The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) (15 page)

Thomas was crushed. Of course the brutes would swear an
oath if it saved their own skins. And it wouldn’t matter a farthing who or what they swore it to. He should have known. If everyone else either swore or was banished, Walrond would have succeeded and there would be little hope of an early escape. He trudged miserably back to his hut.

THERE WAS ANOTHER
row of notches on the table. No word from Adam Lyte, no banishment for the Gibbes, no prospect of escape. The Gibbes had left for Holetown, telling Thomas they would want dinner when they returned. God forbid that they had gone looking for women again.

Thomas sat under the listening tree and thought of home. But no sooner had he conjured a picture of Polly and Lucy chasing butterflies in the meadow than the picture turned into a poorhouse, the girls in rags and Margaret begging on the street. Again and again he tried, summoning to mind every happy image he could think of. The shop, his books, the trout stream just outside the village, the girls again.

But the images swiftly melted away, to be replaced by something foul. He thought of trying to sleep but the punishment if he failed to wake before the brutes returned would be painful. He thought of walking but it was the hottest time of the day. And he thought, as he did every day, of escape. Escape, a voyage home,
justice. Patrick had urged him to be patient but there had still been no word. He must do something.

Alone at night, Thomas had even wondered if he could find it in himself to kill the brutes. Now he wondered again. There were opportunities enough when they lay snoring on the floor; the heaviest kitchen knife would do the deed. But having never wielded a knife, nor for that matter any weapon, in anger, he had not resolved the important question of how to use it to best effect and he doubted he ever would. A stab to the heart might require more strength than he had at his disposal, he was unsure of the correct technique for throat cutting and a thrust into the eye or the mouth would surely be beyond him. To test this, he picked up a stick, closed his eyes and imagined pushing it into a sleeping brute’s face. No, he could not do it. A strike with a shovel or an axe might work. But what if he made a mistake? What if the first victim’s shriek woke the second? What then for Thomas Hill? An unimaginable end, that was what. He knew, deep down wherever his soul was – didn’t Aristotle say it was the stomach? Or was it the heart? Or the bowel? – that he would never do it.

He sat despondently for a while and was about to abandon his musing to inspect the dinner, when a new thought occurred. The knife and the axe might not be the only ways to achieve the desired result. What about something more subtle, something not involving brute force and bloodshed? What about poison? Could he possibly poison them? If he could, the chances of detection would be far less. Poison – the weapon of the Medicis. Why not the weapon of indentured booksellers? Now what could he put in their food that they would not notice but would be sure to kill them? Rotten meat? Urine? No, they might not work, and, however drunk, they would notice. What then? Unfortunately,
Barbados was remarkably free of poisonous insects and plants. Only the ugly centipede could inflict a really nasty sting and he was not going to go looking for one of those.

And then it came to him. The manchineel tree. On the way back from a trip to the market, they had sheltered from a rainstorm under a stand of trees by the beach at the bottom of the hill. When he had moved a little away from the Gibbes he had noticed their evil grins. He had stood under a pretty tree with green fruit dangling from its low branches and waited for the rain to stop. A few drops fell through the branches, touched the fruit and landed on his arm. To the Gibbes’s delight, the arm immediately blistered painfully and they gleefully suggested he might eat the manchineel fruit as a way of ending his indenture.

The more he thought about it, the more promising the little manchineel tree seemed. He considered the problems of how to collect the apples and how to administer them. He assessed his chances of success and the consequences of failure. Poisoning was, after all, poisoning; it would be murder. Murder of two thoroughly deserving brutes but murder nevertheless. If found guilty of murder or attempted murder, he would surely hang. Whatever the provocation, taking a life in cold blood could not be condoned.

And how could Thomas Hill, hater of violence, justify an act of killing? Could he call it self-defence – if he did not kill them, sooner or later they would kill him? A little contrived but it would have to do. It might take some time, but he could just about persuade himself that eventually the brutes would kill him.

He examined his resolve. It seemed, at that moment, firm. He jumped up and went back into the kitchen to find a sack and some linen cloths.

It was about half a mile to the coast. If Thomas was going to fetch poisonous apples and prepare them in good time for the return of the brutes, he had better leave at once. Fortified by a small tot of dark rum, he set off down the hill to the beach where manchineels grew. He took with him the cloths to protect his hands from the fruit and the sack to put them in. He reckoned on collecting twenty apples. Thomas took this route when he went to the market. Keeping an eye out as he went, he walked as quickly as he dared without running the risk of drawing attention to himself. He met no one on the way down the hill and, much relieved, was soon on the beach. A narrow crescent of white sand running into the clear waters of the Caribbean Sea, it might well have been an inspiration to a passing artist or poet but Thomas had eyes only for the line of trees that separated sand from soil all along its length.

He checked that there was no one about and then, using the cloths as gloves, carefully picked apples from the lower branches, some of which almost touched the ground, and put them in his sack. Twenty apples became thirty, just in case of accidents. He might lose some in the preparation and there was no point in risking the poison being too weak. ‘
Fortuna fortes fovet
,’ he said out loud to himself. Fortune favours the brave.

With a sackful of poisonous manchineel apples over his shoulder, the return journey was the riskiest part of the operation. Again he walked quickly but the sack and the hill made for hard going and he did not keep as careful a lookout as he had on the way down.

Not far from the turning to the Gibbes’s house, a rider appeared from around a bend in the path a little higher up the hill. His pony was picking its way down slowly and had Thomas seen
him a few seconds earlier, he might have been able to slip off the path into the trees. But it was too late. The figure had waved a greeting. It was Patrick.

‘Good day, Thomas. Been to the market? That sack looks heavy.’

Thomas was flustered. So near home, he had let his guard drop and he could be in trouble. He did not want to have to explain a sack of manchineel apples. Knowing he was a hopeless liar, he almost panicked. He would have liked to ask Patrick if Adam Lyte had said anything about him yet, but he did not want to be drawn into a discussion. ‘Yes, yes, Patrick. The brutes have gone off and left me to cook their dinner. I had to walk down to the market and buy meat. Hot work, and I’m thirsty. Kitchen’ll be hot too, I shouldn’t wonder.’ The words tumbled out and Patrick looked quizzical.

‘Not like them to run out of meat. I’m on my way to the market now. Busy down there, is it?’

‘Er, no. Not too busy. But not quiet. Middling, really.’

‘Ah, well. I must be on my way. Take care, Thomas.’ Patrick lightly flicked his reins and rode on.

‘Thank you, Patrick. Go well.’ Thomas watched him ride cautiously on until he was out of sight. He knew that he would not be able to carry off another deception. He turned and ran.

There was a chance that the brutes had returned earlier than expected but when he arrived, thank the Lord, all was well. He went straight into the kitchen, where the mutton and chickens were gently roasting, and put the sack in the corner. He would catch his breath before tackling the manchineel pudding. He sat down.

It was a mistake. Up to that point, the need for action had
driven him on but having thought of the plan and carried out half of it, it suddenly seemed absurd. All manner of things could go wrong. The apples might not be poisonous enough at this time of year, the brutes might not eat the pudding, they might notice the guilt on his face and force a confession from him or they might be feeling charitable and invite him to share their dinner. The last was unlikely but, at such times, the mind can play odd tricks. And he had no idea what to do when they were dead. What would he do with the bodies? Bury them? Burn them? Leave them to be found and hope no one guessed the truth? Two dead Gibbes would be something the magistrate could not overlook and he would never stand up to examination.

There was also the matter of conscience. Was Thomas Hill, law-abiding, peace-loving Thomas Hill, doting brother and uncle, educated bookseller and philosopher, really capable of committing murder? Not one of his friends or family would have said so. There was provocation enough, to be sure, but provocation did not alter the fact that it would be murder. Thomas Hill would be a murderer. Hopefully, only he would know that but he would nevertheless be a different Thomas Hill. He would be obliged to spend whatever remained of his life knowing he had killed two human beings in cold blood. Could he live in peace with himself if he carried out the rest of the plan? Had he the courage to do it? Would he take the risk? He rose from his chair, walked over to the corner and picked up the sack of apples. The Gibbes were brutes, not human beings. The answer was a ringing yes.

He placed ten apples on one of the cloths, folded the corners over and started mashing them up with a heavy stone, tentatively at first but soon more forcefully. It was not long before the apples were pulp and their juice was leaking through the cloth. Taking
care, he squeezed the juice into a bowl and threw the pulp away. When he had repeated this process three times he had a bowl full of greenish manchineel juice, which he put to one side.

Then he prepared the sweet pudding, mixing up cream, sugar and almonds, and set it beside the bowl of juice. Reckoning that the potency of the juice would be greater if left to itself for as long as possible, he would mix them together just before serving. Having covered both bowls with the cloths, he dealt with the roasting meat and sat down again to wait for the return of his victims. His mind and conscience were clear and his determination unwavering. He would poison the brutes, find their money and buy a passage home. He might never discover who had arranged his arrest and indenture but Margaret and the girls were waiting for him, they would be overjoyed to see him and they would all go back to their peaceful life in Romsey.

When the brutes returned, they were in an evil mood. ‘Get off your arse and bring the dinner, Hill, and be quick about it. And bring wine. We’re parched.’

Thomas had been watching for their return and was ready. He brought the mutton and chickens out immediately and went back for bread and wine. By the time he had fetched these, the brutes were tearing at the meat with their hands and stuffing lumps into their mouths. He left the wine and bread on the table and returned to the kitchen. The moment was approaching.

After a few minutes, he took a quick look to check that the brutes were fully occupied. Happy that they were, he picked up the bowl of juice and poured it into the pudding. He mixed it in thoroughly with a long wooden spoon and stood back to await their summons. Light-headed at the prospect of being rid of the brutes and astonished that anticipation of an act for which he might hang
should afford such pleasure, he barely resisted the temptation to take the pudding through straight away. But that might be fatal. So unpredictable were they that the brutes were quite capable of throwing it out of the door and demanding that he bring another one when they called for it but not before. So he waited quietly and hoped that the little green apples of the manchineel tree would live up to their reputation.

How long he waited he was not sure, but when he heard the first rumbling snore he shot out of the kitchen to where the brutes were eating. Or rather, where they had been eating. Samuel and John Gibbes, stuffed with meat and wine, their mouths open and their heads resting on the table, had passed out. There was nothing new in this but, at the instant of taking in the scene, Thomas went cold. Even if he woke them, they would only take out their fury on him and then go back to sleep.

His daring plan, his careful execution – both come to nothing. His hopes for escape dashed. He cursed himself for not bringing the pudding in sooner, he cursed the brutes for passing out and he cursed his cruel luck. He stopped short of cursing the Almighty but, after months in purgatory, only just short. For a minute or two he stood unthinking outside the hovel; then, seeking the meagre comfort of his hut, he left them to snore.

The hut was as hot and airless as ever. He lay on his cot and stared at the ceiling. He saw Margaret and the girls in a foul hovel, dressed in rags, pleading for him to come home. He saw the brutes lying dead in a field, their bloated corpses being eaten by dogs. And he saw himself, emaciated, starving, a beggar on the streets of Bridgetown. He had missed his chance and might never have another. He was a clod.