Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  Emmy looked and thought, “What’s happening to me? What’s happening to me?” And then, “It must be my fault.”

  Margaret Colville met Emmy at the Golf Club, where the helicopter alighted gently on a smooth green lawn. The two women embraced briefly, and then Margaret said, “Well, Henry’s loss is our gain. It’s marvelous to have you back.” And, after a small pause, “You don’t have to explain anything unless you want to. Just come and stay with us for as long as you like.”

  Emmy laughed a little unsteadily. “I wish I could explain,” she said, “but I can’t. I don’t have an explanation. Henry has lost his mind.”

  “I find that very hard to believe,” said Margaret.

  “So do I,” said Emmy, “but I’ve seen it and you haven’t.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He…he’s suddenly become a totally different person. Let’s go back to the Anchorage, Margaret. I’ll try to tell you, when I can sort it out a bit for myself.”

  A little later, sitting at a table in the Anchorage bar, Emmy tried.

  “It’s not that he’s ill,” she said. “On the contrary. He seems tremendously well and fit and full of energy. Too much energy. He says he needs no sleep. He says he can do anything. He wants to sell the lease to our London flat and come and live here. He says he’ll open a private detective agency.”

  Margaret said doubtfully, “Well, I suppose there might be some sense in—”

  John Colville, who had been talking on the telephone, came over to the table. He kissed Emmy and then said, “Well, Henry seems to be starting something.”

  “What do you mean?” Emmy asked.

  “That was Bob Harrison on the telephone. It seems that Henry went to his house at five o’clock this morning, banged on the door until Bob came down, and then demanded to be allowed to charter Windflower for another three weeks. Bob says his speech was very slurred. He thought he was drunk. Bob made some soothing noises and sent him off, thinking that he’d just had a night out and would go off to bed. But when Bob got to the marina, just a little while ago, he found that Windflower had sailed, and he’s very worried. He’s responsible to the boat’s owner, after all, and charterers are supposed to be hand-picked. He took Henry on my recommendation. It puts us all in a difficult position.”

  Emmy could think of nothing to say except, “I’m sorry, John.”

  “You?” John smiled at her. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Now, when did this start?”

  “Just yesterday evening,” Emmy said. “We’d been for drinks on board Ocean Rover, and when we got back Henry suggested going out to dine and dance. Well, that was fine with me, and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, but then he refused to come home and… ” Miserably, Emmy recounted what had happened.

  “Has he ever behaved like this before, Em?” John asked.

  “No, never. It’s absolutely unlike him. And now he’s turned against me—”

  Firmly, John said, “That’s unimportant, Emmy.”

  “Unimportant? How can you say that?”

  “I say it,” said John, “because Henry is obviously ill. Get him cured, and this hostility towards you will disappear.”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe this is something that has been festering, deep down, all these years—”

  “Nonsense, Emmy.” John spoke sharply. “Henry is ill, and he needs medical treatment. Don’t ask me what’s wrong with him, because I’m not a doctor. But I’m going to call one.”

  “Oh, no, John. Please don’t.”

  “Emmy dear,” Margaret said, “we must. We don’t have anything very fancy on these islands in the way of medical care, but we’ve a good G.P. Let John talk to him.”

  Dr. Daniels was, indeed, a good G.P., but of very little use in the present situation. He pointed out that Mr. Tibbett was not his patient, that he was apparently in good physical health, and that all he had done was to have a small quarrel with his wife and go off sailing with friends. He really didn’t see what he could do, and he advised Mrs. Tibbett not to worry. He would send over a sedative for Mrs. Tibbett—she appeared to be the one who needed treatment.

  John Colville swore mightily as he put down the telephone, but he had to admit that the doctor had given him a reasonable reply. It was not evidence—legal or medical—simply to insist that Henry Tibbett would never behave in such a way.

  “Stay here with us anyway, Emmy,” John said. “Something will happen, one way or the other.”

  What happened was a series of telephone calls. Inspector Ingham telephoned several times, wanting to know what had become of the Chief Superintendent and why all communication seemed to have been broken off. He wanted to notify Henry that his inquiries about Jill and Harvey Blackstone had been negative; that is, that the couple had never checked in officially at any Immigration office on the Seawards. This could be important information—and where was the Chief Superintendent?

  John replied diplomatically that Henry was conducting an investigation and in the course of it had gone off sailing with the Blackstones and another couple called Carstairs. He imagined that it must be important for Henry to remain incommunicado and suggested that Ingham should keep in touch with the Anchorage. Herbert Ingham, who was nobody’s fool, agreed grudgingly.

  The next caller, on Sunday morning, was the Governor no less. Sir Alfred Pendleton was upset and also curious. He wanted to know whether Mr. Colville had any idea what Chief Superintendent Tibbett was up to.

  “No, sir. I really don’t know. He’s off on his boat, and—”

  “He certainly is,” said Sir Alfred tetchily. “He’s also making a damned nuisance of himself.”

  “Really, sir? How?”

  “I’ve had complaints from George Island. It seems that Windflower went there yesterday and broke just about every regulation concerning anchoring, riding lights, and so on. That wouldn’t matter so much except that Tibbett and his young friends have been behaving in such an extraordinary manner—”

  “Drunk, do you mean, Sir Alfred?”

  “It seems not.” The Governor sounded puzzled. “The owners of the beach restaurant say that they just seemed to be...well, crazy. Not drunk. In the end, the restaurant people called the police launch from St. Mark’s, but by the time it arrived, Windflower had upped anchor and sailed off. I’m absolutely baffled. After all, Tibbett is a senior police officer from Scotland Yard, and he’s supposed to be conducting an inquiry here.”

  John said, “There must be a reason, sir. Either Tibbett is doing this deliberately, or else he’s under the influence of—something. Could it be marijuana, do you think?”

  “Certainly not.” Sir Alfred was positive. “I’m no expert, but I’ve seen enough pot-smoking among the youngsters round here to recognize the symptoms. Generally it makes them very gentle, sleepy, withdrawn, and quiet. Your Henry Tibbett and his crew were loudmouthed and destructive—and yet not drunk. I don’t understand it, but I’m issuing a warrant for Tibbett’s arrest if he shows up in Seaward waters again.”

  It took John Colville quite a while to get Sir Alfred to agree to postpone this drastic action, at least until Henry Tibbett had had an opportunity to explain his strange behavior to the authorities.

  The next call came from Herbert Ingham once more. It was imperative, he said, that Henry Tibbett should contact Inspector Reynolds at Scotland Yard. Reynolds had been able to get in touch with Mrs. Celia Vanduren, and he had important information for the Chief Superintendent. Where the hell, demanded Ingham, was he?

  “I only wish I knew,” said John Colville.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THAT NIGHT EMMY borrowed Margaret’s alarm clock to wake her at five A.M., so that she could put through a telephone call to Scotland Yard. It would be ten o’clock on a Monday morning in London—a time when there was a good chance of finding Inspector Reynolds at his desk.

  When the bell woke her, Emmy got up, put on jeans and a shirt, and crossed the cool garden to the bar. The first glimpses of golden daylig
ht were beginning to take over from the silver of the tropical moon. In the distance, the sea was shirred with ripples, and somewhere a rooster was crowing. It seemed incredible that in the midst of all this beauty and tranquillity, Emmy should be in the grip of a nightmare. She shivered and hurried through the bar and into the office where the telephone was kept.

  Inspector Reynolds was in his office. He greeted Emmy with the emotion of a shipwrecked sailor sighting a lifeboat.

  “Mrs. Tibbett! Oh, thank heaven you’ve called. The A.C. is in a terrible state. What on earth is happening?”

  “I thought you could tell me,” Emmy said.

  “I’ve important information on the case, yes. But it’s the other business that none of us can understand.”

  “What other business?”

  “The telegram. What does it mean? Is it some sort of code? I mean, the Chief Superintendent can’t be serious.”

  Emmy said, “Inspector Reynolds, I haven’t seen my husband for two days. I’m as much in the dark as you are. Tell me about the telegram.”

  “You mean, you don’t know?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “This gets more and more mysterious,” said Reynolds. “Well, it arrived this morning, sent on Saturday from the British Seaward Islands, and addressed simply to the Assistant Commissioner—just his title, no name, which is strange, considering how friendly he and Mr. Tibbett are. I’ll read you the text.” There was a pause, with a distant rustling of paper. “Are you there? O.K., here goes. ‘KINDLY ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION EFFECTIVE TODAY STOP REMIT PENSION PAYMENTS TO UNITED SEAWARDS BANK ST. MARK’S HARBOUR ACCOUNT HENRY TIBBETT INVESTIGATION BUREAU STOP ON NO ACCOUNT REMIT ANY MONIES TO MY WIFE’—and it’s signed ‘TIBBETT. MANAGING DIRECTOR HENRY TIBBETT BUREAU.’ ”

  There was a pause. Emmy was speechless. Then Reynolds said, “You can imagine the effect it’s had. The whole place is buzzing. I suppose this bureau is some sort of a cover—”

  Emmy found her voice. She said, “Inspector Reynolds, you may be entirely right. Henry may be conducting some sort of very clever inquiry and putting up an enormous cover. But if he is, I can only tell you that he hasn’t taken me into his confidence, any more than the Assistant Commissioner.” She paused and swallowed. “Or Chief Inspector Ingham on St. Mark’s. Or the Governor of the Seawards. As far as I can tell you, my husband has gone out of his mind.”

  “But Mrs. Tibbett—!”

  “I know it’s hard to believe. But either Henry is putting on such an act as never was—or he’s crazy.” Emmy paused. “The Governor wants to issue a warrant for his arrest. My friends and I have persuaded him not to do that for the moment, but—”

  “And then,” said Reynolds aggressively, “what’s this in the telegram about not paying anything to you? I can’t—”

  Trying to sound calm, Emmy said, “That’s all part of it, Inspector. Henry says he wants nothing more to do with me.”

  “But that’s—”

  “Understandable,” said Emmy wryly. “It has nothing to do with the present situation.”

  “Now, Mrs. Tibbett, you mustn’t—”

  “Please, Inspector. I hope you’re right, but for the moment, forget it. The situation between my husband and myself is purely personal. Meanwhile, whatever is happening to him is obviously part of the case he’s involved in. So if you have important information—well…can you give it to me? In his place, as it were?”

  There was a long pause. Then Reynolds spoke, and Emmy could sense his red face from the other side of the world. “I don’t really think I can, Mrs. Tibbett. I’ll give the information to Inspector Ingham, and he can pass it along to you or not as he thinks fit.”

  Emmy felt as though somebody had poured a bucket of cold water in her face. For the first time in more than twenty years, she was not being treated as Henry’s alter ego, his unofficial personal aide. Just when Henry needed her most, she was being snubbed and shunted off onto a sideline. With a big effort, she said, “I’m sure you’re acting quite correctly, Inspector Reynolds. Do please call Inspector Ingham and give him all the details—but not before about two o’clock your time, or you’ll get him out of bed. Good-bye, Inspector Reynolds.”

  Emmy did not wait to hear Reynolds’s reply. She put down the telephone—being very careful not to slam it—and then laid her head on the office desk and began to cry, quietly and without hope. It was so that Margaret Colville found her a few minutes later, when the sky had become even lighter. Margaret had made a pot of delicate China tea, and—still in her dressing gown—had walked across the courtyard with two steaming cups.

  Margaret sat down opposite Emmy and said, “Tea.”

  Emmy sniffled and raised her head. “Thanks, Margaret.”

  “You’d better tell me. You can’t carry this alone, you know. What did London say?”

  Emmy said, “Henry is either crazy, or he hates me in a…a really vicious sort of way, Margaret. But what is really important is that I think he is in terrible danger. And I don’t know what to do about it. Nobody can help us.”

  “The doctor—”

  “John tried the doctor. You know what happened.”

  “Well, of course, without any sort of proof... Henry might just be off on a joyride.”

  “Maybe he thinks he is,” said Emmy grimly.

  Margaret said, “You don’t believe that, do you, Emmy?”

  “I’m trying not to.” Emmy gave a fair imitation of a smile and stood up. “I’m awfully sorry, Margaret. You had no right to expect this sort of thing when you invited us for a week’s holiday, and I don’t intend to inflict it on you anymore. You go back to bed, and I’ll go for a walk. I’ll be back for breakfast. Please don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  The hour between five and six in the morning is magical almost anywhere in summertime, and in the perpetual summer of the Caribbean it can hardly fail. Emmy walked down to the beach, not consciously observing but becoming aware of the daily miracle of life waking from darkness to light. A million tiny creatures stirred among the coarse grasses, piped up in the mango and mahogany trees, and skittered across the freshly washed shore. Behind the eastward hills, the glow deepened. Then, suddenly, the sun was up—and the land and sea lost their nocturnal grayness and broke into blue and pink and gold.

  “This happens every morning,” Emmy said to herself. “Why do I have to be almost suicidal before I bother to get up and look at it?” The thought made her smile, which was an improvement.

  Hardly realizing in which direction her steps were taking her, Emmy followed the closest path along the seashore, toward Priest Town. She could not be said to be thinking or reasoning—because in a situation of utter unreason, there was no hypothesis from which to postulate. Her thoughts took the form of a silent scream. What am I to do? What am I to do? What is happening to Henry? How can I help him? Oh, God, what am I to do?

  A deeper, less emotional corner of her mind registered the fact that she was now bringing the deity into it; this steadied her and provoked another small, invisible smile. She remembered the old saying that there are no atheists on a battlefield. All right, this is my battlefield. I am at bay, and there’s nothing to do but stand and fight. The thought cheered her, even though she knew it was spurious. Before she realized it, Emmy was approaching the small streets and houses of Priest Town, and she could see the gray stone Customs House—now closed and shuttered—the new police station, and the small yacht marina beyond it.

  It was half-past seven, the sun was up, but the air was still pleasantly cool. Priest Town was rising, stretching, and going about its business. On the quayside, half a dozen fishermen were preparing their boats for sea. Trucks carrying construction materials were beginning to roll out to building sites up in the hills. Jeeps and small cars were taking people to work. And along the jetty, people on boats were slowly waking and climbing up into the cockpit to breathe deeply, stretch, and look at the morning. One or two were even ashore already, and… Emmy suddenly stiffened, took a
nother look, and broke into a run. The tall, slightly stooped figure on the pontoon was unmistakable.

  Emmy nearly called his name aloud, then realized that he was too far away to hear her. He was walking up the row of moored yachts toward the quay, peering intently at each boat as he passed it. As Emmy came hurrying toward him, he gave her a brief look and obviously dismissed her. In her cut-off jeans and white shirt, she could have been a tourist off any sailing boat—and she was quite clearly not the person that Dr. Vanduren was looking for.

  Before Emmy could reach the yacht basin, the doctor had inspected the last boat, found it unprofitable, and crossed the quay to disappear up one of the narrow alleys leading to Main Street. By the time Emmy arrived, there was no sign of him. She made a quick search of the area, but her quarry seemed to have vanished. The shops and cafés were not yet open, so she concluded that he must have gone into a private house.

  No matter, thought Emmy. He must have entered the Seawards through Customs and Immigration, and she remembered that the entry permit required visitors to list their address while in the islands. She had only to ask Inspector Ingham to locate Dr. Vanduren for her.

  Feeling happier and wondering why she had not thought of tracing the doctor sooner, Emmy made her way back to the Anchorage and breakfast.

  Emmy had intended to put through a call to Inspector Ingham after breakfast, but he forestalled her. She was still drinking her last cup of coffee when John came out of the office to tell her that the Inspector was on the line for her.

  “Mrs. Tibbett, I do implore you to help us.” Ingham sounded near the end of his tether.

  “Help you? How can I help you?”

  “Your husband and his crew sailed Windflower into St. Mark’s yesterday. It was reported to me by the Harbour Master, but in deference to you and to Mr. Colville, I took no action. The next I heard was that some sort of fight had broken out in the marina restaurant—there was a general disturbance, and property was damaged. By the time my men got there, Windflower had sailed off again. As far as I can make out, she ploughed her way through a cluster of small sailing dinghies engaged in a Sunday afternoon regatta. It caused utter chaos and several of the dinghies were overturned. What are you laughing at?”