Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  Eddie’s knighthood had, of course, made a subtle difference— especially since Hubert had been promoted to Branch Manager of the Imperial Insurance Company and the couple had moved to a new neighborhood. A photograph of Mavis somehow found its way onto the mantelpiece in the lounge, and Pauline would say, offhandedly, to visitors—“Yes, that’s my daughter . . . Lady Ironmonger, you know . . . yes, she is, isn’t she? Sweetly pretty. Of course, we don’t see much of them, I’m afraid . . . Eddie—that’s her husband, Sir Edward—he has to be on the other side of the Atlantic most of the time . . .”

  But now Mavis was dead, and the young man on the telephone —who had such a charming voice you really couldn’t tell from it if he was black or white—had begged them to accept the hospitality of the Tampican Prime Minister, Sir Samuel Drake-Frobisher (that sounded all right—but what color was he?) and fly to Tampica for the funeral.

  The young man had also suggested that, while they were there they might like to stay on for a week or so, as guests of the government: they should bring light clothes and beach wear, as the climate was really delightful at this time of the year.

  The next thing had been the big black limousine with a uniformed chauffeur (black) and CD plates, which had whisked them from their suburban home under the admiring eyes of the neighbors. Then the VIP lounge at London Airport, the luxury trans-Atlantic flight, the private yacht. All well and good so far— but what next? Neither of them mentioned, even to each other, that they had never met their son-in-law. It all promised to be a little bit awkward.

  They need not have worried. The yacht was met in Tampica Harbour by Michael Holder-Watts, who charmed the Watkinses on sight. This was their idea of a real diplomatic gentleman—and the right color, too. He escorted them off the yacht and into a waiting car, climbed in with them, and instructed the chauffeur to drive to the Victoria Hotel.

  Then, as the car moved off, he said, “I’m afraid this is a terrible tragedy for both of you—you must feel it as keenly as Eddie does. I’m sure it will be a great comfort to him to know that you are here. I imagine your relationship is very close.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Watkins exchanged an uneasy glance. Mrs. Watkins said, “Well. . . that’s to say. . .”

  Smoothly, Michael added, “As close as could be expected, given the tremendous distance between England and Tampica.”

  “That’s it!” said Mr. Watkins, with a sort of triumph. “That’s just what Pauline meant.”

  “Then it makes my task easier,” said Michael, with a practiced smile. “As Eddie’s parents-in-law, you’ll understand how he feels. He’s anxious not to make a great show of mourning—it would be too painful. He has suggested that he should call for you at the hotel and drive you to the church for the funeral. Afterwards, he has to go to Government House for a conference with the Prime Minister—that’s the penalty of being a public servant. Even private bereavement has to take a back seat to official work. So he suggests that you should move down to Pirate’s Cave this evening, and we all hope that you’ll manage to enjoy a little holiday, in spite of your grief. Eddie will have to get back to Washington almost at once.”

  “That seems a very sound scheme to me,” pronounced Hubert. “Don’t you agree, Pauline?”

  “Oh, I do. Most thoughtful and convenient.” Mrs. Watkins was thinking that she had seldom met a more delightful young man. And Pirate’s Cave! Of course, they’d read about it in the papers—the place where all the film stars and such came to stay. The fabulous, American-owned resort hotel which had been instrumental in putting Tampica onto the tourist map. Wait till the neighbors in Penge heard about that!

  Mrs. Watkins’s favorable opinion of Michael Holder-Watts was not reciprocated. He regarded Mavis’s parents as crass, ill-bred and a confounded nuisance. However, he had his instructions from Eddie—to preserve a flawless public fagade at the funeral, to get rid of the Watkins couple as fast as possible afterwards, and to stop their mouths with the sweet sop of a week or so at Pirate’s Cave. This would put them under a massive obligation to Eddie and the Tampican government, and also seclude them physically during what might be a sensitive period. Above all, they must be screened from the press, and prevented from putting their feet in things.

  Meanwhile, Michael automatically switched on the effortless charm that was part of his job, and by the time he deposited them at the ugly, massive entrance to the Victoria Hotel in Tampica Harbour, both Watkinses were convinced that he had genuinely enjoyed their company, and was sorry to leave them.

  Their meeting after lunch with Sir Edward was short, cold, formal and very correct. Few words were exchanged, either at the hotel or in the car on the way to the church. However, the bereaved widower was snapped by the local press solicitously escorting his parents-in-law through the lych-gate into the churchyard. Pauline Watkins felt the solemnity of the occasion more deeply with each flash of a photographer’s bulb. She even shed a few quite genuine tears beside her daughter’s coffin. She also felt gratified that she had recently bought a smart new black dress that would come out well in the pictures.

  When it was all over, Sir Edward and the Watkinses shook hands with decorous expressions of grief, and were borne away in separate cars. By five o’clock, when the first and most enterprising journalists finally arrived from the United States, the excitement was over and the birds had flown.

  The management of the Victoria Hotel told them—believing it to be true—that Lady Ironmonger’s parents had already left the island on a small cargo ship which would take them by a leisurely route back to England. A few pressmen did attempt to contact Pirate’s Cave, on the offchance—but the staff were adept at defending the privacy and anonymity of their guests. They had never heard the name of Watkins. No, they never issued guest lists to the press. They were sorry, the hotel was fully booked. No, it was not possible for a nonresident to book a table for dinner. They deeply regretted. . . .

  As for Sir Edward Ironmonger and Mr. Holder-Watts, they were staying at the Prime Minister’s residence, and there was no question of interviewing them. Dr. Duncan was in the operating theater at the hospital, and proposed to stay there.

  Angry and frustrated, the journalists set about making bricks without straw, thumping out “atmosphere” pieces on the beauty of the island, the charm of the quiet hillside graveyard and the events leading up to the recent achievement of independence. They also, of course, set about digging up dirt on Mavis’s character —but here, surprisingly, they met with scant success. The islanders, to a man and woman, loved Edward Ironmonger. They certainly did not intend to pass on to strange news-hounds gossip which might harm him—and besides, the wench was dead. As for the small remaining European community, it instinctively closed its ranks against outsiders. After all, you could say what you liked about Mavis, she had been English. Whatever hints the reporters might have picked up in Washington, they found no confirmation of them in Tampica.

  In the bar of the Victoria Hotel, a journalist from New York gloomily ordered his third rum punch, and discussed his lack of progress with a colleague.

  “I took a goddam jeep all the way over the hill to interview that crazy old woman—what’s her name?”

  “Miss Pontefract-Deacon,” said his companion, heavily. “Pronounced Pumfrey-Doon. Yeah, so did I.”

  “The queen of Tampica, they call her. Eighty if she’s a day, and bright as a button. And all she would say was ‘Everybody loved Mavis.’ ”

  The Tampican barmaid, arriving at that moment with the rum punch, broke into a peal of uninhibited laughter.

  “You can say that again!” she remarked, and swayed off down the bar, gyrating her shapely bottom. But what sort of a story, the reporters asked each other, could one make out of that? Besides, the woman was dead. “Lively . . . fun-loving . . . wide circle of friends . . that was about as far as one could go. Couldn’t even say “gay” these days—and that, at least, was one activity of which nobody had ever accused Mavis Ironmonger The newsmen ordered more rum, a
nd sank deeper into depression.

  Meanwhile, on a shady terrace outside the big drawing-room of the Prime Minister’s residence, known as The Lodge, Sir Samuel Drake-Frobisher, Sir Edward Ironmonger and Michael Holder-Watts were engaged in an informal conference, as they watched the magnificence of a Caribbean sunset—the sky turning to deep red and burnished gold, as the blazing globe sank towards the darkening sea, outlining a string of small rocky islands like the humps of a sea serpent’s back. The pale pink flowers of a spreading white cedar tree glimmered in the twilight beside the red blossoms of a leafless sword tree, and the huge buds of a Cinderella plant opened their white petals to the cool of the evening, to enjoy one night of beauty before the fierce morning sunshine smothered them with killing heat.

  Sir Samuel, knocking the ash off his cigar into a silver ashtray, said, “This is a difficult business, Eddie.”

  “Eddie is doing splendidly,” said Holder-Watts. “He is to be congratulated.”

  Ironmonger’s mouth tightened. “A curious thing to say to a man who has just lost his wife, Michael.”

  “Oh, to hell with it, Eddie. You know what I mean.”

  “I do indeed. And I do not find it either amusing or in the best of taste.”

  “Now, let us not quarrel.” Sir Samuel might not be Eddie’s intellectual equal—indeed, he had never claimed to be—but he was many years older, and at moments like this seniority was a useful adjunct to rank. “What Michael meant—and I agree—is that things have been managed with great skill and diplomacy, so far. However, we’re far from the end of this matter. There will have to be a full inquiry into Mavis’s death. A police inquiry.”

  Eddie said, “You’ve read Doc Duncan’s report?”

  “I have. It could hardly be clearer. Mavis was murdered, and every effort must be made to bring her murderer to justice.”

  “Couldn’t we—?” Holder-Watts began.

  Sir Samuel shook his head, with a slight smile. “No, Michael. I know you only want to make things more agreeable for Eddie—and indeed for all of us. But we can’t have any sort of cover-up. The case must be investigated and the truth established.”

  “Very noble, I’m sure, Sam,” said Michael Holder-Watts, with a grin, “but you’re among friends here. You can speak your mind. You don’t seriously suggest allowing some flatfoot from the District of Columbia Homicide Squad to—”

  “No, I do not suggest that.” Sir Samuel’s voice was quiet but very emphatic.

  Michael exhaled, in relief. “Ah. That’s good.”

  “Now, don’t misunderstand me, either of you,” Sir Samuel continued. “I’m opposed to calling in the U.S. authorities for several reasons. First, there’s the question of precedent. We may be one of the newest and smallest sovereign states in the world, but our Embassy is Tampican territory, just as much as the British is British, or the Russian is Russian. It would create an unpopular and potentially dangerous precedent to call in the police force of the host nation. Then, there is the delicate situation between Tampica and the United States regarding the naval base.”

  “You mean, they won’t pay up?”

  The Prime Minister looked at Holder-Watts quizzically over the glowing tip of his cigar. “You have a deceptive way of oversimplifying complicated matters, Michael,” he said. “You understand the situation very well, and I do not propose to insult your intelligence by expounding its finer points. The fact remains that, in view of the negotiations in progress between the two governments, and the upcoming talks with the leaders of the Senate Committee, it is highly desirable to keep Tampican affairs in Washington strictly under Tampican control. And there’s the rub.”

  “What you mean is that however impressive it may look on paper, our police force boils down to a collection of traffic cops, headed by Sergeant Bartholomew and his bicycle,” said Michael.

  Sir Samuel said, seriously, “We must not forget our Commissioner, Major-General Forsyth.” Even Eddie Ironmonger smiled at that, and the Prime Minister added, “Very well. Let us agree that the good Major-General’s function is purely decorative. For a man of eighty-five, he holds himself as upright on parade as he did at Sandhurst, and his plumed hat is impressive on ceremonial occasions. Nevertheless—where does that leave us?”

  “Up a gum tree,” remarked Holder-Watts succinctly.

  “Little did I think,” said Sir Samuel, “that so soon after independence I should be looking back nostalgically to the good old days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Simply that a month ago I would have been on the telephone to the High Commissioner in London by now, and a team from Scotland Yard would have been on its way. You remember the golf-course murders, ten years ago? The Chief Inspector they sent out was a most efficient man. Ah, well—no use trying to call back the past.”

  Sir Edward Ironmonger was leaning forward, his hands on his knees. He said, softly, “By God, Sam, I believe you’ve got it.”

  “Got it? Got what?”

  “The answer. There’s absolutely nothing to prevent us from calling in Scotland Yard this time.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Eddie.” Michael spoke sharply, and with displeasure, dropping any semblance of respect. “Out of the question. Tampica is a sovereign state.”

  “Of course she is, Michael.” Sir Edward sounded mildly amused. “I would remind you that I am a lawyer, while you are a diplomat. Therefore, in some limited spheres, my experience and judgment may be superior to yours.”

  The Prime Minister was clearly intrigued. “You think we could do it, Eddie? It would certainly be the best solution.”

  “Of course we can do it. Nobody seems to dispute that if we wanted to we could ask for help from the American police. The fact that the crime occurred in Washington is neither here nor there—as you pointed out, Sam, a Tampican Embassy anywhere in the world is still Tampica. If we don’t have the resources to carry out the investigation ourselves, we can turn for assistance to anybody we choose. We are newly independent and a member of the Commonwealth. It seems to me perfectly natural that we should ask for co-operation from the Mother Country. There’s no political objection, I take it, Sam?”

  “None whatsoever. Our relationship with Great Britain has never been better. She is delighted to have got us off her hands, and we are delighted to have lost our sense of inferiority towards her. It seems to me an excellent plan.”

  “Well, I disagree.” Holder-Watts sounded sulky. “You talk about flat-footed Washington cops—or even Sergeant Bartholomew, with or without his bicycle. Do you think you’ll get anything more sophisticated or discreet out of Victoria Street? This whole thing will need to be handled with extraordinary tact—especially by a non-American investigator. Surely you see that?” He appealed to Eddie.

  “Certainly I do.” Sir Edward was at his most urbane, most Oxford-high-table. “And for that reason I suggest, Sam, that you make a personal request for an individual, by name. I ate my dinners in Gray’s Inn, in the company of one Michael Barker, who is now an eminent Queen’s Counsel specializing in police prosecutions. It was through him that I made the acquaintance of a C.I.D. Inspector who is altogether out of the usual run. A very . . .” he hesitated, “a very superior person.”

  “Oh God,” said Michael. “Spare us Lord Peter Wimsey.”

  “You misunderstand me, Michael,” Sir Edward’s calm good humor was quite unflappable. “This man is not an aristocrat by birth. On the other hand, he appears to be perfectly at ease with people at all social levels. He is a genuine person, and he is also extremely good at his job. I think you’ll enjoy meeting him, Michael. His name is Henry Tibbett.”

  Since the next day was Sunday, everybody felt entitled to a little relaxation. Sir Edward slept late, sunned himself on the terrace, and after lunch went down to enjoy a swim in the limpid, reef-protected waters of the Prime Minister’s private bay. He had not been in the sea for more than ten minutes when he was hailed from the beach by Howard, Sir Samuel’s personal attendant. Relucta
ntly, he struck out for the shore, and was soon wading up the beach, shaking the water off his shining black skin.

  Howard said, apologetically, “Very sorry, Sir Edward. Sir Samuel would appreciate it if you could spare him a moment.” He picked up Eddie’s beach towel from the sand, and held it out. “In his study . . . I’ve brought the Jeep to take you up. Very sorry, sir.”

  Eddie grinned as he briskly toweled himself dry. “Not your fault, Howard. O.K., let’s go.”

  Sir Samuel was at his desk in the shady study overlooking the sea when Eddie arrived a few minutes later. Both men were informally dressed in pale, open-necked shirts and cotton slacks, which accentuated their ebony skins. They looked cool and comfortable in a way which few Europeans ever achieved in Tampica’s climate.

  Sir Samuel said, “Come in and sit down, Eddie. Sorry to disturb your swim. I have good news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have just been speaking on the telephone to our High Commissioner in London. I first contacted him at his home early this morning—of course, there is a five-hour time difference, so he was already up and about when we were still in bed. I inquired about your Henry Tibbett—who is now a Chief Superintendent, it seems. I told him about the delicacy of the mission. Now he has called me back.”

  “And the answer is yes’?”

  “Better than that. It appears that Tibbett and his wife have friends—former neighbors from London—who live in Washington, only a few blocks from the Embassy in Georgetown. Their name is Colville—he is an economist at the World Bank. Strictly nonpolitical. It would be a very natural thing for the Tibbetts to pay a visit to the Colvilles, staying as house-guests.”