Jane studied the map. It would not restore Amey to life, but it might save some other woman. “Frank and I will attempt to find a location for it.”
The map had been clearly drawn, with the neat rectangles of the great house and counting house surrounded by acres and acres of cane fields. They had been broken into smaller plots, each delineated with a careful line. The distillery was closer than she had expected, on the road to St. John’s, but in the opposite direction. Only a few spots were not developed for agriculture. Jane pointed at one of those. “What about here? The land between us and the Whitten estate.”
He answered quickly, “There is a ravine between us.”
“It is barely more than a gulley on this map.”
“Alas, that is one of the places where the surveyors failed in their duty. The ground is quite treacherous there, and erosion has widened and deepened it over the years. Even if we were to build well back from it, I worry that the building would fall.”
Vincent made a humphing sound from where he sat. “There is currently no sickroom?”
“Correct—or, rather, there is one in name, but it is only a room in the basement of the great house with a cot in it. I keep it supplied with some bandages and a few medicines for the use of the house staff.” Frank turned his attention back to the map. “Perhaps something near the distillery? That is where the worst injuries happen.”
“Is there room to put another building on the site?” Jane tilted her head to consider the plans. “On this small rise, for instance? That would not be in the way of the wagons or other work, I think.”
“It would take some effort to level the top of it for building, but you are correct that it is of no utility to the factory.”
“Jane … did you say that the doctor had not been here for months?” Vincent called, his finger on a line in the ledger.
She turned away from Frank. “Yes. Her visit to Amey was the first in months. I am not certain how many months, though.”
“But she certainly has not been here once a week.” Quite astonishingly, Vincent began to smile and then to chuckle. “Oh, the devil. The devil. She could not testify against him because she is coloured. Nor could Frank.”
Jane pushed away from the table at almost the same moment that Frank abandoned the map. He strode briskly to Vincent and leaned over his chair. “What have you found?”
“I found where the money is going.” He tapped the page. “I know how Mr. Pridmore is embezzling from my father.”
Twenty-one
Invitations
According to the books, Mr. Pridmore had been paying Dr. Jones a regular and healthy sum to call upon the estate weekly, in addition to any other emergencies—of which he had several listed. More money appeared as a transfer to Frank for supplying the sickroom in the great house. Based on those amounts, it should be handsomely equipped. That it was merely a room with some bandages could easily be reflected to make it appear that Frank was the one stealing funds. The laws of Antigua stipulated that no person of colour could testify against a white person. Therefore, neither of them could appear in court to say that the listed amounts had never been paid nor engaged.
Now that they knew the pattern to look for, Frank went through the books looking for other tradespeople that he knew to be people of colour. In one instance, Pridmore had recorded a repair to the number two boiler, which Vincent was certain had not been done by a professional. In another, he had paid top prices for bolts of fabric to make clothing for the slaves and had “ordered” the cloth from a mulatto haberdasher in St. John’s. They found dozens of cases hidden among the accounts, and Jane had little doubt that there were more.
While Vincent and Frank organised their arguments, Jane sent Zachary to Nkiruka with a basket of provisions. Consultation with Frank had suggested that that would be rather more appreciated than the letter of condolence she would have sent in England. Zachary returned with Nkiruka’s thanks and said that she seemed very low. Jane counted the days until the propriety of mourning would allow her to call.
At the end of the week, Jane’s new gown was delivered. It was black, avowedly because they were still in public mourning for Lord Verbury and Garland, but privately Jane wore it in honour of Amey, and for Nkiruka’s loss.
As they dressed for dinner, Vincent slowly stiffened. His movements became more precise and controlled. At times, he would halt with a cravat half lifted, or in the act of buttoning his waistcoat, and close his eyes tightly. A line would appear between his brows for a moment, then his eyes would open and he would carry on as though the pause had not occurred.
While Louisa did Jane’s hair, she used the mirror to watch Vincent. He scowled as he attempted to tie a second cravat. The first had not pleased him. He stopped in the middle of arranging the silk into a waterfall knot, closed his eyes, and that line reappeared, then deepened.
“Not again.” Eyes flying open, he covered his mouth and strode to the balcony door.