Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

A new speaker had just taken to the stage and someone next to Pyke identified the man as Reverend William Knibb — ‘pastor of the Baptist mission in Falmouth, Jamaica’. Knibb was a small, unprepossessing man in his late thirties or early forties but he spoke in a loud, confident voice and soon had the rapt attention of his audience. He started his address by denouncing the popular views circulating in the colonial and metropolitan newspapers, put forward by the planters’ lobby, that emancipation had created a lazy and rebellious breed of negro. Knibb went on to suggest quite the opposite; that the free villages built on land purchased as a result of the generosity of congregations in Britain had fostered godliness, morality, domestic happiness and social order. ‘A place,’ he added, ‘of noble free peasantry where the man goes out to work and the woman, released from proper toil, tends to the home, and where there is a new Bible on every table.’

That got a thunderous ovation.

Given what Pyke had seen for himself in the mountains above Falmouth, it was hard to disagree with Knibb’s argument: that former slaves lived a better life freed from the shackles of slavery, and that owning their homes and tending their own plots fostered self-sufficiency and, in turn, contentment. But he also thought about John Harper’s damning indictment of the Baptists’ mission in Jamaica — that, in essence, it represented another form of colonialism since its goal was to turn former slaves into versions of themselves. To amuse himself, he wondered what Knibb and others would think if he took the floor and told them about what had really happened at Ginger Hill.

Still, Pyke held his tongue and waited patiently for the reason he’d come to the meeting in the first place. It came towards the end of Knibb’s address.

‘To show their respect for that esteemed man Joseph Sturge,’ Knibb said to a deafening cheer, ‘a town was set up that bore his honoured name. As we speak a new community named after my own birthplace, Kettering, is being settled and very soon a village called Malvern will be established.’ Knibb waited as Silas Malvern, perched on top of his high-chair, was carried onstage by two burly men. ‘It is my very great pleasure, and honour, to present to you Mr Silas Malvern. Mr Malvern is now a resident of London but until recently he owned one of the largest sugar plantations in the western part of Jamaica.’ A hushed silence fell over the room; this was the enemy right there in their midst. ‘My friends, please, I can perhaps guess what you’re thinking but before you rush to judgement, hear me out. Ill health prevents my brother, Mr Malvern, from addressing you in person but he wishes it to be known that he now regrets his role in the slave trade and by way of restitution he has committed to donating land to our mission for the purpose of establishing two new free villages in the parish of Trelawny, Jamaica.’

Knibb basked in the applause and Silas Malvern even managed a feeble smile from his high-chair. Knibb was preparing to bring his address to a climax. ‘In the name of three hundred thousand negroes in Jamaica, I return to you all the thanks which grateful hearts, happy wives and children can give.’

Many in the audience stood to applaud Knibb and Malvern and the applause continued as Malvern was carried from the stage.

Pyke found the old man sitting backstage on his high-chair, looking vaguely bemused. His porters had left him and Knibb was having what looked like an intense conversation with one of his supporters. Malvern seemed to have aged noticeably in the two and a half months since Pyke had last seen him. His shoulders were hunched, his arms like pieces of string and his eyes were sunken and rimmed by red circles.

‘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?’