Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  The oleanders had been beaten down by the wind and rain, but the fence still stood. The jeep went through it with a splitting and cracking of wood, and so—with a broken section of white-painted plank resting on its hood—found itself on the battered track that had once been the dirt road from the Anchorage to the beach.

  Never the best of roads, this now resembled the bed of a fast-flowing river. Great rocks and boulders were strewn haphazardly over it, and deep ruts had appeared where the wind and water had carved their way through the gravel. The jeep butted and leaped, lurched and jolted, as John peered intently through the drenched windshield, trying to pick the safest path. Every so often, an extra-strong gust of wind took the vehicle sideways on, making it rock dangerously and cant still further over.

  From the back, Morley Duprez screamed, “Here!”

  John pulled up as a short, burly figure in black oilskins came fighting its way out from the doorway of a small wooden house, which seemed to have lost half its tin roof. Morley leaned down from the back of the jeep and with strong hands helped the other man over the tailgate. Then he yelled, “O.K., John. Take her away,” and the jeep resumed its slow and agonizing progress.

  The first serious obstacle was a fallen tree—a biggish white cedar with a trunk about a foot in diameter and a bushy straggle of smaller branches. It had fallen across the track between two rocks, giving no hope of circumnavigating it by taking to the undergrowth. The three men climbed out of the jeep to inspect the obstruction.

  Unfortunately, most of the roots were still in the ground, and there was no way of manhandling the tree out of the way. John struggled back to the jeep and found his handsaw in the bag of tools. It took them, taking turns, half an hour to saw through the trunk. Then, with Emmy lending what help she could, the main body of the tree was dragged out of the way. By then, the jeep wheels had sunk deep into the mud. John engaged the lowest gear in four-wheel drive, while the others stayed outside, slipping and losing their foothold in the mire as they pushed. With a roar and a convulsive leap, the jeep finally freed itself and gained the comparative stability of a stony patch of track. The passengers scrambled aboard and the journey went on.

  After what seemed an eternity, the indomitable little vehicle breasted a steep rise, and at the same moment the rain stopped, allowing a slight improvement in visibility. John braked the jeep to a halt, and all four passengers got out, walked the few yards of flat ground at the top of the hill, and looked down toward the sea.

  Far below them, huge breakers crashed in great lazily flying clouds of white spray against a small crescent of pale sand, protected on either side by gray rocks that strode out into the angry waters. Beyond, the sea faded into invisibility, until only a vague impression of white seething on steel gray could be seen. And in the center of the crescent, lying on her side, was the hull of a boat that had once been white.

  As each roller came crashing in from the sea, it lifted the hull momentarily, only to drop it again with sickening force onto the beach. The mast was no more than a broken matchstick trailing over the side. A few broken spars, lighter than the hull, had already been washed up to the high-water mark. Even from where they stood, the watchers could see that the hull was beginning to split and the decks to spring and buckle. Without immediate help, the yacht would very soon break up into mere splinters of driftwood.

  Emmy grabbed John’s arm. “It looks like Windflower,” she screamed.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Almost.”

  John nodded briefly. Then he pointed downhill and said something to Morley which Emmy could not catch. She looked down after his pointing finger, and her heart turned over. The road this far had been bad enough, but the way down seemed totally impassable.

  It had always been a steep and curving track that led down to Bluefish Bay. Even the moderate rains of a normal October had often put it out of action as far as cars were concerned, and jeeps could only manage it with difficulty. Now, it seemed to Emmy, it was about as navigable as Niagara Falls. Streams of rainwater ran down it, bowling stones and rocks along in their path. Larger boulders straddled the track, and deep rifts and ruts made traps for wheels. John, who had his binoculars slung around his neck, was inspecting the path through them, his face grim. He turned and said something to Morley, who nodded. Emmy pulled at John’s arm.

  “Can I have the glasses?”

  John nodded, slipped the leather strap from around his neck, and handed the binoculars to Emmy. Then he continued his discussion with Morley and Melville. Emmy trained the glasses onto the battered hull which might be Windflower. So absorbed was she that John had to shake her arm twice before she lowered the glasses and turned to him.

  Putting his mouth close to Emmy’s ear, John shouted, “Road’s too bad. Not worth the risk for an empty hull. We’re going back.”

  “No!” Emmy yelled.

  “What?”

  “Look! There’s someone on that boat!”

  “Where?”

  “Look through the glasses. In the cockpit, half out of the cabin door. Look when the seas slue her round!”

  John took the glasses and looked intently. Sure enough, for a moment, as the waves lifted the hull and swung it slightly sideways, he caught a glimpse of something black. Could be a tarpaulin, a sailbag, a collapsed inflatable dinghy. A heavy, inert mass wedged half in and half out of the open cabin door. It could also be a body in black oilskins.

  John lowered the glasses and turned to Morley Duprez.

  “Get in,” he said. “We’re going down.”

  As Emmy climbed back into the jeep, she noticed a piece of white paper on the floor—presumably it had been dislodged from under her seat by the violent movement of the vehicle. She picked it up and saw that it was a page from the monthly magazine issued by the Tourist Office of the British Seaward Islands in order to promote business. She read, “The climate of the British Seawards is ideal. Year-round, warm temperatures and sunny skies bless our fortunate islands, while the gentle rainfall is just enough to—”

  “Hang on to your hats!” John shouted. “Here we go!” As he let in the clutch, the heavens opened, and the downpour began again—this time for real.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HENRY TIBBETT AWOKE to a cacophony of sound. It was every bit as loud as, but different in quality from, the screaming inferno that had been his last conscious memory. It had been a hell of violent movement, of being tossed and buffeted at the mercy of some gigantic, screeching, uncoordinated force. Now, there was movement—less violent, more jolting—and the noise, although intense, had a sort of orderliness about it. A rhythm. A throb. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but blackness.

  He was apparently lying on his back in some sort of small room or cabin, which shook and pulsated and threw him this way and that. He became conscious of sodden clothes around his body, but also of some warm, dry wrapping that enclosed him completely. A blanket. That was what it was. A blanket entirely wrapped around him, covering his head so that he could not see. Feebly, he raised a hand and tried to brush it away.

  At once, the dark covering was pulled back. The cabin—or whatever it was—lurched sideways, rolling him over onto his face. He became aware of gentle hands righting him, easing him onto his back once more. He opened his eyes and found himself looking straight into Emmy’s face, not a foot from his.

  “Emmy… ”

  “Henry…don’t try to talk…just lie still…we’ll soon be there… ”

  Henry shut his eyes again and tried to think. Emmy. Something about Emmy. Emmy brought back strong feelings of antagonism. Emmy was against him. Emmy was his enemy. No, that was stupid. Emmy was his wife. Emmy…suddenly a great feeling of relief surged through him. Emmy…everything would be all right. He couldn’t remember what had been wrong, but something had been very wrong indeed and was now going to be all right again… The moment of consciousness passed. In the small cabin of the Golf Club helicopter, Emmy wept tears of relief.

  The pilot, ba
ttling gamely against the still-gale-force winds, turned and grinned at Emmy, pointing downward. Emmy looked out of the window, through the streaming rain, and was able to make out the lawns of the Golf Club rushing up to meet them as the helicopter touched down. With a bump and a skid in the mud, the little red insect came to rest and was at once surrounded by eager hands and voices. Henry was borne away. Emmy smiled at the pilot.

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “All part of the service, ma’am. You’d best go with your husband. I’ll be off to get Mr. Colville and the others from the beach.”

  The wind had moderated considerably, but the rain pelted down more heavily than ever. In Margaret’s yellow oilskins, Emmy squelched her way across sodden bogs which had once been lawns to the Secretary’s office, where a harassed girl clerk informed her that the Golf Club was no better off than anywhere else on the island when it came to communications. All telephone lines were down. There were no boats running. The helicopter was available only for emergency rescue services, like the one in progress from Bluefish Bay. Not before tomorrow at the soonest could a flight to St. Mark’s be contemplated. Emmy, without regret, decided that she had done her best to communicate with Sir Alfred Pendleton and Inspector Ingham. For the time being, St. Matthew’s was incommunicado. She made her way back to cottage No. 23, where she knew that Dr. Daniels was examining Henry.

  The Golf Club cottages were built in the form of two-room suites—living room, bedroom, and shower. The living-room section of No. 23 was empty when Emmy entered it, and the door to the bedroom was closed. Behind it, Emmy could hear the muted voices of Dr. Daniels and his nurse and the splashing of water as taps were turned on in the bathroom. After a few minutes the doctor came out, drying his hands on a linen towel embroidered with the Golf Club’s logo.

  He said, “You are Mrs. Tibbett?”

  “Yes. How is he?”

  The doctor, kind-faced and white-haired, smiled encouragingly. “He’ll be all right. He has a severe concussion and there are cuts and bruises, but nothing broken. For the moment, I’ve given him a sedative.”

  “But I have to speak to him!”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my dear. Out of the question. What he needs now is complete rest. He should be in hospital, and I’m arranging for him to be taken to St. Mark’s as soon as any form of transport can make the journey. Meanwhile, he must stay here and sleep. You can sit with him if you wish, but even if he regains consciousness, I absolutely forbid you to try to talk to him. Nurse Quarles will come back with more sedation every four hours. I can’t leave her here, much as I would like to, because we have a lot of other calls. Praise God, this island has been lucky—but there are a lot of minor casualties, and we’re needed at the office.” He shot Emmy a piercing look from bright blue eyes. “You look exhausted,” he said.

  “I am, rather,” said Emmy. “It was quite a drive down to the beach, and after we got Henry out of the boat, it seemed like a hundred years before the helicopter arrived. There was no hope of getting the jeep up again, you see.”

  Dr. Daniels seemed to make a decision. He said, “Wait here with your husband, Mrs. Tibbett, until I can find somebody competent to come and sit with him. Then go and get some rest yourself. Doctor’s orders. There’s nothing useful you can do here. Right?”

  “All right. Thank you, Doctor.”

  When the doctor and the nurse had gone, Emmy opened the door of the bedroom and walked in. Henry was lying on his back on the bed, looking like a small boy asleep. The Golf Club had produced from somewhere a pair of bright green silk pajamas several sizes too large, into which Henry’s supine body had been rather clumsily bundled. He was breathing evenly and appeared very peaceful. His face, hands, and legs were liberally decorated with gauze and adhesive tape, and his sandy hair fell disarmingly across his forehead. Emmy took off her oilskins and rubber boots and washed her face and hands in the shower. Then she pulled a rattan chair up to the bedside and sat down to keep watch.

  It was after one o’clock in the afternoon when Henry opened his eyes. For a moment, he seemed unable to focus. Then he looked straight at Emmy and said, “What are you doing here?”

  “Making sure that you keep quiet,” replied Emmy cheerfully.

  Henry had started to struggle into an upright position. Suddenly, his eyes grew wild and frightened. He clutched Emmy’s hand. “Emmy…it is you, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it’s me.”

  “Must tell…must tell Ingham…Governor…eighty-two… where’s Ingham? Where am I? What are you doing here? Get out…danger…eighty-two… ”

  “Everything’s all right, Henry,” said Emmy, soothingly. “It’s all over. You’re safe now.”

  “Don’t understand…must tell…Governor…eighty-two…Who’s that?” The last words were a scream of terror. Emmy looked up, surprised, to see that the door behind her had opened, and Nurse Quarles was coming in, followed by a young black woman whom Emmy did not know.

  “Here we are then, Mrs. Tibbett,” the nurse said, with professional calm and good cheer. “Come to relieve you and give Mr. Tibbett his medicine.”

  On the bed, Henry was writhing and moaning. “No…take her away…don’t let her in…must tell Governor… ”

  Nurse Quarles was preparing a hypodermic syringe. Ignoring Henry, she said in a low voice to Emmy, “Has this been going on for long?”

  “No…he’s only just woken. He seems very distressed.”

  “Perfectly natural.” The nurse was unemotional and businesslike. She turned to the bed. “Now, then, Mr. Tibbett. Just a small injection… ”

  Against Henry’s screamed protests, which pierced Emmy’s heart like a knife, Nurse Quarles took his arm, rolled back the pajama sleeve, made a quick swab with alcohol, and injected the syringe. Within seconds, there was silence again. Henry slept.

  “There.” The nurse straightened and regarded her patient with satisfaction. “He’ll get quite a few more hours of peaceful sleep with that. Mrs. Tibbett, this is Ilma Rogers.” She gestured to the young black woman, who smiled shyly. “Ilma will sit with Mr. Tibbett until five o’clock to give you a break. The doctor says you should have a good meal and a rest. I have my jeep here—I’ll drive you back to the Anchorage, if that’s what you would like.” Seeing Emmy about to protest, she added, “He won’t be conscious again for several hours. Ilma will call the Secretary if anything unusual happens.”

  “How will I get back here at five?” It was a foolish question, but the only one that occurred to Emmy.

  “No problem, dear.” Nurse Quarles spoke briskly, as if to a nervous child. “The Golf Club jeeps—some of them—are back in operation, and the Secretary has lent one to Mr. Colville, so the Anchorage has transport. Come along now.”

  Too tired to protest, Emmy allowed herself to be ushered outside and into the waiting jeep.

  The route from the Golf Club to the Anchorage Inn lay through the center of Priest Town, and Emmy was appalled to see the desolation. Plate-glass windows had been shattered, leaving gaping black holes, although the actual glass had been swept from the roadway; battered cars and twisted bicycles had been dragged off the main thoroughfares into unsightly roadside heaps; many of the flimsier buildings were roofless; and everywhere twisted girders, broken tiles, and splintered wood littered the little town. Driving along the quayside, Emmy could see that many of the moored boats had suffered damage, which was now in the process of being repaired as well as possible by the owners.

  It was by chance that, driving along the quay, Emmy happened to glance up toward Main Street. It was up this alley, she remembered, that Dr. Vanduren had hurried—was it only yesterday morning? It seemed an age away, in that unreal epoch Before the Hurricane. And…there he was. Coming out of the front door of one of the small houses flanking the narrow street.

  “Stop!” Emmy shouted.

  Well trained, Nurse Quarles stopped the jeep before asking why.

  “Thanks so much…just d
rop me here… ” Emmy was out of the jeep and up the side street before the nurse could open her mouth. When she did, it was to say, “Well!”, and then, philosophically, “Ah, well, she’s had a hard time, poor dear.”

  And the nurse, who had a West Indian’s placid acceptance of life as it comes, let in the clutch and drove home to her lunch. She had fulfilled the doctor’s orders to the letter. Meanwhile, what Mrs. Tibbett did was her own affair.

  The doctor had turned onto Main Street and appeared to be heading for a small café—the only one bold enough to reopen so soon after the hurricane. Stone-built, in the center of a row of houses, and with wooden shutters instead of glass windows, it had suffered little or no damage. Presumably the proprietor thought it worthwhile to open up, even in such a ghost town. The door was ajar, and a blackboard beside it announced, “Stewed chicken and rice, fungi, maubee. Business as usual.” A small boy in ragged trousers was sweeping the step with a broom larger than himself.

  Emmy caught up with the hurrying figure, then slowed her pace until she was walking alongside him. She said quietly, “Dr. Vanduren, I presume?”

  The doctor did a violent double take, a mixture of surprise and momentary fear. Then he looked at Emmy and said, “Who are you? I know you.”

  “I’m Mrs. Tibbett,” Emmy said. “My husband and I visited you in Florida a few days ago.”

  “‘You were on your way back to England.” Dr. Vanduren sounded accusing. Emmy noticed, with a little surprise, that both of them were talking in urgent undertones, even though Priest Town was virtually deserted.

  “No, we weren’t,” Emmy said. “And what are you doing down here in the British Seawards?”