Enemy In The House (16 page)

“She’s right,” Amity cried. “Simon, you must listen—”

“As to these blank papers,” Selene said thoughtfully, “the magistrate, or perhaps the Custos—whoever comes here to investigate—should know of them. It would be an obstruction of justice and law to fail to report them. On the other hand, will you leave that to me for the moment? And in the meantime if anyone should inquire about these papers, madam, say that there was nothing on them and you threw them away. Trust to your wife’s good sense, Mr. Simon. Now then, we have little time. Mr. Simon has told me everything he knows of all this. But please to tell it all again. Everything—beginning with the lawyer in America who was shot.”

“There could have been no link with Hester—except—”

Selene nodded. “Except violent death. It is a strong link. Speaking merely as an observer I find that I cannot believe in this kind of coincidence. In my view, perhaps a mistaken one, the motive for the murder of two men still exists and resulted in Hester’s murder. Since two murders followed your marriage at once, it does suggest some connection there. Did Hester know of your marriage?”

“Why, I suppose so. There was no secret about it.”

Selene thought for a moment and shook her head in a dissatisfied way. “Do you think now that Hester could possibly have known or discovered some evidence of murder? I should say some evidence leading to the murderer whom she might have threatened?”

“I don’t know. She—well, quarreled with Uncle Grappit. Defied him really. But—”

“Tell me about that.”

“Oh, I thought nothing of it. Neville was attracted to her. Uncle Grappit told her to leave, but she refused.”

“Please tell me more fully.”

She listened without any expression whatever in her face while Amity described it. “I see,” Selene said then. “Yes. It could mean something. It could mean nothing. What did Mr. Grappit say when he learned of your marriage? What did he do?”

“China, my stepmother, told them—Neville first, hoping he’d tell the others, but then they arrived and blamed her so she ran to her room and locked herself in. She doesn’t know what they did then. The next morning they heard about the parson and Mr. Benfit and my uncle and aunt and Neville left—”

“Go on,” said Selene. “Everything.”

Amity went on, trying to omit nothing that could be of any possible significance. She even told of Grappit’s threat to take China and Jamey to England. But when she had finished, Selene only pulled a flower absently from a vase near her and sat twining it in her slender fingers.

Simon said at last, “I still can’t see any connection between Hester and Lawyer Benfit. Or between Hester and the clergyman.”

“You told me that the lawyer opposed your marriage, Mr. Simon.”

“Until I told him we’d elope.” A faint smile touched Simon’s intent eyes.

“And he left a letter for your uncle explaining it. I wonder what he said in that letter.”

Amity replied. “Mr. Benfit was a stickler for form. He said my uncle should know the circumstances of my marriage. Uncle Grappit denied having seen the letter.”

Simon said, “He’s destroyed it by now. He wants some legal grounds for dissolving our marriage. That letter of Benfit’s would prove its legality.”

“Yes,” Selene said frowning. “Yes.” She looked at the flower for a long time, deep in thought. Finally she said, “I only know this. A thoroughly frightened man or woman may act in some way entirely foreign to his nature. That is self-preservation. Mr. Grappit is a zealot. He is greedy; he may be ruthless. Madam Grappit—truly selfish people may be ruthless, too. Young Mr. Neville is, clearly, vain, good-natured, weak perhaps. You said that Mr. Charles flatly denied having seen Hester in—this city—what is it?”

“Charlestown,” Simon said and Amity nodded. “He said he’d never seen Hester before.”

“Mr. Charles.” Selene frowned a little again. “Kind, yes. Quiet. Handsome, yes. Devoted to his sister and devoted to—well, to your wife, Mr. Simon. He does nothing—says little—”

“Neville and Charles were riding when Hester must have been killed. They were together!” Amity said.

“No,” Selene said. “Perhaps everyone assumed that to be true. There has been no real inquiry up to now to bring out the exact circumstances of the time of the murder. But the fact is they were not together all the time. They returned from their ride and Mr. Neville apparently had heard something of our meeting in the valley. He left his horse and made his way up a slope of the mountain, hid in some brush and watched our ceremonies—our meeting—for a while.” She glanced at Simon. “He was not very far from you. Still you didn’t see each other.”

“Oh, Neville told about that! I remember. He told about your—your meeting and said that you were very—that is, he described you,” Amity said.

There was the faintest little gleam of laughter in Selene’s dark eyes, as if she could guess the terms of Neville’s description. “But what of Mr. Charles? Where was he? His horse was found in the yard, still saddled, some time after the earthquake.”

“Charles couldn’t have killed Hester,” Amity said quickly. “He was in the house during the earthquake. Actually he saved my life. A heavy chest fell and it would have fallen on me if he hadn’t pushed it aside.”

A flicker of something less tense, more natural went over Simon’s face. He murmured, “Our hero,” but then added, “Thank God for Charles, then.”

“It might not have killed you,” Selene said temperately, “still it speaks well for Mr. Charles. … And then, of course, there’s your stepmother, Madam Mallam.”

Amity stared.
“She
wouldn’t murder anybody! She’s a child.
She
couldn’t have shot Mr. Benfit—”

Selene rose abruptly. “You must go back to the great house. Five men on horses arrived a few moments ago.”

S
IMON’S HAZEL EYES NARROWED.
Amity said blankly, “How do you know?”

“One has one’s ears.” But to Amity’s astonishment Selene gave a soft, almost mischievous laugh. “It’s so simple, just listen and—and know what you are hearing. But they have no dogs. The dogs here barked but only as a gesture, so to speak. If strange dogs had come on the place there’d have been such a hullabaloo as to shatter your eardrums. I told you it was simple. But I cannot attract attention to my cabin. So please to go at once. You can trust Dolcy. You can trust the
busha,
McWhinn.”

The path to the banyan tree was familiar now. The rain had fallen to a drizzle and the trees and dark shapes of the shrubbery and hedges dripped on Amity’s cloak and hood. The house was blazing with lights. Five horses stood tethered near the veranda steps, snorting and snuffling in the dusk.

Selene was right about that. But she had no magic powers. She didn’t know and couldn’t guess the facts of Hester’s murder. Perhaps she had no really safe and secure way to conceal Simon. With a heavy sense of apprehension Amity climbed the curving stairway.

The lounge was full of candles and people. There were two soldiers, in scarlet-coated uniforms, and a little, withered old man with a tanned face and a tousled wig, above rusty-looking black. Aunt Grappit, China, Neville and Charles were all there and Grappit was saying smoothly, “—so we had to bury her right away, last night. McWhinn told us we had to. Of course I realized that you, sir, or someone in authority should see the girl.”

The two men in red coats stood like statues. The little man in rusty black sighed, got out an enameled snuffbox, took some snuff in an absent way, not offering it to anyone else, sneezed, and said, “We have McWhinn’s deposition. Who is this?” He was looking at Amity, in her red cloak spattered with rain.

Grappit gave a little start. “Oh, yes. My niece, Miss Amity Mallam. Squire Wickes. He is”—Grappit coughed—“custodian of the parish.”

“Custos, we call it. From
Custos Rotulorum.”
He made a neat leg. “Your servant, ma’am.” It struck Amity that his eyes which looked old, tired and a little bloodshot, were also keen. Certainly he noted the splotches of raindrops on her cloak. “You’ve been walking, Miss Mallam? A rather dark and dismal night for a walk.”

Everyone in the room then looked hard at Amity’s cloak and harder into her face.

She swept off the coat, touched her hair to put it in order, and said, “I wanted some fresh air. You mistake my name, sir—or rather my title. I am Mrs. Simon Mallam.”

“Oh?” Squire Wickes’ old eyes, set amid perfect nests of wrinkles, traveled around the room. “Where is your husband?”

Where, indeed? Amity thought. She followed the letter of the truth and yet lied. “He is not here.”

“But—this is really—this marriage—” Grappit foundered and Charles came to Amity’s rescue. “Mr. Mallam is in America,” he said definitely.

Squire Wickes didn’t even pause to think it over. “Of the King’s party there, I presume.”

Amity replied, her head up, defiant without intending to be. “No. He is an officer in the Continental Army.”

“Ah. A rebel.” Squire Wickes shook his tousled wig but eyed Amity closely.

Grappit coughed again. “Unfortunate. A willful lad, always—”

Madam Grappit said, “Neville, wine—”

Neville gave a start and went for wine. Squire Wickes sighed. “They tell me you found this poor girl. Is there anything you can tell us about her, Miss—Madam Mallam?”

Neville returned with wine and glasses. McWhinn, mud-spattered too, came in the back door. His face was tired, gray and rocky.

Amity replied. “She came on board the ship at Savannah. My stepmother employed her as a nursemaid—I was the one who found her, sir, in the garden, after the earthquake.”

“Yes, yes.” Squire Wickes lifted a rather dirty, wrinkled hand. “I know all that. McWhinn has given us a full report. Thank you—” He took the wine Neville poured for him and sipped it.

Aunt Grappit, very politely, said, “Will you take wine, Captain? Leftenant?”

Both red-coated men bowed and accepted wine. Squire Wickes said, “I know little of investigation into murder. Still, the problems of my parish usually come in the end to me.” He turned to the two men in uniform. “Have you any questions, Captain? Leftenant?”

The captain swallowed too fast, choked, looked embarrassed and said he was afraid he hadn’t. The gawky young lieutenant had a rangy, red and honest English face. “Well—the gel’s dead, sir,” he said.

“Yes, I fear that is the core of the situation. Mr. Grappit.” This time he addressed Neville. “Are you sure that you saw her in this—city in America?”

Neville, a glass in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other, flushed like a girl. “Charlestown. I thought so. I wasn’t sure. But Charles—that is Mr. Carey, here, lives in Charlestown. He said he had never seen her there.”

“No, I never did,” Charles said flatly.

Squire Wickes sipped more wine. “The disagreeable fact is, sir”—he looked at Grappit now, over the rim of the wine glass—“McWhinn tells me that none of the servants or workmen on your place murdered her.”

Grappit was inclined to bluster. “That means nothing—lies—” he began, and Squire Wickes said, “I have McWhinn’s word, sir—your obeah woman told him.”

“The obeah woman! That girl would say anything—”

“No,” Squire Wickes said. “She tells the truth. So that leaves—yes, a very disagreeable situation, indeed. Persons of high degree—” He seemed to mumble to himself. “As a rule we don’t have murder—a cutting yes, stabbing, quarrels ending in fatalities among the people, dear me, yes, but the militia, the magistrates see to all that. Hanging.” He took more snuff. “Never in my experience has a murder occurred in my parish which obliged anyone to question persons of high degree. But I had the pleasure of knowing the late Mr. Mallam—yes. And the magistrate has the fever. Well, there, it is clearly my duty.”

Two red spots surged into Grappit’s thin cheeks. “I assure you, sir, this girl was not murdered by—by me, or—This is outrageous.”

“Indeed it is,” said Squire Wickes.

The flames in Grappit’s cheeks grew brighter. Aunt Grappit looked like a fine lady who suspects a very disagreeable smell and like a fine lady who also suspects that her back must be held very straight and her head high in order to preserve her equilibrium. China, too, seemed inclined to hang onto the arm of the sofa as if the room still slightly rocked around her. Mallam Penn rum had taken its toll of both of them, Amity thought briefly. The captain of the militia finished his wine and looked thirstily at the bottle in Neville’s hand. Charles sat, quite composed, his dark face showing no expression whatever.

The Squire said suddenly, “Tell me about your marriage, Miss—I should say Madam Mallam.”

“My—that has nothing to do with—with this!” Amity said, too quickly, for the old man gave her a penetrating glance.

“Oh, indeed I fear there may be some connection, madam. Those two men in America—the parson who married you, the solicitor who was a witness, both dead so suddenly, tragically.”

“Who told you that?” Grappit shouted and glared at McWhinn. “You did! You’re a dirty, disloyal scandal monger!”

McWhinn’s eyes were like flints. “Discharge me, then, man. Discharge me. Run this penn yourself if you can!”

Squire Wickes lifted his hand. “If you please, gentlemen. Mr. McWhinn told me, certainly. Murder in America, murder in Jamaica—yes, yes, sad. The same people involved.”

Aunt Grappit’s nostrils quivered as if her suspicion of a bad smell had been confirmed. “Who told you all that rubbish, McWhinn?”

Selene told him, Amity thought; Simon told her.

“I know it,” McWhinn said. “That’s enough, ma’am.”

“It was accident!” Aunt Grappit said firmly. “Shincok was always a tosspot. He got himself drunk and fell—and high time. As to the lawyer, God knows he’d quarreled too much with too many people. This girl, Hester—you didn’t see her, sir—she was a sluttish wench. None of us know anything about her death but that girl invited trouble—”

“De mortuis
—” Squire Wickes shook his head and then straightened his frowzy wig. “This—you call him lawyer in America—I take it he was your family lawyer?”

He looked at Amity who replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Then it was he who drew up your father’s will?”

“Yes, sir.”