“I’d be happy to, if you think it might help. She must be absolutely devastated and needs some time to take in the horrible news.”
“Of course the murderer could be on the other side of the island by now,” said Núñez, watching me closely for my reaction. He had obviously learnt that the man he knew as Alexander Blake had left the hotel.
“I’m sure time is of the essence,” I said without flinching. “Would you like me to go and talk to her now?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind,” he said, standing up and walking me to the door. “Anything she might be able to tell you about her husband’s movements yesterday and any ideas about who she suspects could have done this would be very helpful.”
Núñez accompanied me along the corridor to room 107. He asked that I join him back in his suite when I had finished. I knocked gently and then entered to see Daisy, dressed in her nightgown, sitting in bed. Her face was a ghastly color, almost as if she herself were on the point of death, and her eyes were lifeless. She did not meet my gaze as I walked towards the bed, but instead stared blankly ahead.
“My poor dear,” I said, taking her hand. “What a terrible shock for you.”
“Yes,” she said in a whisper. “I can’t believe it.”
There was little use in expressing platitudes. Personal experience had taught me that the recently bereaved do not want to know how time is a great healer, how a loved one now rests in a better place, and how the best are always taken first. I still longed to see my mother, who had died in April of the previous year. Perhaps Grenville’s wild ambitions as an occultist were really just a perverted extension of this urge to unite the dead with the living. “An awful thing to happen,” I said. “But the most important thing is to find the monster who did this to your husband.”
Again there was no response. “You do realize that there is evil in the world, don’t you, my dear,” I said in a very soft voice. “And we must not allow it to triumph. No, that would be very wrong. And I think the person who did this to Mr. Winniatt must have been very evil indeed.”
As her eyes met mine, I saw the depths of pain that raged inside her. “Who would do such a thing?” A wave of grief wracked her body.
I let her cry for a minute or so, holding her hands as she did so. “That’s why you must help the police,” I said. “If you don’t mind, the inspector has entrusted me to ask you a few questions. Would that be all right, my dear?”
As she wiped her eyes and nose with a saturated handkerchief, I took out my own and passed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m certain I don’t know anything.”
“Well then. Let’s start with what you remember of yesterday. In what kind of state of mind was Mr. Winniatt?”
“He was in a very good mood,” she said. “He was feeling confident of his book, or books, I should say, as he did see them as part of a larger series.”
I smiled encouragingly. “Yes, such a very good idea,” I said. “Did you know what he had planned for the day?”
“We had breakfast here, which was lovely as usual, and then he told me that he wanted to explore a little around the hotel grounds.”
“What did he do after that?”
“He left the hotel at about ten o’clock and said that he wanted to note down some impressions of the island, of the wildlife, the gardens, and I suppose he must have walked towards the dry riverbed.” At the mention of this place, Daisy’s eyes filled with tears once more. “But, Mrs. Christie, who could be so cruel? The police told me about the way he had been killed, and what they had found.”
Daisy covered her mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry, would you please excuse me?” She jumped from the bed and ran towards the bathroom, from where I heard the sounds of retching. I seized the opportunity to open the suitcase and place the notebook that I had stolen back inside.
“I know, so horrible,” I said. “Which is why it’s very important we find this man.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, reentering the bedroom and trying to regain her composure. “Would you mind if I retired back to bed? I’m still feeling awfully weak. My head feels so strange,” she said, raising a hand to her forehead. I suspected that the doctor had given her something extremely strong indeed to ensure that she did not stir when he entered her room. I wondered when she would discover the theft of her pearls.
“Did Mr. Winniatt ever mention the name Gerard Grenville to you?”
At this her eyes widened slightly. “The famous occultist? The one you were talking about?”
“Yes. As you know, he lives quite near the hotel.”
“I do believe he did say that he would like to make his acquaintance. Do you think that he could be responsible?”
“He may have played some part. Do you know if the two men had ever met before?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“And what of Violet Grenville?” I asked. “The daughter? Had Mr. Winniatt had any reason to make her acquaintance?”
“I’ve never heard him mention her name, I don’t think.”
“Do you know if your husband expressed any interest in the occult?”
“Oh, no, he thought it was a load of hokum,” she said.
“And do you remember if Mr. Winniatt took his notebook with him that morning?”
“Oh, yes. He carried it with him everywhere, always in his hand or the inside pocket of his suit jacket.”
“Did the police tell you that they could not find it? That they think it is missing?”
“Yes, the inspector did mention that, but he did take away a couple of Howard’s earlier notebooks that were buried at the bottom of one of our cases. Núñez asked me some questions, but I’m afraid I was in no fit state to talk to him.” Her fingers freed themselves from my hands and started to work themselves over and over in a frenzy of anxiety.
“Don’t worry. They understand, of course,” I said, taking her hands into mine once more to help calm her down.
“And do you know if the police took all his notebooks and letters with them?”
She hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. Her eyes darted back and forth to the drawer by the bed. “Well, I—”
At that moment, the door opened and Núñez came into the room. His friendly demeanor had been replaced by a stern expression.
“Mrs. Christie, if you could come with me, please?” he said, looking at the carpet.
“Mrs. Winniatt was just about to—”
“If you could be so kind as to accompany me back to the suite.”
I felt my heart begin to beat faster and my mouth felt as dry as desert sand. “Has something happened? What’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing more to be done here,” he said.
“But—”
“Now, please,” he said.
Daisy, disturbed by the sudden entrance and Núñez’s harsh behavior, started to cry again. “Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll come and see you a little later,” I said, squeezing her hand. I left her looking absolutely desolate, a lost child who had just realized she inhabited a cruel and evil world.
Núñez led me out of the room and we walked in silence back to his suite. What on earth had happened? Had he discovered something about the Winniatts? Why did he not want me to stay in the room with her? I felt my face flushing with anger. After all, I was sure that Daisy had been about to tell me something, something relating to a missing journal, something that she had secreted away in the drawers by her bed.
Núñez gestured for me to sit down. I had only left him half an hour ago at the most and yet he seemed like a changed man. The atmosphere in the room was decidedly frosty.
He looked down at his papers with something of a frown. “You and Mr. Winniatt, I believe, were not on the best of terms?”
“Forgive me, I don’t understand . . .”
“From what I’ve just heard it seems as though Mr. Winniatt had made some rather cutting comments about you, both on the Gelria and here on the island.”
<
br /> “Let’s just say that his and my ideas of what constituted a good book were very different,” I said, trying to force a smile.
“People say that he insulted you, is that correct?”
“Well, some of his comments were a little low, I’ll give you that. But I didn’t take them seriously, not at all.”
“Really? You did not bear Mr. Winniatt any ill will?”
“I know you’re not supposed to talk ill of the dead, but some of the things that came out of his mouth were really quite astonishing.”
“And you didn’t retaliate in any way?”
“Inspector Núñez, what are you suggesting? You can’t seriously believe that I would cosh a man over the head because he didn’t like my books?”
“No, no, of course not,” he said. “But what about your friend, Mr. Blake? He seems to have left the hotel.”
I told him the same lie I had told Grenville. “But he was just a brief acquaintance. Someone I had met on the journey over here. Very pleasant, but I doubt I will see him again.”
“Really? I’ve been told that you seemed very close indeed. There was also some suggestion that you were upset that Mr. Winniatt had seen you in the company of Mr. Blake down by Martiánez beach. Is that correct?”
I thought back to the scene that first night at dinner at the Taoro.
“I didn’t think it was any of his business, that’s all,” I said.
“Well, it’s certainly very remiss of Mr. Blake to vanish like this. I will have to ask my colleagues here to put every effort into finding him.” He stared at me for a moment without speaking, before he continued, “You don’t happen to have a photograph of Mr. Blake in your possession, by any chance?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“You see, Mrs. Christie, I’ve just been speaking to one of the guests here who gave me a very good description of this Mr. Blake. He is tall, handsome, well educated. Finely cut clothes. Expensive shoes. From what I can gather he doesn’t strike me as the type of man who would go into insurance and live in Southampton.”
“Is there such a type?” I asked.
He didn’t stop to answer the question. “Do you remember the man I mentioned to you when we first talked on the Gelria? When you asked me about the murder of Douglas Greene? The body found in the cave?”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
“Well, I have reason to believe that the man I was looking for in connection to that case—John Davison—is none other than your friend, Mr. Alexander Blake.”
I froze. I had to think quickly to put him off the scent. “But I don’t see how it could be possible.”
“Oh, it could be very possible indeed.”
“But if you say that these two men—Blake and Davison—are one and the same, why would this fellow risk coming back to Tenerife?”
“That’s what I don’t know—yet. But I’m certain I will find out.”
“Have you found anything more out about that case? The body of poor Mr. Greene in the cave?”
“I am afraid I am not at liberty to say.”
It was obvious Núñez no longer trusted me. He cleared his throat before he asked, “And did Mrs. Winniatt give you any information that might prove helpful?”
“No, I’m afraid she didn’t,” I said.
“But I thought you said she was about to tell you something?”
“Yes, I did get the impression that she was on the point of saying something, but that’s when you walked into her room.”
“But you don’t have any suspicions of what that might be?”
“No,” I lied, determined not to give away more than I had to. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
Núñez cast me a disapproving look, almost one of disgust, before he dismissed me with a flick of the hand. “I don’t like being kept in the dark, Mrs. Christie.” The threat in his voice was unmistakable.
21
I left Núñez in a state of nervous agitation, my hands shaking, my mouth dry, my heart beating. The inspector had treated me as though I were a criminal, someone bent on subverting the natural order of things. If only I could tell him that I was trying to work towards the same ends as he was. There was no point in telling him the truth, partly because I wasn’t quite sure of the full nature of the facts myself.
I returned to my room, took out my notebook, and wrote down what I knew to be true. In front of me I had assembled fragments of the puzzle; actually, this was not quite accurate. What lay before me were what seemed like pieces of several different puzzles, all mixed up in a heap. I did not even know what I should be looking for, what I ought to select from this terrible mess that lay before me.
I tried to plot out the various strands of the narrative as if they were elements of a story. By the initials DG, I wrote the names of the suspects and their possible motives for wanting Douglas Greene out of the way. At the top of the list was Gerard Grenville, next to which I added the words “killed Greene as part of an occult ritual? Or murdered him because Greene was about to expose him—was Grenville the one with secret Bolshevik leanings?” Below this, next to RM, I wrote: “Motive? Was he the Bolshevik spy or could it be something more mundane: could Rupert Mabey have killed Greene because he wanted to ensure that he was the sole heir to his father’s fortune?” Would it be possible to check Mabey’s father’s will? If Davison had been around, this was something that could be arranged. Could I write to his hostal and ask him to do this?
To this list I added—in a rather reluctant fashion—the name of Davison himself, who despite his protestations did have a motive for murdering Greene: he could not risk his friend’s exposing the true nature of their relationship. The shadow of disgrace, of prison, was a reality for any man engaging in homosexual activity.
Were there any other suspects? What about Dr. Trenkel? Had Douglas Greene discovered the doctor’s profitable little sideline thieving from his rich patients and threatened to expose his dirty secret?
And what of the other murder, that of Howard Winniatt? Did Daisy Winniatt have a reason for wanting her husband out of the way? Had Howard asked for a divorce? Did he have a mistress, a woman he was prepared to leave Daisy for? It seemed as though Grenville was at the top of the list. The writer may have witnessed something and documented it in his notebook without realizing its true significance. Perhaps Winniatt had recorded, in all innocence, some small detail that Grenville knew would implicate him in the murder of Greene. Mabey could have killed him for the same reason. If only I could find the notebook that Winniatt had been using at the time of his death.
By the time I had finished, the pages of my own notebook were full of initials and words, interconnecting circles, complete with a frenzied rash of lines and arrows. Something was being kept from me, I knew—some fact, or more likely a number of facts, without which none of this made any sense. Just as I flung down my notebook in frustration, Carlo walked into the room.
“My dear, whatever is wrong? You’re looking very tired,” she said as she came over to the desk where I had been sitting. She bent down to pick up my notebook, but I quickly snatched it out of her hand. I had to keep my intelligence work secret from her at all costs.
“This damned book is not working,” I said. “Sorry, Carlo. But the thing is driving me mad.”
“It’s no surprise after what you’ve been through. And then having to see that body and deal with all of that. It’s the last thing you need.” She looked at me with a serious expression. “Do you think we should leave here? Go to another hotel?”
“I have considered it, but I think that would set a terribly bad example, don’t you? It would hardly be fair on poor Mrs. Winniatt.”
“Yes, perhaps you’re right. I’m trying to think what would be best for you. What about a nice stroll? Rosalind is playing with her friend, and if you like, we could go down to get some sea air. Walking has always seemed to help in the past. What did you once say? That it helps unknot the knottiest of problems?”
“I wish it were that simp
le,” I said, sighing. “No, I think I’m going to have to admit defeat for the moment. Could you ask Gustavo or whoever is down on reception if I could book an appointment with the doctor here?”
“Is it that bad?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably a simple tonic will do me the world of good.”
As Carlo cast me another concerned look, I slipped my notebook back inside my handbag and zipped it up. The action forced me to remember the time in Harrogate when I sequestered that poison inside my handbag. Would I have to resort to such measures here? Surely not. After all, I was not being threatened myself, or at least not yet.
* * *
An hour or so later, I was standing outside Dr. Trenkel’s room. As I waited by the door to his office, which was situated on the ground floor overlooking the terraced gardens, I heard the vague murmur of voices from inside. I had been told by the English nurse, who also seemed to serve as Trenkel’s secretary, that the doctor was seeing another patient, but an appointment had become free at the last minute because one of his regulars had just died. I looked out to the terrace and saw the shadow of illness lying on the faces of a dozen or so patients, many of whom sat in basket or wheeled chairs, their knees covered by blankets. They were of different ages and nationalities, but they all had one thing in common: the deathly pallor of their complexions.
The invalids came to the island in the hope that the balmy climate would help relieve them of their symptoms; many of them knew they could not be cured. The island did not have a winter, or so they had been told, and although it was far from cold, today the sun was obscured by a low-lying cloud. The great volcano could not be seen, but—like death itself—was ever present.
I may have been imagining it, but I thought that I could discern a glint in the eyes of one or two of the patients, a certain degree of animation that played across their faces where it had not existed before. Perhaps the news of Howard Winniatt’s death had acted on the nervous symptoms of the invalids as a kind of tonic; after all, they may have reasoned, death had claimed a man in the prime of life, suffering from no discernible illness. Yes, they did have to endure an awfully cruel disease, one that would probably finish them off, but at least they had not been murdered, and murdered like that.
A Different Kind of Evil Page 13