“But there’s something that lies behind it. You see—”
“I cannot listen to any more of this nonsense,” said Núñez, raising the palm of his hand to stop me. He pushed back his chair, took up his notes, and walked to the door. He called for one of his men, who promptly entered the room. He said something in Spanish that I did not understand. I felt a hand grip my arm, the pressure on my skin as tight as a vise.
“But can’t you see, I’m telling the truth.”
The inspector ignored me and left the room.
“Listen! You’ve got to help me!”
Núñez’s henchman seized me and started to drag me out of the room, down a dark corridor that led to two cells.
“You don’t understand. I’m here working on behalf of—”
But there was no point shouting into the shadows. Núñez had gone and it was obvious that his sidekick did not speak English. As we stood outside one of the cells, the guard tried to take my handbag from me. I kept hold of it with all my might and signaled to him that I needed it. I pointed to my bloodied skirt in the hope that this would embarrass him. The trick worked.
“Entra,” said the guard, opening a thick wooden door into a dank, foul-smelling room. I had no choice. I resisted fighting and, my head bowed, stepped into the cell. I heard the slam of the door, the slide of a bolt. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I made out a mattress on the floor in the far corner and a bucket, which I suspected as being the source of the rank smell. I tried to stop myself from crying—I thought of all the happy times I had enjoyed as a child, the feel of my mother’s arms wrapping themselves around me, the delightful freedom I had experienced playing in the garden at Ashfield—but I could not hold off the tears. I stood against the wall and sobbed until my body ached. How could I have been so stupid, so naive? What on earth was I thinking? I should have stayed in England, at Abney, my sister’s house in Cheshire. I should never have been tempted by Davison’s offer. And yet I had felt I had to do something to make up for those deaths last year, for the loss of Una Crowe and Flora Kurs. Otherwise, what had been the point of it all?
In my mind I ran through the facts of the Tenerife case once more. The discovery of the partly mummified body of Douglas Greene in the cave. The statue of Tibicena that Davison and I had found under the earth. The way in which Howard Winniatt had been killed and that horrible, Grand Guignol flourish of the bird-of-paradise flower spiked through his eye. It was all so theatrical, so staged in a way. Yes, someone had wanted me to believe that Gerard Grenville had been responsible for the deaths, and I had fallen for it. He had a bad reputation as an occultist who believed in magic, possessed a collection of Guanche statues and figurines, and exhibited an interest in poisons. When I had discovered that he also harbored an unhealthy interest in his own daughter—a desire that found an unholy expression—then I had assumed that Grenville had to be the killer. But if someone knew those things about him, then of course Grenville would be cast as the perfect murderer. Someone had played me like a puppet, manipulating my strings from a distance. I had my suspicions about the identity of this faceless killer, but I did not yet have the proof. And if I remained locked up in this foul prison I doubted I would ever be able to find the evidence I needed. I had to get out of here.
I opened my handbag and took out the pouch containing my small vials of poisons. I ran my fingers over the tops of the glass bottles, reciting the names of the toxins under my breath like an incantation. I dared not risk using the tetrodotoxin—which could bring about a sleep that could be mistaken for death—in case the guard did not come and check on me. I did not want to wake up inside a coffin, hearing the sound of soil being thrown into my grave. In fact, ingesting any of the poisons was too risky. What if I were to suffer real pain or be confronted with the prospect of an agonizing death? Who would hear me if I were to cry out? No doubt Núñez had given the guard strict instructions not to check on me until first thing the next morning. If I was going to take a poison, then it would have to be done just before dawn, which meant that I would have to endure a night in the stinking cell. The refrain passed down to me from my grandmother—What can’t be cured, must be endured—now sounded through my head like something from a nightmare.
I went to sit down on the damp mattress. I did not want to inspect the cover too closely, and instead laid Flora’s shawl across the bed and made myself as comfortable as possible. I closed my eyes and let thoughts drift across my mind like images from a disturbing dream. There was something at the back of my consciousness that unsettled me, something that I felt was of great importance. Was it a fragment of a conversation or something that I had read? I had the impression of two pieces of a puzzle that would not fit together. No matter how hard I tried to force them to join together, the pieces resisted. Something did not tally.
It was too dark to look through my notebook—the only light was the faint glow from under the locked door—and so I tried to sleep. But the scene under the Dragon Tree continued to play in my mind. The feel of those drops, of what I first took to be blood, splashing down onto my face. The look of horror in Rosalind’s eyes. My daughter’s screams, and then the cries of Mrs. Brendel. It was so easy to be dismissive of the elderly lady’s endless chatter, so tempting to let one’s attention drift away from what she was saying. And yet . . . I was sure there was something she had said that was important.
As I tried to recall our conversations I felt myself drowning in the ocean of words that had spewed forth from her mouth: the wickedness of Mr. Grenville, her experience on board the Titanic, her jewels, her trunks.
Suddenly I sat up in bed, a revelation running through me like a fever. Packing cases. What had she said? That she was jealous of Guy Trevelyan’s empty trunk. It seemed so insignificant somehow, utterly without any meaning. But had I not read something to suggest that on the outward journey, Trevelyan’s packing cases had been so heavy that when the porters had first taken them onto the Gelria, the men’s faces had turned beetroot red. Yes, I was sure that I had read that in Winniatt’s journal, the one I had taken from the couple’s room on the night I had seen Trenkel steal Daisy’s pearls. How stupid I had been! It was all beginning to make sense now. But what a wicked, wicked plan.
The thrill of the realization—I was a step closer to understanding how everything began to fit together—was cut short by the knowledge that if I was right, Mrs. Brendel’s life was in danger. I jumped up from the mattress and, in the half-light of dusk, ran over to the door.
“Let me out!” I called. “There’s going to be another murder. Help! Please, you must let me speak to Inspector Núñez.” I searched my brain for snatches of Spanish I had learnt. “Por favor! Sangre. Muerte. Muerte!”
I banged on the door, then gave it a sharp kick that bruised my foot. “You must help! Inspector Núñez. I must speak to him. Muerte.”
I kept repeating the words, but my screams did nothing to rouse the attentions of the guard. I continued to bang and kick until I felt exhausted, drained of energy. My voice began to get hoarse, and then, with tears running down my face, I let myself slump down onto the floor. I had been screaming into an empty darkness.
37
My head jolted forwards, waking me from a half sleep. I heard the sound of footsteps and then the unlocking of the door. I steadied myself by the wall as I tried to stand, a bullet of pain shooting through my shoulder blades. I quickly ran a hand through my disheveled hair and brushed the dust and dirt off my skirt, and a moment later Núñez stood before me.
“I see you did not have a very comfortable night, Mrs. Christie,” he said.
“No, I’ve realized that someone is in grave danger—it’s Mrs. Brendel.” The words tripped out of my dry mouth too quickly, like someone deranged. “I can’t tell you everything now, to do that would take too long, but you must believe me that Mrs. Brendel’s life is in danger. You must get a policeman to her and take her away from here. I had been so slow, stupidly slow, not to see it before, but it was only wh
en—”
“Please calm down,” said Núñez. “Have you got a fever?”
“No, I feel perfectly well,” I lied. “But you have to help me. You see—”
“I should have listened to Dr. Trenkel—he told me that you were far from well. I should—”
“Dr. Trenkel?” I spat out the name as if it were an unclean thing. “What I told you about him is—”
“I hope you’re not going to persist in telling me that story of yours about the doctor. There’s no need. In fact, I would have thought that you are going to require his care more than ever now. Once you’re released from here, I would advise you to go and see him straightaway for some help with your nervous condition. I read about your experiences at the end of last year, but I didn’t realize you were quite so ill. I’m sorry to have held you here in this rather unpleasant cell, but I think you’ll realize I did it for your own safety.”
I could hardly take in his words. “You’re letting me go?”
“Oh, yes, you see we’ve arrested two people who have confessed to the theft of Mrs. Winniatt’s pearls.”
“Who?”
“A governess, staying with one of the families at the Taoro. A Mme Giroux. She is of the same age as you, roughly, has remarkably similar coloring, so I suppose it was easy for someone to mistake her for you.”
I hardly wanted to know the answer to the next question. “And the other person?”
“Another of your acquaintances, Mr. Alexander Blake—also known as John Davison. He returned to the Taoro last night, asked the manager where he could find me and simply handed himself in. Apparently, the two of them had been working in tandem. Had something of a routine going on between them, where they would check into top-class hotels, and then take one or two items of extremely valuable jewelry.”
What was Davison playing at? “So this chap was just pretending to be Mr. Blake?”
“Yes, it seems so. He very nearly pinned the crime on you. You had a lucky escape.”
“I see. Well, I don’t know what to say.”
“I hope you can go some way to forgive us for this,” he said, opening his arms and gesturing at the dirty cell. “But perhaps you will one day be able to use it in one of your novels.”
“I doubt it,” I said, my confusion beginning to lift. Davison had obviously got my note, heard that I had been taken to the cell, and been forced to improvise. “And you say the couple have confessed to the crime?”
“After some persuasion, yes. It seems Mme Giroux, realizing that someone had seen her leave Mrs. Winniatt’s room, took advantage of her resemblance to you and managed to hide the pearls in one of the drawers in your room. They wanted to frame you for the crime, you see.”
I had to go along with the scenario dreamt up by Davison. “But how did Mme Giroux get into my room?”
“The finer details of the crime have yet to be understood,” he said. “But what I cannot grasp is why you told us all those silly stories.”
“As you say, my imagination can sometimes get the better of me,” I said.
“Indeed,” he said. “I think it’s best if your interest in crime remains confined within the covers of a novel.”
“I’m sure you are quite right, Inspector,” I said, with a simpering smile. I needed to get out of the cell and back to the Taoro as quickly as possible. “But I do have some concerns for Mrs. Brendel. I believe that the person who was behind the deaths of Douglas Greene and Howard Winniatt may now try to kill her.”
“If I’m right, we have that very man in custody at the moment,” replied Núñez. “It’s my guess that John Davison realized that both Douglas Greene and Howard Winniatt had discovered something about him that threatened his exposure, either as a jewel thief or a—”
I felt like shouting at the top of my voice. But I did not have time to argue with the inspector, or explain the real reason why Davison was on the island. “I am feeling very tired now,” I said. “I would like to take a hot bath at the hotel. As you can see I’m hardly looking my best.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll fetch a car for you now,” he said, accompanying me out of the cell and down the corridor. “I can only apologize for your treatment—for your unpleasant stay—but as I said, it could all have been avoided if only you had told us the truth, instead of making up those rather elaborate stories.”
“I don’t know what came over me,” I said, my mouth forming itself into a fixed grin.
“Well, let’s not say any more about it,” he said as he opened the door to the car and told the driver to take me to the Taoro. “I hope we can put all of this behind us. And please don’t worry about Mrs. Brendel. I’m sure we’ve got our man.”
As soon as Núñez closed the door and the car set off I felt the muscles around my mouth tighten, and I was sure that my face looked like a mask worn in a Greek tragedy. Thoughts of Mrs. Brendel’s casual remark at the picnic ran through my mind. How curious that those carefree words, spoken in innocence, could serve as her death sentence. But I was certain that if overheard, they had the power to finish her off just as surely as she had taken a dose of cyanide or arsenic. With each turn of the car’s wheels I willed her not to be dead. Please, please, please, God, I said to myself, please save her. I could not look out of the window but simply stared down at the red stain on my skirt. As soon as the car arrived at the front entrance of the Taoro, I opened the door and ran up the steps of the hotel. I caught the eye of some fellow guests who looked at me with astonishment, if not horror, as though I were a madwoman who had escaped from the confines of an asylum.
“Gustavo, please, do you know where Mrs. Brendel is?” I gasped as I approached the front desk.
“Let me see,” he said. “I know she tends to rise quite late, but I don’t believe we’ve seen her for breakfast yet. Is something wrong?” He too cast a disapproving eye over my appearance.
“It’s a matter of the utmost urgency,” I said. “Mrs. Brendel’s life could be in danger.”
“Well, let me send a boy to her room.” He raised his arm to call one of the bellboys.
I feared what the young boy might find. “Would you mind very much if you went to check? I do think it would be better.”
“Very well,” said Gustavo, calling over one of his assistants to take his place at the desk.
I followed him across the lobby and up the grand staircase in silence, like a shadow. When we reached Mrs. Brendel’s room, he knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again, and again we were met by no response. I felt fear begin to constrict my throat.
“Most unusual,” said Gustavo, looking at his watch.
“Mrs. Brendel!” I shouted. “Mrs. Brendel—are you there? Please open the door.”
From down the corridor we heard the sound of someone pushing an invalid in a wheeled chair. Gustavo knocked once more, but again there was nothing.
“No, this is not right, not right at all,” said Gustavo, taking a key out of his pocket. “Please, wait here. I will see if there’s a problem.”
Gustavo knocked once again before he turned the lock and pushed open the door. I could not bear to stand outside and so followed him into the darkened room. There was no smell except for the faint scent of rose soap. The bed was empty. I asked Gustavo to check the wardrobe. I took a handkerchief and placed it over my mouth, fully prepared to see the elderly woman’s body slumped inside, perhaps with her throat cut. The shock of seeing nothing but a rack of the lady’s clothes made me gasp out loud. As Gustavo continued to check the room, I walked over to the bathroom and slowly opened the door. The noise of something caught between the bottom of the door and the marble floor made me take a step backwards, but then, after steadying myself, I took a deep breath and entered.
The wet floor was covered in pearls—one of the jewels must have become trapped beneath the door. I remembered Mrs. Brendel’s pearl necklace, which she always wore. I knew what I would find, but I continued to walk slowly towards the bathtub. There in the water lay the body
of Mrs. Brendel, fully clothed, her skin ghastly pale, her eyes open. I thought of Winniatt’s quotation from The Tempest, when we had all been sailing on the Gelria bound for Tenerife: “Those are pearls that were his eyes.” Now two of those people at dinner that night were dead.
“Gustavo!” I called, feeling my legs give way from under me. “She’s here.”
“Oh, no,” cried Gustavo as he entered the bathroom.
“I was too late,” I said, stifling my sobs with my handkerchief. “She’s been murdered.”
“Murdered? What do you mean? Who would do such a thing?”
I did not respond.
“Was it a robbery that went wrong?” asked Gustavo, looking at the loose pearls that shimmered on the floor. “Was it something to do with the theft of Mrs. Winniatt’s jewels? I had hoped to keep it quiet, but I suppose it will all have to come out into the open now.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Last year a lady mislaid an emerald brooch, and the year before, another widow said she had lost a diamond-and-sapphire bracelet. We put it down to nothing more than carelessness, absentmindedness.”
“Please go and find Inspector Núñez.”
“The inspector told me that he had found the people responsible for the theft. Who would have thought guests of the Taoro, Mme Giroux and the man—what was his name—Mr. Blake, could be jewel thieves? The strange thing is that I’m sure that they had never stayed with us on previous occasions. Perhaps they were in disguise when those other jewels were stolen. That or they crept into the hotel and took the brooch and the bracelet during the dead of night. After he had arrested Mme Giroux and Mr. Blake, Inspector Núñez reassured me that we had nothing more to worry about. But now this.”
A Different Kind of Evil Page 24