A Different Kind of Evil

by Andrew Wilson

  “I suspect that might have something to do with the fact that Núñez is in love with Grenville’s daughter, Violet.”

  As he described her to me, an image of the girl I had seen on the Taoro terrace came into my mind. An angel ministering to a sick, dying man.

  “But she’s not in love with Núñez.”

  “How did you know that?” said Davison, sounding astonished.

  “Didn’t I tell you my mother had psychic abilities? I suppose I must have inherited them.”

  It was delightful to see Davison smile once more. “No, apparently Violet is in love with Edmund Ffosse,” he said. “Nice chap. But terribly ill with phthisis.”

  “It must be them I saw on the terrace of the hotel earlier. A lovely girl, but she looked so sad.”

  “Yes, it probably was her. The Taoro’s doctor, Trenkel, is the best on the island. I believe Edmund is one of his patients. Now, after that interlude of trivial island gossip, it’s back to the business in hand,” said Davison.

  “Indeed,” I said, turning my attention to the cave once more. From my experience, it was foolish to dismiss gossip as idle or useless. I knew that sometimes it could provide the clue to the whole thing.

  After another half an hour searching we still had not come up with anything more tangible than a few old coins, the bones of a bird—Davison, something of an expert in these matters, believed it to be a chicken—and an old leather bracelet. Davison had never seen Greene wearing the bracelet, and from its appearance it looked as though it had been in the earth for a good few decades.

  Davison cleared his throat. “Did you know that caves like this—in fact probably this one—were used by the Guanches to bury their dead?” he asked.

  “Is that true?” I said, standing up and brushing the sand and dirt off me.

  “Yes, so Professor Wilbor told me. In fact, if we look closely enough we should still be able to find traces of them.”

  Davison withdrew a penknife from his inside jacket pocket and started to pick away at the ground beneath the spot where Greene had been found. Within a matter of moments he had unearthed the tip of an old bone.

  My old anatomy lessons came back to me. “That looks like a femur.”

  “Yes, and probably a few thousand years old at that,” said Davison as he continued to attack the soil. “Dig a bit deeper and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we didn’t find a Guanche skull.”

  “Perhaps that’s for another day,” I said. I was beginning to feel a little breathless and queasy. “I think it’s about time we returned to the hotel, don’t you? After all, Carlo and Rosalind will be wondering what—”

  “Hello, what’s this? How very curious. Bring that other flashlight over and shine it down here,” he said.

  I followed his orders, but could make out nothing more distinct than a clump of black earth.

  “Can’t you see?” he said as he took out his handkerchief and began to clean the object in his hands.

  “All I see is a primitive little clay figurine.”

  “It’s a representation of Tibicena.”

  “And who, pray tell, is Tibicena?”

  “The Guanches believed that the island was haunted by a demon that lived in a cave and took the form of an enormous black dog with red eyes.”

  “It doesn’t in the least bit look like a dog,” I said as I peered down at the figure with its tiny head and gnashing teeth. It had two arms that looked like the handles of a jug, covered with a series of deep slashes, and in its middle there appeared to be another distorted face or mouth of some kind.

  “So you think it could have been buried here by the Guanches?”

  “Perhaps. There may be another reason, of course.” Davison bowed his head as he blew on the little statue and then spat on his handkerchief to clean its head, revealing a pair of small and sinister eyes. “Yes, very intriguing.”

  “Are you going to enlighten me?”

  Davison did not reply immediately.

  “Oh, sorry, I was lost in thought for a moment. You see, the person with the largest collection of Guanche artifacts on the island, if in not the world, is none other than—”

  I stopped him before he finished his sentence. “Gerard Grenville,” I said.

  10

  Just as we reached the top of the path that led up the cliff, we saw the girl I now knew to be Violet standing at the edge of the plateau. Her long hair hung like a curtain over her face, and she stared down at the waves crashing below in a way that reminded me of poor Gina Trevelyan. Surely she wasn’t going do anything rash? We were about to approach her to ask if she needed any help when a large, bald man walked down the path of cypresses towards where she stood. His face seemed serious and set in stone.

  “It’s Grenville,” said Davison, taking my arm and maneuvering us out of sight behind a large cactus.

  We watched as Grenville put an arm around his daughter and comforted her as she sobbed into his enormous chest. It was obvious from the tableau being played out in front of us that Violet had received some upsetting news. Then in an instant, the tenderness turned to something else, something altogether nastier, as her face flushed a deep crimson, her eyes stretched wide, and her voice cracked with anger.

  “You just don’t understand,” she spat out. “I love him. I don’t care what the doctors have told him. I want to marry him.”

  “But he’s only got a few months to live, my dear.” Grenville’s voice sounded calm. “You’ve got your whole future ahead of you. I would be shirking my duties as a father if I allowed you to marry him.”

  “We could just marry anyway. You couldn’t stop us.”

  “Perhaps not. But I doubt Edmund would go against my wishes.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I simply outlined the practicalities of the situation. Edmund is a reasonable enough chap, and I think he saw sense.”

  “I don’t grasp why you are so against the idea. You know we love each other.”

  “Yes, I believe you love him a great deal.”

  “And what about your own beliefs? What about all those years of work? Those meetings? Those pamphlets? Don’t they count for anything now?”

  “Of course they do. But marrying Edmund Ffosse would not be the best course of action for you at this time. I’ve just spoken to him, and I think he’s come round to my way of thinking, too.”

  “And you’ve always said how there are more things in life than our physical reality, haven’t you,” said Violet, sounding desperate now. “You still stand by that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I do, but—”

  “If you believe that then surely you believe that even after Edmund . . . after Edmund is no longer here—in this world—I should be able to continue to love him, perhaps even communicate with him.”

  “In theory, yes, but there are certain aspects of—”

  “What? Certain aspects of what?”

  “Listen, my dear, why don’t we go back home and talk about it there?” said Grenville. “You’re in a great deal of distress. You’ve just heard the news about Edmund’s diagnosis and there is an awful lot to take in. Come on.” As he reached down to place a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, Violet shrugged him off and moved away, taking a step nearer the cliff’s edge. “Violet, please calm down. Let’s walk back to Mal País and we can—”

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, her eyes flashing wildly now. “I know why you don’t want me to marry Edmund.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Death doesn’t hold any fear for me, you know,” said Violet, gesturing towards the sheer drop that lay only a step away. “What was it the Guanche women would say before they jumped off the cliff to their deaths? Vacaguaré! I’d rather die. That’s what I would shout as I went to my death. I’d rather die and be with Edmund than live without him.”

  “Violet, please. This is not something we should—”

  “You don’t think it’s appropriate? Are you worried I might c
ause a scene?” She looked around her, desperate for an audience now, but saw no one. “Well, that’s something you need to ask—”

  “I don’t understand what you are talking about. The news of Edmund’s diagnosis has unsettled you. If you carry on like this, I will have to call Dr. Trenkel. You need some kind of sedative, something to calm your nerves.”

  “I’ve never felt more in control in all my life,” said Violet, wiping the tears from her face.

  “I’m going to call Edmund. Perhaps he will help to calm you down.”

  “Don’t you speak another word to him—not another word, do you hear?”

  But Grenville turned his bulky frame and, ignoring his daughter, walked back up the cypress walk towards the green-shuttered house set back from the plateau. I watched Violet carefully, ready to stop her if she took another step towards the edge of the cliff. But she remained immobile, a haunted look in her eyes.

  “Is she going to jump?” whispered Davison.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” I replied. “Not while Edmund is alive, at least.”

  “Should we slip away while we’ve got a chance? Back down the path to the beach?”

  “No, but let’s be ready to show ourselves at any moment.”

  Violet tidied her hair and dabbed a handkerchief over her face. She looked up towards the house and began to walk in its direction, before she changed her mind and turned towards the town. A minute or so later, the door to La Paz, the home of Edmund Ffosse, opened to reveal the pale-faced man I’d seen earlier at the hotel, this time in a wheeled chair, with Grenville behind him.

  “Now,” I said to Davison, taking a gentle hold of the bottom of his linen jacket, “take my arm.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said take my arm.”

  “But—”

  “There’s no time for questions,” I said, linking my arm with his and moving forwards along the plateau to the house.

  As Grenville pushed the wheeled chair towards us, it became obvious that the two men were in a state of distress and anxiety. The older man’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his ugly face, while the young invalid looked haunted, if not somewhat hunted, too. They stopped us as we walked towards them.

  “Have you seen the girl who was here a minute or so ago?” Edmund asked us. “Please tell me you’ve seen her and that she is all right. I couldn’t bear it if she has done anything stupid. Grenville, wheel me to the edge. Look down to see if—”

  “Do you mean a young lady with light brown hair? Dressed in a black skirt and white blouse?” I said.

  “Yes, that’s her,” said Edmund, his black eyes full of pain. “She’s not—”

  “When we were coming up from the beach a few minutes ago, I saw a woman on the plateau,” I said. “But when she saw us, she turned her back to us and started to walk towards the town.”

  “Are you quite certain?” asked Edmund, as he started to cough. He took out a handkerchief, the corner of which was stained with blood.

  “Yes,” added Davison. “Quite. Why? Is there is something wrong?”

  “Oh, no, my daughter was just a little upset,” said Grenville, wheeling Edmund back from the edge of the plateau. I saw the older man’s eyes studying every inch of me, taking in a spot of dirt on my dress that I must have picked up in the cave. “Did you have a mishap down on the path? I know it’s quite steep and, in some spots, very narrow. One misplaced step could prove fatal.”

  I lowered my head and pretended to be embarrassed. Fortunately, Davison had finally understood the significance of the dissembling.

  “You’ve rumbled us,” he said, blushing slightly. “Yes, my companion did slip on the path down below. Luckily, I caught her before it was too late.” Davison looked at me with amusement and affection, and keeping up the charade, I met his gaze with a simpering giggle.

  It was obvious that Edmund was not interested in pursuing this line of conversation or knowing any more details of the strangers’ lovemaking in the remote spot below his house. He only wanted to know more about Violet—what kind of state she had been in, whether we had heard anything she might have muttered to herself, and what direction she had been moving in.

  “Sorry, so rude of me,” said the older man. “I’m Gerard Grenville. I live here on the island with my daughter, Violet. And this,” he added, gesturing to the emaciated figure in the wheeled chair, “is my daughter’s very good friend Edmund Ffosse.”

  Davison introduced himself as Alexander Blake, an insurance agent from Southampton, and I, knowing that the best disguise was often oneself, simply told the two men the truth. No doubt they had read about my disappearance—all the world seemed to be acquainted with it—and they had also probably heard about my arrival at the hotel. I’d had a somewhat distressing winter, I told them, and after an attack of nerves, had escaped England for the fortunate isles. I hoped that the rest and relaxation, beneficial climate, and good company—at this point I looked at Davison—would restore me to good health.

  “Oh, my, the famous lady novelist,” said Grenville, his frog-like eyes widening. “Or, as you are better known in our household, the writer of rather fine supernatural short stories.” He began to question me on some of the silly tales I had dashed off for magazines like The Grand and Ghost Stories. “Of course, my favorite is ‘The Woman Who Stole a Ghost.’ I wonder how you got the inspiration for such a story? And that awful Madame Exe, interfering with a medium like that. Yes, it’s perfectly understandable that she may miss her dead daughter, but to try and take the spirit away, this is very dangerous, as you know. In fact, it once happened to me, when I was taking part in a séance in Paris. Just as I felt myself being totally possessed—my guide is an ancient Egyptian spirit . . . But listen to me going on. I’m sure you don’t want to hear me talk about my experiences, all my strange interludes, which you no doubt regard as—”

  “Oh, Mr. Grenville, I’m absolutely fascinated,” I said, interrupting him. “As a writer, I’m always keen to hear such things, especially from someone with your talents.”

  “What have you heard?”

  I felt my heart lurch. All I knew was the gossip I had picked up from the Gelria. “Your particular sensitivities, your ability to sense things and see things that escape the rest of us.”

  At this, Grenville puffed up his mighty chest. “Well, if that is the case we must carry on this conversation in a more civilized environment. Would you and your friend, Mr. Blake,” he said, pausing before saying his name almost as if he had seen it written in an italic script, “like to come for tea tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I—rather, we—would like that a great deal,” I said.

  “I hope my daughter will have come to her senses by then. She’s a lovely girl, just a little highly strung. She’s a great fan of your writing too, so I am sure she would be delighted to meet you. Now, do you know where my house is? Mal País? Ask at the hotel. It’s built on the tongue of a lava flow. They said nothing would grow there, but I think I’ve proved them wrong. Anyway, you’ll see when you come.”

  His eyes bulged further as he moved a step closer to me. An absurd comment made on the ship about Grenville’s fondness for cake made from the blood of chickens came into my mind. My vision began to soften and blur a little. The taste of bile soured my mouth. I leant on Davison, who was still at my side, and I became aware of him looking at me with a concerned expression.

  “And despite all the rumors, or what nonsense you may have heard,” Grenville said, smiling and revealing a mouth of rotten, blackened teeth, “I don’t serve cakes made out of chickens’ blood.” He stared at me to watch my reaction, a reaction that reminded me of the look a hawk might give a rodent before swooping down and catching it in its talons. “I’ll expect you tomorrow—shall we say half past three?”

  I smiled nervously; a mass of questions rattled me and jarred my nerves. Had Grenville murdered Douglas Greene? If so, what was his motive? What was the nature of Grenville’s relationship with his daughter? Was he aware tha
t Davison was using a false name? And the most pressing, and indeed the most worrying, of all: as an occultist, did Grenville have the ability to tap into my consciousness and read my mind?

  11

  “But I assumed he was a fake,” I said to Davison in the taxi back to the hotel. “I just don’t understand how he could have known what I was thinking about.”

  “That story about the cakes is one of the more common anecdotes about Grenville repeated in the popular press,” said Davison. “I’m sure it’s nothing more than a coincidence.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed in coincidence. Of course, odd things happened all the time—strange confluences, surprising but fortunate meetings, odd parallels. But were these things without meaning? Was it simply that some people had the ability to see certain patterns that others would not even notice? Certainly, my mother had been a great believer in the hidden power of the spirit world. She had hinted to me on several occasions that an individual’s actions, while seeming on the surface to be a product of his or her willpower or personality or background, could actually be determined by other, more mysterious factors. It would have been easy for skeptics to dismiss her theory as nothing more than the musings of an elderly widow. How much more comforting it was to believe that at the end of one’s life, one was about to join a community of dearly loved souls, rather than face up to the bleaker prospect of eternal nonexistence. Yet, since my mother’s death, I had felt her spirit close to me. Was this wishful thinking? Perhaps. Could it have been a symptom of my occasional nervous disposition or—that fashionable concept—the unconscious? Indeed it could. Yet I liked to believe that my dear mother was still near, still guiding me. How much I would give to see and touch her again. Tears stung my eyes as I realized just how much I missed her.

  “It’s been quite a day,” said Davison gently. “I expect you need a rest.”

  “Yes, I think I do. Especially if I’m going to go to this dinner tonight at the hotel hosted by Guy Trevelyan and Helen Hart. I think it’s meant as a kind of peace offering towards the Winniatts.” I related the incident on the Gelria that culminated in Miss Hart spilling red wine over Howard Winniatt’s precious notebook. “Did you ever meet him during the voyage?”