The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 25

She was not surprised that Grace had assumed that her son’s death had been no accident. The garden boy who’d found the body had said that the hothouse door had been blocked from the outside.

  But surely, looked at dispassionately, it must have been an accident. No-one would do such a thing to a child. Somehow a stone must have become dislodged, and rolled in front of the door.

  But it was no use telling his mother that. She wanted blood, and who could blame her? If it were Sophie, Madeleine would want it too.

  Grace gazed at her with swollen, exhausted eyes. ‘Why you not frighten too, ma’am?’

  ‘I’ve seen death before.’

  For a moment the black woman held her gaze. Then she turned back to the body on the bed. The dismissal was clear.

  But as Madeleine went down the steps and out into the yard, Grace called after her. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Evie ran off when she heard the news. If you see her, would you please tell her to come to I?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Madeleine.

  She couldn’t find Evie in the yard, or by the aqueduct, or anywhere in the ruins. Tired of searching, she rested for a moment on a block of cut-stone.

  Away from Grace’s chickens and hogs, the old village seemed even more mysteriously hushed. Only the eerie, infrequent creak of the bamboo sounded in the shadows, like a ship setting out into the dark.

  It was a cool night, and damp air wafted off the stagnant aqueduct. Madeleine shivered. Above her head, an old ackee tree spread its branches. She could just make out the bright coral fruit, bleached dark grey in the darkness. According to Sophie they were poisonous until they split to reveal the glossy black seeds. ‘Jamaica poisoning’, they called it. It seemed that everywhere she looked she encountered death.

  My God, she thought, what if it had been Sophie?

  Jocelyn had told her that from the condition of the body, the boy must have died some time that morning. ‘It was probably thirst that killed him,’ he had said, shaking his head. No wonder Grace had smashed everything she owned.

  ‘I told you I heard crying,’ Clemency had said to Madeleine in her matter-of-fact way when she’d heard the news. Then she’d taken Sophie into her bed and given her the cat to hold, and reached for her excerpt book and a jar of ginger bonbons. I told you I heard crying.

  Hoofbeats on the path brought Madeleine back to the present. She turned to see Cameron reining in his mount at the entrance to Grace’s yard. The horse’s breath steamed as it threw down its head to cough.

  She wondered what to do. She hadn’t planned to be here when he arrived.

  The next moment she knew that was a lie. It was true that she had sent for him for Grace’s sake, but she needn’t have brought the basket down herself. That could have waited till morning, when one of Grace’s cousins from the Cockpits could have taken it.

  You’re despicable, she told herself. Despicable. She got to her feet and started forward to meet him.

  He was tethering his horse to the bamboo fence when she approached. When he saw her he took off his hat, and wiped his forehead on his wrist, and waited for her. It was too dark to see his expression. ‘Doshey told me what happened,’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand. He said the boy was shut in.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We don’t know. Some kind of accident. A stone rolled in front of the door.’

  He put his hands on his hips and scanned the yard, as if the darkness might provide an answer. Then he glanced down at her. ‘You look cold.’

  ‘I’m all right. I came out to find Evie.’

  ‘I’ll find her. You’d better go back up to the house.’

  She didn’t move. She said, ‘He was six years old.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He died within a stone’s throw of the house. Clemency heard him crying, but I didn’t believe her. I told her to be quiet, in case Grace heard and became upset.’

  He put out his hand to touch her shoulder, then withdrew it.

  For the first time in her adult life, she wanted to be close to a man. She wanted to put her arms round his waist and lean against him and bury her face in his chest.

  Grace is allowed to do that, she thought. A flash of pure jealousy went through her.

  My God, she thought, you really are despicable. You would begrudge that poor woman her only comfort, because you want him.

  ‘Madeleine,’ he said.

  She looked up at him.

  ‘You did a good thing, sending for me.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Go on up to the house. I’ll find Evie and take her to Grace.’

  Two days after the pickney was found in the hothouse, Jocelyn drove Sophie to Falmouth.

  They made good speed from Fever Hill, and were already within sight of the sea: trotting along through the dappled shade of Bulletwood, with the glare of the beach just coming into view up ahead.

  Jocelyn flicked the reins on the horse’s rump, and decided that his idea of cutting through to the coast road had really been rather inspired. The child needed sea air, for the iodine. It was gratifying to see a little colour coming back into her cheeks.

  Above them, a flock of emerald parakeets exploded from the trees and flew away, furiously beating their stubby little wings. Sophie’s jaw dropped. ‘Those were real parrots,’ she said. Still with her mouth open, she gazed at him from beneath her sunhat.

  He felt irrationally proud, as if he had conjured up the parakeets especially for her.

  Madeleine would be pleased. She had approached him after breakfast as he was preparing for the magistrates’ meeting, and asked if, as a special favour, he would take the child with him into town. ‘I can’t go myself,’ she had said, and explained Sinclair’s wish that she should remain on the property.

  Jocelyn had been surprised. Madeleine was not the woman to be cowed by a weaselly little fellow like Sinclair. But perhaps she had lost confidence after this dreadful business of the pickney. In that she was not alone. The whole estate still lay under a pall.

  ‘I’m worried about Sophie,’ she had said. ‘She won’t talk about it, but I know it’s all she thinks of. She needs distraction; something to take her out of herself.’

  She needn’t have told Jocelyn, for he had already noticed the unaccustomed silence in the house. He had never known a child who loved talking as much as Sophie. And when she wasn’t talking she was singing, humming, or reading aloud to one of the pickneys, or Clemency’s cat, or that stuffed animal of which she was so fond.

  Her voice had become one of the background noises of the house, like the crickets and the crows. And when it had fallen silent, Jocelyn had been surprised and a little dismayed. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that he missed it; the absence was simply disconcerting, that was all.

  ‘You know how she admires you,’ Madeleine had said. ‘And she’ll be no trouble. You can leave her with Mrs Herapath, or if she isn’t at home, just put her on the bench outside the courthouse; she’ll be in her element. There’s always plenty to see on market day.’

  And since it was Madeleine who asked, of course Jocelyn had given in. ‘I should be delighted,’ he had said. And Madeleine had given him a wry smile, for she had known that he was lying.

  The prospect of being alone with Sophie filled him with apprehension. He knew that he was not good with children. And this child alarmed him more than most. She did not at all conform to his notion of what a little girl should be.

  The first time they had met, she had managed to stay silent for no more than two minutes before politely asking why bamboo grows so much bigger than other grasses, and how did the Cockpits get their name, and what is the plural of mongoose?

  He had fled. He had feared for his books and his privacy, and perhaps also for himself, in some way that he did not entirely understand.

  But now he was worried because she was not bombarding him with questions. She sat very straight, with her splinted leg sticking out in front and
one thin hand clutching the guardrail, while the other held a book on her lap. Tucked beneath her arm was the ever-present toy donkey.

  He felt a pang of concern. Over the past few weeks her face had regained the invalid sallowness which he had hoped was gone for good. But how was he, an old fellow of seventy-three, to draw her out? A girl of eleven? What did he know about such a being?

  Madeleine had told him that Sophie was passionate about nature, so he tried to think of something to say about alligators. In vain. Then he remembered that question about the Cockpits.

  ‘I wonder if you know’, he said, looking straight ahead, ‘why the sanatorium on the other side of town is called Burntwood?’

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw her turn and look up at him. ‘Um. Because it got burnt in the Christmas Rebellion?’

  ‘Precisely. Well done.’

  She sucked in her lips.

  A guessing game, thought Jocelyn. Yes, good show. Capital. ‘What about Alice Grove?’ he asked.

  She frowned, looking suddenly very like her sister. Then shook her head.

  He told her it was named for his mother, who had been sweet and kind but also extremely determined, and had made her husband build a schoolhouse for the helpers’ children.

  A little more colour returned to her cheeks, and Jocelyn felt an absurd sense of triumph. ‘What about Fever Hill?’ he said, giving the reins a jaunty flick. ‘How d’you think that got its name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered promptly, ‘but I’ve been wanting to find out for ages.’

  Jocelyn told her how the estate had originally been called Monroe’s Pen, after old Benneit Monroe, but after the great hurricane of 1712 a fever had swept the Northside – and at that point Jocelyn realized with horror that this was the last story he should be telling. But Sophie was waiting, so he floundered on. ‘And I’m rather sorry to say’, he said with a wince, ‘that old Benneit’s youngest daughter, er, perished. Of the fever. So he decided to change the name in her memory.’

  Sophie took that in silence. Then she asked, ‘What was the daughter’s name?’

  ‘I believe it was Catrion,’ he muttered.

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘D’you know, I couldn’t say.’ The child had been eleven.

  He threw her a worried glance, and wondered what she was thinking. There had been times during the drive when she had looked as if she were puzzling something out: something awful, and far too big for her to manage. And once, she had asked him a question which clearly mattered enormously. But she had framed it in that bewildering way that children have of asking something which gives no clue as to why they need to know.

  ‘Will the policemen come about Victory?’ she had asked, and Jocelyn had said no, for it had been an accident, and since he himself was a magistrate he could sort things out on his own.

  He wondered whether his answer had laid to rest whatever childish anxieties were secretly plaguing her. He doubted he’d ever find out. With Sophie he felt the same baffled helplessness he used to experience with his son.

  And for the tenth time he wished that he didn’t have to go to Kingston the following day. Of all the times to be needed at the Assembly. This dreadful affair of the pickney, and now this child beside him, clearly in need of help.

  She was gazing solemnly ahead of her, thinking heaven knew what disquieting thoughts. In desperation he asked the title of the book on her lap.

  ‘The Gods of Ancient Greece,’ she said. She explained that she was returning it to Mrs Herapath, from whom it had been borrowed.

  Now he really did feel bad. Thousands of volumes at Fever Hill, and she was compelled to borrow one from Olivia Herapath. It wouldn’t do. How could he in all conscience persist in keeping the library out of bounds?

  Although of course if he did let her in, it would mean putting Catullus and Fielding out of reach. And de Quincy and Ovid. And those Brontë girls. In fact it would require a wholesale reorganization.

  To his surprise, he found that he could contemplate the prospect without too much displeasure. Hang it all, it was about time the old place was sorted out.

  They reached the village of Salt Wash, and the press of traffic became so great that they slowed to a walk. Higglers dragged handcarts piled with mangoes and paw-paws and yams. A group of women in strident print gowns strode past with trays of hard-dough and cassava pone on their heads. A sugar wain turned off for the quay, and as it passed, Jocelyn noticed that the sacks bore the Eden mark.

  Damn and blast it to hell. Since that confounded ball at Parnassus he’d been coming across reminders of the boy wherever he went. Well well, he told himself. Nothing to be done about it now. All water under the bridge.

  He was relieved when they left the quays and turned inland for the market square, but as soon as he saw it his heart sank. Usually he enjoyed market day, but this morning all he could see were the pickneys: dodging in and out of the traffic, hitching rides on tailgates, pestering their mothers for quattie dolls and chocho pie, and that sickly scarlet syrup they all adored.

  He saw Sophie gazing at them, and silently cursed.

  ‘Uncle Jocelyn?’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How will they stop Victory becoming a duppy?’

  Good Lord. What could he say to that? Dismiss the whole notion of duppies as balderdash? The trouble was, after seventy-three years on the Northside, he knew that it wasn’t. Or rather, that if enough people believe in a thing, it acquires a reality of its own.

  ‘They can’t,’ he said. ‘The trick is to stop the duppy walking. Stop him, er, bothering people. D’you see?’

  ‘How do they do that?’

  He blew out a long breath. ‘Well. They put slices of lime on the, er, eyes. Rub the body with lime juice and nutmeg. Sew up the pockets.’ He glanced at her, hoping he’d said enough. But she was waiting for him to go on.

  He cleared his throat. ‘They fill the pillow with parched peas and corn, and put it in the coffin along with all sorts of other things to keep the duppy quiet. Salt. Madam Fate. And something called “compellance powder”. No idea what that is.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Rum on the grave,’ he went on, ‘and more corn and salt. And often they plant pigeon peas nearby. And then, nine days after the, er, passing, they hold something called a nine-night. That’s like a wake, when they do all sorts of things to send the duppy to sleep. Sing songs. Tell stories. Have a decent supper. Can be rather jolly, I believe.’

  But Sophie was not to be deflected by jollity. ‘Does it work every time? Does the duppy always go to sleep?’

  He paused. The answer was no, or why would there be duppy stories? But he was dashed if he was going to tell her that. ‘It does when Grace McFarlane has anything to do with it,’ he said. ‘Very powerful woman, Grace. Extraordinarily good at nine-nights. Never been known to fail.’

  He wondered if he had laid it on a bit thick, but to his relief some of the tension left the small face.

  They pulled up outside Olivia’s studio. More pickneys. More gleaming ivory smiles and plump, shiny black limbs.

  Lord help us, he thought. That poor little boy. What a ghastly, lonely death.

  And it was your fault, Jocelyn Monroe. All you had to do was have that confounded ruin made safe. But no. You were so wrapped up in your own affairs that you allowed a death-trap to remain on your land.

  Well dammit, man, you’d better do something to prevent it happening again. When you get back, you’re going to have words with that manager of yours, and order a thorough review of the entire property. Hang it all, children are curious. It’s no good telling the little tykes to stay out of trouble. It’s in their nature to get into it.

  A thorough review. Yes, that’s the ticket.

  He glanced at the solemn little girl beside him and thought, God help me, what if it had been her?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  There’s something about markets that gives Ben the hump. Maybe it’
s all them darkies laughing and chattering and calling each other ‘sistah’ and ‘breddah’ and ‘muddah’, like they’re one big sodding family. Or maybe it’s all that sodding fruit.

  Ben hates fruit; and it’s everywhere in this country. Hills, gardens, side of the road. Whole bloody country never stops growing. Right now, on the main road to Falmouth – the one they call the Fever Hill road – there’s these three fat darkie women up ahead with great big piles of fruit on their heads. Mangoes, bananas, jackfruit, shaddock; guavas and paw-paws and coolie plums.

  Robbie would of loved it. He would of been in clover. Ben don’t know exactly what clover is, except that it’s something topper that everybody likes, and Robbie would of been in it.

  So what with the fruit and the darkies and that, Ben could do without this sodding market.

  He’s hot and dizzy on account of being off his feed, and his chest is all tight after that dream. Last night he was kipping out on this beach past Salt Wash – it’s nice there, peaceful, with just the little waves for company – and that’s when he had that sodding dream.

  Him and Robbie are having larks on the beach. The sea’s like blue glass in the sun, and the sand’s so bright you can’t hardly look. And him and Robbie are all clean, not a louse between them, and they’re running along grabbing sea-grapes and chucking them at each other. Laugh! Do they laugh!

  When Ben wakes up he’s making these little jerky moans like he wants to cry. He hates that. When Robbie got killed he never cried once, not once. And he’s not going to start now.

  He’s coming into Falmouth, and the streets are looking all right, with their fancy pink and blue houses and the trees with the yellow flowers hanging down. Couple of john crows prossing about on a fence, and he thinks about chucking a stone at them. Decides not to bother. They’re outsiders, like him. Raggedy black wings and ugly red heads, and that ruff round their long skinny necks, like a dirty ha’penny collar. And like him, they’re getting ready to work the market, and see what they can click.

  Streets are filling up with darkies and coloureds and Chinks and that. Not many whites about, but Ben don’t mind, cos he knows he blends in all right. He’s got his dungarees and his calico shirt and his tatty straw hat, and them rope-soled shoes that round here they call bulldogs. So to the darkies he’s just another walkfoot buckra what can’t afford a jack-mule. He learnt some of the darkie talk from this cook on the boat coming out, and that helps with the blending in, and all.