Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  “I’d be surprised if they didn’t,” said Henry. “Mavis was an open and uninhibited girl, and she didn’t know many people in Washington. She may not have known that Otis was married. Anyhow, it would be the most natural thing in the world for her to contact him. It must have given him a nasty shock—with his political ambitions, a scandal was the last thing he wanted.”

  “And yet you think he went to see her?”

  “Probably to tell her about Ginny and ask her to keep her mouth shut. Which I am sure she did, as far as her affair with Otis was concerned. But when it came to the Research and Development Company . . .”

  “You mean, Otis heard about it from her?”

  “Where else?” said Henry.

  The Harbour Master’s office at the Tampica Yacht Marina was spruce and ship-shape, its prosaic filing cabinets and desks enlivened by walls covered with charts; a couple of model sailing vessels; tattered burgees from epic voyages, framed and mounted— and, of course, the radio receiver/transmitter which muttered away to itself in a comer, as curt but important messages passed between ships and shore bases.

  At eleven-thirty precisely, the Harbour Master turned up the volume, threw a switch, picked up the hand microphone, and said, “Sugar Mill Bay? Sugar Mill Bay? Tampica Marina here. Are you receiving me?”

  A moment later, Lucy Pontefract-Deacon’s impeccable English voice floated over the crackling circuit. “Sugar Mill Bay to Tampica Marina. Receiving you loud and clear. Is Mr. Tibbett there? Over.” The Harbour Master handed Henry the microphone. “All yours,” he said.

  “Miss Pontefract-Deacon . . .” Henry began, tentatively.

  “Please address me as Sugar Mill Bay. I have been thinking over our conversation, and the matter of timing. I am worried about Prudence Barrington. Over.”

  “I know what you mean, Sugar Mill Bay. Over.”

  “Then do not discuss it over the air. What action are you taking, Tampica Marina? Over.”

  “I am going back to Washington. So long as Prudence is with you—”

  “She is not, Tampica Marina. She and Matthew flew back to Washington yesterday. Over.”

  “Did you speak to her before she left, Sugar Mill Bay? Over.”

  “I fear not. The significance of the situation only dawned on me later. Over.”

  “Does she still have—?”

  “Yes, she does. What is your comment, Tampica Marina?”

  “I’ll get back there and do what I can. And God help her, Sugar Mill Bay. Over.”

  “Amen, Tampica Marina. Over and out.”

  Henry’s next move was a visit to police headquarters in Tampica Harbour, where he found Inspector Bartholomew in the inevitable green-and-cream office, engaged in preparing the report which would declare officially that Dorabella Hamilton had murdered Mavis Ironmonger by administering Alcodym and vodka to make her insensible, and then shooting her; and that subsequently Dorabella had committed suicide by throwing herself under the wheels of a car in Exeter Place N.W., Washington, D.C. She had made a deathbed confession (see attached affidavit by Doctor Miles). The case was closed.

  Bartholomew looked up as Henry came in, and smiled. “Chief Superintendent! I had no idea you were in Tampica. This is a great pleasure. Do sit down. What can I do for you?”

  Henry sat down. “You can tell me what you know of the Tampica Research and Development Company, Inspector.”

  “The what?”

  “Tampica Research and Development Company.”

  Bartholomew looked bewildered. “I’ve never heard of it,” he said. “I suppose it’s another foreign company planning to build a hotel, like the Pirate’s Cave people. Is that it?”

  “Never mind,” said Henry. “You’ve answered my question. How’s the report going?”

  “Very nearly finished. I’ll be happy to get it out of the way.”

  “In that case,” said Henry, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my visit may not be much of a pleasure after all. You see, you’re going to have to tear up that report and start again.”

  “Tear it up? Why?”

  “Because it’s inaccurate. I’m going back to Washington tomorrow, and I think you should come with me.”

  Bartholomew threw his hands toward the ceiling in a gesture of mock despair. “I don’t understand! What is all this about?”

  Henry hesitated a moment, and then said, “Look, Inspector, I’m in a hellishly difficult position. Officially, the case is closed and I’m here on holiday. However, I’m absolutely certain now that we made a mistake. Our reasoning was wrong, and the real murderer is still free. What’s more, I think another life may be in danger.” Henry noticed, with respect, that Bartholomew did not break into a spate of questions. Instead, he said quietly, “I presume that you’ve discussed all this with Sir Edward. It’s surely up to him to decide whether or not I should go back to Washington.”

  “That’s just the difficulty,” said Henry. “I haven’t told anybody, except you. I dare not.”

  For the first time, Inspector Bartholomew looked really shocked. “You are not implying that Sir Edward—”

  “What I’m implying,” said Henry, “is that the situation is so delicate that I dare not confide in anybody who was personally involved in Lady Ironmonger’s death. And that goes for her husband.”

  Bartholomew said, flatly, “I can’t go back to Washington unless I’m ordered to do so.”

  “Aren’t you perhaps due for some leave?”

  Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. But if you think I can afford a trip to Washington . . . and in any case, what would my wife say? We were planning to spend a week with her mother on St. Mark’s.”

  “Don’t you think your wife might enjoy Washington, Inspector?”

  “Please talk sense, Chief Superintendent. Of course she would love it, but who is to pay? The air fare alone. . .”

  Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He said, “Do you have transport? A mini-moke or something?”

  “I have a Jeep.”

  “Then I suggest that you drive over to Sugar Mill Bay at once. Give this letter to Miss Lucy and see what happens. Call me at Pirate’s Cave when you get back.”

  Immediately after lunch, Henry went to the reception desk at Pirate’s Cave, and asked if reservations back to Washington could be made for Emmy and himself for the following morning. The dusky beauty who had been Winston Nelson’s dancing partner was on duty, and she wrinkled her exquisite nose in a rueful smile.

  “You’ll be lucky, Mr. Tibbett. There’s a real exodus, now that the conference has broken up. I can tell you right away, you won’t get first-class seats from Antigua. It’s all filled up with diplomats and delegates—why, I’ve even had to book Mr. and Mrs. Schipmaker in economy class.”

  Henry said, “I don’t care where we sit, just so long as we get that plane.”

  “I’ll ring through to Antigua right away,” promised the girl, and she swayed beguilingly over to the other desk. A few minutes later she was back with the news that Mr. and Mrs. Tibbett were booked on the last two seats on the morning flight. No more reservations could be accepted.

  Half-an-hour later, Bartholomew called. Henry decided not to take the call from the reception desk, but asked the Inspector to hold while he made his way to the privacy of his own cottage. Nevertheless, he was aware that the receptionist could listen in if she wanted to, and he hoped that his Tampican colleague would be discreet.

  “Chief Superintendent? Bartholomew here. I hear that you are going back to Washington tomorrow.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Perhaps you could give me your telephone number there. You see, I have a week’s leave coming up, and my wife and I intend to spend it in Washington.”

  “This is very good news,” said Henry, meaning it. “Where are you staying?”

  “That is not yet decided. We will find a small hotel. I had hoped to travel on the same aircraft as you, but unfortunately it is ful
ly booked. However, we’ve been lucky enough to get seats on a stand-by plane. We arrive in Dulles at two o’clock.”

  Henry gave Bartholomew Margaret Colville’s address and telephone number, and asked him to call as soon as he got to Washington. Then he said, “I’m so glad you’re able to make this trip.”

  “Thanks to the generosity of a very great lady.” Bartholomew hesitated a moment. “She . . . she has given me some tips on what to look out for in Washington. I’m sure it will enhance our stay.” Henry rang off feeling happier about the future. Lucy Pontefract- Deacon had summed up the situation and dealt with it in a masterly fashion. What was more, she was able to dish out money for air fares and accommodation without undue strain. She would, of course, be reimbursed later.

  “It’s all very well to give Margaret’s number,” Emmy remarked, emerging from the shower, “but she doesn’t even know we’re coming back. Supposing she can’t put us up?”

  “Good Lord, I’d forgotten. We’d better telephone her.” Fortunately, Margaret was delighted, if baffled. “What’s the matter with you? Aren’t you enjoying yourselves? I can tell you, I wouldn’t pass up a free vacation at Pirate’s Cave. What’s it all in aid of, Emmy?”

  Emmy said, “Oh, well—Henry has to get back to London in a hurry, but we couldn’t resist making the trip via Washington.”

  “Ah, well, Tampica’s loss is my gain. See you tomorrow. . .”

  Emmy rang off, and turned to Henry. “And now,” she said, “you might explain just what it is all in aid of.”

  Henry said, “I have been very stupid. The answer has been under my nose the whole time, and I never saw it—not until I spoke to Lucy Pontefract-Deacon. She was much quicker than I was. But even if I’d worked it all out in Washington, I couldn’t have done anything about it. I had no proof and no motive, and I couldn’t have made it stick. Now, when I get back, I can lay hands on proof and motive—but the trouble is that in the meanwhile Prudence Barrington is in great danger.”

  “Mrs. Barrington? Why on earth—?”

  “Because she’s a serious threat to a desperate person.”

  Emmy laughed. “Oh, come off it, Henry. Prudence wouldn’t threaten anyone.”

  “That’s just the dangerous part. She doesn’t know she’s a threat —which means that she’ll walk into any trap that’s set for her. Especially if it’s set by a friend.”

  “Then shouldn’t you warn her?”

  Henry hesitated. “It’s difficult to know what to say over the telephone,” he said, “but you’re perfectly right. I should at least try. I suppose it’ll take forever to find her telephone number . . .” As a matter of fact, it took a surprisingly short time, but the exercise proved fruitless. Prudence, according to Matthew, had gone off to spend a couple of days with Jean and Homer on their boat, which they kept on the lower Potomac. No, there was absolutely no way of contacting her this evening. However, she would be home in the morning, and if Mr. Tibbett would call then . . .

  “Well, I suppose at least she’s safe in the middle of the river,” said Henry to Emmy. “Anyhow, there’s nothing more we can do.”

  17

  Tampica’s tiny airstrip was alive with activity on Wednesday morning. Every available light plane had been mustered to ferry the illustrious parting guests, and every few minutes a little aircraft buzzed down the dusty runway and soared into the sky like a humming bee.

  Henry and Emmy shared their little cabin with George and Magnolia Belmont, and the co-pilot’s seat was occupied by one of the conference secretaries. As they gained height and circled the island before setting course for St. Mark’s, Emmy looked down nostalgically at the now-familiar landmarks—Pirate’s Cave Hotel, Barracuda Bay, The Lodge, Tampica Harbour’s waterfront, and the dirt road snaking over the hills to Sugar Mill Bay.

  “We must try to come back someday, somehow,” she said to Henry. “Not to Pirate’s Cave, of course—that would be out of the question—but there must be cheaper hotels. . .”

  “Pretty soon there’ll be more cheap hotel accommodation on Tampica than you can shake a stick at,” grunted Senator Belmont. “Once the navy goes, and Barracuda Bay is developed.”

  “It’s a shame,” Magnolia said. “It’ll just ruin this cute little island. Imagine the sort of people who’ll be able to afford to come!” Emmy nudged Henry, who remarked, “People like us. I agree. A disaster.”

  Fortunately, the whirring engine prevented Magnolia from hearing. She went on, “And cruise liners! Have you seen them? Why, I declare, George and I were in St. Thomas one time . . . well, I just won’t even try to tell y’all what it was like . . .”

  The blue, crystalline water lapped quietly on the golden sand. The coconut palms stretched their long green fingers towards the sun. From her terrace, Lucy Pontefract-Deacon waved a good-luck salute to each tiny plane as it circled, even though she had no idea which one contained the Tibbetts, and she doubted if she could be seen from the air anyway. When the last one had headed out to sea, she rang the silver bell for Martin Fletcher, and ordered a glass of iced tea. Tampica was back to normal again.

  At Antigua, the Belmonts were ushered away to a VIP lounge, and the Tibbetts only just glimpsed them as they boarded the aircraft ahead of the throng and were installed in their first-class seats. Even earlier, Sir Edward Ironmonger—who had, of course, arrived in Antigua aboard the Prime Minister’s yacht—was escorted with great ceremony to the plane. Nevertheless, Henry reflected, once airborne this class distinction boiled down to a curtain hanging between the small first-class section and the rest of the fuselage, slightly wider seats and free drinks. In idle moments, he had sometimes tried to calculate how many drinks an economy-class passenger would have to buy before his outlay approached the cost of a first-class ticket.

  The flight was smooth and uneventful. Henry saw Otis and Virginia sitting some rows further up the aircraft, but there was no chance to talk to them, or to discover why they had changed their minds about going to St. John’s. Probably no more than Ginny’s political acumen triumphing over Otis’s naturally sybaritic tastes. He wondered how much Otis really wanted to be a senator, and how much his wife and her family were getting behind him and pushing.

  At Dulles Airport, the senators and diplomats left the plane first, passed through a special Customs section and were whisked off in waiting limousines. Henry and Emmy, along with other ordinary mortals, waited patiently for their baggage to appear on the conveyor belt, claimed it, and subjected themselves to the routines of Customs and Immigration. Margaret was waiting with the Volkswagen, and before long they were on the Parkway. Then Key Bridge came into sight, together with the Watergate, the Kennedy Center and the tall spires of Georgetown University.

  “I’ve only spent a few days here,” Emmy said, “and yet I feel as if I were coming home.”

  Margaret grinned. “Georgetown has that effect on people,” she said. Then amended herself. “Some people, I should say. Others just don’t see the point—why live in a cramped little townhouse, when for the same money you could have a split-level rambler and a swimming pool in the suburbs? I never try to give an answer to that argument. There isn’t one.”

  The Volkswagen trundled over Key Bridge, turned right into the busy commercialism of M Street, and then left up 33rd Street —up the hill and into Georgetown.

  Henry and Emmy had been away for less than a week, but the whole neighborhood was transformed. In an annual miracle, between one day and the next the blossom had come out. Pink and white dogwood trees had erupted into seas of leafless blooms; the red, purple, golden and white azaleas had opened their buds in an explosion of color; even the sycamores and plane trees lining the streets had burst into an extravagance of greenery, and wisteria hung in pale mauve swathes against red-brick and white-painted houses. It is this effect of instant spring which more than anything reminds a visitor to Washington that he is in the South.

  Inside the little blue frame house, Margaret said, “I am trying not to be nosy—w
ell, not too nosy—but really, Emmy, you’ll have to think up a better story than hurrying back to London via Washington. Talk about going to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head . . . so, what’s up?”

  Emmy looked at Henry, raising her eyebrows, passing the question. He said, “You’ll know soon enough, Margaret, but there’s no time to waste now. I must call Mrs. Barrington at once. Do you have a Maryland directory?”

  Margaret shrugged. “Yes, but it won’t do you any good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Margaret glanced at her watch. “It’s quarter past one. Mrs. Barrington won’t be home.”

  “How do you know? I didn’t think you even knew the Barringtons.”

  “I’ve never met the Bishop, but Mrs. Barrington and I belong to the same women’s club—the Chevy Chase Episcopal Ladies’— and at this moment she’s taking a group of them on the George town Garden Tour. I was supposed to go myself, but I called it off to meet you at Dulles.”

  “What’s the Georgetown Garden Tour?” Emmy asked.

  “Just what it says. Every year at this time, when the gardens are looking their best, nine or ten of them are opened to the public for charity, just for two days. You pay five dollars and have a marvelous time peeking at other people’s gardens—and some of their houses, too, because you have to walk through some of them to get to the gardens.”

  “These would be the huge estates you were telling us about, I suppose,” Emmy said.

  “No, not all of them. They generally have two or three big show-place gardens on the tour, but there are also little ones—some no bigger than ours. It’s fascinating to see what some people have been able to do with just a tiny plot of land.”

  Henry said, “I suppose it’s common knowledge that Prudence Barrington will be on the tour today?”

  Margaret laughed. “She’s what they call here a garden nut. She hasn’t missed a tour since she’s been here.”

  “Do you have a list of the gardens that are open today?” Henry asked.