Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  “I’m not,” gulped Emmy apologetically. “I think I’m a bit hysterical. To think of Henry—”

  “And now,” added Ingham, “Windflower has disappeared. Naturally, she never cleared Customs and Immigration, but as far as we can make out she is no longer in Seaward waters. I shall have to put out a general alert for her apprehension.”

  Emmy, having mastered her ridiculous impulse to giggle, said, “Inspector Ingham, I’d like to see you. There’s something I want to ask you. Suppose I come over on the Pride this morning?”

  “An excellent idea, Mrs. Tibbett. I was going to suggest it.” A little pause. “As a matter of fact, the Governor would like a word with you. Maybe you can help us. Frankly, I’d rather cope with any number of drug-runners than a top-rank policeman gone berserk in charge of a boat.”

  The mail, brought up by Corfetta’s daughter from the post office, contained a very formal letter and a sheaf of documents from a solicitor in St. Mark’s. Mr. Henry Tibbett, he wrote, had instructed him to send the enclosed documents for Mrs. Tibbett’s signature. The documents required Emmy to relinquish all claim on the leasehold of the Tibbetts’ London apartment and to make over the lease to the Henry Tibbett Investigation Bureau Ltd., St. Mark’s, British Seaward Islands. Emmy sighed despairingly and put the papers into her suitcase.

  When Emmy came down from her room, Margaret was in the bar, setting it up for the day’s business. She said, “Any more news?”

  “About Henry, you mean?”

  “What else?”

  “More of the same, only worse,” Emmy said. She told Margaret about Ingham’s phone call. “So I’m going over today on the Pride to see the Inspector and the Governor.”

  “I hope you’re wise,” Margaret said.

  “How do you mean, wise? The Governor wants to—”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear the weather forecast this morning,” said Margaret.

  “No, I didn’t. But you can see what a lovely day it is—” Emmy looked up at the serene blue of the sky. “It’s always perfect here.”

  “No, it’s not,” Margaret said. “Most of the time it’s good, except for a few heavy downpours in the rainy season. But there are such things as tropical storms and hurricanes, you know.”

  “Surely not at this time of year. I thought the hurricane season was in September.”

  “No, officially it starts in July. But the weather doesn’t always go by the calendar.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that there’s a hurricane threatening the Seawards?” Emmy was laughing.

  Seriously, Margaret said, “Not immediately. But the forecast this morning said that Tropical Storm Alfred—the first of the season—was becoming organized and would probably be upgraded to a hurricane today. It’s out in the Atlantic seven hundred miles southeast of Puerto Rico, and if it continues on its present course, it’ll pass north of us—but we can’t be sure.”

  Emmy said, “I thought these islands were never hit by hurricanes.”

  “They haven’t been for thirty years,” Margaret said, “but tropical storms are unpredictable—they can change course without warning, and this one is too close for comfort.”

  Before Emmy could answer, John came into the bar. He held a piece of paper in his hand, which he consulted. “Just heard the latest from the Miami weather station,” he said. “Good morning, Emmy. Tropical Storm Alfred now Hurricane Alfred with highest sustained winds of ninety miles per hour and gales extending a hundred miles north and fifty miles south of the center. Present location 11.3 degrees north, 52.5 degrees west, traveling northwest at ten miles an hour. Hurricane watch is in effect for Windwards, Leewards, and Seawards.”

  Emmy said, “What exactly does all that mean?”

  “It means,” said John, “that with luck it’ll stay well to the north of us, although we’ll probably get the tail edge of the gales.”

  “And without luck?”

  “If the course changes to a more westerly direction—well, we could get it.”

  “When?” Margaret asked.

  “Not before tomorrow. We’ve plenty of time to take precautions. I think we should board up our eastern windows and—”

  Margaret said, “John, Emmy has had more bad news about Henry. She’s planning to go over to St. Mark’s today to see the Governor. Is that safe, do you think?”

  “Safe enough today,” John said, “but get back this evening, or you may find yourself stranded.”

  On board the Pride of St. Mark’s, most of the gossip was concerned with the possibility—regarded by the islanders as extremely remote—of the Seawards being struck by Hurricane Alfred. There were jokes at the expense of Sir Alfred Pendleton, the storm’s namesake; people reminded each other that it was thirty years since the last such occasion, and a group of youths pretended to go into an exaggerated panic over the appearance of one small cloud on the horizon. The rippled sea was calm and deep blue, shading to aquamarine as the Pride churned steadily through the shallows outside St. Mark’s Harbour. Soon the passengers were ashore and Emmy was walking through shady streets up the hill to the police station.

  Inspector Ingham greeted her with a worried smile. He said, “Ah, glad to see you, Mrs. Tibbett. The Governor is expecting us both right away. I’ve got my car outside, so let’s get going.”

  Emmy said, “Just a moment, Inspector. There’s one thing. While we’re with the Governor, can your people find out from Immigration whether Dr. Lionel Vanduren is on the islands and what his address is?”

  Ingham looked steadily at Emmy for a moment. Then he said, “If he checked in through the airport or either harbor, we’ll certainly have a record. But what makes you think—?”

  “I’m pretty sure I saw him here in the marina the day before—before my husband started behaving so oddly. With all that’s happened, I quite forgot about it, until I saw him again this morning on St. Matthew’s.”

  “What do you imagine he would be doing here?”

  “Looking for his daughter,” said Emmy.

  Ingham gave her a curious look, then picked up a telephone. “Sergeant…oh, it’s you, Pearletta. Check with Immigration, will you, if a Dr. Vanduren, first name… ?” He turned inquiringly to Emmy, who said, “Lionel.” “A Dr. Lionel Vanduren from Miami has checked in by sea or air within the past week. If so, let me have details of dates and where he’s staying. O.K.? Thank you, dear.” He hung up the phone and stood up. “Let’s get going then, Mrs. Tibbett.”

  Little was said on the way to Government House. Soon Emmy and the Inspector were sitting in the same drawing room where Henry had been interviewed by the Governor, and a few minutes later Sir Alfred himself came in.

  “Inspector Ingham…Mrs. Tibbett…I am very glad you were able to come over. I felt I should talk to you personally. This is a very bad business.”

  “It certainly is,” Emmy agreed.

  “Have you any explanation as to your husband’s behavior?”

  Emmy shook her head. “I feel sure there is an explanation,” she said. “Either Henry is doing this deliberately for some good reason, or else it’s…oh, I don’t know. I simply can’t believe that he’s gone off his head.”

  The Governor looked at her quizzically. He said, “Mental breakdowns are not infrequent, you know, even in apparently stable people. And I believe there’s something called the seven-year itch—”

  “Henry and I have been married for twenty years.”

  “Well—perhaps I used the wrong expression. I mean the phenomenon of middle-aged men quite suddenly cutting loose and behaving…well, in an eccentric manner. And, of course, there’s another possibility.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your husband,” said Sir Alfred, “told me that he was making every effort to contact these supposed drug-runners. Trailing his coat was the way he put it. I am tempted to think he may have succeeded.”

  Emmy nodded.

  “Now,” Pendleton went on, “I believe there is a great deal of money involved. In
fact, I know it. The criminals concerned—if they should have found out your husband’s true identity—might be prepared to pay a great deal to…to buy his cooperation.”

  Miserably, Emmy said, “I can’t even feel angry with you for suggesting that, Sir Alfred. You see, you don’t know Henry like I do. I can’t blame you for suspecting—” Suddenly she turned to Inspector Ingham. “Did Derek Reynolds call you from London?” she demanded.

  “Inspector Reynolds? Yes, he did.”

  “What did he say? He told me he had important information.”

  Ingham appealed mutely to Sir Alfred, who smiled and said, “I think it would be unfair not to tell Mrs. Tibbett, Inspector.”

  Embarrassed, Ingham said, “I think I should tell you, sir, that Mrs. Tibbett thinks she has seen Dr. Vanduren here and on St. Matthew’s within the past few days.”

  Sir Alfred looked at Emmy with raised brows. “Really, Mrs. Tibbett? Are you sure?”

  “Not absolutely,” Emmy admitted, “but if it’s not him, it’s somebody extraordinarily like him.”

  Inspector Ingham said, “I’m having Immigration check on arrivals in the last week, sir. We’ll soon know.”

  “Then keep me posted,” said the Governor, dryly. “Well, Mrs. Tibbett, Inspector Reynolds’s news is that he has located Mrs. Celia Vanduren. Ingham has the details.”

  “She’s staying with her mother, a Mrs. Dobson, in a village called East Chudbury in Shropshire,” said Ingham.

  “Well, we knew that,” Emmy said. “I mean, that she was in Shropshire with her mother. Is that all?”

  “No, it’s not,” said Ingham, with emphasis. “The Inspector spoke to the lady himself, and he reports that she doesn’t seem to be in the least ill or hysterical. She told him that she only came to England because her husband insisted that she do so. She says she never had hospital treatment—after Janet’s death, and that if anyone was having a breakdown, it was Dr. Vanduren himself. She strongly denies having destroyed photographs of her daughter, and in fact she has one with her. It’s now on its way to Scotland Yard, where Reynolds will get it copied and send it to us here by way of a British Airways pilot en route to Antigua. Unfortunately, there’s no quicker way of getting it to us.”

  Sir Alfred, who was engaged in filling a curly briar pipe with tobacco, looked at Emmy and said, “You were actually there, were you, Mrs. Tibbett, when Dr. Vanduren made those remarks about his wife?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Then we can only assume that Dr. Vanduren was lying,” said the Governor. There was a pause. “And now you maintain that he is here in person. Very curious. Unless, of course… ” He rammed the aromatic tobacco into the bowl of the pipe with great concentration, leaving his unfinished remark hanging in the air.

  Angrily, Emmy said, “You mean, unless Henry and I are both lying? Both in the pay of the drug ring.”

  “My dear Mrs. Tibbett, I would not suggest such a thing. However, my main purpose for asking you to come here was so that I could explain to you personally why I am proposing to issue a general alert for the arrest of the yacht Windflower and her crew.”

  Emmy said nothing.

  Ingham said, “It’s necessary, Mrs. Tibbett. Apart from anything else, there’s the possibility of Hurricane Alfred hitting us. For the Chief Superintendent’s own sake—”

  Emmy became aware that the Governor was looking at her intently from behind the protective smoke screen of his now-lighted pipe. She said, “I’m sorry. Of course you’re right, Sir Alfred. Things can’t go on like this.”

  The tension seemed to relax a little. Pendleton said, “I’m glad you see it like that, Mrs. Tibbett. Let’s hope that your husband has a proper respect for my namesake, and that Windflower is in some safe anchorage. Let’s hope, too, that you are right and there’s a reasonable explanation for all these goings-on.” He smiled. Emmy managed to smile back. “Well, now, you’ll be going back to St. Matthew’s today, I imagine.”

  “Yes. On the afternoon boat. You can always get me at the Anchorage.”

  “Unless the storm hits and we all lose our telephone lines,” Sir Alfred remarked. “Barring that, we’ll keep you up to date on any developments. Equally, I know you’ll tell us at once if you hear from your husband.”

  “Of course.”

  The skies were still serene as the Pride of St. Mark’s forged her way back toward Priest Town, but the wind was getting up, whipping the seas so that the tubby boat bucked and rolled with an uncomfortable motion, and the trip took longer than the scheduled half-hour. John was at the jetty to meet Emmy. He looked worried.

  “Glad to see you back,” he said. “Things don’t look so good. Friend Alfred has intensified and speeded up. Should still pass to the north, but closer and sooner than we thought. Incidentally, Herbert Ingham has been trying to get you on the telephone. You’re to call him as soon as you get in. He left a number for you to call. He’s not at the police station.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No. Sounded a bit grim, I thought.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Emmy, and then was silent.

  Inspector Ingham did indeed sound grim when Emmy contacted him on the telephone. She had been surprised to find that the number she dialed was that of Government House. After a few clicks and buzzes, Ingham came on the line.

  “Mrs. Tibbett? I am with the Governor. He would like a word with you.”

  “The Governor? What on earth—?”

  “Please hold the line.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Tibbett. Pendleton here. I have some rather… disturbing news.”

  “About Henry?” Emmy’s throat was dry with fear.

  “In a way. This afternoon, a woman police constable on radio watch intercepted another Starfish message. You understand what I am talking about?”

  “Yes.” Emmy was almost whispering. “What did it say?”

  “This time it was to Starfish, rather than from her. It came, ostensibly from a boat called Anemone. You, being English, will know that ‘windflower’ is another name for the wood anemone. Local people would not connect the two—for them, anemones are strictly sea creatures. Anemone informed Starfish that she had had a very successful cruise, but in view of the weather was planning to return home. She hoped they might meet as arranged.”

  “Any time or place mentioned?”

  “No. The rendezvous must have been fixed in advance, and some simple code must have indicated the date and time. The interesting thing was the voice of the speaker.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Policewoman Terry reports that it was masculine and British. She has met your husband, Mrs. Tibbett, and it is her impression that it was him speaking.”

  “But that’s—”

  “I have another piece of information. Inspector Ingham has made a most thorough check with Immigration. Dr. Lionel Vanduren is definitely not in the Seaward Islands.”

  “But—”

  “I have kept perhaps the most significant part until the last, Mrs. Tibbett. At the end of the Starfish message, the speaker from Anemone mentioned that Starfish should not bother to make contact with a person referred to only by the initial E. His final words were ‘She is making her own arrangements.’ What do you make of that?”

  “I…nothing. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “I must be frank with you, Mrs. Tibbett. At the least, you owe us an explanation. I have given instructions that you are not to be permitted to leave the British Seawards, and I shall be obliged if you will take the boat over here again tomorrow. I will see you in my office at midday, and I hope that by then you will have decided to be entirely frank with us.”

  Wretchedly, Emmy said, “Very well, Sir Alfred. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  But, as it turned out, tomorrow was too late.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  COMING BACK FROM St. Mark’s on the Pride, Emmy had noticed that the sunshine had taken on a curious metallic quality, which gave the usually friendly land and seasca
pe a sinister harshness. During the afternoon, following her unhappy conversation with Sir Alfred Pendleton, this brassy unreality deepened until it almost matched the nightmare going on in Emmy’s mind.

  There was no consolation to be had from the Colvilles because they were far too busy, and Emmy was grateful that she was coopted without question to help in the hurricane precautions. At such a time, it was merciful to be kept occupied and not bothered with questions.

  As it was, the Colvilles and Emmy and the skeleton staff of the Anchorage worked hard and fast, with a transistor radio always at hand giving out the latest weather bulletins. In the office, a big chart was spread out and pinned to the desk, and over it a bold line in marker-pen ink traced Alfred’s progress as he made his inexorable way across the last miles of the Atlantic Ocean toward the slender string of islands that form the eastward boundary of the Caribbean Sea.

  Sheets of plywood were brought out from the garden shed, sawed into segments to fit over north and east windows, and then battened into place with long nails driven through transverse exterior beams. Margaret and Emmy assembled quantities of candles and matches, which they stored in the kitchen. They also filled every available receptacle with drinking water—jugs and saucepans as well as jerricans.

  “There won’t be any lack of water,” Margaret explained, “but we rely on an electric pump to get it up from the cistern, and the electricity will be the first thing to go.”

  “Surely,” Emmy said, “we can draw water up from the cistern in buckets.”

  “Until the cistern cracks and the water either runs out or gets polluted,” said Margaret. “You’ll find a couple more casseroles in the back pantry. Best fill them.”