Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  “Sometimes wish we hadn’t,” remarked Bill Montgomery loudly from the galley. “Perishing nuisance most of the time. Either they’re too young and round your feet all the time, or they’re grown up and getting into all kinds of trouble—”

  Martha laughed, a little too loudly. “Bill will have his little jokes,” she said. “He’s really crazy about our two. Stella is a nurse—she works in New York—and our son, Robert, is a civil engineer in Florida. They’ve both done very well.”

  “And both settled in the States,” said Henry.

  “Yes—well, they were brought up in these parts, and really, let’s face it, for all the God-Save-the-Queenery the Caribbean is part of the United States. At least, it’s in her sphere of influence, if you like. After all, we even use American dollars as currency, don’t we?”

  “Here we are. Three rum punches.” Bill Montgomery emerged from the galley with three pinkish drinks in glass beer mugs. He set one down in front of his wife and gave the other two to his visitors. “I’m having a Scotch myself. Been too long in these parts to—”

  He was interrupted by a sudden, deafening thudding on the cabin top. Abruptly, the sky had darkened so that it was barely possible to see across the saloon, and at the same time, rigging began to thump and twang against the mast as a fierce squall of wind whipped down on the boat.

  “Forehatch, Maggie!” shouted Montgomery. Mrs. Montgomery disappeared with surprising agility into the sleeping cabin, while the Colonel closed and battened down the main hatch and companionway. By the time he had done so, he was drenched, even though he had not left the saloon. He grinned at the Tibbetts.

  “When it rains, it certainly does rain,” he remarked.

  Martha had reappeared and was lighting the oil lamps with a long taper-match. The saloon was dry and snug and the varnished woodwork glinted in the lamplight, but the incessant drumming of the rain made conversation virtually impossible.

  After a few minutes, however, the rain decreased to a steady patter, and Colonel Montgomery said, “You were right, Maggie. Pretty silly we’d have looked trying to get to St. Matthew’s in this. Ah, well, one thing about the weather here—it may get ugly, but it doesn’t last long.” He turned to Henry. “You were saying that you know St. Matthew’s.”

  “Was I? Well, yes, we’ve been there for a few days, that’s all.”

  “Beautiful island,” said Montgomery. “Like it better than here. Smaller. Less sophisticated.”

  “Less?” said Emmy. “What about the Golf Club?”

  Montgomery waved a hand. “The Golf Club,” he said, “to all intents and purposes doesn’t exist. It’s an enclave for its own people. They never come out onto the island, and nobody else ever goes in except as servants. It brings money to the island without getting in anybody’s way. Ideal, if you ask me. Why, these islands could go independent, turn Marxist, join the United States, anything you like…it wouldn’t make an atom of difference to the Golf Club. The island couldn’t get on without the income it brings, and the Club ignores the existence of the island.”

  Martha Montgomery then asked what part of London the Tibbetts lived in, and the conversation developed into the mutually exploratory exercise normal among strangers meeting for the first time. The Tibbetts learned that the Montgomerys had lived in Tampica ever since the Second World War. Prior to that, Montgomery said, he had been a regular officer in the Royal Engineers. Since it was obvious that Montgomery had not been of retiring age in the late 1940s, Henry asked whether he had left the army to take a job on the British island. Montgomery replied with a brief yes, and changed the subject.

  The Montgomerys learned that the Tibbetts were chartering Windflower for at least another week—that they might even stay longer. Their plans were uncertain, and they had not booked definite return passage to England.

  “We’ve no family expecting us back,” Henry explained, “and I’ve told my assistant in the office to expect me when he sees me. That’s the advantage of being one’s own boss.”

  Emmy explained that although they were enjoying themselves immensely, they were finding Windflower something of a handful. They had no boat of their own, but had done a certain amount of sailing with friends in England. Henry gently sounded out Bill on the topography of the better-known cruising areas of the English south and east coasts, but got no response.

  Indeed, Emmy thought to herself, they had baited their lines to the absolute limit of plausibility and had not got as much as a nibble. It seemed that the Montgomerys were just what they said they were and no more.

  Then the rum punches were finished, the rain stopped, and the sun struggled through a thin layer of high cloud on its way to the western horizon. Henry and Emmy got up to go and were not pressed to stay. Nor were they offered the customary tour of the boat. They said their good-byes and jumped down from the deck onto the quayside.

  They were still walking back to Windflower when the next squall blew up, apparently out of nowhere. One moment, the sun was still shining; the next, the sky darkened, there was a distant rumble of thunder, and the rain began to come down in great heavy drops. Henry and Emmy put their heads down and began to run.

  Going down the floating pontoon toward Windflower’s berth, Henry almost collided with a man who was running in the opposite direction, toward the shore. The man was wearing a bright yelIow oilskin jacket with a hood, and apart from the fact that there seemed to be a lot of him, Henry barely noticed him. The important thing was to get back on board, out of the thundering downpour.

  Henry reached Windflower ahead of Emmy. He jumped aboard and pushed back the hatch cover to open the companionway door. As Emmy climbed aboard after him, she happened to glance toward the shore. The man had reached the shelter of the marina buildings and stopped to get his breath. He pushed the hood back from his face and turned for a moment to look at the line of moored boats. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets and strode off toward the parking area and the taxi stand.

  Henry said, “For heaven’s sake, come aboard, Emmy. Everything’s getting soaked—”

  Emmy said, “Henry. It was him. I can’t be mistaken. It was him.”

  “Oh, come on, woman.” Henry almost dragged his wife into the cockpit and gave her a helping shove down into the cabin. When he had closed the hatch against the rain, he shook his wet hair and began to peel off his sopping shirt. He said, “Now, what’s all this? Who was what?”

  “That man, Henry,” Emmy said. “The man who was running up the pontoon.”

  “What about him?”

  “He took his hood off,” Emmy said, “and I recognized him.”

  “Well, who was he?”

  “Dr. Lionel Vanduren,” Emmy said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IN THE CABIN there was a moment of silence. Henry was looking at Emmy with a curious stare, at once blank and intense. He said, “So you thought you saw Lionel Vanduren. So what?”

  Emmy grinned teasingly. “Oh, nothing. I just thought it might be of interest.”

  “Minimal interest,” said Henry. “Now get changed into whatever decent clothes you have because we’re going out.”

  “Out?”

  “Certainly out. Where else?”

  “But Henry, it’s pouring rain, and—”

  “The Buccaneer Bar,” Henry said. He was already rummaging in the clothes locker for the pants and shirt that he had reserved for dancing nights at the Anchorage.

  Catching the spirit of the thing, Emmy opened her suitcase and found a bright blue wraparound skirt and a white blouse. She said, “This is fun, Henry. But why—?”

  “Why shouldn’t we have some fun?” demanded her husband. And then, “Do you know, Emmy, I feel absolutely marvelous. Better than I have for years.” He paused and then said, as if making a discovery, “I’ve been very tired.”

  “I know you have,” Emmy said at once. “I’ve tried not to nag—but you really needed this holiday. Oh, I’m so glad. You mean—we’re just going to go out and dance and
have fun, just for ourselves, and not because there may be a criminal lurking in the ashtray?”

  “Just that,” Henry said. “I thought we might dine at the Harbour Prospect first.”

  “You never had a better idea,” Emmy assured him.

  They had just ordered cocktails and were studying the menu at the Harbour Prospect, sitting beside the great plate-glass window that looks out over St. Mark’s Harbour, when Emmy looked at her watch and said, “Oh, Henry. It’s half-past seven.”

  “What of it?”

  “Well, oughtn’t you to call John Colville? You told me you’d arranged with him to—”

  “Oh, to hell with John Colville,” said Henry.

  Afterward, Emmy decided that this was the first moment when she felt a tiny coldness around her heart. But memory is deceptive, especially when aided by hindsight. It is unlikely that she registered anything at that precise moment, other than pleasure at Henry’s obvious enjoyment of their evening out. At any rate, she had the elementary good sense not to refer to the telephone call again, and soon she and Henry were enjoying an excellent dinner with champagne.

  “Champagne?” Emmy asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Why not indeed?” Emmy laughed, drained her glass, and tried not to notice how many traveler’s checks Henry was signing to pay the bill. Then they went down into the throbbing darkness of the Buccaneer disco.

  At one o’clock, Emmy said, “Well, that was marvelous, but it’s time for home.” She had danced like a teen-ager, she had drunk rather more than she had intended, and the thought of her quiet, comfortable bunk on board Windflower was extremely inviting.

  Henry, on the other hand, seemed perfectly fresh. He had had very little to drink, but he was laughing and sparkling as Emmy could never remember before.

  He said, “Home? Rubbish. Come on, this is a real jamming session.”

  At two o’clock, Emmy said, “I’m sorry, Henry. I just have to go back to the boat. I’m tired.”

  “I can’t think why I bother to take you out if you insist on leaving just when I’m beginning to enjoy myself.”

  “O.K., then,” Emmy said. “Why don’t you stay on, and I’ll take a taxi back to the marina.”

  In all her years as Henry’s wife, Emmy had discovered that he never did anything without a reason. Obviously, it was part of his strategy this evening that she should go back to the boat, leaving him at the nightclub. “He might have told me,” she thought—and then, “No, I wouldn’t have been able to react so naturally if I’d known beforehand.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “Why don’t you do that?” The blank look had come into his eyes again, and he was gazing across the rapidly emptying room toward the bar, where a group of young people were sitting. Emmy saw that it was Jill and Harvey Blackstone, with another young white couple whom she did not recognize.

  Quickly, Emmy got up and made her way to the door. As she went out, she cast a quick look back into the disco, just in time to see Henry getting up from his chair and going over to the quartet at the bar. In the taxi, Emmy’s principal thought was—”I might have known that it wouldn’t be anything as simple as just an evening out.” At that point, she did not realize how accurate she was.

  Emmy was only vaguely aware of Henry’s return to Windflower, but she heard the clatter of his feet down the companionway and opened her eyes for just long enough to see through the porthole that the eastern sky was streaked with light. About five…she drifted off to sleep again.

  When she woke properly, it was to a delicious smell of coffee and the sizzling of bacon. She struggled through mists of sleep and a slight hangover to see Henry standing in the galley, an apron around his waist and the frying pan in his hand. He was wearing blue denim shorts and a crisp white shirt, and was whistling to himself as he set the pan down on the flame and broke a couple of eggs into it.

  Emmy propped herself up on one elbow. She said, “Henry…what on earth… ?”

  He turned and grinned at her. “Ah, you’re awake at last. Breakfast’s nearly ready. Then we’ll go for a swim.”

  Emmy looked at her watch. “Henry…it’s only half-past six, and you didn’t get back until… ”

  “Oh, I haven’t been to bed. Just washed and changed. Terrible the time people waste sleeping. Quite unnecessary.”

  Getting out of her bunk, Emmy said, “Well, you obviously had a successful time last night. You might have told me.”

  “Told you what?”

  “That you knew the Blackstones would turn up, and that I should make myself scarce.” She smiled and stretched. “I was very nearly very cross with you.”

  Henry looked at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I stayed on because I wanted to stay on. And the Blackstones and the Carstairs are coming sailing with us today. Nice people.”

  Emmy shrugged. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Don’t tell me. But who are the Carstairs?”

  “The couple who were with the Blackstones. They’re here on a boat, but they’ve got engine trouble and she’s had to be hauled out for repairs. Here we are—coffee, bacon and eggs, bread and butter. What a wonderful morning.”

  It was a wonderful morning, with the sky rinsed by the rain and the island green and moist, the breeze cool and fresh.

  Sitting in the cockpit, with his breakfast plate on his knees, looking out across the channel toward St. Matthew’s, Henry said, “I’ve been thinking.”

  “What about?” Emmy asked through a mouthful of egg and bacon.

  “About me. Us. We don’t have enough fun.”

  “That’s what you said last night.”

  “Well, everything’s going to change. I shall retire and we’ll build a house down here on this island.”

  Emmy sat up straight. “Henry, that’s crazy. You’ve another ten years or more—”

  “I’ve put in enough service to get a good pension. I don’t intend to go on working until I can’t enjoy myself anymore. And living here—”

  “But we don’t have the money to build a house here.”

  “We have the leasehold on our London flat. Sell that, make a down payment here, and get a mortgage—”

  Emmy felt her head swimming. She said, “Look, Henry, be reasonable. We could never afford the mortgage payments on a loan like that if you retired on a reduced pension. Oh, I know it’s a wonderful idea, but—”

  Henry put down his knife and fork and said, “I thought as much.”

  “As much as what?”

  “Just like last night. You insisted on going home. You had to sleep, of all things. Now you’re just the same. Making difficulties. Refusing to believe in me.” He stood up. “I can do anything.”

  “Henry—”

  “Anything. If I’m not hampered by miserable, whining people like you. I’ve told you what I’m going to do. I’m going to sell the London lease and come to live here. You can do what you like.”

  The nightmare was closing in. Emmy said, “Henry, I’m only saying that I don’t see how we could afford—”

  “Ah, but you haven’t heard the best part. The pension will only be the beginning. What do these islands need?”

  “I don’t know. What do they need?”

  “A free-lance inquiry agency. What the Americans call a private eye.” Henry patted himself on the chest. “Me. Meet the Tibbett Private Investigation Bureau. I can make a fortune.”

  Emmy began to laugh. “You are a clown,” she said. “For a moment, I really began to take you seriously.”

  Henry looked at her, unblinking. “I am absolutely serious,” he said. “I am resigning from Scotland Yard, and I will sell our London leasehold—”

  Chilled again, Emmy said, “But you can’t.”

  “What do you mean, I can’t?”

  “It’s in our joint names. You can’t sell that leasehold on your own. You have to have my signature.”

  “Oh, so that’s it, is it? Let me tell you, I can do anything. Anything. And I have no need of som
ebody like you hanging round my neck like a bloody albatross. I may as well tell you, I’ve arranged with Bob Harrison to rent Windflower for another three weeks, and I shall probably go down island with the Blackstones and the Carstairs. You may do what you like, so long as you keep off this boat and out of my sight. I don’t want to see you anymore. Do you understand that?”

  Trying to keep her voice steady, Emmy said, “I don’t know what’s got into you, Henry, but I’ll certainly keep out of your way, if that’s what you want. I’ll go back to the Anchorage.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you do,” said Henry.

  As she walked up the jetty, carrying her suitcase, Emmy passed the young people—the Blackstones and the Carstairs—making their way down toward Windflower. She smiled, a small embarrassed smile, which they returned. At the marina, Emmy rushed for a telephone and dialed the Colvilles.

  “John? Oh, thank God. This is Emmy.”

  “What’s the matter, love?”

  “I…I don’t know. John, I think Henry has gone crazy.”

  “Crazy? How crazy?”

  “I can’t tell you over the telephone. John, can I come back to the Anchorage—on my own?”

  “Of course you can. Right away?”

  “As soon as I can get there. The boat comes over this afternoon, doesn’t it?”

  John Colville said, “There’s something really bad and wrong, isn’t there, Emmy?”

  “I think so, John.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At the marina.”

  “Where’s Henry?”

  “On the boat. He’s going off sailing with four young people we met here.”

  “O.K. Give me the number of your phone booth and stay right there. I think the Club helicopter is coming over this morning, and I’ll see if I can get you a ride back on it. I’ll call the Secretary and get back to you.”

  “John,” said Emmy, “you are the original archangel.”

  “We do our best,” said John, sounding more cheerful than he felt. “Now, stay there and I’ll call back.”

  As Emmy looked down from the little helicopter—the same one that had taken Betsy Sprague to St. Mark’s six months earlier—she saw Windflower leaving harbor. She could make out quite clearly the five figures—Jill and Harvey Blackstone, the two young unknowns named Carstairs, and Henry, energetic and efficient in his blue denim shorts.