Return to the Scene

by Patrick Quentin

  Now it was here—here in Ivor’s hand.

  Here in his hand. And he was dead.

  Obeying blind impulse she slipped the cap down the front of her sodden playsuit. She straightened, glancing over her shoulder at the other girl. Simon had pulled something free and was tossing it toward the beached speedboat.

  “A rope!” she said breathlessly. “One of the aquaplane ropes. Twisted around his ankle. He must have caught his foot in it, fallen overboard.” She was back at Kay’s side. “The tide’s rising. We must get him further up the beach.”

  Together they dragged him to the water’s edge and beyond. Ivor Drake lay sprawled now across the silver coral sand. For one awful moment of inactivity, they both stood there, soaked to the skin, staring down at the bent legs, the hands, white and unhuman in the moonlight, and the face with its open mouth and its black pits of eyes.

  “We can’t be sure,” Simon whispered. “We can’t be sure he’s dead.”

  As if her own words steadied her, she dropped to Ivor’s side and started with feverish energy to administer artificial respiration.

  Kay stood watching. That awful suspension of feeling in her was beginning to relax. Thoughts, like little lighted matches, spurted where there had been darkness before. This was Ivor. Ivor whom she had loved and hated, Ivor who had been so indestructibly handsome, who now was nothing—a pitiful crumpled heap on the sand.

  Whatever Simon did, there was nothing that could bring him to life again. She knew that, knew it with the inescapable conviction of instinct. Ivor Drake had caught his leg in the aquaplane rope, fallen out of his speedboat, and was drowned.

  That one gigantic, terrifying fact! After all that had happened since she reached Bermuda, after all they had thought and planned about him, Ivor was lying there on the beach, drowned.

  Accidentally drowned.

  She clung to that phrase, letting it crowd every other thought out of her mind. Of course it was an accident. It had to be an accident…

  But the bathing cap. Elaine’s bathing cap. It must have fallen off the rail of the mainland jetty and drifted out with the tide. Yes, that was it. Ivor had seen it floating with the tide; he had stopped the boat, tried to pick it up; he had fallen overboard trying to pick it up. His fingers had closed around it.

  That was the explanation. Of course it was. What other explanation could there be?

  She made herself believe that. The bathing cap was just part of the accident.

  But, if that were so, why had she, Kay Winyard, snatched it out of Ivor’s hand, concealed it even from Simon? If Ivor’s death had been an accident, why was there inside her that cold feeling of dread?

  Her wet playsuit was close and chilly around her body. She shivered. The hollow silence of the cove was stifling. Suddenly she could no longer bear watching Simon at her hopeless task. She turned away, staring out over the moonlit bay.

  Almost immediately she was conscious of something moving out in the water which stretched toward Hurricane House. She could see it, a dark blur, heading toward them, could hear the faint ripple of a swimmer.

  Someone was swimming over from the mainland; someone was swimming here to the cove.

  Every nerve in her body was taut. She did not call to Simon. She did nothing except stand there, watching, as the dark blur grew nearer and then emerged as a pale human form wading through the surf at the far end of the little beach.

  The figure, slim and defined in the bright moonlight, was clearly a girl. A girl in a white swimming suit. For a moment she stood motionless, then, peering down at the surf at her feet, she started cautiously along the beach toward them.

  It was obvious that she had no idea she was not alone. Obvious too that she was looking for something.

  As her uncertain progress brought her closer, Kay recognized Elaine. And with a sudden tingling of fear she saw that the girl’s dark hair hung wet around her head.

  She was wearing no bathing cap.

  Elaine was here, looking for something. Elaine’s bathing cap had been clenched in Ivor’s hand. What if Elaine were here searching for the cap? How possibly could she know it was here unless…?

  Elaine was scarcely ten paces away.

  Her voice sounding faint and dry, Kay called: “Elaine!”

  The girl glanced up sharply and stopped dead.

  “Kay!”

  She hurried to Kay, then stared at her and beyond her to Simon. “And Simon too. What is it? What’s happened?”

  Slowly Simon let her hands drop to her sides, slowly she rose and, turning, stood between Elaine and the thing which lay there on the sand.

  “What’s happened?” In the moonlight her face with its wet tangled frame of hair was hard and gray as stone. “Nothing’s happened, Elaine. Nothing that would interest you. It’s only Ivor. He’s dead— drowned.”

  The crude shock of those words seemed to have stunned Elaine. Gropingly her cold, wet hand found Kay’s arm and clung to it. The cove was engulfed in deep silence.

  Then Simon’s voice, queer and rasping, sounded once more. “Well, aren’t you going to say anything, Elaine? Aren’t you even going to pretend to be sorry he’s dead?”

  Elaine’s fingers, digging into Kay’s arm, were trembling. She whispered: “Don’t, Simon. Please, don’t.”

  “I suppose you want me to spare your feelings. Spare your great love! You were so crazy about Ivor, weren’t you? You were marrying him simply because you adored him. It didn’t make the slightest difference that he was rich. Oh, no! It was to be the perfect love match—with Don Baird thrown in on the side.” Simon’s eyes glittered large and luminous as a cat’s. “Well, at least you’ve been fooled. At least all you panhandling Chilterns have been fooled.”

  The iron control which had carried the girl through the horror of the first ordeal had completely deserted her. Her words were swallowed up into harsh laughter which was wrenched out of her like a sob.

  Kay went to her, taking her smooth, bare shoulders, shaking her.

  “Stop it, Simon. Stop.”

  “But she doesn’t care!” The girl tugged hysterically away. “Ivor’s dead. And Elaine doesn’t care.”

  “Simon.”

  “Leave me alone. Leave me alone, both of you.”

  She spun away from them, back to Ivor, and dropped to her knees at his side.

  There was nothing but her harsh, broken sobbing and the awful, icy immobility of Elaine. And as the serene moonlight played down on that terrible scene where the wrong girl was weeping for the dead, there sped through Kay’s mind a memory of the last time that the four of them had been together, the moment when Ivor had appeared in her room that evening, Ivor handsome, sure of himself, and so vividly, dangerously alive. Kay Winyard, Simon Morley, Elaine Chiltern… The Three Graces, or should it be The Three Fates—the past, the present, and the future…?

  Now it was pitifully clear what he meant. Kay Winyard—the past. Elaine Chiltern—the future.

  Simon Morley—the present.

  Still in a daze Kay tried to make her mind work. They must do something. They must get help, get…

  The train of thought snapped as a sound trailed across the water toward them. In the first instant, Kay thought it must be her imagination, just some mocking trick of memory. But Elaine stiffened and turned toward the bay. She had heard it too, heard that low sweet voice lilting on the warm breeze.

  Return to Bermuda,

  Return to the scene…

  “Terry!” As if released from a spell, Elaine ran to the surf and waded in up to her knees. “Terry! Terry! Come here. Come quickly.”

  As her voice echoed around the cove, Kay stared out toward Hurricane House. Dimly, curving around the little island promontory which ended in the dock, she could make out the slender suggestion of a sailboat.

  Simon, Kay, Elaine, and now Terry! Was coincidence going to make everyone—“return to the scene”?

  “Terry!”

  The singing had stopped now. Terry’s voice sounded,
taut, anxious: “What is it? I’ll be right there.”

  Kay saw the boat’s mainsail crumple down. There was a splash of the anchor being tossed into the bay and then a softer splash as Terry dived overboard.

  Soon his head was visible moving through the water toward them. Elaine waded out to meet him. As his tall figure emerged from the shallow water, she clutched his arm convulsively.

  “Thank God you’ve come!”

  She dragged him forward. Kay hurried to him. The tropical tuxedo he had worn at dinner was gone and he was dressed only in a pair of swimming trunks. There was something almost pagan about his strong young body coming out of the sea. He stared blankly from Elaine to Kay.

  “What is it? What are you doing here?”

  Then he saw Simon. She was standing again straight in front of them, all the hysteria drained out of her, very still and cold.

  “Simon! What’s happened? What…?”

  Slowly Simon stepped aside and Terry could see the thing on the sand behind her.

  “My God!”

  The boy sprang to Ivor and dropped on his knees at his side. The three girls watched. Quickly his fingers moved over the sodden white coat, the dark, sprawled legs. Then he looked up. In the moonlight his young face was contorted with horror.

  “He’s—he’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Simon. “He’s dead.”

  Desperately Terry said: “How did it happen? For God’s sake, how did it happen?”

  “Simon and I—we found the speedboat beached.” The words came mechanically from Kay. “The engine was still running, idling. And Ivor was there in the water. His foot was caught in a rope from the aquaplane. We—we dragged him out.” She added: “He must have stopped the boat to get to the dock or something, caught his foot in the rope, fallen overboard, and—and drowned. The boat drifted here on the tide.”

  Her voice stopped and there was silence again. Once more she felt that unreasoning dread. Why didn’t any of them speak? Ivor had always been a weak swimmer. It must have happened that way. It must have been an accident.

  Why was there that awful, tacit denial of belief? Why was there something even in herself that didn’t believe?

  Terry, his voice husky, said: “We’ve got to do something, got to get him back to the mainland. You girls get the speedboat ready. I’ll bring—him.”

  Kay, Simon, and Elaine ran to the beached speedboat. The rising tide had set it on an even keel again. Its bow was gently nosing the sand. It was easy to swing it around.

  The three girls stood knee deep in the water, holding the boat, staring silently back along the cove. Terry was moving toward them, with Ivor slung like a limp sack over his strong young shoulder.

  As he reached them, Kay tugged at the aquaplane board to make room in the stern, but Terry snapped: “Don’t touch anything. Leave everything exactly the way it is—for the police.”

  The police. Why should he mention the police?

  Terry propped the body against the aquaplane board in the stern. The four of them crowded amidships. Terry took the wheel.

  Crushed close to him on the narrow thwart, Kay could feel the skin of his arm against hers. It was cold and taut. The engine roared and the boat shot forward past the moored sailboat, heading toward the single light on the Hurricane House dock.

  The night air, rushing by, made Kay remember dimly that her clothes were sodden, that she was cold. But it was a realization of no importance. Like a tiny, elusive gnat, the thought of the police whined insistently in her brain. Of course the police would see that Ivor had been drowned accidentally. Of course they would look no further.

  But what if they did? She could not keep that second thought from coming. What would the police think if they knew…?

  Here they were, four people all of whom had been out separately after midnight, all of whom had gone independently to the island, all of whom—yes, she might as well admit it—all of whom could have wished Ivor dead.

  She thought of Terry’s outburst of hatred at the dinner table, thought of him stumbling out of the patio. She thought of herself, of her avowed intention of stopping the wedding at all costs, and of Rosemary’s crucially revealing diary which she had gone to the island to retrieve and which now was—where?

  And there was Elaine, whose obscurely motivated marriage had been the pivotal point of all emotional crosscurrents; Elaine who, according to her own word and her mother’s, loved Ivor and who, according to Don Baird and now Simon, too, loved Don although she was planning to marry Ivor. Elaine, who had swum to the island alone searching for—what? The bathing cap which had been so terrifyingly clutched in Ivor’s hand and which now was slipped down the front of Kay’s playsuit?

  And then—Simon. Kay glanced at the girl pressed close against her on the narrow thwart. Simon whose reputation had been tauntingly shattered by Ivor at dinner, Simon with the silver slave bracelet on her wrist, Simon with her icy calm when they discovered the body, her lightning hysteria when confronted with Elaine. Simon and her broken, tormented weeping for Ivor.

  What had Simon been doing there on the island?

  They were almost at the dock now. Terry cut the engine and swerved the boat round. It grazed against the wooden pilings. Elaine caught hold of one of the posts. Terry went forward and made fast. They all scrambled up onto the dock.

  Instinctively Kay glanced at the swimming suits and towels hanging on the wooden rail. They were all there still—with the exception of Elaine’s.

  “One of you go to Don’s cottage,” said Terry. “Get him to call Dr. Thorne—and the police. Tell him to pick them up in the cruiser. They’ll make it quicker that way.”

  At the mention of Don’s name Elaine moved instinctively forward and then stopped dead. Kay noticed that indecision and realized with a stab of alarm just how much it had given away.

  Hurriedly she said: “I’ll go.”

  She ran down the narrow jetty and along the short strip of cliffs toward the slave cottage. Lights still showed in the windows. She found the door. Without knocking she pulled it open and stepped into a small, barely furnished living room.

  Don Baird, dressed in a pair of white cotton pajamas whose unbuttoned throat revealed the short blond hairs on his chest, was seated at a table piled with open books. He jumped up when she entered, his blunt, aggressive face creased with anger.

  “What the hell…?”

  Swiftly he stepped sideways, blocking Kay’s view of the couch. But she had already seen what he was trying to keep her from seeing. Thrown carelessly on the cushions of the couch was a girl’s white satin evening gown.

  Elaine’s dress…!

  Don was glaring at her. “I may be just the hired help but I see that my privacy’s respected. Next time you come in here—knock.” His blue eyes stared straight at her, shifting up and down her sodden playsuit. “What happened? Did you fall in the sea?”

  She stared back.

  “Ivor’s dead. That’s what happened. We’ve just found him over on the island beach. Simon and Terry and I—and Elaine.”

  “Elaine!”

  For a moment he looked as if he had been turned to granite. Then slowly his square fingers moved to the throat of his pajamas and buttoned them over his chest.

  “Ivor—dead!”

  There was no attempt now to conceal the dress on the couch. “He can’t be dead. It’s not possible. They can’t have killed him—now.”

  Kay felt herself trembling. It wasn’t so much the shock of his words as that intrusive, arrogant quality in him which seemed to engulf her and leave her defenseless.

  “I—I didn’t say he was killed!”

  “I don’t give a damn what you said. I want the truth. Did you have anything to do with it? Were you fool enough to do it yourself?” He shook her roughly. “Why don’t you say something? I suppose he died by accident! I suppose that’s what you’re going to pretend?”

  “He was drowned,” she repeated weakly. “He must have fallen overboard an
d caught his foot in the aquaplane and drowned. And you’ve got to call the doctor and the police. Terry says to pick them up in the cruiser so they’ll be here sooner.”

  His bright eyes were still fixed on her face. “That’s your story, is it? O.K.” Without looking away from her, he reached over the desk and picked up the telephone receiver. He dialed a number. His voice curt, he said: “Dr. Thorne? Oh, Tim, Don here. You’re coroner’s physician, aren’t you? Well, you’ve got to come right over. Drake’s dead. They just found him drowned… yep… want me to pick you up?… O.K.”

  He put the receiver down.

  “Dr. Thorne’ll be right over. He’s bringing Major Clifford, the local police magistrate. They’re coming by bike. He says they’ll get here just as soon. Where are the others?”

  “On the dock. We—we brought Ivor over.”

  Don picked up a flashlight and strode barefooted to the door. She followed. Abruptly he swung around, blocking the doorway, very square and strong in his thin cotton pajamas.

  “Elaine’s dress,” he said. “I was out of this place and I came back and saw the dress there.”

  Kay nodded.

  “She must have changed here to go for a swim when I was out. I don’t know a thing about it.” Impulsively he pushed past her back to the couch and picked up the dress. Kay joined him. As he held it up, she gave a little cry and said: “Look!”

  She was pointing shakily to the crumpled satin. From the shoulder slashing down the front of the dress, the material had been ripped. And, horribly bright against the white satin of the neckline was a small scarlet stain.

  Don stared at the blotch of red like a man caught suddenly in a nightmare. Then slowly, with savage strength, he crushed the dress into a tight ball. He turned to Kay, his eyes narrowed, desperate.

  “We didn’t see a thing. Not a thing. Get it?”

  He tugged open a drawer in the desk, stuffed the dress inside and locked it. He swung back to her.

  “Understand what I said?”