Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  “Damned idiot,” said Vanduren harshly. Then, “Well, at least you’ve been honest enough to tell me. So the Inspector has checked and reported that I am not here. Is that it?”

  “Yes.

  “Right. You will tell him, when you get the chance, that you saw the suspected Vanduren again today. You spoke to him and at once realized that you had been mistaken, and that he is simply a total stranger bearing a superficial resemblance to Dr. Vanduren. Understood?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “If you give any hint to the authorities that you know I am here, I will make sure that your husband disappears—permanently, this time. Don’t think that being in hospital will protect him, Mrs. Tibbett. My masters have long arms, and I have only to hint that he is a potential threat—”

  Emmy said steadily, “I won’t give you away, Dr. Vanduren. By the way, what do your masters, as you call them, think about your sudden absence from Florida?”

  “That’s no problem. No new consignment is expected for a couple of weeks. I have left word, by my usual system of communication, that I have gone briefly to England to look after my sick wife. They have instructed me to behave normally, and that would be normal behavior. They know that Celia is being troublesome, and they undoubtedly think that I have gone to keep her quiet, by one means or another. They know very well I will be back. They know the stranglehold they have on me.”

  “Incidentally,” Emmy said, “the British police have traced your wife. They report her as being perfectly well and calm, and she has given them a photograph of Janet, which is being sent here. So they know that you lied to us in Miami.”

  “Ha!” said Vanduren. “Intelligent thing to do, going after Celia. Your husband’s idea, no doubt.”

  “Betsy Sprague’s, in fact,” Emmy said.

  “The first crack in the case.” Vanduren sounded thoughtful. “Somebody knew that your husband was a policeman, and that Celia had been traced. I daresay that was what decided them to take action against Mr. Tibbett. Who knew?”

  “Nobody,” said Emmy.

  “Don’t be silly, Mrs. Tibbett. Somebody knew.”

  “I mean—nobody who could possibly come under suspicion. Myself, Inspector Ingham, my friends the Colvilles, the Governor… ”

  Vanduren gave a sardonic grin. “Every man has his price if it’s large enough.”

  “So you say,” remarked Emmy coldly. Then, “So you’re going to stay at Harbour Prospect. When I can get to St. Mark’s, the first thing I have to do is report to the Governor.”

  “Why?”

  Thinking quickly, Emmy said, “He doesn’t even know yet that Henry has been found. Naturally, he’ll want to know all about it, and what Henry has been saying to me.”

  Vanduren nodded. “Good. You should also tell the Governor what you think has been the matter with your husband. Tell him that a doctor has explained the symptoms to you.”

  “What doctor? Doctor Vanduren?”

  “Mrs. Tibbett, I have already warned you—”

  “All right, all right. I was only joking. But seriously, surely there couldn’t be any harm in the Governor knowing you are here?”

  “Certainly there could. Who knows whom we can trust?”

  “Sir Alfred Pendleton is a career diplomat—”

  “Civil servants are badly paid and corruptible.”

  “And I’ve known Inspector Ingham ever since—”

  “That is immaterial. I am Leonard Venables of Seattle, and you can invent a fictitious doctor for your purposes. It is bad enough,” Vanduren added, with a dark sort of humor, “that you and I have to trust each other.”

  Emmy sighed. “Very well,” she said. “And meantime… ”

  “Meantime…you are staying at the Golf Club?”

  “Heavens, no. The Anchorage Inn.”

  “Well, spend as much time as you can with Mr. Tibbett. Make a careful note of his symptoms. Did you notice if the pupils of his eyes were dilated?”

  “No, they weren’t,” said Emmy promptly. “He had a funny sort of blank stare, but his pupils were O.K. Does that mean that he wasn’t drugged?”

  “Not at all. One of the many peculiarities of PCP is that the pupils remain normal or even smaller than usual. The blank stare is also typical. How was his voice?”

  “Slurred,” said Emmy. “He sounded a bit drunk.”

  Vanduren nodded. He said, “Get the doctor to check his respiratory rate and depth, pain and temperature sensitivity, and let me know the results.”

  “Where will you be?” Emmy asked. “Before you get to St. Mark’s, that is.”

  “Never mind where I am. I’ll keep in touch with you.”

  Dr. Vanduren did not say good-bye. He pushed back his chair, stood up, walked over to the counter, and paid the bill. Then he strode out the open door and into the empty street.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FOR A FEW SECONDS after the doctor had gone, Emmy sat quite still, marveling at the unnatural silence after the clamor of the hurricane. A dog barked somewhere, and there was the sound of spasmodic hammering; a man’s voice called out to a companion; but there was no background electrical hum, no mechanical music, no aircraft buzz, above all no traffic. Almost like Pompeii, the island had been severed in an instant from outside contacts. Consequently, the sound of a jeep engine on Main Street appeared loud and remarkable, and Emmy went to the door to see who it was.

  It was Margaret, at the wheel of a gold-painted Golf Club jeep. She saw Emmy, pulled to an abrupt stop, and jumped out.

  “There you are! Where on earth have you been? Nurse Quarles told us she’d dropped you off on the quayside—”

  Emmy said, “I…I was hungry. I saw the café open and decided to have a meal.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you come back to the Anchorage for lunch?” Margaret was incapable of hiding the fact that she was puzzled, worried, and rather cross.

  “Oh…I don’t know… I’m sorry… I’ll just get my jacket… ”

  Emmy went back to the table and picked up her oilskin jacket, which she had slung over the back of her chair. Margaret, following her, suddenly blurted out, “So you didn’t lunch alone?”

  There was no denying the two dirty plates, the two used glasses. Emmy, aware of being a hopeless liar, said, “No… actually, I…I met a friend, strangely enough.”

  “A friend?”

  “Oh, just a man we ran into in Washington. An American called Venables. He’s down here on holiday.”

  “In Washington?” Margaret echoed. “While you were staying with us? I don’t remember anybody in Washington called Venables.”

  “No,” said, Emmy hastily. “You didn’t know him. We met him at the Kennedy Center one evening. Quite a coincidence that he should be on the island.”

  Margaret looked at Emmy curiously, but all she said was yes. And then, “Well, now I’ve found you I’ll drive you back to the Anchorage.”

  The entrance to the Anchorage was still unusable. John, with a couple of helpers, was busy turning his crash-exit through the fence into a beaten track for vehicles and putting up a rough-and-ready barbed-wire gate to keep out marauding livestock.

  As Margaret and Emmy drove through, he barely looked up from his work. “Ah, you found her. Well done. How’s Henry?”

  Emmy opened her mouth to reply in some detail, but quickly realized that John was too busy to listen. So long as Henry was alive and under medical care, there were too many other things to worry about. She said, “He’s going to be fine.”

  “Good. No, don’t park the jeep, Margaret. I’m going to need more barbed wire. Can you get down Mango Bay Road?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then go and see if Harry has any. He’s the only person on the island who might be able to help. Tell him I’ll buy any he’s got, up to a whole roll. And on the way back… ”

  The Colvilles were deep in discussion. Margaret got into the jeep and drove off again, and John went back to work. Feeling deflated and desolate, Emmy went
up to her bedroom. The winds were now no more than Force 5 or 6—less than 30 miles an hour—and the rain had thinned to driving drizzle. Emmy lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. The hair-raising drive down the ravine to the beach, the shock of finding Henry’s limp body in Windflower’s cockpit, the enormous relief of realizing that he was still alive, the hopeless attempts to get the jeep back up the hill, the seemingly endless wait for the helicopter—all this had been at least stimulating, at least shared. Now she felt let down and very much alone.

  Grasping at rationality, she tried to sum up the situation. She had a husband, alive but suffering from a concussion, and still—or so it seemed—under the influence of a pernicious drug. Also under arrest, as soon as his medical condition improved, unless she could convince the Governor to change his mind. She had Dr. Vanduren, half-crazy with worry and guilt, at one and the same time promising help and threatening retribution. Hardly a reassuring ally. Thanks to him, she had already had to lie to Margaret, and she was unhappily aware that the latter’s suspicions had been quite properly aroused. Soon she would be telling more lies to Alfred Pendleton and Herbert Ingham. Unless, of course, she ignored Vanduren’s orders and simply told the Governor the truth. But then Henry…she had already seen what could be done to destroy Henry. She could not possibly take the risk.

  At a quarter to five, Margaret drove Emmy back to the Golf Club. The ride was silent and unhappy. Emmy longed to tell her friend the truth, but two reasons kept her dumb. Not only Henry’s safety, but also the fact that she did not want to burden the Colvilles with the responsibility of knowing too many facts. If she told anybody, she decided, it should be Sir Alfred himself.

  To Emmy’s surprise, the Secretary of the Golf Club was there in person to meet the jeep as it turned into the gateway by the security guard’s hut. He came up with a slightly sheepish smile.

  “Mrs. Tibbett? You’ve come to see your husband, I expect.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I’ve some good news for you.”

  “Good news?” Emmy glanced briefly at Margaret, but got no response. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that he’s no longer here.”

  “What?”

  “He’s in the hospital at St. Mark’s, where he can get all the best treatment.”

  Emmy felt stunned. “But how—?”

  “Our helicopter pilot decided he could make the journey, now that the weather has moderated,” the Secretary explained. “We couldn’t contact you, since all the phones are down, and it was a question of taking off right away to get back before dark.”

  Emmy was shaking. She climbed out of the jeep. “I think it’s monstrous,” she said. “You had no right to move him without consulting me. Why didn’t you send to the Anchorage for me? I could have gone with him.”

  The Secretary said unhappily, “I do appreciate your point of view, Mrs. Tibbett, but there wouldn’t have been room in the helicopter. The police officer—” He broke off, going very pink. “We don’t know how long this break in the weather will last, and the Governor was very insistent over the radio—”

  Emmy turned to Margaret. “Don’t you wait,” she said. “I know you’re terribly busy. I’ll stay here and talk to the Secretary and find my own way back.”

  Margaret hesitated. “If you’re sure… ”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well—all right then. Good luck.” With a sudden, warm smile that did Emmy’s heart good, Margaret put the jeep into gear, turned, and made off down the rutted road.

  Emmy faced the Secretary. He was new since her last visit to St. Matthew’s—a large, fair-haired Englishman with a small mustache and a diffident manner. She said, “Perhaps we could go to your office and talk?”

  “Oh, yes. Certainly. By all means. Just over here—we can walk.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” Emmy said, as they made their way across the damp lawn.

  “Whitely. Peter Whitely. I’ve been here just two months. In here, if you please. Now, do sit down. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Frankly, I’d love one,” Emmy said. “I need it.”

  “Of course. Very understandable.” Peter Whitely opened a cupboard to reveal a well-stocked bar. “Scotch? Rum? Martini?”

  “A Scotch and soda would be marvelous,” Emmy said.

  Whitely poured two drinks and brought them to the desk. “Your good health, Mrs. Tibbett. Now, what is it that I can explain to you?”

  “Everything,” Emmy said. “I don’t know where to begin. First of all, you said something about the Governor. You’ve been in touch with him?”

  “Yes, by VHF radio. Our Harbour Master has a set.”

  “Of course,” Emmy said. “Well, what did he say?”

  Whitely twirled his mustache awkwardly. “The fact is, Mrs. Tibbett, the Governor was anxious to get Mr. Tibbett over to St. Mark’s as soon as possible.”

  “I see. And with a police escort. So he wasn’t taken just for medical treatment.”

  “Well…er…no. Not entirely. The Governor wants to talk to Mr. Tibbett.”

  “That’s mutual,” said Emmy. “My husband wants to talk to the Governor.”

  “Well, that’s good,” said Peter Whitely, brightening.

  “So,” Emmy went on, “how can I get to St. Mark’s?”

  “Well, now, that will depend on the weather. If things still look good tomorrow—”

  “What do you mean—if?” Emmy asked. “The hurricane has passed us, for goodness sake. You don’t expect it to turn back, do you?”

  “Oh, haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Why, I thought everybody knew. Haven’t you been listening to your radio?”

  “Please,” said Emmy, “just tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “Tropical Storm Beatrice,” said Whitely. “A new disturbance getting organized out in the Atlantic. Following the same path as Alfred. She may hit us any time from tomorrow onwards, depending on her speed and direction. That’s why we felt we must take advantage of—”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” Emmy protested. “We couldn’t have two hurricanes within—”

  “I’m afraid we could, you know. When the weather conditions are just right, they come marching over one after the other, I fear. But I do promise you, Mrs. Tibbett, that if it’s humanly possible, we’ll get you to St. Mark’s by helicopter first thing in the morning. We’re planning to take all our members who are still here—if we can get them out of St. Mark’s by air before Beatrice arrives, so much the better.”

  Emmy said, “Can you get a message to the Governor for me?”

  “Yes, I think we can manage that. It has to go through the police station on St. Mark’s, of course.”

  “Then tell him,” Emmy said, “that I’ll be over in the morning if the helicopter flies, that I’ve important information, and that I must see him. Can you do that?”

  “Can do, Mrs. Tibbett. Can do.”

  “You’ve been very kind.” Emmy felt sorry for poor Mr. Whitely, the innocent messenger with bad news to deliver. He hadn’t done badly. “Now, can you get me back to the Anchorage?”

  “Well, Mrs. Tibbett—if I might make a suggestion—it might be better if you stayed here overnight. If the helicopter does fly in the morning, it’ll be pretty early—”

  “What about my things? And letting the Anchorage know?”

  “I could send someone down to the Anchorage to pack you a suitcase and bring it back here. No sense in going yourself. As a matter of fact, I’ve reserved Number forty-five for you—we’ve no lack of empty cottages, I fear. I’ll show you down there and send your suitcase along when it arrives. Then we hope you’ll enjoy dinner… ”

  So it had all been arranged, Emmy thought cynically. How the Governor imagined that she might disappear from an island virtually cut off by the hurricane, she had no idea, but Sir Alfred was playing it safe. She remembered the paramilitary security posts at the Golf Club gates and the
stout fence to keep out intruders. On their last visit to St. Matthew’s, she and Henry had joked about the fact that the Golf Club, one of the most expensive resorts on earth, was very much like a superluxurious maximum-security prison. Now, it seemed to be fulfilling that function in fact. She thanked Mr. Whitely and allowed herself to be conducted to her million-dollar cell.

  The next morning, the weather was ominously calm. Miami weather station reported that Beatrice had been upgraded to hurricane status, and that the Seawards, along with other islands, should maintain a hurricane watch. No immediate danger threatened, however. It would be late that night at the soonest before Beatrice struck land.

  The Golf Club was eager to disembarrass itself of its few remaining guests—all of whom were far too affluent and important for the Club to risk them suing for material or bodily damage due to negligence during the storm. The airport on St. Mark’s had been hastily cleared of debris and one runway declared open. The helicopter would fly a ferry service to it, so long as the weather held. The exodus was on.

  As it turned out, Emmy was not allocated to the first flight, which took members who had to make a connection for Los Angeles in San Juan. The second flight, however, left soon after nine o’clock, bearing Emmy and her suitcase as well as a Senator and his wife en route to Washington, D.C. The ferry service, the pilot explained, was strictly to and from the airport. There was no possibility of taking Emmy into the town of St. Mark’s Harbour, and she wondered how she was going to get there.

  She need not have worried. As she climbed out of the helicopter, a trim figure in blue uniform stepped forward. Woman Police Constable Pearletta Terry.

  “I have a jeep, Mrs. Tibbett. The Governor would like to see you right away.”

  During the drive back to Government House, conversation was kept to a minimum—and neutral topics at that. Pearletta told Emmy that St. Mark’s had been even luckier than St. Matthew’s. Very little damage—only a few roads blocked by flooding and fallen rocks and trees and a handful of broken windows. Electric power had already been restored.

  Emmy mentioned Hurricane Beatrice, and Pearletta agreed that they would be extremely fortunate to get off so lightly next time. However, the storm was still out at sea, and nobody could predict her exact course. Emmy asked whether boat traffic between the islands had been resumed, and Pearletta replied that as far as she knew, the Pride would be making her normal run that day.