Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

‘If you love this place as you claim to, why do you want to sell it and move on?’

‘Ah, the all-important question.’ Malvern’s expression was hidden by the darkness. ‘You like to get straight to the point, don’t you? It’s a skill my father always tells me I don’t possess.’ He appeared momentarily upset by this criticism. ‘To tell you the truth I’m engaged to be married. And since my beloved fiancee has declared that she wants to marry and live in London — in fact, she has already departed these shores to plan our wedding — I’m afraid my time here is coming to an end.’

‘Congratulations, sir.’ Pyke stared out across the valley. ‘You must love her very much, if you’re prepared to give up all of this.’

So Malvern didn’t yet know what had happened to his fiancee, which meant that his sister, Elizabeth, hadn’t arrived on the island. Briefly Pyke wondered where she was and how long it would be before she arrived and broke the news to Malvern.

Pyke had expected to dislike Charles Malvern but now, sitting in the man’s company, he found himself warming to his affable manner. As a result, his knowledge of what had taken place in London sat heavily on his conscience.

‘I shall be sorry to part with this place, of course, but if one truly loves another person, one must be willing to make a sacrifice.’

‘You mentioned just now that your fiancee has gone ahead to London to plan your nuptials?’ Pyke hesitated. ‘I know very little about that city but what little I do know tells me I’d want to be certain my fiancee was well looked after.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘But I’m sure you know this, sir, and will have made all the necessary arrangements to ensure her safety. A chaperone, perhaps?’ He was thinking about Arthur Sobers.

‘A chaperone?’ The colour had risen in Malvern’s cheeks. ‘I made arrangements, of course, but didn’t insist upon a chaperone. Do you think me neglectful?’

‘Of course not,’ Pyke said quickly. ‘I’m certain your fiancee is safe and looking forward to you joining her soon.’

‘Indeed so.’ Malvern stood up, apparently mollified, and stretched his legs. ‘I hope you don’t mind. There will be others joining us for dinner. Pemberton, whom you’ve already met, and his wife, Hermione, and Billy Dalling, who’s one of the bookkeepers here at Ginger Hill. It’ll be a merry little gathering, I hope, but if you’ll excuse me I need just a few minutes to prepare myself.’

As Pyke watched Malvern amble into the house, he tried to imagine how such a placid, unassuming man could satisfy a woman as beautiful as Mary Edgar. But he was rich and white and that was perhaps sufficient to explain the attraction. Earlier in the conversation, Malvern had tried to paint himself as one of a new breed of men forever altered by their exposure to the lush, tropical environment and by the rigours of establishing their dominance over it, but in actuality he came across as peculiarly English, belonging to a particular class of expats determined to recreate a version of ‘England’ in whichever environment they found themselves.

Dinner was a stiff, awkward affair in which Pemberton dominated the conversation, to the point where Pyke almost forgot that Malvern was in the room. In fact, Malvern said very little throughout the three courses; as did Dalling, the bookkeeper, who contented himself with a number of furtive glances across the table at Pemberton’s young wife, Hermione. It didn’t take much imagination to guess why Dalling might be interested in Hermione Pemberton; there were two very apparent and sizeable reasons staring back at him across the table and the lady didn’t appear to be shy about showing them off. For his part, Dalling was attractive in a swarthy, roguish way — certainly more so than Michael Pemberton — and Pyke could easily see how the two younger members of the dining party might fall into each other’s arms.

Sweating from having eaten too much of the roast pork and imbibed too much of the Madeira, Pemberton seemed oblivious to the sexual tension that sparked between Dalling and his young wife. Instead he spent the best part of the evening interrogating Pyke on the best way to make rum; whether to slake the cane juice with fresh lime in order to make it granulate. He also wanted to pick Pyke’s brain about the most appropriate way to treat former slaves and how to manage the rotation of cane fields. Hermione Pemberton asked a seemingly innocuous question about the parties and society events in Antigua; to which Pyke replied that he didn’t have time to socialise. That drew an approving nod from Pemberton, but across the table Dalling raised his eyebrows. ‘I’d always heard that Monty Squires was the last to leave any party.’ The bookkeeper waited for Pyke to look at him and then smiled. ‘But people get older and change their ways, don’t they?’

Pyke didn’t think anything of it until a little later in the meal when the subject turned to the role of the British army in keeping the peace, and Dalling, who, as far as Pyke could tell, had once served in the army himself, asked which regiment he’d belonged to. This time he studied the bookkeeper’s face more carefully. Dalling was younger than Pyke but with the same muscular build, olive skin and dark-coloured hair. But as far as Pyke was concerned that was where the similarities ended; Dalling’s nose was pointy and thin, his eyes were too far apart, his forehead protruded too far over his eyebrows and his eyes were almost translucent in colour, reminding Pyke of staring into a basin of water.

The first time he asked, Pyke ignored the question and asked Pemberton how he kept order on the estate — which produced a lengthy monologue about reward and punishment, with the emphasis on the latter rather than the former.

‘I’m quite sure I know a fellow in the Fourteenth Dragoons. That was your regiment, wasn’t it?’ Dalling ran his finger down a scar that cut his left cheek diagonally in two.

They were seated opposite one another, with Pemberton just to Dalling’s right, and this time he too took an interest in the bookkeeper’s question. Pyke’s expression remained composed but he could feel the perspiration dripping down his back. Dalling knew something; that much was beyond doubt.

‘Perhaps you do, sir, but I have a terrible memory for names and an even worse one for faces.’ He looked towards Pemberton and Malvern. ‘And I do find reminiscences about the old regiment terribly dull.’

After that, Hermione intervened and persuaded Dalling to join her for some air on the veranda, leaving Pyke, Pemberton and Malvern to smoke their cigars and drink the rest of the brandy. More tedious conversation about the ‘nigger problem’ ensued, dominated by Pemberton, and it was only after he’d risen from the table and announced he had to ‘attend to’ his wife that Pyke could steer the conversation back to the subject of Mary Edgar.

‘When we talked before dinner, I didn’t mean to imply that London was, by definition, a dangerous city. I hope I didn’t cause offence. I’m sure that living here carries just as many risks…’

Malvern’s hollow cheeks were flush from the Madeira and brandy he’d drunk at dinner. ‘Never a truer word spoken, sir,’ he muttered, before realising he’d perhaps said too much.

‘Do you mean to say it is dangerous here?’

‘Dangerous is maybe the wrong word. But please, sir, credit me with more intelligence than to believe you are entirely unaware of our current difficulties.’

‘I’ve heard, of course, that some of the workers are striking over rates of pay.’

Malvern nodded glumly. ‘It’s not all the blacks’ fault, of course. Some planters have been demanding extortionate rents, almost as much as they offer to pay in wages, and a few have even forced those that can’t or won’t pay from their homes and their provision grounds. It’s poisoned the whole atmosphere and driven the blacks up into the mountains, and also these damned free villages that missionaries like Knibb have been establishing with money donated by congregations in England. In his dotage, I’m told my father has corresponded with Knibb and is on good terms with him so I wouldn’t want to disparage the man, but he’s certainly given the blacks ideas above their station. Owning their own homes and gardens? The idea is absurd. Let them have their freedom, that’s what I say, but they need to work, too.’ He paused. ‘Most of our workforce is refusing to harvest the cane, and unless an agreement is reached in the next few days, the whole crop will be ruined. You know, I offered them almost two and a half shillings a day but they still turned me down, demanded three. Three shillings per day? I’d be ruined within a week.’