‘But did you like it?’ It wasn’t the first time she’d asked the question.
‘Yes, I suppose I did. It was much more beautiful than I’d imagined.’
‘Dangerous, too.’ She brushed a lash from her eye. ‘You must have been frightened for your life during the storm.’
‘I suppose so.’ Pyke tried to remember what he’d felt that night but couldn’t put it into words.
‘I was thinking about what happened to my brother and I can’t help feeling that something is amiss. He would never have taken shelter in that part of the house. In the old days, if a storm hit, we would take refuge in the counting house or even the dungeon.’
‘I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t privy to his decision.’
Elizabeth nodded, but seemed dissatisfied with the answer. ‘But they’re sure he died as a result of the storm?’
‘As far as I know. I mean, why wouldn’t they be?’
‘I don’t know. I’d hate to think foul play was involved, but he had written to me recently and told me how fractious the atmosphere at Ginger Hill had become.’
‘No, I’m certain your brother’s death was a consequence of the storm.’
This seemed to settle her. She fiddled with her empty glass. ‘It still doesn’t explain why you went all that way just to find out what happened to Mary.’ She added, with a shrug, ‘I hope you don’t mind me prying. I’m just trying to understand you a little better.’
‘Why do you want to understand me better?’
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. ‘You don’t think this man, Arthur Sobers, killed her, do you?’ she said, trying to read his thoughts.
‘Honestly? No, I don’t.’
‘Then why did he plead guilty?’
Pyke stared into her dark eyes and noticed tiny yellow flecks spotted around her irises. ‘I think he’s trying to shoulder the blame for someone else. But I don’t know why.’
‘Really?’ She didn’t flinch or turn away. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Love, misplaced loyalty, who knows?’
She let his words linger between them for a few moments. ‘But what are you hoping to gain by finding the man who really killed her?’
‘Who said it was a man?’
She reached for the rum bottle and again refilled both of their glasses. ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she said, taking a sip of the rum.
‘Are you asking me why I care about Mary’s death?’
Elizabeth just nodded.
‘It’s a job I agreed to do. I like to see things through to the end.’
‘That’s it?’
‘You think I should just let her rot in an unmarked grave?’
She shook her head and gave him a solemn look. ‘Honestly, I think what you’re doing is entirely to your credit.’ It was a bland statement, in a way, but when he looked at her, there were tears in her eyes.
She reached out across the table and squeezed his hand. He let it linger there for longer than he should have. All the rum he’d drunk had left him light headed. Elizabeth, on the other hand, seemed almost sober.
‘A while ago, I asked about daguerreotypes,’ he said, noticing the way the curve of her neck accentuated the shape of her chin.
‘Ah, back to the questions…’ She withdrew her hand and offered him a good-natured smile.
‘You don’t mind?’
She shrugged. ‘If I’m honest, I quite like the fact that you’re interested in me. I’ve been so starved of human company…’
‘Daguerreotypes.’ In Jamaica, Charles Malvern had told Pyke that his interest in the new medium had been fired by his sister.
‘It’s a pastime. Other women like to press flowers.’
‘But how did you first develop an interest in it?’
‘I read about it in the newspaper. It sounded interesting.’ Absent-mindedly, she coiled a loose strand of hair around her finger. ‘I’m not the spoiled, stupid planter’s daughter you think I am.’
‘Who said I thought that?’ Pyke took out the copperplate of Bessie Daniels and pushed it across the table. He needed to steer their conversation back towards more neutral matters. ‘I don’t know what your dealings with Crane are but he’s learned about daguerreotypes from someone — for some reason I suspected it might be you. While you might just take pictures of flowers and plants, you’ll see he’s been quick to exploit the medium for his own ends.’
She studied the image, then pushed it back across the table. The disgusted look on her face seemed genuine. ‘You think I taught him how to do that?’
‘I do.’ Pyke waited.
She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘God, whatever must you think of me?’
Refusing to be sidetracked, Pyke added, ‘Her name’s Bessie Daniels. A brothel madam called Eliza Craddock sold her to Crane for five guineas.’ He took the daguerreotype and put it back into his coat pocket.
‘Is she…’ Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to finish the question.
‘Is she dead?’ Pyke saw her pupils dilate slightly. ‘I don’t know.’ He wanted to be angry at her — at anyone — but somehow he couldn’t quite manage it.
‘I’m sorry I ever met him.’
Suddenly she looked exhausted, but Pyke wasn’t quite finished with his questions. ‘And Samuel Ticknor?’
‘I don’t think I know him.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘Should I?’
‘He’s an agent for the Vice Society.’
‘I’m still not sure,’ she said, her brow furrowed in thought.
‘It’s not a trick question,’ Pyke said, allowing his frustration to show. ‘Either you know him or you don’t.’
‘I haven’t been into the field for more than a year and I’m afraid that my memory for names isn’t good. Perhaps I might recognise him.’ Her expression seemed so sincere that he was disarmed.
‘Do you remember meeting a woman called Lucy Luckins?’
‘No. Who is she?’
‘Just another girl fallen on hard times.’ For some reason, Pyke didn’t want to tell her that Lucy was also dead.
‘I might know her. But then again I might not.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘I meet so many people from all walks of life…’
‘But none you actually like?’ he asked, softening a little. He was beginning to sense her weariness and frustration.
‘But none I actually like,’ she said, repeating his line and smiling. ‘Or almost none.’ This time she looked directly into his eyes. ‘You didn’t come here only to ask me questions, did you?’ She finished her rum and waited for Pyke to do likewise.
They were sitting across the table from one another so she couldn’t see his erection. She’d answered his questions with patience and humour but he also knew that that didn’t mean she’d told the truth.
‘You’re not married, are you?’ she asked suddenly.
‘My wife died five years ago.’ For some reason Pyke wanted her to know this; wanted her to know the truth. In part, it felt as if they’d both been playing a game, toying with each other, and that this was the first honest thing he’d said.
‘I’m sorry.’ She bit her lip. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’
The warmth from the rum had spread to his stomach. ‘I’m glad you did.’ Tentatively he put his hand out across the table.
She reached across the table and their fingers brushed together. Was he still trying to elicit information from her? To expose her as a liar? In an instant the game had changed and suddenly he was unsure of himself.
‘Pyke?’ Elizabeth stared at him, clear eyed, absolutely serious.
‘Yes?’ The word seemed to get stuck in his throat.
Their fingers coiled together. He squeezed. She squeezed. The candle that had been glowing on the table next to them flickered and then burned out. He heard her chair move and felt her pull his hand towards her. Standing, he groped for her face, touching her nose, her lips, her eyes, her hair, their mouths meeting somewhere over the middle of the table, lips, tongues, teeth urgently seeking their counterpart, each touch, each messy kiss, firing rather than satiating his need, until all he could do was climb up on to the table and pull her under him. But she seemed just as hungry as him, more so if that were possible, and she wasn’t going to be dictated to; she wouldn’t let him rip off her dress, and whenever his hands ventured near her back, she grunted slightly and shooed him away. Still, as she guided him into her, Pyke was too far gone to tell whether her sudden gasp was genuine or not; the intensity of the moment was almost too much for him to bear.