Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  The young airport official who had organized the “special diplomatic welcome,” and who now stood holding open the back door of the car, found himself somewhat shocked, both by the appearance and the behavior of this highly important personage. For a start, Dr. Duncan’s black suit was patently ancient—and shiny where it was not threadbare. It must have been made at a time when he weighed considerably more than he did now, for it hung in shabby folds around his skinny body. The old man had wispy, pure white hair and startlingly bright blue eyes, and his wrinkled skin was tanned to a deep chestnut color by years of exposure to the tropical sun. He looked more like a down-and-out beachcomber than anything else. A battered Gladstone bag seemed to be his only luggage.

  Once on terra firma, he impatiently waved away the official and the open car door. Instead, he himself opened the door next to the driver, smiled with extraordinary sweetness, and said, “Hello, Dome, me darlin.’ Got a kiss for a wicked old quack, then?” He climbed into the car, kissed the comely chauffeuse soundly on both cheeks, and turned to wave a feeble hand at the official.

  “Thank ’ee, young man. Very civil.”

  The official slammed the back door of the car, took a pace backward and saluted smartly, feeling deeply insulted. Dr. Duncan wound down the car window and stuck his head out of it.

  “Bit overweight, aren’t you, sonny? Better cut down on the calories and take more exercise.”

  It was perhaps fortunate that the car moved off before the official had time to compose even a mental reply.

  Like Michael Holder-Watts, Dr. Alfred Duncan was one of the few British residents to opt for Tampican nationality at the time of independence. He did not do so because he had his eye on any possible future benefit, but simply because he had made his life in Tampica for more years than he could remember, and had no other home, no other interest and no other place to go. He had arrived on the island more than forty years earlier, an impecunious, newly-qualified doctor, amusing himself by signing on as ship’s doctor on a freighter in order to see something of the world before settling down to a conventional practice in English suburbia.

  He had fallen in love, first with Tampica itself and shortly afterwards with a Tampican girl, and had jumped ship with no qualms. He had married the girl and produced a family of beautiful, coffee-colored children, and the rest of his life had become a long and sometimes painful love affair with Tampica and its people.

  He had soon made friends with a young curate named Matthew Barrington and his pretty blonde wife, Prudence, newly-arrived from England. These three people had set out to tackle the problems of sickness, poverty and illiteracy on the island, armed only with faith and hope. Charity was conspicuously scarce, despite the generosity of an English spinster named Lucy Pontefract-Deacon, who had also made the island her home. Governmental aid was near zero, and opulent tourism only a dream for the future. What was achieved—and it was a great deal—came about by, as Matthew put it, a triumph of mind over money.

  By the time that Matthew retired in all his episcopal glory, Tampica had three good schools and a modern hospital. For Alfred, there was no retirement. His Tampican wife had died, and his two sons were carving careers for themselves in England. Dr. Duncan continued his work at the Alfred Duncan Hospital, and if he was guilty of the sin of pride, it was because the well-equipped new building bore his name. He was the most deeply-loved man on the island, and he had known Eddie Ironmonger, Sam Drake-Frobisher, Winston Nelson and Dorabella Hamilton all their lives —or in some cases rather longer, for he had brought most of them into the world. It was not surprising that Eddie Ironmonger should have turned instinctively to Doctor Duncan for help. Everybody on Tampica did.

  As the limousine purred up the airport approach highway toward the Beltway, Dr. Duncan said, “My word, what a beautiful day. You have a pleasant climate here, no doubt about that.” He glanced at Dorabella. She was looking straight ahead, concentrating on the road, her face expressionless. Duncan went on, “This sounds like a bad business, Dorrie.” Still the girl did not speak. Gently, the doctor said, “Better tell me a bit about it. Sam was very vague and I wouldn’t want to bother Eddie with too many questions.”

  Dorabella pressed her lips tightly together, and a single big tear ran down her black satin cheek. Then she sniffed and said, “I can’t tell you much, Doc. I don’t know.”

  “Tell me all you can.”

  “Well. . . it was the evening of our first official reception. You knew that?”

  “I heard as much on the radio at Antigua. And Sam told me that Mavis’s death was apparently not natural, and that there might have to be an inquiry. Outside of that, I’m in the dark.”

  “It’s so unfair on Eddie!” Dorabella burst out suddenly. “He’s always been so good and so patient, and trying to help her, and we thought she might show a little gratitude at last—and now she has to do this!”

  “Do what?” Duncan prompted, softly.

  “Kill herself, of course. In the middle of a reception, with maximum publicity! It’ll ruin Eddie’s career!”

  Duncan said, “You mean, she actually committed suicide in front of all the guests?”

  “Well . . . not exactly,” Dorabella admitted. “She made some sort of a scene—I wasn’t in the room at the time, but Michael says she got drunk and insulted an Israeli diplomat. Michael and . . . Mrs. Holder-Watts managed to get her away from the reception and up to her room, and they thought she’d just sleep it off. But oh, no. She’d stolen Eddie’s revolver earlier in the day, and she simply shot herself.”

  Dr. Duncan was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “What a very strange thing to do,” he said. “You don’t think it could have been . . . em . . . remorse for her bad behavior?”

  Dorabella made a short, vulgar remark about remorse as she swung the car into the stream of traffic on the Beltway.

  “Hm,” said Duncan. “Well, perhaps you’re right. In any case, I know now that she was shot, apparently by her own hand.” He sighed. “Poor Mavis.”

  Dorabella took her eyes off the road for long enough to shoot him a glance. “Poor Eddie,” she said bitterly.

  “Oh, I know where your sympathies lie, my dear—and Winnie’s, and many other people’s. Still, you might try to find a little pity in your heart for her now.”

  Evenly, Dorabella said, “I always despised her. Now I hate her.”

  Dr. Duncan raised a gnarled brown hand as if to protest, then let it fall again, and sighed. The car turned off the Beltway to join the thickening traffic surging towards Washington along the lovely, wooded George Washington Memorial Parkway, and finally over the Potomac River and into Georgetown.

  Sir Edward Ironmonger and Winston Horatio Nelson were both at the Embassy to meet Dr. Duncan. The three men greeted each other briefly, with subdued affection, and then Eddie and Winnie preceded the doctor upstairs. As the two of them stood silently, one on each side of the bedroom door, Dr. Duncan was suddenly and fleetingly reminded of the two life-size black statues that guarded Tutankhamen’s burial chamber. Then Eddie produced a key from his pocket and opened the door.

  He said, “The undertakers have been very efficient. She is already in her coffin, as you will see. When you have made your examination, I will have it closed. Then you must have breakfast and a short rest. An ambulance is waiting to take the coffin to the airport. A chartered plane will fly you back to Tampica. I would like the autopsy report by this evening.”

  Dr. Duncan glanced at the exquisite, pale face and the ugly wound. “I’ll do my best, Eddie.” His eyes took in the chalk marks on the floor, and the gun.

  As if in answer to an unspoken comment, Eddie said, “As soon as she has gone, this room will be sealed until you have made your report. You will telephone me as soon as possible?”

  “Of course. And now perhaps you will leave me with her. I won’t be long.”

  There was only a handful of people—one journalist, a few passers-by and two policemen—outside the house to see Mavis leave it for
the last time. The coffin slid smoothly into the ambulance, Dr. Duncan climbed in beside the driver, the doors were closed and the vehicle moved off. The Ambassador did not appear, nor did any of his staff. The curtains of the Embassy remained drawn, and throughout the day the door was opened only briefly by an unseen hand to take in the telegrams and messages of condolence which arrived from Tampica, from the United States government, from England and from other Washington embassies.

  At seven o’clock that evening, the telephone rang in the Ambassador’s study, where Ironmonger sat alone. He picked up the receiver. Dorabella’s voice said, “Dr. Duncan is on the line from Tampica, Sir Edward.”

  “Put him through, please.”

  “Eddie? This is Doc Duncan.” Sir Edward felt a little pulse of uneasiness. The use of a childhood nickname boded no good. “What’s the news, Doctor?”

  A pause. “Not very good, I’m afraid.”

  ‘Well, tell me.”

  Carefully, the doctor said, “Mavis died as a result of a bullet wound in her right temple.”

  “We all know that.”

  “Agreed. But there’s something else, Eddie.”

  “What?”

  Duncan hesitated. Then he said, “Tell me, Eddie, had Mavis been drinking heavily?”

  For a moment, Ironmonger did not answer. Sitting with the telephone in his hand, he looked as though he had just been hit across the face. Then he said, “Surely your autopsy must have shown—?”

  “No, no. You misunderstand me, Eddie. I meant—had Mavis had a . . . a drinking problem in recent months?”

  Again a hesitation. Then—“Mavis enjoyed a drink, as you very well know, Doc. Sometimes she may have had a few too many. I don’t think you could describe it as a problem.”

  “What I’m driving at is this, Eddie. Had Mavis been receiving medical treatment for alcoholism?”

  “Good God, no!” Ironmonger sounded both outraged and amused. “What on earth gave you that idea?”

  “She had not been taking disulfirame?”

  “Taking what?”

  “Disulfirame.”

  “Certainly not. What is it, anyway? I’ve never heard of it.” Duncan said, “It’s a drug frequently used in the treatment of alcoholism, as a deterrent. The smallest amount of alcohol taken with or after it produces extremely unpleasant symptoms. This naturally discourages the patient from drinking.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you found traces of this . . . whatever-you-call-it. . . in Mavis’s body, Doc?”

  “Yes, Eddie, I am.”

  “But that’s ridiculous! I’d certainly have known if Mavis had been consulting a doctor.”

  “Would you? Are you sure?”

  “In any case, I thought you said that it was impossible—or at least very unpleasant—to drink alcohol if one is being dosed with this stuff. Well, Mavis has certainly been putting away her fair share recently. Including yesterday evening, apparently, although she’d promised to stick to tomato juice. You must have found that out in your examination, too.” Ironmonger paused, then went on, “Wait a moment. Unpleasant symptoms, you said. Well, why didn’t the drug produce unpleasant symptoms last night?”

  “It did,” said Duncan, drily.

  “You don’t mean that—that it killed her? You just said she died of a bullet wound. You’re not making sense, Doc.”

  Dr. Duncan sighed. “I’m afraid I’m making too much sense, Eddie. I’ll explain, but I fear you won’t relish the explanation. Well, here goes.” He cleared his throat. “The autopsy showed that Mavis had taken a large amount of disulfirame—about twice the normal daily dose—not long before she died. She had also taken a small quantity of alcohol. A very small quantity. She had obviously been doing her best to keep her promise during the reception. Perhaps she thought a little sip wouldn’t matter.”

  “But according to Michael and Eleanor, she was roaring drunk!”

  “Exactly. The smallest amount of alcohol, taken in conjunction with all that disulfirame, would immediately produce the symptoms of drunkenness. It would then cause a lapse into deep unconsciousness.”

  “Eleanor said she seemed to pass out in the bedroom.”

  “Yes. The trouble is, Eddie. . . I’m truly sorry, but I have to tell you . . . the trouble is that there is no possibility that she regained consciousness before she died. You see what this means?”

  Sir Edward Ironmonger let out his breath in a long sigh. He said, “I think I knew all along that Mavis was murdered.”

  “I’m afraid so, Eddie. What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. I need a little time to think. Prepare a formal report of your findings in writing, please, and send a copy to the Prime Minister. A little later, I’ll speak to Sam myself.” Eddie Ironmonger paused, and then, with a trace of his usual humor, added, “This is one hell of a situation, isn’t it, Doc?”

  “It is, Eddie, my boy. By God, you’re right. It is.”

  The ten o’clock television newscast that evening had a further announcement to make concerning the death of the Tampican Ambassadress. This time, however, the program producers had been ready and prepared, and the announcer had time to say no more than, “This evening, the Tampican Embassy issued a further statement. . .” before his amiable features faded from the screen, to give way to a blow-up of the photograph taken by The Washington Post’s photographer.

  It was an exceptionally good picture. The French Ambassadress was just recognizable as a quarter-profile, back to camera, in the foreground; in the background, Sir Edward Ironmonger also appeared in quarter-profile, turning away from his wife to exchange a parting remark with a guest who was leaving the receiving line. Slap in the center of the frame, dazzlingly lit by the flash-bulb in contrast to the darkness of the other figures, stood Mavis—a faint smile on her lovely face; leaning slightly forward and extending a tapering white hand to her distinguished visitor.

  Within seconds of the appearance of the picture on the screen, Lady Ironmonger’s death had become the hottest news story in Washington. Up until then, only a handful of people outside the small, enclosed world of diplomacy had had any idea that the new Ambassadress was not a dark-skinned Tampican lady, probably middle-aged, certainly charming and admirable in every way, but hardly . . . well. . . . It came as a revelation that Lady Ironmonger had been young, white and sensationally beautiful. Moreover, she had died in mysterious circumstances only a matter of hours after the photograph had been taken. Boy, was this a story!

  The announcer’s voice helped matters along, fanning the flames.

  “. . . a further statement concerning the sudden death of Lady Ironmonger, the Tampican Ambassadress. Lady Ironmonger’s body was flown this morning to Tampica, where doctors performed an autopsy. Their report states that Lady Ironmonger died as a result of a gunshot wound in the head. It is not yet known by whom the shot was fired, or whether foul play is suspected. An embassy spokesman told reporters that a full-scale inquiry will be held. Meanwhile, Sir Edward Ironmonger, accompanied by British-born Embassy Counsellor Michael Holder-Watts, has already left Washington by air for Tampica, where he will attend his wife’s funeral . . .”

  That night, both Winston Nelson and Dorabella Hamilton left their respective apartments and moved into the Embassy, which was experiencing a state of siege from the press and other media, not to mention the rubber-necking public. But Eddie’s careful strategy had been successful. He himself, together with what remained of poor Mavis, was safely out of the United States, and the whole affair was in Tampican hands. The situation was not good, but it could have been worse.

  6

  Mavis Ironmonger was buried the following afternoon in the cemetery of the square-set gray stone church—looking so much like an incongruously-placed English village church—which stood up on the wooded slopes of Goat Hill, behind the town of Tampica Harbour.

  The funeral was quiet, as Eddie Ironmonger had wished it to be—much to the frustration and fury of the battery of newsmen and wom
en who had leapt onto the story as a result of the evening telecast.

  To their cost, they found that Sir Edward had been too clever for them. Those who had not booked on the night flight to Antigua (and none of them had) found that they could only with difficulty get as far as Antigua Airport before the scheduled time of the funeral. After that, travel arrangements disintegrated into chaos. Those lucky enough to get onto the twenty-seater Heron biplane to St. Mark’s Island found that only four of the twenty could be accommodated on the tiny Piper Aztec which was the largest aircraft capable of landing on the stretch of dust road which Tampica called its airport. Boats might be chartered, but would not arrive until late in the evening. The bars of Antigua and St. Mark’s were crowded that night with embittered, hard-drinking journalists busy inventing spurious stories under the fictitious date line “Tampica.”

  Two mourners who did arrive in time, as honored guests of the Tampican government, were Mavis’s parents—Mr. and Mrs. Hubert Watkins from Penge. Long before Dr. Duncan’s telephone call, Michael Holder-Watts (on Sir Edward’s instructions) had arranged for the Watkinses to be contacted through the Tampican High Commissioner in London. They had stepped off their first-class accommodation on a jumbo jet at Antigua the previous evening, to find a VIP welcome awaiting them, together with the Prime Minister’s private motor yacht, on which they spent the night while it navigated the deep blue waters between the islands.

  To tell the truth, Mr. and Mrs. Watkins hardly knew what to make of it all, for they had not set eyes on their daughter since she had (as Mrs. Watkins frequently remarked) broken her parents’ hearts by successively going off to London to be a model, winning a beauty contest, and—horror of horrors—marrying a black man. Needless to say, the elder Watkinses had steadfastly refused to meet Eddie, and had not attended the wedding. As Pauline Watkins used to say bitterly to her friends at the bridge club—“Please don’t mention Mavis to me. I don’t have a daughter any more. It’s just as if she was dead.”