Henry said, “I do appreciate your frankness, Bishop Barrington —just as I appreciate Mrs. Barrington’s warmheartedness. But, really, what would help me most would be a simple account of exactly what you both did on the evening that Lady Ironmonger died.”
Prudence and Matthew looked at each other for a moment, and then Matthew said, “No problem there. Perfectly straightforward. We arrived at the Embassy by taxicab at . . . what time was it, dear?”
“I really don’t know, Matthew, but it must have been well after six, because a great many people had arrived already. And there were those demonstrators with banners outside—you remember, Matthew?”
“I do.”
“Well,” Prudence went on, “we went in and I left my coat in the cloakroom and we joined the receiving line and shook hands with Eddie and Mavis. He was charming, as usual. I thought she seemed rather quiet and withdrawn. Didn’t you, Matthew?”
“She was behaving herself,” said the Bishop.
Prudence went on, a little hurriedly. “We talked to some other people . . . Dorrie Hamilton . . . Michael . . . we didn’t really know many of the people there . . .”
“My wife,” said the Bishop, “means to say that we do not move in the social swim of diplomatic Washington, and I for one am thankful for it. We occasionally get invited to parties by Ginny and Otis Schipmaker—that’s Jean’s brother-in-law and his wife— if they wish to present a fagade of unimpeachable respectability. Even retired bishops have their uses at times.”
Prudence beamed. “Matthew says the silliest things,” she remarked. “We have a very nice little circle of friends, and we don’t lack social life in Chevy Chase, I can assure you. What with the Chevy Chase Episcopal Ladies’ Club, the charity coffee parties and—”
“Could we please get back to the Tampican reception?” Henry asked.
“Of course. Forgive me, Mr. Tibbett, I’m afraid I tend to run on. Where was I?”
“You’d shaken hands with Sir Edward and Lady Ironmonger, and you had spoken to Miss Hamilton and Mr. Holder-Watts.”
“That’s right. Then we had another glass of sherry, just chatting to each other, and it was after that that I noticed the receiving line had broken up and that Eddie was circulating among the guests. I saw Mavis standing by herself, looking . . . I don’t know . . . out of things. . .”
“Not surprising,” growled Matthew, almost inaudibly.
Prudence ignored him, and went on. “Well, Mr. Tibbett, I don’t care who anybody is or what people say about them. The poor girl looked quite abandoned . . . don’t snort like that, Matthew, you know perfectly well what I mean . . . and I insisted that we go over and talk to her.”
“How did she seem?” Henry asked.
“Seem? Why—perfectly all right. A little stiff and shy, but that would only be natural, wouldn’t it? In any case, we only had a moment with her, before Eleanor Holder-Watts came up and suggested showing us the garden. Of course, we jumped at the chance. Georgetown is famous for its gardens, you know—a little paradise in the middle of the city, as I always call it. But ordinary people like us only get to see the private gardens during a couple of days in the spring when people open them to the public, for charity. Yes, it really was a treat. There’s a most unusual rockery with some iris reticulata of a color which I have never—”
“Prudence,” remonstrated Matthew, “I really don’t think that Mr. Tibbett is interested in a horticultural catalogue of the Embassy garden.”
“No, no, of course not. You’re quite right, Matthew. To put it in a nutshell, then, Mr. Tibbett—we became quite absorbed in the garden. I don’t know how long we spent there. After a little while Eleanor explained that she had to go back to the reception-well, of course we understood, she was on duty, as it were. So we simply puttered around the garden on our own until Matthew said that it was time to go and meet Winnie. Actually, we thought that we were already late, but fortunately Matthew’s watch is always wrong so we were just on time. Winnie was waiting for us, and he drove us home. That’s about all I can tell you, Mr. Tibbett.”
“And Lady Ironmonger was still behaving quite normally when you left the Embassy?”
“I presume so, Mr. Tibbett. We didn’t go back into the reception room—we came straight from the garden through the hall and into the small library, so we really can’t tell you anything more about the reception. The only other thing I do recall is that some of the demonstrators were quite rude to poor Winnie. Most extraordinary. They seemed to resent him far more than they did us, and yet he is one of their own people. Really, I find modem politics very confusing.”
“You have always found politics confusing, my dear,” remarked the Bishop. “The militant blacks dislike people like Eddie and Winnie because they have chosen to live in our world.”
“What other world is there?” Prudence was genuinely baffled. “After all, they’re independent now, and taking their place in the great family of nations. Isn’t that what they want?”
“It’s still predominantly a white man’s world,” Barrington persisted. “Our world.”
“Oh, well,” said Prudence, tartly, “if they don’t like it, let them go and make another one for themselves. I should have thought they’d be quite glad to take advantage of all the hard work and experience that we’ve put into—”
The Bishop held up his hand. “I think we should get back to Mr. Tibbett’s questions, Prudence, and not become involved in a political discussion.”
Prudence turned to Henry. “Isn’t that just like a man? As soon as I make a good point, he changes the subject. Ah, I think I hear the doorbell. Jean and Homer must have arrived. Do forgive me, Mr. Tibbett. . .”
Henry had no difficulty in recognizing the dark-haired woman who came into the drawing-room on a wave of lively chatter as one of the brides from the twin wedding photographs. A little plumper, perhaps, a few incipient wrinkles in the fine, fair skin— but Jean Barrington Schipmaker had changed little in ten years. The question of which twin it was was resolved the moment her husband joined her. Comfortably rotund, wearing gold-edged spectacles and a bow tie, Homer Schipmaker gave the impression of a thoroughly pleasant, rather ordinary American who has been varnished with the patina of great wealth. Neither of the Schip- makers was dressed ostentatiously, or even very fashionably, yet their clothes exuded an aura of custom-made, real-silk-and-leather, hand-stitched quality’.
“. . . and Ginny was really quite snappy on the telephone; she simply refused to discuss it at all, didn’t she, Homer?” Jean appealed to her husband, who smiled blandly.
“I guess she’s bugged by people calling up every hour of the day, fishing for a tidbit of gossip,” he said. Both Schipmakers spoke just fractionally louder than the norm, which Henry had noticed was a characteristic of many wealthy Americans. Rich English people, on the other hand, tend to speak more and more quietly in direct relation to their money, so that the few real multimillionaires are virtually inaudible.
“Well, of course,” Jean went on, “lots of people were invited and didn’t go because they thought it was just another tinpot little embassy, and now they’re furious at missing it. Anyhow, Mother, you were there and you can tell us all.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, dear. Sherry for you, too, Homer? Here we are. You see, Daddy and I left before anything happened. We only heard about it on the ten o’clock news.”
“Oh, really, Mummy, isn’t that just like you? Trust you to miss all the fun. You can be maddening.” There was affection in Jean’s voice, which had retained all its relentless Englishness, both in accent and idiom.
“Ah,” said Prudence, “but I do have a treat for you. Come and meet Chief Superintendent Tibbett of Scotland Yard, who is investigating the whole affair.”
At once, Henry was overwhelmed by a tide of questions, compliments and the genuine interest in other people which is characteristic of the United States. At last Jean said, almost triumphantly, “So she was murdered! I was sure of it!”
; Prudence looked shocked. “I can’t think why you say that, dear. Mr. Tibbett is investigating Mavis’s suicide. Isn’t that right, Mr. Tibbett?”
Henry said, “I’m investigating her death. We don’t yet know very much about it. I think the communique from the Embassy made that clear.”
“But she was, wasn’t she?” Jean persisted.
“What makes you so sure, Mrs. Schipmaker?”
“Well, for one thing, Mavis would never kill herself. Never. And then, think of all the people who had good reasons for wanting her out of the way—”
Homer Schipmaker said, uneasily, “Honey, I really don’t think you ought to—”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Homer. Everybody on Tampica knew all about Mavis.” She turned to Henry. “Don’t tell me nobody’s told you how she slept with every man on the island?”
Prudence Barrington let out a small, shocked squeak of protest, but Jean went on, unperturbed. “Why, Homer, you remember the business of Mavis and Otis—and he was just one of a crowd.” Before her husband could speak, Jean had turned back to Henry. “Otis is Homer’s younger brother. The whole family used to come to Tampica for a holiday every year. It was all long before Otis met Ginny—ten years ago, in fact, because it was the year Homer and I got married. Mavis had just married Eddie and come to live on Tampica—she was very young and absolutely stunning to look at, and of course Otis took a real shine to her. Then Eddie had to go to New York on some legal case or other, and once she was left alone—”
“Jean!” Bishop Barrington’s voice was commanding and resonant, as if from the pulpit. “That is quite enough of that. You know I abominate tittle-tattle, and I will not have it in my house.”
“Oh, don’t be stupid, Daddy.” Jean was quite unintimidated. “Everybody knows—”
“I think you are wrong, dear.” Prudence spoke quietly, but with unusual firmness.
“Wrong? About what?”
“Virginia,” said Prudence, “does not know. And I think this would be a most unfortunate moment for her to find out.”
“Oh, Mummy. Ginny must have heard the story.”
“I think not. She’s never been to Tampica, you know. She and Otis met here in Washington when her family came back from Europe. She could only have heard about Mavis from a member of the Schipmaker family, and I can’t believe that any of them would have been so cruel as to rake up an old scandal for her benefit.”
Prudence ended on a note of interrogation, addressed to Homer, who had gone slightly pink. He said, “I guess your mother’s right, honey. There was no reason for anybody to put Ginny wise, unless Otis told her himself—”
“Which he didn’t,” remarked Prudence, with serene confidence.
“How can you be sure?” Jean demanded.
“My dear Jean, would she have agreed to go to the reception if she had known?”
Jean considered, her head on one side. “She might have, just for the hell of it.”
“No way.” Homer put an arm round his wife’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to mention this, baby, but since the subject’s come up—well, here goes. Fact is, Otis called me the day before the reception. Boy, was he steamed up! They’d gotten this invitation-trust Mavis, she wouldn’t miss a trick like that—and Ginny was determined to accept. Nothing Otis could say would change her mind. Well, what with Otis’s political ideas . . .” He turned to Henry, whose presence and right to know the facts he seemed to accept without question, and added, in parentheses, “Otis has some big political ambitions these days—got his eye on a senate seat. His biggest clout comes from Ginny’s family—her father’s been a presidential adviser, an ambassador in several European countries and so on. He’s what’s called an elder statesman. Otis reckons that with his father-in-law’s political influence and the Schipmaker bread behind him, he’s got the nomination just about sewn up. He’s running in the primary this spring. He needed Mavis Ironmonger to turn up in Washington at this moment in time like he needed a hole in the head. If Ginny and her family found out about the old scandal. . . or worse, if Mavis created a new one . . . hey, honey, you didn’t say anything to Ginny on the telephone, did you? About Mavis and Otis, I mean.”
“No, I didn’t.” Jean sounded subdued at last. “I didn’t get a chance. She practically hung up on me. Gosh, I’m sorry, Homer. It never occurred to me . . . but actually, Mavis behaved very well, didn’t she, at the reception? With Otis, I mean. It wasn’t until later—”
“Sure. Otis says he had his heart in his mouth as they stood in the receiving line, but all she said was ‘Pleased to meet you’—just as if he’d been a total stranger. She did give him a wicked little wink, he says, just as he was moving away—but Ginny certainly didn’t see it, and he doesn’t think Sir Edward did, either.”
“And then we’re asked to believe that half-an-hour later she went and shot herself!” Jean had recovered her spirits. “What rubbish! Anyhow, Bobby Bartholomew said that foul play couldn’t be ruled out. I read it in the Post. And once a policeman says that, you can be sure it’s murder.”
It was not a direct question to Henry, but close enough to warrant a defensive parry. He said, “Tell me, Mrs. Schipmaker—did Sir Edward know about this old scandal . . . about his wife and Otis Schipmaker?”
Jean and Homer exchanged a brief glance. Then she said, “I really don’t know. Eddie’s a . . . well, a secret sort of person, isn’t he, Mummy? He doesn’t talk about . . . that is, he talks about everything under the sun except his private life. All I can say is that everybody on Tampica was convinced he must know about her various adventures—it’s difficult to keep secrets on a small island. But I’ve never known anybody who ever got him to say so. Eddie’s attitude was that he loved Mavis, Mavis loved him, it was a very happy marriage, and—finish. Not another word.”
“You knew Sir Edward well, did you?” Henry gestured to encompass the elder Barringtons. “That’s to say—your families were friendly on Tampica?”
Prudence said, “Matthew and I knew Eddie as a small boy, of course. Matthew helped him a great deal. Then he went off to university in England—and when he came back with Mavis, he was like a stranger.”
Sharply, Matthew said, “That is less than fair, Prudence. Eddie has always been most charming.”
“Yes—but you couldn’t call him a real friend, Matthew. One couldn’t get close to him. Even Doc Duncan said so.”
“That was really what I was getting at,” Henry said. “Did he have any really close friends in Tampica, after his marriage?”
There was a little silence. Then Matthew said, “If he had a friend, it was Winnie Nelson. And then, of course, there’s Dorabella . . .” He paused, and added, “He certainly had an enemy.”
“An enemy?”
“Michael Holder-Watts. They hate each other.”
“Then why on earth,” said Henry, “is Holder-Watts Sir Edward’s Counsellor at the Embassy?”
Matthew said, “That’s simple. Expediency. Pragmatism. Eddie’s a lawyer, not a diplomat. He’s got a very important job here, and he needs Michael. That doesn’t make him like him any better.”
The silence that followed was broken by the drawing-room door being flung open.
“Dinnah,” said Muriel, ringingly, “is served.”
10
“Tell me,” said Henry, “about the naval base.”
It was shortly before lunchtime on the following day. Henry had spent most of the morning with Inspector Bartholomew in Mavis’s bedroom, fingerprinting, photographing and analyzing—all to very little effect, but it had to be done. He had then interviewed Winnie Nelson, whose account of the evening of the reception tallied exactly with that of the Barringtons; and now at last he had run Michael Holder-Watts to earth in his office at the Embassy—a room on the first floor which had once been a guest bedroom.
Michael told him, deftly and in detail, about the events at the reception, and his subsequent discovery of Lady Ironmonger’s body.
“At first I thought she
’d just passed out, and I can’t say I was surprised. But then I saw the gun . . . and the wound . . . no, I didn’t touch anything. It was obvious she was dead. I ran downstairs again, got rid of the last stragglers and then told Eddie. It wasn’t very pleasant.”
“He must have been very upset.”
“He was more than that. He was in a white rage. Or perhaps I should say a black rage. You see, I also had to tell him about Mavis and Mr. Finkelstein, and what Eleanor and I had done, and he seemed to think that we had stepped beyond the line of duty—to put it mildly. He didn’t actually accuse me of murdering Mavis, but he did imply . . . I can’t remember his exact words. . . he suggested very strongly that I’d driven her to suicide. We all took it for granted that she’d killed herself. Of course, now that we know she was murdered, my position is even worse.”
Michael looked at Henry quizzically, poised for a spate of awkward questions, like a tennis player preparing to receive a sizzling service. But the awkward questions did not come. Instead, Henry said, “Tell me about the naval base.”
“The naval base? What about it?” Michael had been jolted out of his usual effortless command of the situation. Having quickly decided that this detective was far from unintelligent, he was forced to conclude that the switch from an obvious and tempting line of questioning must be deliberate—the probable purpose: to regain initiative and prevent him, Michael, from directing the course of the interview. He looked at Henry with renewed respect.
Henry did not appear to notice. He said, “I’ve heard a lot about it, but in a vague and confused way, as if everybody expected me to know all about the situation, which I don’t. I gathered in London that it was one of the main reasons I was being sent for. Can you elucidate?”
“Very well.” Michael considered for a moment. “To start at the beginning. The United States has had a naval base at Barracuda Bay for nearly thirty years. It so happens that it’s the only well-protected deep-water anchorage in the area, and it’s strategically placed with regard not only to Cuba, but to certain South American countries on which Uncle Sam is keeping a more or less benevolent eye. The base was leased to the United States by Britain at a fixed rental and under an all-or-nothing lease arrangement.”
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