“What happened to it?” asked Helen.
“It was destroyed after the terrible floods of 1898.”
“I can’t imagine there being floods here,” said Mrs. Brendel.
“Oh, yes, in fact the island has had quite a few,” the professor replied. “Back in 1826, the image of the Virgin of Candelaria was lost during one particularly bad flood. It seems as though a huge wave came in from the ocean and swept the statue into the sea, most probably caused by an earthquake out in the Atlantic.”
“How awful,” said Mrs. Brendel. “I for one know the devastating power of water. When I—”
Helen Hart cut her off. “Is that the same statue that was supposed to have been discovered by two Guanche goat herders after it was washed up?”
Professor Wilbor smiled as he began to tell the story. “Yes, and according to legend, when one of these young men threw a stone at it his arm became paralyzed. And then when the other shepherd tried to attack it with a knife, he ended up stabbing himself.”
A wave of light laughter rippled through the group. Just at that moment, I felt something wet on my face. Then I saw a drop of blood had splattered onto my white dress. Rosalind caught the look of horror in my eyes and screamed at the top of her voice, soon followed by Mrs. Brendel. Nerves were understandably frayed after the murders of Douglas Greene and Howard Winniatt. I strained my neck to look up into the tree, half expecting to see something horrific in the branches. But there was nothing.
“Don’t worry,” said the professor, easing his large form up from the floor. “It’s just the tree. It’s dragon’s blood, nothing more than that.”
I took my napkin and, after wiping the sticky red liquid from my face, started to calm Rosalind. The professor pointed out to us the section of bark that had peeled back and started to bleed. Guy Trevelyan and Rupert Mabey helped move the blanket and picnic things—plates, bowls, dishes, and glasses—to a safer spot.
“Has the tree had an accident?” asked Rosalind. “Does it hurt?”
“No, my dear, that’s just its way,” said Carlo, taking her hand. “Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.”
As I tried to work the stain out of my dress with a damp napkin, the rest of the group continued to stare into the umbrella-like canopy of the tree.
“The first time I saw this dragon’s blood, splattered on a white marble pavement down by La Paz, I thought something terrible must have happened,” said Helen Hart. “It was only when my friend told me to look up that I saw that it had come from a dragon tree overhead.”
I thought of Davison’s description of Douglas Greene’s desiccated corpse covered in the red sheen of dragon’s blood.
“Were you with Mr. Trevelyan?” I asked.
The question seemed to take her by surprise. “No, someone altogether different,” she said, casting a concerned look towards Guy, who continued to busy himself with the picnic things. It was obvious that she wanted to change the subject. “I think we deserve a little wine after that shock, don’t you?” she said. “Professor, can we have some of the wine that you mentioned to me earlier?”
“A very good idea,” said the professor, taking two bottles of wine out of one of the satchel bags that lay on the ground. He passed a few glasses of the lethal-looking dark red liquid to brave individuals such as Helen Hart, Guy Trevelyan, and Mrs. Brendel. “I don’t know what it’s like,” he said. “I was given it to try by Gerard Grenville.”
At the mere mention of the name, Mrs. Brendel, who was at just that moment taking a small sip from the glass, wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Oh, it’s ghastly,” said the elderly woman. “If I wasn’t in company, I would spit it out onto the ground.”
“Don’t mind us, my dear Mrs. Brendel,” said the professor. “We’re among friends.”
Helen cast the two gray-haired individuals a withering look. “Well, although I wouldn’t say it was up there with vintage Burgundy, I don’t think it’s that bad.”
Mrs. Brendel took her napkin and used it to cover her lips as she leant to one side and spat out the remaining contents of her mouth onto the dry soil by the enormous roots of the Dragon Tree. “Please excuse me,” she said, wiping her lips. “If I’d known it had come from him, I would never have taken a sip.”
“Why ever not?” asked the professor. “He’s perfectly harmless.”
“Harmless?” Mrs. Brendel’s voice rose in disbelief. “I wouldn’t quite use that word to describe him.”
“What on earth do you mean?” asked Miss Hart. “Surely you don’t believe those silly rumors? Everyone knows that those stories were made up. I’m sure Mrs. Christie can testify to his character.”
I was taken aback by her comment. What did she know about my visit to Mal País? “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.”
“I hear you’ve become quite friendly with him since you arrived at the Taoro,” she said, mischief playing in her blue eyes. “Well, with both him and his daughter.”
I did not respond. I heard Carlo whispering to Rosalind, hoping to distract her from our conversation.
“How did you find Violet?” asked Miss Hart, taking a gulp of wine. “I hope you were able to cheer her up. She’s been so sad of late. Of course, one would be if one’s fiancé did not have long to live. I wouldn’t be surprised if she does something silly one of these days. There’s even been talk that as soon as Edmund dies, she will . . .” Out of consideration for Rosalind she lowered her voice at this point. “She will end her life, the poor soul.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” I said. “People who talk about doing such things very rarely follow through. It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for. They can often be the most dangerous.”
“Darling,” said Miss Hart, taking hold of Guy Trevelyan’s knee and holding out an empty glass, “would you pour me another glass of that rough wine? I seem to have developed rather a taste for it.”
Guy Trevelyan did not immediately respond to his lover’s request, but continued talking to the professor and Mr. Mabey about the formation of the volcano.
“Yes, it is interesting, it seems the Cañadas were formed around a hundred and seventy thousand years ago when a huge landslide resulted in the disappearance of the top of the island.”
“Guy, could you—”
“And the landslide left behind a huge depression that was open to the sea, and covered the ocean floor with a—
“Please, Guy—”
“And subsequently the reactivation of volcanic activity caused the Teide and Pico Viejo volcanoes to emerge in the interior of Las Cañ—”
“For God’s sake, Guy!” screamed Helen, standing up.
Guy looked at her in amazement.
“It’s so boring, don’t you realize? You’re so boring!” She spat the words out in a kind of manic fury. Her pale face had turned red now, her eyes wild like those of a rabid dog.
The group fell silent as Miss Hart reached for the wine and, with a shaky hand, poured herself another glass. Realizing the scene she had caused, she ruffled Guy’s dark hair and, with a voice now tinged with artificial affection, said with a bright smile, “You and your bloody rocks!” As she took a large sip of wine, she smoothed her blond hair and tried to regain her composure. “The way you go on, sometimes people might think you love those rocks more than you love me!”
It was clear that Miss Hart wanted to pass off what we had just witnessed as a joke, but none of us were so easily fooled, and for a few seconds, the air seemed thick and heavy with embarrassment.
“Talking of rocks, Guy,” said Mrs. Brendel, trying to bring an air of civility back to the conversation, “I suppose you’ll want to carry a great many specimens back with you to Britain?”
Guy looked confused, as though he did not grasp the meaning of Mrs. Brendel’s question. “I’m not sure I understand you,” he said.
“It must be lovely traveling around the world, going to all these interesting places, picking up various rocks which you can then s
end back home,” she said. “And knowing you have all that space. If I had an empty trunk with me, I would fill it with the finest samples of lacework and other fabrics. I know when I was on the Titanic—”
“Indeed,” he said, the words freezing on his lips. His eyes, which focused on a point beyond Mrs. Brendel, seemed to lose their spark. I turned my head and looked up the pathway to see the figure of Núñez, flanked by two men. And so they had come to get me. Some evidence had been found to charge me with the theft of the pearls.
Rosalind did not deserve this. She should not be forced to witness her mother being taken away by the police. I whispered in Carlo’s ear, stood up and excused myself from the group. The red bloom had spread across my skirt, a red badge of guilt if ever there was one.
“I’ll come with you, but please can we do this quietly, discreetly,” I said to Núñez. “For my daughter’s sake.”
But Núñez was in no mood to allow me any dignity and said in a loud voice so that everyone seated under the Dragon Tree could hear, “Mrs. Agatha Christie, you are hereby suspected of the theft of a string of extremely valuable pearls from the room of Mrs. Daisy Winniatt.”
I heard a collective gasp of surprise from the group sitting under the tree, soon followed by the cries of Rosalind.
He signaled for one of his men to seize my arm. “I have to inform you that you are under arrest.”
The words set off an alarm call of raised voices.
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” said Mrs. Brendel. “Mrs. Christie would never do such a thing.”
“How extraordinary, most peculiar,” bellowed Professor Wilbor.
Carlo dashed up and ran towards me, panic freezing her face. “There must be some misunderstanding,” she said. “I’m sure there is an explanation.”
“Look here, Inspector,” said Guy Trevelyan. “Can we just—”
But all I could hear was the startled cries of my daughter, who had followed Carlo and now clung to my skirt. “Mummy,” she sobbed, “don’t let the man take you.”
“Please, stand back,” said Núñez. “We need to take Mrs. Christie back to Orotava for questioning.” He nodded to his man to try and maneuver me towards his car. “The quicker we get her back, the quicker this can all be sorted out.” That sounded reasonable enough, but I doubted at this stage whether Núñez, once he had me under arrest, had any plans to release me.
“But, but . . .” I said, unable to articulate the words that stuck in my dry throat. If my theory proved correct, it would best to remain quiet about what I knew about Dr. Trenkel for a while longer. The only problem was that if Núñez placed me under arrest, there was little chance of me gathering the final pieces of evidence I needed to solve the case. I felt an increased pressure on my arm and I was directed towards the car.
“Mummy, don’t go,” said Rosalind, her eyes a mass of tears. “Please . . . don’t . . .”
“I’m sure I will be able to sort this out—it’s just a silly mix-up. Don’t worry, darling,” I said, stroking her hair. “I will see you back at the hotel. Carlo will look after you.” I gave my friend an imploring look and then turned my back on the ugly scene. I was fearful that if I looked at my daughter for a second longer I would completely break down. The last thing the poor girl needed was to see her mother reduced to an emotional wreck. “Very well, Inspector Núñez. I’m ready.”
Núñez nodded with satisfaction and pride—the same kind of expression I had once glimpsed on the face of a big-game hunter in South Africa who had just killed a lioness—and led me towards the open door of his car. But as I was about to step into the vehicle, I heard a high-pitched scream crack the air.
“Mummy! Mummy!” The words disintegrated, soon replaced by the sound of sobbing.
I could not look back, knowing that to do so would break my heart.
36
The journey back to Orotava was a miserable affair. Haunted by images of Rosalind’s grief-stricken face, I fell into a depressed silence. I caught Núñez eyeing the stain on my dress with suspicion. And did he really think that I was the kind of person who could rob a recently widowed woman of her pearls? Yet he was only being guided by the information presented to him—the sighting of my leaving Daisy Winniatt’s suite and now, presumably, the tip-off from Trenkel that had resulted in the discovery of the pearls in my room. I wondered how the doctor had arranged it so that the jewels had been found there. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to sweet-talk one of the chambermaids into letting him in to my room under the guise of leaving some medicine for me.
“Did you think you’d get away with it?” asked Núñez.
“Forgive me, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The pearls. It was only a matter of time before we found them.”
I did not respond.
“Dr. Trenkel told me that you’ve been suffering from nervous strain. He asked me to show you some special consideration.”
That is rich coming from him, I thought to myself. “The doctor is a very attentive man,” I said. “I’m grateful for his concerns.”
“Perhaps you can tell me why you did it? Did you need the money? Or were you driven by the thrill of it all? I’ve read about such cases, women so out of their minds with boredom that they turn to crime as a form of entertainment.”
“I’m afraid that sounds like the plot of a bad thriller, Inspector,” I said.
Núñez looked at me with scorn. “Don’t try and make fun of me, Mrs. Christie. I think the time for such games is over, don’t you?”
I fell into silence once more and looked out of the car at the stretch of blue sea and the clearly defined horizon in the distance. I remembered the interrupted view from the porthole of the Gelria, the ship that had brought me from the cold of an English winter to this paradise island in the sun. I recalled the feel of Flora Kurs’s shawl as I stepped out of the door and onto the deck that early morning. The sound of Gina Trevelyan’s cries echoed in my ears. The sight of her ready to leap off the side of the ship, her hands rising into the sky like a bird about to fly off to warmer climes.
The drive from Icod seemed to take an eternity, but when we arrived back in Orotava, Núñez took me not to the hotel, but to an official building on the harbor front. The smell of rotting fish filled my nostrils. He led me through a doorway, across a courtyard, and into a bare, whitewashed room with bars at the window.
“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing towards a wooden chair as he took a seat behind a desk. “As you can see, this is a world away from the comforts of the Taoro. I would rather we didn’t have to bring a woman of your position to such a place, but I’m afraid you have given me no choice.”
“Can I ask who says they saw me leaving Mrs. Winniatt’s room?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you.”
“What would you say if I told you that it was all done in the name of research?”
“So you admit taking the pearls?”
“If I did admit taking them—which I do not—how would you view the situation if I told you that I needed to do it for a scene in my novel?”
“I would be inclined not to believe you.”
“I see,” I said. “Now, that is a shame.” I thought about what to say next. “The thing is, I didn’t steal the pearls, but I do know who did.”
Núñez looked at me with skepticism. “Is that so? I’m afraid, Mrs. Christie, that you’ve told too many stories, too many—how do you say?—tall tales. Anything you say, I have to question.”
“You’ve got to believe me this time, Inspector. It’s connected to the murder of Mr. Winniatt, and before him Douglas Greene.”
“How do you mean?”
“I can’t tell you the details, precisely because I don’t know them all yet. But it’s vitally important you let me go so I can find out the truth. I’m almost there, on the cusp of it, if you like. There is one piece of information I need before I can put together the final pieces of the puzzle.”
“Wh
at do you take me for?” asked Núñez, his face reddening with anger. “I’m not a character in one of your books. I’m not a bumbling policeman or incompetent investigator. It’s not going to be so easy, I’m afraid.”
“I can understand your difficulties. But, Inspector Núñez, you must see that if you keep me locked up we may never find out who was responsible for the murders of—”
“I think you’ll find that solving crime is my job, and it really is not the preserve of a lady novelist.” He pronounced the last two words as though he had just tasted something particularly disgusting. “Now, why don’t you tell me the truth?”
What option did I have? I was hoping to keep back the information about Trenkel, which I was sure played a part in the larger picture. But now it seemed as though I had no choice but to reveal it.
“Very well,” I said, smoothing down my skirt. “I know it may sound highly unlikely, but please take seriously what I am about to tell you.”
Núñez leant forwards in his chair. He took up a pen and was poised to take down my statement.
“You’re right. I was in Daisy Winniatt’s room the night the pearls went missing.”
With a self-congratulatory nod of the head, he began to write down my words.
“I was in her room looking for a clue, hoping to find Mr. Winniatt’s missing journal. I knew that Daisy had been sedated and that this would give me the opportunity to look around.”
“I see. Go on.”
“When I was in there, I saw the handle of the door open, and so in a panic, I hid in the wardrobe. As you know, the wardrobes in the rooms at the Taoro are very spacious indeed.”
“Yes, that’s so. And?”
“And while I was inside the wardrobe I saw someone come into the room and take Mrs. Winniatt’s pearls from her jewelry box. It was Dr. Trenkel.”
As I said the name, the inspector threw down his pen onto the table.
“How can you expect me to believe this?” he exclaimed, his face wrinkling in disgust. “Dr. Trenkel? He’s been a trusted member of the Taoro’s staff for many years, he has helped dozens—no, hundreds—of sick men and women. And you expect me to believe that he is a common jewel thief? Why would he risk his position at the Taoro? No, it’s preposterous!”
A Different Kind of Evil Page 23