The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (46 page)

Clemency drew a deep breath, and sat her ground. Her face was pink, and she was clearly astonished at her own audacity. After a moment she frowned and reached beneath her, and pulled out a small rectangle of white plush embroidered with pearls. ‘Why,
here
it is! Look, Sophie, my evening purse! Isn’t it beautiful? Do you see all the tiny pearls? And the dear little silver chain with the ring on it to fit over my finger, so that it won’t get lost?’

Cameron glanced from her to Great-Aunt May, and realized with a sinking feeling that he couldn’t leave Sophie with them. Which meant that he would have to take her all the way down to Olivia Herapath before he could even make a start for Providence. And with every passing minute, he was becoming more uneasy about Madeleine. The more he thought about Sinclair’s ‘rest cure’, the less he liked it.

He was wondering if Sophie was well enough for another long drive, and whether he could persuade Doshey to give him a fresh horse from the old man’s stables, when he was astonished to hear the familiar tapping of a cane approaching across the ballroom floor. My God, he thought, but he’s in Kingston. Isn’t he?

Then Jocelyn walked out onto the gallery, and drew himself up like a battered old eagle as he caught sight of Cameron and came to an abrupt halt beside Great-Aunt May.

The old man had always possessed impeccable self-control, and it did not fail him now. He contrived to look only mildly irritated at seeing Cameron in the gallery: as if he were merely an unwelcome caller who had arrived inconveniently close to the dinner hour. ‘What the deuce’, he said, ‘is all this rumpus?’

May lifted her chin and waited for vindication. Clemency glanced fearfully from Cameron to the old man. Sophie ignored them all in favour of the evening purse which Clemency had placed in her lap.

Plainly, Jocelyn had only just arrived, for he hadn’t had time to change out of his travelling clothes. He looked dusty and exhausted, and very much his age. But he took in May’s glacial expression, Clemency’s extraordinary outfit, and Sophie’s sallow, unsmiling presence without a flicker. Finally, his gaze returned to Cameron. The sunbleached eyes gave nothing away.

For ten years they had avoided coming face to face. In town they always made sure to cross over to the other side of the street; at the few social events they both attended, they circled one another like hostile mastiffs unwilling to engage in an out and out fight.

For ten years Cameron had thought about this moment. He had worked out exactly what he would say, and how he would act. Now all that deserted him. ‘I thought you were in Kingston’ he muttered.

‘Evidently not,’ snapped the old man. ‘I had a wire from Clemency. Now answer the question.’

Cameron gestured at Sophie, whose head was still bowed over the evening purse. ‘Sinclair sent her to Burntwood. I—’

‘I know that,’ barked Jocelyn. ‘It’s a rum do, but there we are. You seem to have forgotten that he is her legal—’

‘I don’t care about that. What he did was wrong.’

‘Wrong?’ The silver brows drew together. ‘And I suppose you’re the man to decide that?’

Cameron bit back a retort. My God, he thought, some things never change. All it takes is two minutes, and we’re at each other’s throats.

In the ballroom, the grandfather clock struck the quarter-hour. An elderly helper in evening uniform appeared in the doorway and hovered at his master’s elbow, with a salver bearing a crystal tumbler of whisky and soda. Jocelyn dismissed him with a jerk of his head, and turned back to Cameron. ‘Be so good as to leave. We dine in a quarter of an hour. I’m dashed if I see any reason to put that off.’

‘What about Sophie?’ said Cameron.

The old man blinked fiercely. ‘Not your concern. Sinclair’s responsibility.’

Cameron drew a deep breath. ‘Don’t you think she’s yours as well?’

Again the sharp eyes met his. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. ‘The child is Sinclair’s responsibility,’ he repeated, as if it were an article of faith.

A quarter to eight, thought Cameron, and if I don’t cut the Gordian knot soon, we’ll be here till next week. ‘I don’t have time to argue,’ he said shortly. ‘So I’m just going to tell you the truth, and then you can work out what to do.’ He glanced at Sophie, then back to the old man. ‘That’s your grandchild. That’s Ainsley’s daughter.’

Jocelyn’s eyes never wavered from his own.

From the corner of his vision, Cameron saw Clemency rise to her feet, then sit back doll-like in her chair. May had gone very still. Only Sophie remained oblivious, her fingers moving slowly over the pearl-encrusted plush.

‘Jocelyn,’ May said calmly, ‘this is outrageous. Sinclair is the only one who—’

‘Be
quiet
,’ snapped Cameron. ‘Haven’t you done enough harm already?’

May’s eyes widened with shock.

‘You knew who she was,’ Cameron told her. ‘You’ve known for days. But you didn’t see fit to tell Jocelyn – or, heaven help us, to get her out of that God-awful place.’

May opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again.

Cameron turned back to the old man. ‘I need your assurance that Sophie stays here. No matter what Sinclair says.’

Jocelyn’s shoulders seemed to have lost some of their parade-ground stiffness. He put out his hand and grasped the back of a chair.

Cameron saw how he clutched at it, and felt contrite. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, ‘I was too blunt. Madeleine was going to tell you, she’d have made a better job of it.’

Jocelyn dropped his gaze and scowled at the floor. ‘You’ve said your piece. Now go.’

‘Not until you promise that Sophie stays here.’

Jocelyn made no reply. Cameron wondered if he’d heard.

‘Jocelyn,’ said May, ‘this has gone far enough. I will not tolerate—’

Enough!
’ barked Jocelyn.

Cameron didn’t see the look which passed from the old man to May, but a moment later she dropped her gaze, and her gloved hands sought the chain about her waist, and Cameron saw how her fingers shook. If it had been any other woman, he would have pitied her.

Still grasping the back of the chair, the old man turned, and for the first time since Cameron had told him, he looked at Sophie. There was no softening of his expression. His face was concentrated and inward-looking. Perhaps he was beginning to feel the truth of what he had learned. Or perhaps, punctilious to the last, he was making up his mind to obey Sinclair’s wishes, regardless of his own inclination, and send her back to Burntwood.

‘What will you do?’ said Cameron.

Jocelyn did not reply.

‘Jocelyn—’

‘I told you to leave.’

‘Well I won’t. Not until I know what you intend to do. Dammit, Jocelyn, if you mean to send her back to that place, I’ll take her down to Falmouth right now, and have Olivia Herapath put her up.’

The old man ignored him. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Sophie.

She raised her head from Clemency’s evening purse and gave him her solemn stare. Her lips moved, but no sound came.

‘What’s that you say?’ Jocelyn said sharply. ‘Speak up. I can’t hear a word.’

Her eyebrows drew together in a frown. She tried again. ‘Uncle Jocelyn,’ she said.

The old man blinked. His hand tightened on the back of the chair.

‘They burnt Pablo Grey.’

There was a silence. Then Jocelyn cleared his throat. ‘Did they,’ he said. He let go of the chair, and squared his shoulders, and passed one liver-spotted hand over his waistcoat. ‘Well. I dare say it was quick.’

Sophie’s eyes never left his face. ‘Can we build a monument?’

Chapter Thirty-Two

The john crow had been back three times, but after the moon had risen it hadn’t come again. Patoo had taken over. His soft hoo-hoos echoed from hill to hill, and once, Madeleine thought she saw him: a darker darkness cutting across the stars.

In Jamaica the country people believe that if an owl flies into the house, a death will follow soon. Patoo frightens them; many don’t even like to hear his voice.

He didn’t frighten Madeleine. Nothing frightened her now. Not even the ghost that crouched in the corner, watching her hammer flat the last section of leg-iron.

She put down the stone and sat back on her heels to catch her breath. Mosquitoes whined in her ears. Moonlight cast strange shadows on the walls, and turned the blood on her fingers black. And at the edge of her vision, the ghost watched. A shape out of darkness, it only took form when she looked away, and dissolved into rubble when she turned to stare. But when she resumed her work it always drifted back.

There had been a time when it had frightened her. She had been frightened of everything, then. Of the darkness. Of the centipedes. Of the bones that crumbled chalkily beneath her hands. But now she felt no more fear. No more hunger. No more pain from the gash in her arm. Even thirst had become just another companion. Nothing was left except the stone in her hand and the fragments of iron she had found in the rubble, and her determination to get out.

A gecko scuttled down the moon-blue wall. She followed its progress for a moment, then raised her head and scanned her handiwork for flaws.

Before dark, she had added as much as she could to the crude progression of hand- and footholds from which she had fallen some hours before. She had managed about ten feet of it: four small ledges of stone, and three of iron – each jutting out no more than an inch, but wedged in securely enough to take her weight. Above that, the slope of the wall became gentler, which ought to make it easier – if she could get that far.

For that part she planned to rely on the last three pieces of stone which she would carry in her petticoat shoulder-pouch, and on the two best pieces of shackle. These she meant to use repeatedly, avoiding the risk of dropping them by tying them to her wrists with her bootlaces. There was no chance of her boots coming off during the climb. Her feet were too swollen for that.

But there wasn’t much time. At present, the moon shone full upon this side of the sink-hole, but soon it would be in shadow. And she couldn’t risk waiting till dawn, for by then she would be too weak to make the climb.

She tied the second bootlace to her wrist, and got to her feet, and from its corner the ghost watched in silent approval. She acknowledged it with a nod. Then she shouldered the pouch and began to climb.

He kept seeing his wife’s face peering up at him.

There had been something animal in her expression. Yes, an animal in a trap, with no true awareness of its fate. But it was better so. Wasn’t it?

Still in his riding-clothes, he lay on the bed and watched the slatted amber sunlight on the floor, and longed for sleep. He had never felt so exhausted. And yet he couldn’t relax. His hands twitched. His thoughts teemed.

When would this torment end? He had never wanted her harmed. He had never wanted anyone harmed. He had never
done
any harm.

This is some sort of trial, he told himself. A terrible trial which God has designed for me. And it is because of who I am that I suffer so. If I were coarse and unthinking, I shouldn’t be tormented. It is because I am finer, purer, and cleaner in spirit, that this is such torture.

He rolled onto his side and reached for the small amber phial, and poured enough chloral into an inch of water to put him out. He drank it in one slow swallow, and lay back and waited for the coming of the golden certainty.

The first wave was always the best. Soft warm radiance warming his flesh. Clarity and confidence suffusing his limbs. Power in his veins. He took deep, even breaths, and peace bathed him in its golden glow.

The truth is, he told himself, you haven’t done anything wrong. All you did was try to help her. You risked your life in trying to reach her. But it was not to be. God
intended
you to fail.

He shut his eyes and drifted away, cradled on the gentle swell of a sunlit ocean.

The chimes of the clock wrenched him back to consciousness. He was in darkness. What time was it? Where was he? His head ached from the chloral. He felt oppressed by some nameless dread.

He rolled off the bed and stumbled to the window. Outside, the moon had risen, and all was peaceful and still. He must have slept for hours.

He remembered returning to Providence in the heat of the afternoon, and ordering tea. Then paying off the housekeeper and the stable boy and sending them away to spend the Free Come holiday with their families. And after that, nothing.

As he stood at the window, he heard the skitter of a horse’s hooves down below. He couldn’t make out much through the louvres, but as he froze, breathless and horrified, he heard the unmistakable sound of boots hitting the dust as a man dismounted. The clink of a bridle slung over a hitching-post.

He wiped the sweat from his face. No-one ever came this way. The track ended at Providence. Dr Valentine was safely in Falmouth, and the old man in Kingston; nor could it be a messenger from Fever Hill, for no black would ride like that in the dark.

He cast about for a weapon, and saw the candlestick beside the bed. As he took hold of it, he caught sight of himself in the looking-glass. His face was pale and resolute, his grip on the candlestick firm. The thing to remember, he told himself, is that no-one knows where she is.

Softly he made his way through the moonlit house towards the gallery.

A man had just climbed to the top of the steps. He was tall, with unruly fair hair, and although his back was turned, Sinclair knew him at once.

Heart pounding, he withdrew into the shadows behind the door. His dismissal of the servants now seemed the purest madness. He was alone in the dark with a man who coveted his wife and wished him nothing but ill.

Then he saw the horse tethered to the mounting-stone at the foot of the steps, and his apprehension turned to horror. The animal was sickeningly familiar: a big, clean-limbed grey hunter from Fever Hill. The old man’s horse.

He spiralled down from a great height. His brother had been at Fever Hill – had been
received
at Fever Hill – and had so contrived to worm his way back into the old man’s affections that he had come away with his very
horse
.