The Detective and the Devil (24 page)

‘We must start work tomorrow, Mina,’ he said, and now he did look at her, and she wondered when her father had become so old and so lost.

‘What work, Papa?’

‘Memory work, Mina. You have a very great deal to learn.’

‘Learn about what?’

‘About the reason we are here, my child. Now sleep well. Tomorrow, your life will not be as free as it has been heretofore.’

He did not kiss her as her mother had done, but he did shift a stray hair from across her forehead, and she thought that would have to be enough.

Approaching from the south (because of the winds, Abigail was told), the island gave no welcome. Brown rock cliffs rose up and behind these cliffs she could see the steep peaks
of the interior. The hills were so high as to be in cloud; the whole place was crowned with mist. It was breathtakingly lonely.

Charles was making himself busy somewhere, so she had no one with whom to share the joy of arrival. At last, the prospect of land.

The ship rounded the island, and the north face came more into the view. The battered cliffs were pierced by tiny valleys, barely more than geographical filaments in the enormous walls of rock.
How did such a thing come to be here? Did Neptune build a fortress for himself but then forget about it?

Atop some of the highest points on the sea-facing cliffs sat manmade enclosures of military fastness, prickly little structures that gave the island the aspect of a maritime fort, an outpost of
Empire. An ocean-clapped castle.

The winds were quieter on the north side of the island, but the rollers on the sea were still large, and even a virgin voyager like Abigail could see how unapproachable the island was. There
were no significant landing places at all, only the occasional tiny bay giving out from one of those needle ravines. She imagined the men who discovered this place sailing round and round, trying
to find a way to approach, wondering what secrets those brown rock walls preserved.

They rounded a final point and, at last, a landing place. This, then, must be James Town. The town sat inside one of those ravines that pierced the outer rock wall of the island, carved out
presumably by a river or stream, and unlike the other defiles this particular valley was just wide enough to insert a community. The ingenuity and determination of explorers struck her. The same
energy that captured and cut that enormous whale built those little white houses which clustered up into the tiny valley. A great wall ran across the front of the valley, between the town and the
shore, and behind it rose the tower of a church.

They anchored off a huge rock, at the top of which bristled one of those batteries. They climbed into a whaleboat which was lowered into the sea. The captain, Wallace, had joined them, though he
still preferred to render her invisible. She could smell the destroyed sperm whale in the wood of the ship even now, though the carcass itself was left to sink into the ocean days before.

Inside the whaleboat the ocean rollers were more pronounced. She shrieked as one hit the boat, grabbing her husband’s arm and holding onto it as they were rowed over to the wharf beneath
the massive rock. The bruise on her own arm – Rat’s bruise – throbbed under the effort.

She thought there must be ceremonies to perform – would they be greeted, questioned, even searched? This place was fortified, that much was clear, and their arrival had already sparked
some activity along the wharf; other men in other boats were rowing out to the
Martha,
presumably to sell supplies. But Wallace ignored them, as did Charles, and this tipping boat was no
place for questions.

It was almost impossible for her to get out of the boat and onto the wharf, so strong were the rollers. Charles climbed out first, turned and virtually swung her up to the wharf. She felt
astonishingly uncomfortable, an ill-suited creature in this world of men, and for a moment as she lunged out of the boat she spied a man in the boat looking at her as the wind blew her skirts. She
had experienced all sorts of looks and heard all sorts of mutterings during the voyage, and expected little else, but this felt more of a violation than any of them. She scowled at the man when she
was safely on the wharf, and he grinned and looked away. The bitch was safely ashore, and his voyage could continue without the inconveniences of women.

Charles picked up the large ticking bag which contained their belongings. They walked along the wharf, and reached the point where the fortified wall protected the entrance to the town. A
drawbridge across the channel of water between the wharf and the town entrance was guarded by two soldiers. Wallace went up to them.

‘Master of the
Martha
, whaler out of London,’ he said. ‘Two passengers with us with business here on St Helena. I’d like to take them to the Governor.’

The soldiers nodded, pointing inside.

‘Know your way?’ one of them asked.

‘Aye,’ said Wallace, and in they went.

On the other side of the wall was a terrace running between a square and a large plain building towards which Wallace made his way. On the far side of the square was the church she had seen from
the water, facing a fine-looking garden which looked over a street lined by terraced houses. The buildings were recognisably English – not unattractive but staunchly functional. The only
decoration was supplied by Nature – the trees and plants in the garden opposite the church and, rising up on either side of the town and beyond it, the green-and-brown walls of St Helena.

The green lushness of the hills was a stark contrast to the brown fastnesses of the outward-facing cliffs. In the distance, along the valley, she could see a tantalising prospect of craggy
peaks. The air was pleasantly warm, the only clouds those that ringed the peaks of the interior. In many ways, it felt like a pleasant English spring day, though in a part of England – the
South Downs, perhaps – where the land had been squeezed by titanic hands to form steep valleys and impossible slopes.

And, Lord, it was good to be on solid ground once more.

Abigail saw Wallace glance uneasily at Charles as the three of them were about to step into the building wherein the island’s Governor was to be found.

‘You’re both coming in?’ he said, to Charles.

‘Men’s business, is it, captain?’ she said, no longer disguising her dislike. ‘Well, then. Men’s business it is. I shall wait here.’

She sat herself on a bench at the entrance to the Castle. Charles seemed about to say something, but then thought better of it, and followed Wallace into the building.

There were very few people about, and all of them had looked at her at least once. Was it a rarity, then, a woman arriving by ship? There were women here, were there not? Look, there were two
now: rather matronly looking ladies, carrying bags full of some goods or other. Their clothes were old and plain but clean and tidy – working women’s clothes, untouched by Covent Garden
fripperies. They appeared friendly enough, but perhaps where she was sitting – outside the Governor’s office, like a naughty child waiting for the headmaster – put them off. Her
arrival would be talked about today, behind the doors of those little houses which lined the street up into the valley.

There were a good many blacks working at one thing or another around the square, and the hunched way they held their heads caused her to think they must be slaves. There were Negroes in London,
and in Wapping in particular, but they were free men, though they were often poor or ill or near-death. She had never seen slaves before.

Another group of women appeared, three of them this time, walking down the main street towards the sea wall. They glared at her, their faces tanned by the Atlantic sun but also painted with
garish colours, and she realised with a lurch that they must be whores. Even here there were whores, responding to the arrival of the whaler. The women walked up to the guards at the drawbridge and
touched them, rubbing the soldier’s arms and laughing. Their shrill voices carried across the square, and Abigail felt an old helpless hatred at these women who had sold themselves to
men’s pleasure. Her sister was carried away, thus – though even Charles knew nothing of that.

He knows nothing of your meetings with Dr Drysdale either
, her rebellious mind said, but she ignored it.

It was an odd but intriguing vista. Working women, slaves and whores, and outside the walls of the town men seeking to do business with the newly arrived ship. Was every British outpost like
this?

She saw two boys loitering in the shadows of the church on the other side of the square. They were looking at her, and she waved to them. One of them started to walk across the square, as if
he’d been waiting for such a call. As they came, Abigail noted another African working in the garden of a large house facing the church. His legs were chained together.

The braver of the two boys was brown-faced and scrawny, but his face was far cleaner than those of similar age in London. There was no smog or oil or grease to cloud his features here, but he
looked tired and, despite his sun-kissed skin, rather unwell.

‘I will need two of you to help me carry this bag to a decent lodging house,’ she said to him.

‘I’m no porter.’

His accent was an odd amalgam of London’s clipped consonants – reminding Abigail of Rat – and something more rural. Somerset, perhaps?

‘I will pay you a penny for carrying my bag and for finding me lodgings.’

‘You on your own, mistress? Did I not see another couple of fellows going in to the Guv’nor?’

‘You did. My husband will accompany us when his business is concluded.’

The boy whistled back towards his companion, and the other boy began to make his way across. He was a good deal bigger than his friend.

‘You do not stay at Mr Porteous’s house, mistress?’ said the boy.

‘Which is that?’

‘Over there.’

He indicated a large house on the other side of the square. It was the house where the chained Negro was working.

‘No, I do not wish to stay there. Somewhere further into the town. Somewhere that has no slaves.’

‘No slaves, miss?’

The boy frowned, struggling with the alien concept. Then he shrugged.

‘You’re to help me carry this,’ the boy said to his large friend, whose face was puffy and uncomprehending. The large boy lifted up the bag, but upside-down, and Abigail darted
forward, scared lest it open. ‘Wait for it, Hippo!’ said the first boy, so Hippo dropped the bag to the ground again.

‘Oh, do be careful!’ exclaimed Abigail. The first boy looked at her and smiled. Where the big lad was slow and stupid, this boy was clever and watchful. Rat, again, peeped out from
the boy’s eyes. She felt the ache of the bruise on her arm.

‘Sorry about Hippo,’ the boy said. ‘He’s a bit soft in the head. Product of an Incestuous Partnership, as my old man would have it. Now, off we go.’

Bit soft in the head
. Dr Drysdale, again.
Go away now, please, doctor
, she thought.

‘No, wait, please. My husband is still within.’

The boy grinned.

‘Hang on, Hippo! The mistress ain’t ready, yet.’

Hippo had lifted the bag with particular care, but now stood quite still holding the bag, looking into the middle distance.

She spoke to them while they waited. The first boy gave his name as Keneally, but when Abigail enquired about the provenance of such a name, he said it was his family’s and that she should
call him Ken. Hippo was Hippo because one of the island boys had been to Africa before coming here, and had seen a hippo, and had said the animal’s broad stupid face was just like the face of
the lad who now held her bag and patiently waited. Ken asked Abigail where she might want to stay, and she suggested an inn, if there was one with decent rooms.

‘There’s only one tavern, and there’s no rooms in it,’ Ken said. ‘Normally, visitors take a room at someone’s house.’

‘The private houses?’

‘Aye. Mr Porteous for example – he’s got nice rooms.’ He nodded to the house he had first pointed out. ‘But there’s your particularity regarding
slaves
to consider.’

Ken winked at her, and she was pleased to have found him. She wondered if her husband would be pleased – might he want to pay for Ken’s eyes as he had paid for Rat’s eyes in
Wapping? It was a cold thought.

‘I think Seale keeps a room,’ says Ken. ‘He’s just up there.’ He pointed up the street. ‘And he keeps no slaves.’

‘Then we shall go there, when my husband is finished.’

‘Unusual, you arriving like that,’ said Ken. ‘We don’t get a lot of arrivals like that.’

‘How do people normally arrive?’ Abigail asked.

‘On the Indiamen – either on their way out, or on their way back. Passengers come with them. Any reason you didn’t come on an Indiaman?’

This with a knowing smile. The boy’s brain was quick – perhaps quicker than her husband might like. She ignored the question.

‘Is your father a farmer?’

Ken snorted at that.

‘Farm? Why bother with that? The Company supplies us with all we need.’

‘But I had heard St Helena was a fine spot for farming?’

‘Aye, it might have been once. But there’s too many goats, too many rats, and too much money coming in on ships. Why bother breaking your back on the land?’

Ken said this smoothly, and Abigail thought she heard the authentic voice of the boy’s father speaking. An idle man, no doubt, justifying his indolence to his son.

‘So, what are you here for, then?’ Ken asked. The boy was not sly about his questions.

‘Why do you concern yourself with what I am here for?’ she said.

‘Oh. A mystery, is it?’

Abigail wondered, for a moment, if this boy was asking questions for someone else. She looked around the square to see if anyone was watching, before telling herself to keep such ridiculous
suspicions well chained, as Dr Drysdale would no doubt advise, were he to step out into this English square on this strange island
.

A noise from behind her, and her husband appeared with Wallace. He looked at the boys.