Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  “But—” Eddie was about to protest. The Prime Minister held up his hand.

  “Yes, yes, I know. The inquiry must be seen to be made. Very well. We will send Sergeant Bartholomew from here to the Embassy in Washington—I have already arranged for his immediate promotion to Inspector. It sounds more impressive. We will announce that an officer of Tampica’s C.I.D. is arriving to take charge of the case. Meanwhile, Bartholomew will have full authority to co-operate in every way with Tibbett, who will in fact be in charge of the investigation. Anything of a technical nature, like chemical analysis and so on, Mil be handled here by Doc Duncan. Tibbett will bring certain technical kit—but I feel that he is more likely to solve the problem by—how shall I put it?—by in-depth interviews.”

  “Exactly,” said Sir Edward, who had vainly been trying to get a word in. “And on what authority is he to go round interviewing people? It won’t just be Embassy staff, you know. Remember that there was a big reception going on that evening.”

  “There is no need to remind me, Eddie. Tibbett may interview whomever he likes. If it seems desirable, the interview will be arranged through Sergeant—I beg your pardon, Inspector Bartholomew, who will explain that Tibbett is acting officially at the request of Lady Ironmonger’s English parents. By the way, I am arranging for them to prolong their stay at Pirate’s Cave. I fancy they will have no objections.”

  “But—”

  “If there is any trouble, or if any of the people concerned make a fuss or start invoking diplomatic privilege, I rely on you to handle the situation, Eddie. They will hardly refuse to talk to Tibbett if you ask them to, personally.”

  Slowly, a smile spread across Sir Edward’s face. He said, “You’re an old rogue, Sam, but I don’t see why it shouldn’t work. The case will be in Tampican hands, the Americans will not be involved in any way, the British will not be involved officially, and still we’ll have the benefit of one of the best detective brains at the Yard. I congratulate you.”

  “No, no. The credit is yours, Eddie. It’s just a question of knowing the right people.” The two men smiled at each other. They were old friends. Then Sir Samuel said, “Michael has gone over to Sugar Mill Bay to have tea with Lucy Pontefract-Deacon. You’d better explain the situation to him when he gets back. I’m afraid he may not be very pleased.”

  “I shall lose no sleep over that,” replied Eddie.

  “Good. And then I suggest that you both do your packing and get away on the night flight from Antigua. You will be needed in Washington as soon as possible.”

  7

  The jumbo jet from London arrived at Dulles International Airport a few minutes earlier than the DC-10 from Antigua, but since the larger plane took longer to unload, the two sets of passengers dead-heated through Customs and out into the breezy sunshine. There was a sizable posse of journalists and photographers waiting, and it converged upon the huge, handsome figure of Inspector Bartholomew.

  “Have you a statement to make, Inspector?”

  “Was it murder?”

  “Have you any suspects?”

  “Hold it there, Inspector!”

  “This way, Inspector!”

  None of the pressmen even noticed the slight, sandy-haired man in the crumpled mackintosh who, with his plumpish dark-haired wife, had just arrived from London. They were greeted warmly by a slim, fair woman with an English accent, and whisked quietly away in her modest Volkswagen toward Washington, just like any other undistinguished travelers.

  Meanwhile, Inspector Bartholomew held up an enormous black hand. He looked grave. The press fell more or less silent He said, “I have no statement to make at this stage, ladies and gentlemen, except to say that the possibility of foul play in Lady Ironmonger’s death cannot be ruled out You will be kept informed as my investigations continue.”

  Some of the more persistent journalists seemed disinclined to leave it at that, but Inspector Bartholomew easily shouldered his way through the crowd to the waiting limousine. He climbed in amid more flashing of cameras, closed the door and relaxed thankfully as the car moved off.

  Michael Holder-Watts had been less than fair when he jeered at Sergeant Bartholomew and his bicycle. It was true that the role of the Tampican police force was mainly ornamental. Officers were recruited on the basis of impressive physical statistics rather than mental ability, and with their gleaming white helmets and red-blue-and-gold uniforms, they were one of the island’s biggest tourist attractions in every sense.

  Major-General Forsyth (Ret’d), late of the Loyal Royal Loamshires, had done a fine job of instilling British parade-ground smartness and precision into the Tampican police, and, although no intellectual giant himself, he had had enough experience of judging men to recognize ability when he saw it. It was he who, some months before independence, had picked Robert Bartholomew out of the ranks of uniformed beefcake and sent him to London for an intensive course in criminal investigation. Constable Bartholomew had done extremely well on the course, and had returned with the rank of Sergeant as the only qualified C.I.D. officer in the Tampican police force. It was perfectly true that his normal form of transportation on the island was a bicycle, and that he had no facilities for conducting a full-scale murder investigation. Nevertheless, he was by no means a nonentity, and he looked forward with keen anticipation to working with Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett.

  His arrival in Washington gave a fillip to public interest in the case. Photographs of Inspector Bartholomew—six-feet-four and bearing a distinct resemblance to Harry Belafonte—were featured prominently in local newspapers and on television, while his remark about “foul play” gave rise to a further spate of speculative rumors. Bartholomew himself would have preferred a tight-lipped “no comment,” but Sir Samuel and Sir Edward had given him his instructions, so he supposed they knew what they were about.

  Now, lying back in the comfortable seat of the limousine as it sped along the airport approach motorway, Bartholomew braced himself, mentally and physically, for the encounter to come. He had never met Sir Edward personally—he knew him merely as the island’s legend of the local boy who made good. Neither had he ever met Lady Ironmonger, but he was as well aware of her reputation as anybody else in Tampica. He also carried Doctor Duncan’s report in his briefcase, and he had read it. Lady Ironmonger had been murdered, and he was supposed to bring her killer to justice—whoever it might be. He felt relieved that the full brunt of the investigation was supposed to fall upon Chief Superintendent Tibbett.

  In the Volkswagen, Margaret Colville was saying, “It’s simply marvelous to see you both again—but what’s it all about? I mean, I don’t flatter myself that you came all the way across the Atlantic just to see us. John’s furious at missing you, but he has to be at this meeting in New York. Look over to the left—there’s the Potomac River. And in a minute I’ll show you the Watergate. Mind you, we’ve had a sensation closer to home recently—you heard about the murder of the Tampican Ambassadress? Just around the corner from us.”

  “Murder?” said Henry.

  “Well, all right—death in suspicious circumstances. Everybody’s saying it was murder. I mean, she was shot—look, there’s the Watergate, that bulbous building beside the river, and beyond it is the Kennedy Center—I’ve got seats for us on Friday to see the New York City Ballet—what was I saying? Oh, yes—she was shot, so it must have been either suicide or murder, and nobody seems to think she was the suicidal type.”

  “Was she the murder victim type?” Henry asked.

  “Ah, now that’s an interesting question. People are saying—” Margaret broke off, as she maneuvered the car up the steep ramp from the riverside highway to the bridge. Then she added, “Why are you so curious, anyway? Professional interest?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact—”

  “I knew it!” said Margaret triumphantly. “I knew it was too much of a coincidence that you and Emmy should visit us just precisely now. I said so to John when he telephoned yesterday.”


  “I hope,” said Henry, “that you haven’t been saying it to anybody else.”

  “Of course not. Well, not really. . . no . . .”

  “What does not really’ mean?” Henry asked, with foreboding.

  “Well, Ginny Schipmaker came in for coffee this morning, and of course we were talking about Lady Ironmonger, because Ginny was actually there, you see, and I did sort of mention that you were coming to stay and that perhaps you’d solve the crime, being at Scotland Yard and all that . . The car reached the far side of Key Bridge and turned right into M Street. “Welcome to Georgetown,” said Margaret.

  Soon the car had crossed Wisconsin Avenue, turned left, and was climbing toward Dumbarton Rock, up tree-lined streets and past fascinatingly assorted houses, from enormous mansions to tiny, brightly-painted frame structures.

  “That’s the Tampican Embassy, where it happened,” said Margaret suddenly. “The rather beautiful red-brick house on the left, with the flag outside it. It’s still at half-mast, as you see. Now, we’re just round the corner, if I can find somewhere to park . . . oh, good, there’s a space right outside the door, just big enough for the beetle. It’s a great advantage, I can slip her in where great American monsters would never fit.”

  She maneuvered the little car neatly into the space between a vast, gleaming Cadillac and a battered old van that had been painted in zebra stripes of vivid colors and had the words Winnie-the-Pooh is lore daubed in white on its flanks. Looking at the three ill-assorted vehicles, Margaret said, “That about sums up Georgetown. The very rich, the penniless students and hippies, and the near-penniless . . .” She paused. “I can’t say ‘intellectuals,’ can I? It sounds awful. But you know what I mean. People like us.”

  Henry said, “Since when has Winnie-the-Pooh been popular with hippies?”

  “Oh, for quite a while now. It used to be Tolkien—Gandalf lives and all that. I doubt if Pooh will last much longer, though—smart advertisers are beginning to latch on to the idea, which means that the youngsters—what Marghanita Laski used to call the seminal group—will immediately drop him and find another symbol. There was a time when we thought Jesus Christ was due for a big comeback, but he’s fallen a bit flat. A few months back people used to carry bumper stickers saying Honk if you love Jesus. Now there’s a new crop saying ‘Honk if you are Jesus’—which has quietened the streets considerably. I do love Georgetown. Now, come on in and see the doll’s house.”

  The house was small, but also delightful. Its wooden clapboard exterior had been painted sky blue, with white window frames and black shutters, and a black-and-white front door. Inside, the kitchen, dining room and bedrooms were miniscule, but any feeling of being cramped was dissipated by the drawing-room, which occupied the whole of the first floor, and from which a little iron stairway led down into the garden.

  “Only a back yard really,” Margaret remarked. True, it was not large, but it was leafy and sunny and boasted two camellia trees in full bloom, one pale pink and the other deep red. Henry and Emmy felt very much at home—and Henry, for one, was extremely glad to have this friendly haven as his operational base. He foresaw considerable difficulties ahead.

  For a start, his position was—to put it mildly—ambiguous. His presence was neither official nor unofficial, and although he had been assured of backing and co-operation from both the Embassy and Scotland Yard, he realized that his situation would be that of a man walking on eggs. To continue, his knowledge of the diplomatic world was rudimentary, but he was sufficiently informed to know that it was an ambience in which a raised eyebrow could spark off an incident. More eggs. Furthermore, he had met Edward Ironmonger only on a couple of fleeting occasions many years ago. He had very little idea of what to expect when he met him again.

  To be sure, Michael Barker had entertained Henry with an excellent dinner and assured him that Eddie Ironmonger was still the salt of the earth, an outstanding personality, brilliant, urbane, civilized and with a great sense of humor. That, Henry felt, was all very well. Michael had known Eddie intimately when the latter had been a young, newly-qualified lawyer living in a strange country. Now, he was a mature man, an ambassador, and—most importantly—a widower whose wife had died in suspicious circumstances. His acute intelligence and strong personality might well be more in evidence at the moment than his urbanity or sense of humor. Henry waited with some trepidation for the expected summons from the Tampican Embassy.

  This arrived at five o’clock, in the form of a telephone call from a gentle-voiced female who identified herself as the Ambassador’s secretary. Sir Edward would be pleased if Chief Superintendent Tibbett could spare him a little time that evening. Perhaps he could call at the Embassy in about half-an-hour? Henry replied, not quite truthfully, that he would be delighted to do so.

  Sir Edward Ironmonger was waiting in his study. Henry barely recognized the handsome black giant of a man, whose impeccable upper-class English accent seemed somehow incongruous. The room itself—indeed the whole house—told Henry a lot about the person Ironmonger had become over the years. The furniture and decor were too individual and nonhomogenous to be the work of a professional: this was the selection of somebody who both knew and cared about fine and beautiful things. A strong character, something of a perfectionist, a man who knew his own mind.

  “My dear Tibbett, I am extremely glad to see you again after all these years.” Henry’s hand was engulfed in a huge, powerful grip. “My congratulations on your promotion. Do sit down. May I offer you a drink?”

  Sir Edward poured two glasses of pale dry sherry from a bar housed in an antique tallboy, gave one to Henry, and sat down at the desk. After some polite small talk about mutual friends in London, he said, “Well, to get to business. This is a very sensitive matter, as I am sure you realize. A little later on, I’ll introduce you to Inspector Bartholomew. He’s already been interviewing members of the staff here—he should have some reports for you. Before that, however, I would like to have a few words with you alone, if you are agreeable?”

  Henry murmured acquiescence, and Ironmonger went on. “First of all, I want to make it absolutely clear that this matter must be pursued to the utmost and solved—no matter where the chips may fall, as they say,” he added with a wry smile. “There has been too much covering-up in this city. You have read Dr. Duncan’s report? Then you know that it is virtually certain that my wife was murdered. I want her killer brought to justice—no matter who it may be. You understand that?”

  “I do, Sir Edward.”

  “All the same, some things must be said, in fairness.” The Ambassador hesitated. “My wife, Tibbett, was not a typical ambassadress.”

  Henry smiled. “Is there such a thing?”

  Ironmonger returned the smile. “Since I’ve been here,” he said, “I’ve realized that they come in all shapes, sizes and colors. However, most of them have certain things in common. They are natives of their husbands’ countries. They come from upper-class families, often with a long tradition of public service. They have spent years in more junior Foreign Service positions, and they know the mores of that world. They recognize each other by a subtle sort of radar. They do not like it when their ranks are infiltrated by an outsider.”

  Ironmonger stood up and walked over to the window, his back half turned to Henry. He said, “You will hear a great deal about my wife during the next few days, Tibbett, and most of it will be unpleasant. I merely want to give you a little of . . . of the other side of the picture.”

  Henry said nothing. Sir Edward gazed out at the garden. Then he squared his powerful shoulders and went on. “You will be told that Mavis was common and vulgar. That is largely true. She escaped from the vulgarity of suburban gentility into the commonness and pseudo-glamour of the exploitation of physical attraction. The wonder is that she remained so . . . so fresh and spontaneous. You will be told that she had many lovers. That is quite correct. She was too vital a person to be satisfied with just one partner. I knew about the others, of course
. Or most of them. I think. But my relationship with Mavis was something different and special. I was her husband. Nobody ever really understood that.”

  There was a silence. Ironmonger, who had seemed almost to be talking to himself, suddenly drained his glass and turned to face Henry. In a hard voice he went on, “You will be told that Mavis was an alcoholic. That is totally untrue. Mavis loved life, and living. She loved parties and people. If you like, her judgment was sometimes poor. She never knew when to stop, with the result that sometimes she drank too much. I’m not attempting to deny that. But she certainly was not an alcoholic, and she wasn’t being treated medically for that condition. You understand?”

  “Dr. Duncan’s report—” Henry began.

  “I am not questioning it. It is up to you to find an explanation. I only know that my wife was not being treated for alcoholism.” Ironmonger paused. Then, with an obvious effort, he said, “You will also be told that Mavis was a drag on my career. That is probably true. Had I been married to a woman of whom the Establishment approved, I might very well be Tampica’s prime minister. I want you to understand that I’m well aware of all the facts that I’ve pointed out to you, Tibbett. I also want you to understand that I loved my wife, and I have no regrets about having married her. If other people choose to have regrets on my behalf, I really can’t help it. Well, is there anything you want to say to me?”

  Henry said, “Only that it occurs to me, Sir Edward, that you may well be Tampica’s next prime minister.”

  For a moment, Ironmonger’s face darkened with anger, and he glared at Henry with a frightening glimpse of violence in his eyes. Then, abruptly, he smiled. “Thank you, Tibbett. I see that we understand each other. You are quite right, of course. On the face of it, I had a strong motive to get rid of my wife, and there’s no particular reason why you should believe me when I tell you the contrary. I won’t even ask whether you do. I can only hope that your investigations will clear me.”