A Different Kind of Evil

by Andrew Wilson

  “Quite right,” I said.

  “Of course, an affair of this kind often has consequences, especially for those with delicate constitutions. I believe Gina Trevelyan suffered from a nervous disorder that in the end consumed her.”

  “So I believe. I can only say that, at least at the very end, she seemed content and happy. The way she stepped off the ship implied that she was not afraid of death or what lay ahead of her. Such a graceful step.” I paused. “And there has been no sighting of her body?”

  “None whatsoever, I’m sorry to say,” said Núñez. “Can I ask if you knew Mr. or Mrs. Trevelyan back in England?”

  “Of course I’d read about Mrs. Trevelyan, but I’ve learnt a great deal from Mrs. Edith Brendel, a fellow passenger. She’s a friend of Mr. Trevelyan’s mother. I’m sure she will be only too happy to help you,” I said.

  “Why do you smile?”

  “Oh, it’s just that Mrs. Brendel likes nothing better than an audience. When I told her that I was going to be questioned by the police, she became quite indignant. ‘How shortsighted of them not to ask me!’ Anyway, I’m sure she would be more than delighted to give you some background information.”

  “Thank you.” Núñez stood. “You’ve been a great deal of help.”

  “I wish I could tell you more than what I saw,” I said.

  “It must be frustrating at times for you.”

  I was rather taken aback by the directness of his statement. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.”

  “As an author you are used to being in control, having all your characters in your head. But when you come across an instance such as this, it must be frustrating that you do not know the full story behind it. Forgive me, I know I am probably expressing myself badly.”

  “I could not have put it better myself,” I said, deciding to place him at his ease. I had something I wanted to ask him. “I suppose the crime on the islands is very sporadic?”

  “It’s not like London, if that’s what you mean. It’s mostly husbands and wives fighting, drunkenness, indecency, the theft of a fishing boat, and so on. Mostly involving—as you would say—the natives of the islands. I believe you are staying at the Taoro Hotel?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, you will have nothing to worry about there. A first-rate establishment. And the Orotava Valley is like a paradise. In fact, I will be over there in the next week or so.” He smiled to himself as he said this.

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” As I continued, I was careful not to lie. “Of course, I’m interested on a purely professional level to know whether you’ve had any murders. You see, whenever I travel I make a note of the kind of murders in different countries and cultures, though I know it sounds rather ghoulish.”

  “I understand completely, Mrs. Christie,” said the inspector. “Actually, recently we had quite a difficult case, one that does remain unsolved.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “This is just between us, you understand. I wouldn’t want any of the visitors to the islands to think they have anything to worry about.”

  “Yes, of course. I won’t breathe a word.”

  “Well, a few months ago, a young man went missing. He was living in a house in the Orotava Valley, had been there for about a year or so. Apparently, he was a pleasant, well-educated man, with a bit of family money behind him. Name of Douglas Greene.”

  I did not show that I recognized the name. “And?”

  “He had kept himself to himself, mostly, apart from the friendships he had made with a couple of young local boys. So when he disappeared, people assumed he must have traveled on somewhere else. But then . . .” Núñez hesitated for a moment and his blue eyes darkened. “Then a body was discovered in one of the caves down by the coast, by Martiánez beach. It was difficult to identify at first, but it turned out the body was Greene’s.”

  “Why was the body difficult to identify?”

  Núñez hesitated. “I’m afraid it’s a little strong, perhaps even for your ears.”

  “I worked as a nurse in the war. I’ve written about murder. Please don’t spare me any details.”

  “Someone had tried to mummify him and his body had been drained of its blood.”

  “How awful,” I said, covering my mouth. Although I already knew the state in which Greene’s body had been found, the details were still horrible to hear. “And do you know who did it?”

  “The main person we suspect is a local man, Gerard Grenville—have you heard of him?”

  “His name does sound familiar,” I said.

  “A self-styled occultist, born in England, who lives in Orotava. Thoroughly amoral type. Has a belief that he is some kind of magus. Unbelievable as it may sound, we have heard stories of him planning various rituals, rituals that might require the use of human blood. The problem is, we have no proof and the stories may be no more than inventions. The other issue is—well, it’s difficult because . . .” Núñez looked pained, as though he was uncertain whether to continue speaking.

  “Difficult?”

  “Oh, just something personal,” he said, deciding to close down further lines of inquiry. “Anyway, in addition to Grenville, we have another man whom we would like to question. Someone who went missing from the island shortly after we think Greene was killed.”

  I felt a bead of sweat begin to break out on my forehead.

  “Another well-educated, cultured British man,” he added.

  I swallowed, but my throat felt dry, like sandpaper.

  “In his thirties. Blond hair, gray eyes. A Cambridge man, I believe.”

  “And his name?” I whispered, almost as if I did not want to hear the answer.

  “I doubt you would know him,” said Núñez, blinking. “But if I remember correctly, his name is Davison. John Davison.”

  6

  The sail from Grand Canary to Tenerife was a journey of fragments and isolated images. The blue sea. Clusters of white houses on a barren landscape. Jagged crags and the peaks of desolate mountains.

  My attention was drawn inwards as I reflected on what Inspector Núñez had told me. Surely Davison couldn’t be a suspect in the killing of Douglas Greene? After all, Greene had been one of Davison’s own men. Davison had seemed genuinely upset by the agent’s death. He wanted me to help find his murderer. But could Greene have been a traitor? Was he what is popularly known as a double agent? But why would Davison enlist my help if he was the guilty party? It just didn’t make sense. And what exactly had Núñez implied? I was sure that he had suggested that Greene’s interest in the Spanish boys was something that went beyond simply improving his language skills. Perhaps Davison did not enjoy the intimate company of women, either. That would certainly explain why I always felt so comfortable in his presence.

  Davison himself had told me that he had visited Tenerife in September. Could he have killed Greene and then returned to England? But when I had first met him, in early December 1926, he had seemed so genial and full of life, a man untainted by the shadows of death; of course, all that changed with Una. In his line of work he must have had to do certain things that would not bear too close inspection. I also knew that he was traveling to Tenerife this time under an assumed name. Was he doing this to avoid capture? Or did he want to try and use his anonymity to bring the killer to justice?

  “My dear, you are supposed to be here to relax, not brood upon the past,” said Carlo, reaching out to touch my arm as we sat on the deck. “Look, look at the mountains! The glorious blue sea! That flock of birds flying past! Breathe in the air!”

  Her lilting Scottish voice soothed me a little, but of course I could not reveal the source of my worries. “Yes, you’re right. I was just thinking about what people were doing back home.”

  “Archie?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, he’s best forgotten now, isn’t he?” She turned to make sure that Rosalind, who was playing with her Blue Teddy with another little girl across the deck, was out o
f earshot. “Remember what the doctors said. You’re not to put yourself under any kind of strain.”

  “Yes, you’re right, of course,” I said, taking the sea air deep into my lungs. Carlo knew nothing about the real reason behind my disappearance the previous year, and I intended to keep it that way. “And poor Gina Trevelyan . . .”

  “I know it’s hard but you must try and stop thinking about that unfortunate woman’s death, God rest her soul,” she said. “From now on, it’s swimming in the sea, a little light reading, a few strolls around the gardens, good food, and plenty of rest.”

  “You’re forgetting something,” I said, smiling.

  “What?”

  “A book that has to be delivered.”

  “A book can wait, your health cannot, and without it there won’t be any new novel.”

  “Yes, but I’ve told Mr. Cork that he will have the completed manuscript of The Mystery of the Blue Train on my return.”

  “I’m sure a few weeks won’t make much of a difference.”

  “I truly think writing will take my mind off things. It has done in the past, and I don’t see why it won’t now.”

  “Well, if you insist, then yes, we can include a small amount of writing into your daily agenda.” Carlo’s eyes twinkled. “But on one condition. I do the hard work with the typewriter, while you dictate the story to me.”

  I had used this method only while sketching out the barest bones of a short story, never on something as large in scale as a novel.

  “Very well,” I said. At that moment I caught a glimpse of Miss Hart and Mr. Trevelyan disappearing around the corner of the deck. “Would you excuse me for a moment, Carlo? I’m just going to see if I can find a drink for Rosalind. She must be terribly thirsty.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ll stay here with her.”

  I stood up and walked quickly along the deck, following the couple at a safe distance. They passed through a group of local children and a flap of pale-faced nuns before they came to stop by the rail. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, and it was too risky to approach them and try to listen at close quarters, so I walked up the deck a little until I found an exit that would take me to the opposite side of the ferry. Within a minute or so, I was beginning to edge my way along a length of empty seating that I knew led me towards the spot where Miss Hart and Mr. Trevelyan were talking. As I moved closer to them—always making sure that I remained out of sight—I began to make out their conversation.

  “I still feel so terrible about the whole thing,” said Helen.

  “It’s not surprising,” said Guy, with a soft tenderness in his voice. “It’s a terrible shock, a terrible thing for you to witness.”

  “I don’t know, I feel such a wretch. I wished her dead on so many occasions. I even fantasized about killing her myself, isn’t that awful? A drop of poison in her cocktail, perhaps. A gentle push from the top flight of the stairs in Brook Street. God, you must think I’m a monster.”

  “Shh,” he said. “But now we can start to live our lives again, start afresh.”

  “Can we? You don’t think we’ll be damned?”

  “Damned? Whatever for?”

  “I don’t know. I just wondered whether we should have done things differently, that’s all. Perhaps helped her see another doctor or sought treatment from an American specialist. I feel we let her down.”

  “We couldn’t help falling in love, could we?”

  “Well, there was a moment we could have stepped back from it all. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I suppose there was,” said Guy. “But for me that wasn’t a choice.”

  Their voices fell silent, replaced by the sound of their kissing. I felt my face flushing and I started to edge back the way I came. How shameful of me to listen to such an intimate conversation. They were obviously still trying to deal with the consequences of the sudden death of Gina Trevelyan, and I had acted like—I don’t know what. What was the worst kind of human being? Like one of those hounds who had stalked me during my most desperate hours. Those men in cheap suits who had called themselves journalists and who had splashed those stories about me across their front pages.

  I walked back along the far side of the ferry, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself. There was nothing more to be learnt from Mr. Trevelyan and Miss Hart. I would leave them in peace to grieve and to come to terms with their actions. As I gazed out towards the island on the horizon, I wondered what Archie was doing. Was he with that woman? When I disappeared at the end of the previous year, did he secretly wish that I had done away with myself? Did Miss Neele, Archie’s new love, in the dark of night, pray that I would never return? And how had my reappearance affected their plans? Carlo, the doctors, my sister, even I myself, had insisted that I should banish the subject from my mind. But I couldn’t. It would stay there, like a nasty bloodstain that could never be rubbed clean.

  7

  In contrast to much of the barren landscape of Grand Canary, the northern tip of Tenerife was a lush paradise. As we traveled from the dock by bus towards Puerto Orotava I saw great stretches of banana plantations, fertile terraces, and flowers so bright they hurt my eyes. My earlier feeling of disappointment faded away, replaced by a rising sense of anticipation and delight. Then I had to remind myself of why I was here. I was not simply another high-strung lady seeking rest and recuperation in a fashionable winter resort. I was here to investigate a murder. What was that quote from Genesis? Something along the lines of, that out of the earth the Lord had caused to grow every tree that was pleasing to the sight and a good source of food. Indeed, it was true that in the midst of the Garden of Eden stood the tree of life. But even there—even here—lurked evil.

  I had been told by my fellow passengers on the Gelria that the Grand Hotel Taoro was one of the very best in Europe. As we approached it from the east, it certainly looked imposing, standing high on a hill set a little away from the sea and surrounded by manicured gardens and paths that led down to the ocean. The building formed a U-shape, with the open side facing inland towards more gardens that seemed to run for as far as the eye could see.

  “Mummy, look—there’s the volcano!” said Rosalind, pointing towards the snow-topped Teide in the distance. Her newly acquired knowledge had been gleaned from a number of illustrated books on the subject stocked in the Gelria’s library. Although she couldn’t understand all the words, especially the more technical terms, she was enthralled by the idea that we were going to stay in the shadow of the volcano. “Will it erupt? Will we see lava streams?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Carlo, smiling. “I’m sure it’s extinct.”

  “Oh, no, Carlo, you’re quite wrong,” said Rosalind. “There is every chance it could erupt again. Once, I think two hundred years ago, it destroyed a whole town near here.”

  “Really?” I said, genuinely quite surprised, as I stepped down from the bus. “But surely we are quite safe?” I looked up at the mountain, which from my reading I knew had been referred to by the Guanches as the “Peak of Hell.”

  “Oh, yes, extremely safe,” said a member of the hotel staff, a man with a German accent, dressed in a pale blue uniform, who stood at the entrance to the Taoro and who had overheard our conversation. “We’ve been assured by scientists that there is nothing to worry about from the volcano. My name is Gustavo. Welcome to the Hotel Taoro, the favorite health resort. Chicos, las maletas.”

  A couple of dark-skinned boys, no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age, also dressed in blue, swiftly took our cases and we, together with Mrs. Brendel and the Winniatts, were ushered up a broad flight of steps into the palatial interior. The public rooms were large and lofty; sunlight danced off mirror and marble. Gustavo entered our details into the registration book and then proceeded to tell us about the facilities of the hotel. He was obviously proud of what the Taoro had to offer.

  “The hotel is equipped with all modern comforts,” he reeled off. “There is a private electric plant
on the premises. Water is supplied by the Perdomo Spring, which is piped to the hotel and is of the highest purity. In fact, the sanitary arrangements were carried out by certified English plumbers under the supervision of a trained and qualified English physician. We are set within forty-two acres of gardens, which I would recommend you explore. There is an English Church situated within the grounds, also the English Library at the south entrance to the gardens. And if you are feeling adventurous,” he said, directing this towards Rosalind, “we can arrange ascents to the peak, weather permitting. There is tennis, croquet, sea fishing . . .”

  As I dreamt about the pleasures of swimming in the sea—oh, the thought of water on my shoulders!—I searched for a glimpse of the ocean through one of the windows. The public room faced towards the mountains, not the sea, and so my gaze was drawn to a garden square with a central fountain. Around this were various colonnaded galleries open to the air, and in the very corner I saw a pale-faced man in a wheeled basket chair being tended to by a pretty but plainly dressed girl with mousy brown hair. He took out a handkerchief and coughed into it. He opened his mouth to speak and said something I could not hear. The young woman looked distressed as she knelt down and clasped hold of his hands.

  “Yes, also I should have said that because of its beneficial situation, the hotel does have a number of invalids who come here for the winter,” said Gustavo, following my gaze. “There is an esteemed doctor, Dr. Trenkel, attached to the hotel who speaks and writes perfect English—although he is German I believe his mother was born in England—and also a resident English nurse. Those who have asthma, bronchitis, and various lung disorders do seem to find relief here. Some are cured of their conditions; others,” he said, his eyes moving towards the poignant scene on the veranda, “are not so fortunate . . . Now, if you would allow me and my staff to accompany you to your rooms.”