The Devil's Making (47 page)

‘It's no easier for them. We've all caught each other. If Wiladzap is free I may go with him, and bring my son too, and be cast into that elemental world again. Perhaps to live through its dissolution: I worry about the Tsalak. And if Lukswaas stays with you – which she would without question, she is all loyalty, that girl – you are both blighted in the eyes of respectable society. You can marry her, and she can change her name to Lucy and learn to lace herself in stays. But you will still be seen as having sacrificed your good name for the lust of a squaw. You'll lose your employment. Nobody will talk to you. You'll be ostracized. They'll never believe it's more than lust, no more than with me and Wiladzap. It used to terrify Mamma. If I went back to Wiladzap it would show that the itch of lust could not be satisfied otherwise. Too true, from her point of view, as I see it now! But not mine. It's more than lust. I tried to experiment with that yesterday, with you. And you know, I said ‘Don't make me pregnant', to get you to withdraw, as you did. It was a last minute effort to preserve
something
I have only had with Wiladzap. You understand?'

‘Of course. It preserved something for me too.'

‘Aren't we goody-goody?' Aemilia smiled ruefully, although the words had shown her usual sharpness. ‘Now please, go and sort things out with George, but be careful. He's like a toy soldier, that man. It must be very frightening to be inside his body. One lesson I learned ten years ago is that murder is the offspring of terror.'

‘Thank you.'

We got up, and embraced each other briefly. Then I swung myself back over the fence, mounted my horse, and rode away. Aemilia was left as before, studying the apple blossom against the sky.

27

Pemberton had hired a pinnace rowed by four boatmen with another as helmsman. Once they had pulled out beyond Ten Mile Point in a brisk breeze the men set a small triangular sail to help us along, then rowed on and off. Although the water was choppy there is not the same deep swell on Haro Strait as in the Straits of Juan de Fuca, which are directly open to the Pacific. It was not hard to imagine Beaumont rowing and sailing a small boat across on such a day as this.

Pemberton and I were squeezed in the bow, side by side on a narrow seat facing backward. I summarized what Aemilia had said about George. The ‘spy' remark puzzled both of us. McCrory had perhaps been spying, or had liked to think he was, against the English. But there would be no point in this since it was impossible to keep a secret in the Colony, and while the San Juan dispute awaited arbitration there were no military manoeuvres in prospect.

Pemberton had interviewed Wiladzap and was satisfied that there was enough chance that he was telling the truth for a thorough questioning of Beaumont to be warranted. If this revealed that Beaumont was the murderer, then he would be left in the hands of his commanding officer. Pemberton had seen no need to bring extra constables with us. But, although dressed in civilian clothes, he had a small pistol in a shoulder holster, ‘in case there is unexpected trouble.'

I did not ask about Lukswaas, nor did Pemberton mention her. For most of the voyage we sat squeezed together but looking in different directions across the waves at the receding forested shoreline of Vancouver Island, with the low rocky cone of Mount Douglas behind.

After about an hour and a half we began to approach San Juan, and by turning my head to look behind Pemberton I could see the shoreline in more detail than ever. From the other side of the Strait it had seemed always low, peaceful and green. I could now see that the Southern end was a sort of heath, golden, and dotted with small bushes. Towards the end of this heath, four or five miles away, was a tiny cluster of white buildings which I knew must be the American Camp. The English Camp was about half way along the island's Western shore which at close range was revealed to be high and rugged, with rock outcroppings and stretches of thick woods. Above the island was a line of sparkling clear sky and above this a huge tower of cumulus clouds whose underside shone like mother of pearl.

By sitting half sideways while Pemberton did the same, I could see that we were approaching a small gulf or bay which we would enter through a channel between two wooded promontories. On the shore facing the channel was a white blockhouse, jutting out onto a beach, and behind it a clearing with houses, and figures moving here and there.

The water became suddenly choppier as we approached the channel, and the bow dipped and splashed. Pemberton and I were drenched with spray. We cursed – ‘Damn it' from Pemberton, ‘Blast!' from me – but could do nothing. Then the pinnace hit a sudden calm in the landlocked bay, the sail flapped loosely, and two of the men stopped rowing as the helmsman guided the other two in across the water which was glassy as a pond. Pemberton and I sat stiffly, backs to the shore, half soaked. It would have been undignified to be seen craning our necks. There was a naval sloop at anchor, with eight guns on the deck, and a variety of pinnaces, barges and rowing boats attached to buoys.

The boat ran onto the beach with a rasping noise and I felt myself being lifted up. Two of the boatmen jumped overboard to tug the boat further in. When it stopped moving Pemberton stood up and stepped over the gunwale. I followed. We were on a rocky beach just below the blockhouse, which looked brand new, sparkling with fresh paint. It was four floors high, hexagonal, and built of square logs on a foundation of rock extending onto the beach. Cannons peered from rows of embrasures. The roof was conical with a flagpole from which the Union Jack was flying. Behind the blockhouse the clearing looked like an English park – a big level field of short grass like a lawn, with a parade ground on one side, oak trees scattered here and there, and long low buildings of brick and white-painted wood. In the shade of the trees, Marines in their blue uniforms but without their usual white helmets, were sitting reading or talking – being early afternoon it must be a rest time. Down the grass a small group of men came stepping smartly, in white helmets. The first was an officer, with behind him a Sergeant and a Corporal.

As they approached, I noticed that the officer's trim was spoiled by the fact that he was extremely unshaven. But his bearing was erect. He was probably in his late thirties, his unshaven cheeks golden brown, his eyes blue.

‘Commissioner! He said, using Pemberton's obsolete title, as most people did. ‘I wasn't expecting you so early in the week. But you're very welcome.'

‘How do you do, Captain.' Pemberton shook hands, then introduced me. ‘This is Sergeant Hobbes. Sergeant, this is Captain Delacombe.' I shook hands with Delacombe who was slightly taller than me. ‘Good God, Delacombe.' Pemberton said, abandoning formality, ‘you look like a real ruffian with that fuzz.'

‘Sorry.' Delacombe stroked his face ruefully. ‘Didn't you know? Queen's Regulations changed. Navy can now grow beards, like the rest of the civilised world. We no longer have to look like a bunch of schoolboys. But it takes time.' He turned to his Sergeant and Corporal. ‘Dismiss, Sergeant.' He said quietly.

They saluted smartly. ‘At ease,' the Sergeant said to the Corporal, and they walked back toward the buildings.

‘Looks like Hyde Park, doesn't it?' Delacombe remarked. ‘Awfully hard to stay formal. We stand at ease after lunch. Come with me and I'll give you a tour. Mr Beaumont, whom I know you want to talk to, is with a detachment over at Roche Harbour for provisions. He'll be back within the hour, I should think.'

Delacombe showed us the blockhouse, whose walls were four feet thick. It contained a store of ammunition and food, and the whole garrison could retreat into it if necessary. The four Marines on guard duty snapped to attention and stood like statues. Everything was spic and span. The armoury was a stone reinforced cellar within the foundation, packed with carbines, mortars and ammunition. Above it was a command room with tables and chairs, and maps on the walls. Above this were sleeping quarters with bunks. The hexagonal, white-washed rooms with the light striking across them from the embrasures, were curiously attractive. The building had been completed only the previous year, and Delacombe was proud of it. Outside again, he led us across the grass to show us a boat house, stables with a dozen or so horses and various carts and wagons, store-rooms, a dormitory block for the men, and a small elegant house which Delacombe, Beaumont and another Lieutenant shared, along with their servants. Apart from the house, which was of brick and clapboard, the buildings were all of square logs, but the scene was very English, with something of the atmosphere of a public school. Delacombe even mentioned that his men went to ‘Chapel' at Roche Harbour.

We sat down on the veranda of Delacombe's house in the sun, our splashed clothes drying, with glasses of cold light ale. When Delacombe's servant had withdrawn, Pemberton said, ‘We shall have to talk with your man Beaumont. I hope it will not be unpleasant, but I should warn you that there's a strong implication that he may know more about this atrocious murder than is good for his reputation.'

‘You mean you have learnt more since your letter? I can't say I didn't take it seriously – dashed disturbing, in fact. But I couldn't believe that old George would have any really disagreeable associations. He's an odd fig, old George, but very upright – perfect wooden soldier, you might say.'

‘Does he go off often on his own?'

‘You put your finger on it, Commissioner. When he has a moment off duty he's never around. Does a lot of rough shooting – the place is swarming with rabbits and grouse, and they come so close you can even pot them with a revolver. But he usually takes a shotgun. When he has a day's leave, he's off to Victoria. I rag him about having a lady friend there, but he denies it – I won't say hotly, because there's nothing hot about him – coldly rather. He's a very private man. But why not? We can't live in each others' pockets. It would get on the nerves, rather, wouldn't it?'

‘You mean he'll even go to Victoria during the week at times?'

‘Oh yes. I assume so. Another thing he likes is boating. Very active man. Strong as an ox. He'll take off in one of our keeled skiffs and row or sail half way round the island, or across to Telegraph or Cadborough.'

‘And on the Wednesday of the murder? Do you know where he was then?'

‘Yes, I thought of that after your letter. The truth is, he had a day's leave. I believe he went out boating. At any rate, he disappeared.

‘Well, we can question him about that. In your presence of course.'

‘If it turns out he has done something criminal I shall place him under arrest, much as I should hate having to do so. I shouldn't exactly call him a friend, but one becomes fond of one's officers.' Delacombe seemed to be rather light hearted by nature, but his brow clouded, and I guessed that he was very worried. ‘Queer cove, George. In a way I shouldn't be surprised if there were some murky secrets about him. He's too good to be true. Not, I'm sure, that his secrets involve the commission of an actual crime of violence.' Delacombe's face brightened, either naturally or by an effort of will. ‘Thinking of crimes, and Indians, isn't this infernal news about the
John Bright?
Do you think those fellows ended up being eaten by cannibals?'

This was not a change to a brighter subject, but at least a change. Delacombe and Pemberton sat talking, waiting perhaps as tensely as I for Beaumont's return. Then there was the crunch of marching feet, and as we turned to look along the verandah to our left, a squad of six Marines appeared with Beaumont, wearing a white pith helmet like those of the others, marching beside them. Behind came two wagons with their drivers erect as puppets in their seats. The distance between the squad and the nose of the first horse, and the back of the first wagon and the nose of the second horse must have been precisely the same. This procession disappeared behind a clump of trees and the barrack house. Then came muffled shouts and the crunch of the squad falling out.

Beaumont appeared around the barrack house, marching briskly. He stamped up the steps to the veranda and saluted Delacombe. ‘Provisions detail duly accomplished, Sir.'

‘At ease Mr Beaumont.'

Beaumont relaxed. ‘Good day, Gentlemen,' he said in his dry voice to Pemberton and me as we rose to our feet. I introduced him to Pemberton. They shook hands. Beaumont seemed imperturbed by seeing us.

‘The Commissioner and Sergeant Hobbes want to ask you a few questions,' said Delacombe. ‘Perhaps around the table in the library would be a good place.'

‘Certainly, Sir. Allow me one minute. I shall be with you directly.'

‘Of course. We shall be waiting for you.'

Beaumont stepped briskly into the house, and they heard him stamping up some stairs inside.

‘Let us go in.' Delacombe said, and allowed Pemberton and me to precede him.

Inside, the house was like any Colonial farmhouse – four or five not very large rooms downstairs, with a staircase in the hall facing the door. Delacombe showed us to the right into a sort of conference room which had a long table and hard-backed chairs, a wall of bookshelves, another of maps, and windows to the side of the house and onto the veranda. Delacombe pulled out a chair for Pemberton at one side of the table, and went to the head. I moved around to the other side, facing Pemberton. He took out his notebook and pencil. We waited.

Beaumont's footsteps were heard on the stairs, mechanically regular as the man himself, and he came into the room. He sat down at the foot of the table.

‘Mr Pemberton?' Delacombe began.

‘Sergeant Hobbes will ask you some questions.' Pemberton said. He and I had agreed that it would be best to start with a gentle presentation of the facts, and related queries. If a severe interrogation became necessary, Pemberton would take over.