black faces, curious but unsmiling. Pyke wondered whether these were the workers who, under Webb’s instruction, were refusing to harvest the ripe cane and whether Charles Malvern had, in any way, been responsible for the scene Pyke had witnessed in front of the courthouse. No one spoke a word to him, in anger or otherwise, and in light of what had happened to Webb, he understood their reticence. Labourers in England were kept under the cosh, too, but never in such an explicit manner. A few years earlier, Pyke had witnessed at first hand the working conditions experienced by the navvies building the railways, but hard as they were, those men had volunteered to do their work and were paid, albeit poorly. Here, emancipation was just a word, as Harper had said, and nothing seemed to have changed in the years since slavery had been outlawed. Seen in this light, it was hard not to think of the island as a vast prison camp dedicated to earning its proprietors as much money as possible, with no thought spared for the lives ruined in the process.

About a mile farther along the track a stone gate guarded another, smaller path up to the Ginger Hill great house, which sat atop a steep hillock and commanded views of the surrounding terrain. It took Pyke ten minutes to ride up to it. It was a sprawling colonial-style edifice built out of stone and wood, with two wings attached to the main building. The house looked more impressive from a distance than it did close up, for although it was still an imposing building, it had fallen into a state of disrepair. Roof slates hadn’t been replaced; timber window frames were rotting; vines had been allowed to crawl unchecked up walls; grass sprouted through flagstones in the courtyard and the front lawn was choked with weeds.

Pyke tied his gelding to a cotton tree and took the steps at the front of the great house two at a time. A servant had heard him approach and had opened the front door. His incurious face registered the name ‘Montgomery Squires’ without interest. Pyke waited in the central hall, which ran along the entire length of the building, and admired the dark wooden floor, which had been polished so vigorously he could see his reflection in it.

Malvern greeted him red faced and out of breath. His thinning blond hair was matted to his pale scalp.

‘Squires?’ Malvern took his hand and shook it warmly, though the handshake itself was limp, like pressing a dead fish.

‘Call me Monty.’

‘Charles.’ Malvern let his hand go. He was flustered. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting you for another week.’

‘I know. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion. I left a little earlier than expected and my ship made better time than I could have hoped. I called in to see your attorney and he assured me you wouldn’t mind me calling on you unannounced.’ Pyke led the way down the hall, even though he didn’t know where he was going. It was important to establish his mastery from the start. The hall led to a large reception room furnished with sofas, chairs, an ottoman, stools, a mahogany bookcase and a matching side cabinet displaying fine china.

‘A bit scruffy but it’ll do, I suppose,’ he said, apparently to himself but loud enough so that Malvern could hear.

‘You’ll stay for a few nights, of course,’ Malvern said, trying to come to terms with this change of plan. ‘I’ll send someone down to Falmouth to pick up your luggage.’