Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  “What’s that?”

  “It means that the lease came up for review every five years—but only on the basis of whether or not it should continue in force. Either side could cancel the lease completely, and the U.S. Navy would depart: but if they stayed, the terms of the contract remained unchanged.”

  “In fact, there was no possibility of raising the rent? A sort of controlled tenancy.”

  “Right.” Michael picked up a pencil and began to doodle as he spoke. “The British and Americans were both happy about the arrangement. The yearly rental provided the island’s main source of revenue, and the sailors on shore leave spent a lot of lovely dollars. The Americans felt they had a permanent base at reasonable cost, and they put a lot of money into building harbor facilities, docks, warehouses, shore installations and so on. There seemed no reason why the status quo should ever change. But, of course, independence has altered everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Well. . Michael hesitated. “I don’t suppose you know much about international law . . .”

  Henry smiled. “It just so happens that I know a certain amount. I was on a case in Holland which involved . . . never mind. I think I know what you’re going to say. The Tampican government doesn’t consider itself bound by a treaty entered into on its behalf by the previous colonial government.”

  Michael smiled back. “You certainly pick up the oddest bits of information, for a bobby. Yes, you’re right. Our position—that is, the Tampican government’s position—is that the existing arrangement is invalid, and that a whole new agreement must be worked out.”

  “With a hike in the rent?”

  “That,” said Michael primly, “would be for the conference to decide. In any case, Eddie has advised Sam—that’s Sir Samuel Drake-Frobisher, our Prime Minister—that in his view the United States is occupying Barracuda Bay illegally. He’s prepared to take the case to The Hague, and Washington knows it. That’s our position—negotiate or get out.”

  “And supposing,” said Henry, “that they call your bluff?”

  “Our bluff?”

  “Supposing they simply up anchor and go?”

  Michael leant back in his chair, smiling. “My dear Tibbett, that is what a great many Tampicans would like to see them do. That is why we are bargaining from a position of strength.”

  “But the revenue—”

  “Let me put it this way. When the original agreement was drawn up, tourism on Tampica was minimal. In fact, it hardly existed anywhere in the Caribbean. The boom started in Bermuda and the Bahamas, and then spread to the Virgin Islands. It began to touch Tampica when a big American hotel consortium opened up Pirate’s Cave Hotel and made it one of the great luxury resorts of the world. But Pirate’s Cave is just one hotel, and it’s not Tampican-owned. We are still missing out on the most lucrative tourist source of all.”

  “What’s that?” Henry asked.

  “Cruise liners, old man. Have you ever been to St. Thomas? Well, you should see the little town of Charlotte Amalie when four or five big liners are in port. You can hardly move on the streets for wealthy tourists, just begging to be allowed to spend their money. That’s what we want in Tampica. And Barracuda Bay is our only deep-water anchorage.”

  “I see,” said Henry. “So if the U.S. Navy went, and left all their harbor facilities behind . . .”

  “Exactly. The American shore establishment buildings are grouped around one of the most beautiful beaches on the island. Everything is there—plumbing, electricity, water. It wouldn’t take a great deal of reconstruction to turn those buildings into hotels —less expensive and therefore more popular than Pirate’s Cave. And Tampican-owned, of course. No, old man—the U.S. will have to come up with a pretty sensational offer, and they know it. To put it bluntly, we have them over a barrel.”

  “Except,” said Henry, “for the fact that they are there. Possession is nine points of—”

  “I know, I know. The process of eviction may be a little complicated. And, of course, there are some Tampicans who actively want the Navy to stay.”

  “Really? From what you said it sounds as though the whole island would benefit from the extra tourist trade.”

  “Materially, yes,” said Michael. “But I’m talking about the ecologists. Or the sentimentalists, if you prefer. They’ve seen what has happened to islands like St. Thomas, and they don’t want the same thing in Tampica. They reckon that if the States will up the ante, the island can get more money and still remain unspoiled. Don’t tell anybody, but I’m a bit of an ecologist myself. Unofficially, of course. Officially, I must support Eddie.”

  “I’d have thought,” Henry said, “that Sir Edward might be an ecologist, too.”

  “Then you’d have thought wrong,” said Michael. “One of the reasons that Eddie is here is that he’s a hard-liner on the question of the base. Remember, he’s an Oxford man. It may be a city of dreaming spires, but it also turns out a pretty shrewd breed of businessman. Those who dream, stay on and teach; those who don’t—comer the market in pig iron, or some other unattractive commodity. No, Eddie’s first and foremost a Tampican. He wants prosperity for the island, and he sees it coming better and faster from tourism than any other source. We need that harbor—and Eddie is here to see we get it, or else.” He paused and smiled. “No, funnily enough, the sentimentalists are people like Winnie Nelson and Sam Drake-Frobisher. I’m not giving away any state secrets when I tell you that Eddie is the ramrod that’s keeping Sam hard-lining on the question of the base. To be honest, Sam has always regarded himself as something of a caretaker Prime Minister. And now that Mavis is no longer a problem . . . well, it’s just a matter of time before Eddie takes over. That’s why Sam will leave most of the talking at the conference to Eddie.”

  “Oh, there’s a conference scheduled, is there?”

  “Certainly there is. Didn’t you know? Next week. Sam was bright enough to insist on holding it in Tampica, and the delegates will be accommodated at Pirate’s Cave, at government expense. I need hardly tell you that the Americans accepted with alacrity. Perhaps you should be there, too.”

  “Perhaps I should,” said Henry.

  “I won’t be there myself,” Michael added. “I’m minding the shop here for Eddie—naturally, he’ll be there. I’d be disappointed not to be going, if it wasn’t for the Watkinses.”

  “The who?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hubert Watkins of Penge, England. Mavis’s parents. Eddie stashed them away at Pirate’s Cave after the funeral, to keep the press off them, and I gather they show no signs of wanting to leave. We may have to prod them a little before too long.”

  “You were having a love affair with Lady Ironmonger, weren’t you?” said Henry, casually.

  Michael raised his eyebrows. “My, how you do hop about from topic to topic. Guilty, Inspector. I’m sorry, guilty, Chief Superintendent. No, that doesn’t sound right—let’s leave it at Inspector. There’s absolutely no reason why I should deny it. It wasn’t a very great distinction, you know. There were a number of other men in the same happy position, and Eddie knew all about it.”

  “There were others here in Washington?” Henry asked.

  “There were certainly some ex-es, as you might say. I don’t think Mavis had had time to get around to anything new. Besides, I kept her fairly well occupied.”

  “You say Sir Edward knew. Didn’t he object?”

  Michael made a small gesture, indicating hopelessness. “My dear chap, you might just as well object to the sun shining. Mavis was a dear, sweet, completely amoral girl. To the point, in fact, of being rather touchingly innocent. I don’t know if you understand what I mean.”

  “Whether or not I understand it hardly matters,” Henry said. “The question is—did Sir Edward, and did your wife?”

  “Let’s not confuse the two cases,” said Michael. “Eddie knew and did not object. Eleanor would certainly have objected, but she did not know.”

  “You’re sure of that?”
r />   “Positive. Eleanor only knows what she wishes to know.”

  “Did she like Lady Ironmonger, personally?”

  Michael smiled. “Don’t ask for miracles, old man. Eleanor is a doctor’s daughter, raised in a small English country town. She could never, under any circumstances, have liked Mavis—whether or not I was involved. Most of the time, Eleanor tried to pretend that Mavis didn’t exist. And now, of course . . . she doesn’t.”

  Henry said, “You knew Lady Ironmonger very well, Mr. Holder-Watts. Did she have a drinking problem?”

  “I wouldn’t have said so. She just liked to drink. I don’t call that a problem.”

  “Would you have known if she w^as being treated for alcoholism, medically?”

  “If being treated implies that she would have cut out drinking altogether—I can tell you that she wasn’t. She put away several large martinis in my company the evening before she died. She did promise Eddie and me that she’d stick to tomato juice at the reception. Of course, when she made that scene, I assumed that she’d been tippling on the quiet all evening—but it seems that I was wrong. Somebody had slipped her something.”

  “Would that have been difficult to do?”

  “The easiest thing in the world. It’s impossible to hold a glass and shake hands at the same time, so she had her drink on a small table behind her. Anybody in the room could have switched it for a doctored glass without being noticed.”

  “How many people,” Henry asked, “know the contents of Dr. Duncan’s report?”

  Promptly, Michael replied, “Sam, Eddie, Nelson, Bartholomew, myself—and you, of course.”

  “Nobody else?”

  “Not as far as I know. We agreed to keep it secret for the time being.”

  “Not even your wife?” Michael shook his head. “Or Miss Hamilton?”

  Michael said, “I suppose Eddie might have told Dorrie, but I doubt it. He gave his word, and he is very scrupulous.”

  “I see. Thank you. Now . . .” Henry had pulled a notebook out of his pocket and was studying it. “I think you may be able to help me. I’ve been trying to make a rough timetable of events on the evening of the reception. The guests were invited from six to eight, I believe?”

  “That’s right. We were all here well before six—except Mavis, of course, who was late as usual. We were in our best bibs and tuckers, and feeling somewhat nervous. Actually, the guests began arriving very early—even before six. At about ten past, Eddie told me to go upstairs and tell Mavis to hurry, before too many people arrived. I found her all ready, gazing out of the window at those inefficient demonstrators who were just marching up.” He smiled. “She wanted to invite them all in for a drink—quite seriously. That was the sort of thing that made it impossible for anybody to dislike her.”

  “Except for your wife.”

  “We’re not talking about my wife. She—Eleanor—wanted to call the F.B.I. and have all the demonstrators arrested. Obviously, neither suggestion was viable. Demonstrators in Washington are part of its scenic charm.”

  “O.K.,” said Henry. “That handles the beginning of the reception. Are there any other details of timing that you can remember?”

  “Well,” Michael said, “funnily enough, I can pinpoint pretty accurately the moment when Mavis sounded off. At a function like that, one doesn’t go around looking at one’s watch—but it so happened that I did. The last guests had arrived, and the reception line had broken up. Mavis and Eddie were circulating, dispensing charm. You know the sort of thing. Winnie Nelson came over to me and remarked on how well everything was going. I agreed, but said we’d have to keep a sharp eye on things—I didn’t know just how right I was. Anyhow, he said that he would soon be leaving, as he had an appointment with Bishop and Mrs. Barrington at seven. It was then that I looked at my watch and remarked that he’d better hurry, as it was two minutes to.”

  ‘Tour watch is accurate, I presume,” said Henry. “Unlike Bishop Barrington’s.”

  “My watch is accurate,” said Michael. He looked at Henry levelly. “Winnie went off to his rendezvous, and it must have been about five minutes later that Mavis took leave of her senses. So you can pinpoint that little episode at just about seven-oh-three. Eleanor must have got her upstairs and locked in by five or six minutes past. It all happened very quickly.”

  “Right,” said Henry. He made a note. “Now—with the exception of Nelson and the Barringtons—was there anybody who could not have subsequently slipped away from the reception and upstairs to the bedroom, and killed Lady Ironmonger?”

  “That’s a big question, isn’t it?” Michael considered. “First, you’ve got to narrow it down to the people who realized that Mavis had been removed. I can’t give you a complete list, but there’s Eleanor and myself, of course. Dorabella—I told her as soon as she came back to the reception room. Mr. Finkelstein, Otis Schipmaker . . . let’s see, who else? Mrs. Ngomo might have noticed something, and so might the Dutch Ambassador. There were other people around, of course, but I really can’t remember exactly who they were.”

  “You don’t include Sir Edward?”

  “No, I don’t. He was on the other side of the room, talking to Senator Belmont, and his reaction afterwards, when he found out—”

  “All the same,” Henry persisted, “he could have seen the incident and pretended to ignore it, couldn’t he?”

  “I suppose he could have,” Michael conceded.

  “All right. Now, to whittle that list down still further, the murderer must have known which was the Ironmongers’ bedroom. That would seem to rule out the visiting diplomats, who were in the house for the first time.”

  “Dear God,” said Michael. “You don’t have to spell it all out. The obvious suspects are Eleanor and myself and Dorabella and Eddie.”

  “And can any of you be eliminated for sure?”

  Michael thought for a moment. “No, not really. Eleanor and I clearly had the best opportunities. Dorabella was in and out of the reception room all evening—nothing simpler. Eddie—well, I’ve told you that I don’t believe he saw what happened, and I also think that his absence from the room would have been spotted . . . but that’s conjecture, of course. I didn’t have my eye on him all the time.”

  “Would Otis Schipmaker know which was Lady Ironmonger’s bedroom?” Henry asked.

  “What an extraordinary question, Inspector. Why on earth should he?”

  “It occurred to me. I believe he was an old friend of hers.”

  “I think,” said Michael, “that you are brighter than you look. Yes, Otis Schipmaker might have known.”

  “Had he visited Lady Ironmonger here in Washington?”

  “I really don’t know. Let’s say it’s possible. I spoke to Schipmaker myself just after the Finkelstein incident, with the object of making sure he kept his mouth shut.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “In a gentlemanly fashion. It’s known as diplomatic pressure.” Henry said, “Then there’s the question of the gun. I believe Miss Hamilton noticed it was missing earlier in the day.”

  “So she says now.” Michael leant back in his chair. “Of course, it’s open to doubt. Or, if Dorrie is telling the truth, Mavis may well have taken the gun herself—there’d been discussion about keeping it in the bedroom instead of the study.”

  “Let’s consider another angle,” Henry said. “How many people here at the Embassy are teetotalers?”

  “My wife doesn’t drink,” said Michael promptly. “Nor does Dorabella. Eddie . . . well. . .”

  “Sir Edward doesn’t drink at all?”

  “Oh, yes, he does—but riot much and not often. Smoking is his vice. Great big rich-smelling cigars.”

  “Any more names for the teetotal list?”

  “Not that I can think of. Most people enjoy a modest tipple. Mavis was the only one who was inclined to overindulge.” Michael picked up a pencil and twirled it between his long fingers. “Poor Mavis. She simply didn’t realize that one cannot go through li
fe doing precisely what one pleases, and not make enemies. However beautiful one may be.”

  “Mr. Holder-Watts,” Henry said, “I’m going to ask you a very indiscreet question, but please answer it truthfully. Remember, this is a murder investigation.”

  “How very alarming,” said Michael, mildly. “O.K. Fire away.”

  “Of those two people you mentioned who don’t drink, did either one have a drinking problem in the past?”

  There was a long silence. At last, Michael said, “This is confidential, isn’t it?”

  “For the moment,” said Henry. “I can’t promise what might have to come out in a court of law.”

  Another silence. Then, “Well, I hate to tell you this—but, yes. Eleanor did. Many years ago, before we went to Tampica. I was in the Colonial Service, and stationed in a God-forsaken corner of Africa—and to make it worse, I had a huge area to cover and was away from home most of the time. You can imagine what Eleanor’s life was like. She’s never been an outdoor person—she hates physical sports, and discomfort, and dirt, and the lack of what Jane Austen called ‘the decencies of a private gentlewoman’— and there weren’t many of those around, I can assure you. She was lonely, bored and miserable. You can imagine the rest.”

  Henry said, “How was she cured?”

  “‘Cured’ is rather a strong word, old man. The problem was never that serious. I found out about it, and fortunately we were posted home, and then transferred to Tampica. Eleanor went to a doctor in London, I believe. I thought it tactful not to ask too many questions. In any case, she simply gave up drinking altogether, and that was that.”

  “Did this London doctor give her any medication to help her?” Henry asked.

  Michael smiled faintly. “I’ve no idea. I see what you’re driving at, of course, but I can’t help you. You’ll have to ask Eleanor.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, I’ll have to ask Eleanor.”