Andrew Pepper - Kill-Devil and Water

She was carrying a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. She moved towards him quietly and carefully, like a cat, keeping the pistol aimed at his chest. She wore a cotton print dress and her dark hair was gathered up and held by a comb. It took him a few moments to realise how beautiful she was, with her smooth complexion, the colour of milky coffee, and her dark, staring eyes, like pools of liquid.

‘You’re Elizabeth, aren’t you?’

‘Don’t move a muscle, sir. Tell me your name, why you’ve broken into my house, and why I shouldn’t shoot you here and now.’ She spoke in a polished, elegant tone that put him in mind of Emily.

‘My name is Pyke. I was charged with the task of finding Mary Edgar’s murderer. I’ve just returned from Jamaica.’

It was the last piece of information which seemed to soften her resolve. She lowered the pistol and held up the lantern so she could see his face better. ‘Do you often break into other people’s houses?’

‘Only if they persistently refuse to answer their doors.’ Pyke waited. ‘I came here just before I sailed for the West Indies. I think I saw you in one of the upstairs rooms at the front of the house.’

‘Oh, that was you.’ She seemed both curious and unmoved by this revelation.

‘Can I ask why you’ve decided to turn yourself into a prisoner in your own house? And why you feel it’s necessary to possess that thing?’ He pointed at the pistol.

‘I thought my father might have sent you.’ She hesitated, wondering whether this explained it, and then added, ‘He thinks I’m in Jamaica.’

‘Why would he think that?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘And the pistol?’

She didn’t have an answer for that one.

‘You told him that you’d make the journey to break the news to your brother, Charles, about the deaths of his fiancee and his godfather.’

That seemed to amuse her. ‘I see you’ve spoken to my father.’

‘We had a conversation. It didn’t end well. To be honest, it didn’t start well, either. But you’re right, I did talk to him. And he’s under the impression you sailed for Jamaica at the beginning of May.’

‘And now you must be wondering what I’m doing here.’

‘The question had crossed my mind.’

‘In that case, I think you and I should retire to the living room. I sense we have a lot to talk about.’

He followed her into the house, up a flight of stairs and into a large, immaculately tidy room at the front of the building. Elizabeth put the lantern on the table in the middle of the room and sat down on one of the sofas. Pyke took the other one and they sat in silence for a moment. He could smell her musk, a raw, earthy smell that made him think of whisky and put him on guard at once.

‘Whatever must you think of me?’ She was perched on the edge of the sofa, shaking her head. ‘Hiding in my own home, not answering the door, lying to my father.’

Pyke tried not to notice the way she was looking at him. ‘Why did you offer to travel to Jamaica in the first place?’

‘Did Father tell you that?’ She laughed. ‘Even though we live in the same city, we only seem to communicate by post these days. I received a letter from him suggesting I go to the West Indies, to break some tragic news to my brother. I wrote back saying that I’d consider it but then I fell ill and I heard that a mutual friend was making the journey out there so I persuaded him to pay a visit to Charles in my place. I detest that journey more than you’ll ever know, and I fancy I saw the opportunity to stay here and hibernate from the world.’ She hesitated and looked across at him. ‘I know it makes me sound appallingly selfish and I can see you don’t believe one word I’ve said but I really was ill for a while; I barely moved from my bed for the months of June and July.’

Pyke tried to keep his stare opaque. She was right that he didn’t believe her. How likely was it that someone of her standing would shut herself away for the whole Season? And hadn’t Charles told him that Elizabeth and their father enjoyed a very close relationship?

Reading his mind, Elizabeth added, ‘Of course, I did have some help. I had to swear my oldest, most faithful servant to secrecy. Frankly, I don’t know what I would have done without her. She agreed to visit my father’s house in Belgravia on my behalf. That was how I first heard that William intended to sail for Jamaica…’

‘Alefounder.’

She touched the top of her lip with her tongue. ‘You know him?’

‘I’ve met him, and his wife. For obvious reasons, she didn’t exactly recommend you to me.’

‘Oh.’ Elizabeth reddened slightly. ‘No, I don’t imagine she would have.’

‘Is that all you’re going to say?’

‘It happened a long time ago. We were both young and stupid.’ She looked at him, clear eyed. ‘But I’m quite sure an affair that went stale years ago isn’t the reason you broke into my house.’

Pyke didn’t know what to say. After all, he couldn’t very well tell her the real reason for his visit.

‘Did you see my brother while you were in Jamaica? Is he terribly upset? I hate to think of him sad.’

‘He’s dead.’ He saw her face plummet and added, ‘I’m sorry. He died in a storm. Part of the roof at one end of the great house at Ginger Hill collapsed.’

She began to weep, quietly at first, but then louder, as she absorbed the news. Pyke didn’t take any joy from imparting this news, and when her crying turned into loud sobs, he went over to the sofa. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated as he knelt down in front of her, not sure how to comfort her or whether he should even try. But without thinking about it, she opened her arms and attached herself to him, wailing so her entire ribcage shook. He tasted the saltiness of her tears on his cheeks and lips and patted her silky hair. He didn’t want to admit, to himself or her, that grief made her even more attractive but it was true; her tears humanised her and each sob transformed her from a hardened vixen into someone much more real and complicated.

Finally she pushed him away and wiped her eyes on the vaguely flounced sleeve of her dress. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sniffing and trying to breathe at the same time.

Pyke withdrew to his sofa and looked around the tastefully furnished room. He noticed a drawing by Blake on the wall and wondered whether it was an original.

‘And William?’ she whispered, trying to compose herself.

‘He died, too.’

That elicited another gasp but no more tears. The street below was absolutely quiet.

‘Does my father know?’

‘I told him.’

‘Oh God.’ She shook her head and buried it in her hands. ‘Poor Father. If this doesn’t kill him, I don’t know what will. And if you’ve made the journey already, he’ll be expecting me home any day. What will I say to him? How will I explain I wasn’t there? Of course, he’ll assume I’ve already made the arrangements to have Charles’s body shipped back here. I’ll just have to tell him the truth, won’t I?’ This thought seemed to fill her with dread. ‘You won’t tell him about me just yet. Please, sir, I beg of you. I can tell you’re a kind man. Give me a few days, that’s all I ask.’

He contemplated this strange, disjointed speech; how little concern she’d displayed for her father’s grief and well-being and the emphasis she’d placed on her own self-inflicted plight.

‘What you choose to tell your father has nothing to do with me.’ The skin wrinkled at the edges of her eyes as she smiled. ‘Thank you.’ A strand of hair had fallen down over her face and she tucked it behind her ear.

‘I should leave you,’ Pyke said, looking at her; she seemed composed all of a sudden.