Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  “Tomorrow—who knows?” she added. After that, the two women rode in silence into St. Mark’s Harbour.

  The Governor was waiting for Emmy. One of the drawing-room windows had been blown out and was blocked with a sheet of plywood, making the room dim and gloomy, despite the fact that the electric light was burning. Sir Alfred appeared reasonably dim and gloomy himself. He greeted Emmy briefly and then said, “You must be very relieved that your husband is alive, Mrs. Tibbett.”

  “Of course I am. But—”

  “You have seen and spoken to him, Mrs. Tibbett. You must be aware that his mental state is—”

  Emmy interrupted. “Sir Alfred, please listen to me. I think I know what has been wrong with my husband.”

  “A mental breakdown,” said Sir Alfred dryly. “That would be the most convenient, wouldn’t it?”

  “No,” said Emmy. She experienced a spurt of anger, which did her good. “You must listen. I’ve been talking to a doctor friend of mine who has wide experience with hallucinatory drugs, and he thinks that Henry has been under the influence of something called PCP. I can’t remember the chemical name—it’s one of those words that goes on forever. Anyhow, this is a very dangerous drug and a personality changer, and the symptoms seem to fit.”

  The Governor looked at her—a hard stare which she did not find reassuring. He said, “Who is this doctor friend, Mrs. Tibbett? Somebody on the island?”

  Emmy had prepared herself for that one. “No,” she said. “His name is Duncan. He used to be Chief Medical Officer of Tampica. Henry and I met him in Washington on the Ironmonger case.” She hoped that her venerable friend Doc Duncan would forgive her for thus taking his name in vain. She also felt sure that he was not an expert on hallucinatory drugs, but it was the best she could think of on the spur of the moment.

  Sir Alfred said slowly, “I’ve heard of Dr. Duncan. He’s well known in this part of the world.” Then, “How did you manage to contact him? The phones have been out of service.”

  Emmy said, “I spoke to him just before the hurricane, sir. I was about to mention it to you on the phone when we were cut off.” She found, somewhat to her alarm, that lying became easier with practice.

  “Well,” said Sir Alfred, “we’ll have to check this out. I’ll mention it to Dr. Harlow at the hospital. He may be able to do some tests. It would certainly explain—quite a lot. On the other hand, you must admit that it is only a theory. There are other possible explanations for your husband’s extraordinary behavior.”

  “I can’t think of any.”

  “Can’t you?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “I am wondering,” said Sir Alfred, “whether this whole business may not have been in the nature of a diversion.”

  “You mean, you still think Henry is in the pay of the Mafia—?”

  The Governor looked at Emmy in mild surprise. “The Mafia?” he repeated. “That’s the first time I’ve heard anybody mention the Mafia in connection with this case. Have you any reason for thinking they may be involved?”

  Mentally, Emmy cursed Dr. Vanduren. She said, “No special reason, Sir Alfred. Just that when one hears of big sums of money and drugs and murders—well, one assumes that organized crime is in there somewhere.”

  “Yes,” said Sir Alfred slowly. “Murders. That was how Chief Superintendent Tibbett came to be involved at all, wasn’t it? Investigating the disappearance and presumed murder of Miss Elizabeth Sprague.”

  “And the Rosses and maybe the crew of the Isabella—”

  “Those two boats were lost at sea, Mrs. Tibbett. As I recall, nobody mentioned murder until your husband turned up with this story about Miss Sprague.”

  Emmy said, “Henry didn’t turn up with any story. Betsy Sprague disappeared. John and Margaret Colville—”

  “Yes. The Colvilles.” Sir Alfred sighed gently and took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Mrs. Tibbett, I think the time has come to be quite frank with you. I hope that you’ll return the compliment and be frank with me for a change.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “I must tell you that telephone service on both islands was reconnected earlier this morning. One of the first calls I received was from your friend Mr. Colville. He had just had a telegram from England, phoned through from the cable and wireless station. Shall I read it to you?”

  “Please do,” said Emmy.

  Sir Alfred consulted the paper in his hand. He read: “VERY WORRIED NEWS HURRICANE ALFRED HOPE YOU SAFE AND WELL PLEASE RING OR CABLE REASSURANCE LOVE BETSY.”

  “What?” Emmy drew her breath in a sharp gasp.

  Sir Alfred continued. “This was handed in at Little Fareham, Hampshire, yesterday afternoon, English time. Your friend Miss Sprague is obviously at home, safe and sound, and has been for some time.”

  “I…I simply don’t understand it.”

  Ignoring her, Sir Alfred went on. “Had it not been for the hurricane, nothing would have been heard from the lady for several weeks, even if she wrote as soon as she arrived home. You know how long the mails take. I mentioned the word diversion. Perhaps I should have said hoax.” There was a pause. “I don’t appreciate having my leg pulled, Mrs. Tibbett, even by so distinguished a practical joker as your husband.”

  “Does Henry know about Betsy?” Emmy demanded.

  “Not yet. He is barely coherent. Apparently.”

  “You think he’s shamming? Just pretending to be crazy?”

  “That’s for the doctors to decide, Mrs. Tibbett. We will check on this mysterious drug of yours. It’s possible that he is or has been under its influence. It would give a certain credibility—to his incredibility.”

  “Are you saying he may have taken it deliberately?”

  Sir Alfred sighed again. “My dear Mrs. Tibbett, I don’t know. Nor do I know why Miss Sprague did not catch her original flight to Antigua—nor, indeed, by what route she left the island and returned home. We are doing our best to check on things while we still have communication with the outside world. By tomorrow, we are likely to be cut off again, possibly for a longer period.” Impatiently, he added, “I have more important things to worry about. Just admit that this has been an elaborate deception.”

  Emmy said, “I can’t admit what I don’t know. I must see Henry. Then I’ll talk to you again, Sir Alfred.”

  After a pause, the Governor said, “Very well.”

  Emmy said, “Is Henry under arrest?”

  “My police force is very small,” said Sir Alfred icily. “In the present emergency they have more pressing duties than guarding a demented prankster in hospital. Your husband is not to leave the island—not that he could do so, for by the time the doctors allow him to leave the hospital, we will certainly be without communications again.” Pendleton cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tibbett. I’m afraid my patience is wearing thin. Very possibly all this has nothing to do with you. Just wait here, please, and I will arrange transport to the hospital for you.”

  Alone in the big, dark drawing room, Emmy found her mind racing, trying to adjust to the new realities. Of course, it was wonderful news about Betsy—if Betsy had really sent that telegram. Surely John would have telephoned her by now. Must check with the Anchorage right away. If Betsy was home, how had she arrived there? Would Dr. Vanduren be able to get to St. Mark’s before the second storm arrived? Where were the Carstairs and the Blackstones who had been on Windflower with Henry? So many questions, so few answers.

  Emmy walked to an unbroken window and stood looking out over the churning water of the channel—gray and steely now, no longer a deep, translucent blue. She was lost in thought and did not hear the door opening, so Sir Alfred’s voice made her jump.

  “Mrs. Tibbett.”

  “Yes. I’m ready.”

  “Just one moment. I have spoken to Dr. Duncan in Tampica.”

  “Oh,” said Emmy.

  “He confirms,” said the Governor, “that he met you and the Chief Superintendent in Washi
ngton during the Ironmonger case. However, he says that he has not been in touch with you since. He is not an authority on hallucinatory drugs, and he has never discussed them with you. If you did, in fact, get this information, it was not from him. Well, Mrs. Tibbett?”

  Emmy said, “All right. It wasn’t Dr. Duncan. That’s the only thing I lied to you about, Sir Alfred. I can’t tell you who it was—not for the moment.”

  “I have also spoken again with Mrs. Colville. She tells me that you met and lunched with some strange man in Priest Town yesterday. She says that when she asked you about him, you came up with a palpably false story. She and her husband are both extremely disturbed, Mrs. Tibbett. They regard themselves as your friends, and they trusted you implicitly. This is why they said nothing about your mysterious friend, until I told them about your deception concerning Dr. Duncan.”

  Feeling desperate, Emmy said, “I will explain, Sir Alfred. I really will, as soon as I’ve seen Henry. I beg you to believe that this isn’t a hoax. Something very serious is going on.”

  The Governor gave her a long look. But all he said was “There is a jeep and driver waiting to take you to the hospital. I shall expect to hear from you.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FROM THE OUTSIDE, St. Mark’s General Hospital was an attractive Victorian building standing in several acres of coconut-palm groves a mile outside the town of St. Mark’s Harbour. It had been painted white so that its turrets and curlicues and other follies made a pleasantly frivolous pattern against the blue of the tropical sky.

  Inside, however, two things were immediately obvious. The first was that Florence Nightingale’s enlightened ideas on hospital building had had as little effect here as in the gloomy confines of Netley Military Hospital in England. In vain had Miss Nightingale fought to have Netley built as a series of small pavilions, with plenty of fresh air and privacy for the patients. The Establishment had won that battle, constructing huge, infection-prone wards that were mistakenly thought to be easier to administer. Here, in this far-flung outpost of Empire, similar bureaucratic characters had done their best to emulate British stupidity: fortunately, the smallness of the whole complex had perforce steered them away from hundred-bed wards, but they had done what they could to make the place uncomfortable.

  The second obvious fact was the lack of funds available to the hospital. It was clean—but that was about all. The inevitable green and cream paint was peeling from the walls, a lot of the furniture was broken, wash basins were cracked, and curtains were ragged. Hurricane Alfred had not helped matters by breaking several windows and causing a small flood in the main foyer. With a sinking heart, Emmy approached the dingy cubicle marked RECEPTION, introduced herself, and asked if she might see Henry.

  At once, a third and much more promising fact emerged. The premises of St. Mark’s General might not be grand or even efficient, but the staff was exceptional. The lovely young black woman behind the desk gave Emmy a sweet smile and said, “Of course, Mrs. Tibbett.”

  “I wasn’t sure about visiting hours—” Emmy began.

  “Why, you must be anxious to see your husband. You can come at any time—remember that. We’re always pleased to see you.”

  At that moment, a tubby man in a white coat hurried by, and the receptionist hailed him. “Oh, Dr. Harlow—”

  “Yes, Sandraleen? What is it?”

  “This is Mrs. Tibbett, Doctor. I wondered if—”

  “Ah, Mrs. Tibbett.” The little Englishman took off his glasses and beamed at Emmy. “I’m just on my way to your husband’s floor now. I’ll show you up.”

  Climbing the worn stone staircase, Emmy said tentatively, “Did Sir Alfred Pendleton—?”

  “I’ve just had him on the telephone. He tells me you think your husband might have ingested phencyclidine.”

  “It was suggested to me as an idea,” Emmy said. “What do you think?”

  “An interesting theory,” said the doctor. “Yes, it would account for a great deal.”

  “You’re familiar with it, are you?” Emmy said. “This frightful stuff called PCP.”

  The doctor shrugged. “I’m afraid so,” he said shortly. “Had a couple of bad cases recently—young people, of course. And there are more who never come for treatment—frightened we’ll find out about their drug habits. Most of them buy it as a cheap substitute for LSD, you see. They seldom get to a hospital unless they’ve actually gone into a coma, and friends or family get so scared that they bring them in.”

  “What I mean,” Emmy said, “is that you can make tests and find out one way or the other.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I doubt it, Mrs. Tibbett.”

  “But surely—”

  “Unless your husband got himself a fresh fix at the Golf Club,” Dr. Harlow remarked, “he can’t have had a dose of phencyclidine since—well, since a considerable time before he was rescued off that boat. That was yesterday morning, I understand.”

  “Yes. About half-past eight.”

  “Then by now blood and urine tests might well be negative.”

  “Oh,” said Emmy. And then, “Well, anyway, that would mean that he’s completely over the effects.”

  The doctor stopped walking and took Emmy’s arm. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Tibbett. There’s a recorded case of a patient going into a coma and finally dying five days after the last ingestion. The postmortem showed no trace of the drug. However, in that case, the patient was already in hospital being treated for a phencyclidine overdose, which was diagnosed when he was admitted. Otherwise, the cause of death would have been a complete mystery. In fact, it’s believed that far more deaths occur from PCP overdose than anybody realizes. The use—or rather abuse—of the drug has been going up significantly.”

  Emmy said, “We’re lucky to have an expert on such an abstruse subject, Dr. Harlow.”

  The doctor looked at her with sharp suspicion for a moment. But all he said was yes. He put his hand to a door handle. “Here we are.”

  “How is he?” Emmy felt guilty that she had not asked this question much sooner.

  “When I saw him last, he was asleep.” Harlow’s voice was quite without expression. “Before that, he appeared drowsy and incoherent, as I would expect after a concussion and sedation.” A little pause. “It certainly wouldn’t have occurred to me to test him for a drug overdose. Now, of course, we’ll do what we can. But don’t be disappointed if the results don’t prove anything, one way or the other. Well… ” The doctor turned the handle and pushed the door open. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Tibbett.” He hurried off down the drab corridor.

  Henry had been put into one of the smaller wards of the General Hospital. There were no such things as private rooms, but while the principal medical and surgical wards held thirty beds apiece, this smaller unit catered to a mere eight patients.

  Three of the cots contained children—small, bandaged figures, all apparently asleep, with just a dusky hand or a few black curls visible against the grayish white of the much-laundered sheets. Emmy wondered if they were casualties of Hurricane Alfred. Of the other beds, two showed humped forms of adult men, also hidden by sheets and apparently unconscious. In another bed, a young black man sat propped up by pillows, reading a comic magazine, while on his nightstand a transistor radio thrummed out a reggae beat. This did not seem to disturb the other patients in the least. The seventh bed was not strictly speaking occupied—that is to say, a very old black man with grizzled white hair and minimal teeth was sitting on the edge of it. He wore blue-and-white-striped pajamas, leaned on a stick, and was conducting a rambling conversation with some invisible companion. The eighth bed was surrounded by rickety chintz screens, and Emmy made her way between them.

  Henry was lying on his left side, as he always did when sleeping. Apart from the green silk pajamas (which actually belonged to Peter Whitely of the Golf Club), he looked absolutely normal—precisely, in fact, as he looked every morning in his old Chelsea bedroom when Emmy came to wake him with his early cup of
tea; and, as every morning, he woke at her entry. He stirred, opened his eyes, smiled at her, and said, “Hello, darling. Morning already?”

  Emmy smiled back. “Lunchtime, actually,” she said. There was a wooden chair with a broken back standing by the wall. Emmy pulled it up to the bedside and sat down. “How do you feel?”

  “Feel?” Henry blinked. “I feel fine. I… ” He put up his hand to rub his eyes and caught sight of the green silk pajama sleeve. For a moment he looked at it in disbelief, then from it to the bed, the screens, and finally Emmy. He said, “Where the hell am I? What’s happened?”

  “You’re in hospital, Henry. You had an accident.”

  “An accident?”

  “On a boat. You remember Windflower?”

  “Of course. We were cruising…down island… ” He passed a hand over his forehead. “Something about…something about bad weather from the east…what happened, for God’s sake?”

  Gently, Emmy said, “There was a bad storm, darling. The boat was wrecked and washed ashore. Luckily, John and I found you.” Henry had struggled into a sitting position. He said, “What do you mean, you found me? You must have been on board.”

  “No, Henry, I wasn’t with you.”

  “You weren’t? Why not?”

  “Well…you decided to go off cruising with your friends, so I went back to the Anchorage…don’t you remember?”

  “Wait a minute.” Henry lay down again and closed his eyes. He seemed to be concentrating fiercely. At last he said, “Have I had a concussion or something?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s what the doctor said.”

  “Well, you must think me an almighty idiot, but really I can’t remember much. You say I went off without you? I must have been crazy.”

  “No,” Emmy said, with a vehemence that surprised even her. “No, not crazy, Henry.” She took his hand, and he grasped it as if it had been a life belt. “Now, you’re just to relax and not worry, but as and when you do remember anything, you must tell me. It’s…it’s quite important.”