Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  “What am I expected to remember, for heaven’s sake? At least give me a clue.”

  Emmy hesitated. “Well…your young friends. The Carstairs and the Blackstones. Do you remember anything about them?”

  Henry looked surprised. “Of course,” he said. “The Blackstones came on board in the marina. Jill and…what was his name?…oh, yes, Harvey. What about them?”

  “I think they were sailing with you,” Emmy said.

  “Sounds possible,” Henry said. “They were very keen on the boat, remember? What was the other name you said?”

  “Carstairs. You…we met them in the Buccaneer disco. Friends of the Blackstones. You said they might be sailing with you, too.”

  Henry shook his head, as if trying to free it from a swarm of bees. He said, “Somebody else. There was somebody else. Can’t remember… ”

  “Never mind,” said Emmy quickly. “You’ve done very well with the Blackstones.”

  “I’m trying my best,” Henry said. “Anything else?”

  “Well…what about the Henry Tibbett Private Investigation Bureau Ltd.?”

  “Oh, that. That was just a fantasy… I mean, I’ll have to retire one day, and I thought it would be a fun way of making a living. It was never more than… ” A cloud passed over his face. “I remember now…you had some bloody silly objection to it…you wouldn’t help me…you’re so damned unenterprising and discouraging and… ” Henry buried his face in his hands. Then he looked up, straight at Emmy, and said, “I think I am a little crazy, Emmy.”

  “No, you’re not.” Emmy was very firm. “You’ve had a bad experience, and you need to rest and not worry.” Tentatively, she added, “The bureau is a splendid idea for the future, but you’re not retired yet…are you?”

  “Retired? Of course not. What a fool idea. I’ve got another…oh, about ten years to go… ”

  Emmy smiled, bent forward, and kissed her husband. “That’s just wonderful,” she said.

  “Can’t see what’s so wonderful about it,” Henry said. “After all, it’s nothing new. Nothing’s changed.”

  “I know,” said Emmy, “that’s what’s wonderful.”

  At that moment a trim black nurse in a crackling, very short-skirted white uniform put her head around the screen. “Excuse me, Mrs. Tibbett,” she said with a dazzling smile. “I have to ask you to leave for a little while. The doctor wants to see Mr. Tibbett now.”

  “Of course. I’ll go and get some lunch. I’ll be back, darling,” Emmy added quickly to Henry, who was holding her hand in a vise-like grip.

  He relaxed and smiled. “O.K. See you soon.”

  Emmy said, “There’s no… ? I mean, you don’t have any message—”

  “Mrs. Tibbett, please… ” The nurse was as charming as ever, but a trace more authoritative.

  “—for the Governor or anybody?” said Emmy.

  Henry looked bewildered. “The Governor? Why on earth should I have a message for… ?”

  “Mrs. Tibbett, I really must ask you—”

  “All right, all right. I’ve gone.” Emmy disappeared around the screens and bumped straight into Dr. Harlow. “Hello, Doctor. I’m just off.”

  The doctor beamed. “How do you find the patient, Mrs. Tibbett?”

  “Fine, Doctor. Doing splendidly.”

  The old man was still conducting his dribbly monologue, the transistor still blared, and the children still slept as Emmy escaped from the antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital and into the sunshine of the street.

  Emmy took a taxi to the marina and was delighted to find that at least one of the public telephones produced a dial tone. Within seconds she heard Margaret’s voice.

  “Anchorage Inn. Can I help you?”

  “Margaret, it’s Emmy. I’m in St. Mark’s. Henry’s here, in hospital.”

  “Oh…hello, Emmy.” Margaret sounded embarrassed and quite unlike her usual self.

  Emmy said cheerfully, “All right, Margaret, I’ll explain my mysterious lunch guest in due course. For the moment, I can’t, so please don’t ask me. Now—did you manage to contact Betsy?”

  There was a little pause, and then, in a rush and a return to her normal voice, Margaret said, “Oh, Emmy, we’ve been so worried. Did the Governor—?”

  “Yes, he did, and of course you’ve been worried, and so have I. Now, we may not have much time, so tell me, and fast. Did you speak to Betsy?”

  “John did. She’s safely home.”

  “Thank God. But what happened?”

  “That’s the strange part. Apparently—nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Except that Betsy simply…lost a couple of days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, John says that at first she simply said she was glad to hear we were safe. Then he asked her about her late arrival home, and she said she didn’t know what he was talking about. You know Betsy—she’d never admit that she’s getting a bit senile and might have been confused. In the end—about a hundred and fifty dollars later, John thinks—she admitted that she’d had what she called a ‘funny spell.’ ”

  “What did she mean by that?”

  “It took a frightfully long time to get it out of her, but as far as John could make out, she remembered nothing from the moment she arrived on St. Mark’s on the Pride—that was on Thursday, of course—until she woke up in a bedroom in the Puerto Rico Airport Hotel. Her baggage was there, and her passport and airline ticket were laid neatly beside her bed. Her reservation had been changed to take her to London via New York on Sunday. By discreet inquiries at the desk, she discovered that it was Saturday morning, and that she had arrived the previous evening.”

  “Saturday! So she lost two whole days!”

  “Apparently,” said Margaret. “But she must have been functioning during those days because everything was in order. She’d changed her bookings to fly to New York on Saturday, stay overnight at one of the airport hotels, and travel on to England on Sunday.”

  “What about Miss Pelling and the cats?”

  “Betsy admitted that Miss Pelling had been somewhat put out and had taken the cats to a boarding cattery. But—well, you know Betsy. She didn’t intend to make a fool of herself. She imagined she had changed her plans and then for some reason forgotten about it—had a spell of amnesia. She pretended to Miss Pelling and everybody else that she had simply decided to come home on a later date by a different route, and the whole thing was forgotten in no time. If it hadn’t been for the hurricane… ”

  “So,” said Emmy, “we’ve all been made to look like fools, or worse. Especially Henry.”

  “How is Henry?”

  “Better, thanks,” said Emmy briefly. “What’s the latest weather bulletin?”

  “Beatrice is headed this way, I’m afraid. Should pass us tonight. Where are you staying, Emmy?”

  “I…I don’t know yet. Yes, I do. I’ll get a room at the Harbour Prospect until my cash runs out.”

  “Now look, John and I can always help—”

  “Yes, and you may have to,” said Emmy. “I’ll keep in touch if I can. If I can’t, it’ll be because of the hurricane, and nobody will be presenting bills or cashing checks. Now, Margaret, will you do something for me before the telephone goes off again, as it’s bound to.”

  “Of course. What?”

  “Call Scotland Yard. Talk to Inspector Reynolds—you remember Derek? Tell him to get hold of Betsy and put her through a wringer to get anything she can remember—with the aid of a good doctor. Tell him you suspect Betsy may have been drugged with PCP. That’s right. P like Peter, C like Charlie, P like… ” Emmy glanced up and over her shoulder. She had a sudden and irrational feeling that her conversation was being overheard, but there was nobody in sight except Anderson, the Harbour Master, chatting to an obviously worried young American about the coming hurricane. Emmy went on. “Tell Derek that Henry is going to be fine. Tell him that Betsy may be in danger if anybody suspects that she’s…oh, damn. Tell him
not to trust anybody. I mean anybody. This is serious, Margaret. O.K.?”

  “O.K.,” said Margaret, a little dubiously. “But Emmy—” There was a click and Margaret realized that she was talking to herself. Emmy had hung up.

  Emmy stepped out of the phone booth and almost into the arms of Inspector Ingham. She smiled brightly. “Hello, Inspector Ingham. Lovely afternoon. Calm between two storms, I suppose.”

  “Mrs. Tibbett… I was looking for you…”

  “I’m just going over to the restaurant for lunch,” said Emmy. “Will you join me?”

  “No…that is, no, thank you. I’ve already eaten. Mrs. Tibbett, the Governor would like—”

  Striding briskly toward the restaurant, Emmy said, “I’ve already seen the Governor, Inspector Ingham.”

  “Yes, but…there’s been some further development…”

  “Just for one, please,” said Emmy brightly to the waitress who stepped up to greet her. “One for lunch, that is. My friend may take a drink. Yes, this will do nicely. Bring me a glass of white wine as an aperitif, please. Do sit down, Inspector. Wine for you, or beer?”

  “Beer,” muttered Ingham, sinking into the chair opposite Emmy’s. “Now, Mrs. Tibbett—”

  “Henry is much better, I’m delighted to say.” Emmy went on relentlessly, wondering how long she could keep it up. “And I’m sure you’ve heard that Miss Sprague is home safe and sound after all. Mr. Colville has spoken to her, and it was all a silly misunderstanding, so—”

  Forcefully, Ingham said, “What happened right here, in this restaurant, last Sunday was not a misunderstanding, Mrs. Tibbett. I’m glad that your husband is feeling better, but it doesn’t change the fact—”

  “He quite often gets these little attacks,” said Emmy blandly. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “That,” said Ingham, “remains to be seen. Meanwhile, the Governor wants you to know that we’ve got a line on your husband’s confederates.”

  “Oh.” Emmy was jolted out of her playacting. “Really? What?”

  “You seem interested.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Well…the couple called Carstairs have been in touch with us. They are in St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands, and they propose to lodge a complaint.”

  “A complaint? Against whom?”

  “Against your husband and the people known as Blackstone, who were also aboard Windflower. According to the Carstairs, Mr. Tibbett and the Blackstones virtually kidnapped them.”

  “What an extraordinary story,” said Emmy. And then, to the waitress who arrived with drinks, “Thank you. I’ll have a rare steak, chips, and salad, please. And a glass of red wine with it. Another beer, Inspector? No?” The waitress departed, and Emmy went on. “Extraordinary. You checked up on these Carstairs people, of course?”

  “Of course,” replied Ingham stiffly. He took a drink of beer. “Katherine and Lewis Carstairs from Virginia. They arrived in their boat, the Katie-Lou, from St. Thomas a week ago. Checked in through Customs and Immigration, everything perfectly in order. Then they took the boat to a local yard for some small repairs and booked themselves a room here at the marina for a couple of days until their boat should be ready. Apparently that was when they met the Blackstones, and later your husband. It was proposed that the five of them should take a short cruise on the Windflower. That was when the fun began.”

  “The fun?”

  ‘“I was speaking figuratively. Far from fun, in fact. To condense matters, they accuse both Mr. Tibbett and the Blackstones of being under the influence of drugs or alcohol or both during the entire cruise. The incident here on Sunday was the last straw. The Carstairs demanded to leave the Windflower, but they say that the others manhandled them back on board. Later, after the dinghy race episode, things got so bad that nobody was speaking to anybody else. The next morning, they woke up to find themselves off the coast of St. Thomas. The Blackstones, they say, ordered them to pack their things, then simply put them into the dinghy and told them to row ashore. Windflower then set sail and disappeared, heading east. It was that afternoon, you may remember, that we intercepted the Anemone to Starfish message.”

  Emmy said, “And that evening the hurricane hit. So the Carstairs have only just been able to get through here. They telephoned the Governor, did they?”

  “No, Mrs. Tibbett. They telephoned me with a formal complaint.”

  “Well,” said Emmy, “I really can’t see what they have to go to the law about—especially as I presume the Blackstones have disappeared.”

  “Right.”

  “Have you made inquiries about them?”

  Inspector Ingham looked exasperated. “How can we? They landed illegally in the Seawards. We have nothing on them—no passport numbers, addresses—nothing.”

  “I can tell you a bit about them,” Emmy said. She wrinkled her brow, remembering. “Harvey Blackstone is the son of a lawyer, practicing in Baltimore. Jill comes from the same city.”

  “How do you know this?” Ingham was suspicious.

  “They told us, the first time they came aboard, before…all the trouble.”

  “If they told you, Mrs. Tibbett, then I imagine the information will not be of much value. As far as I am concerned, they are a couple of hippies, if not worse.”

  “You could check it out, all the same,” said Emmy. “And you might ask Mr. Anderson.”

  “Anderson?”

  “Yes, the Harbour Master. They told us that they had come here intending to camp, but that young Sebastian Anderson had invited them to stay at his home.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before, Mrs. Tibbett?”

  “I…you didn’t ask. I didn’t think the Blackstones were important.”

  Ingham drained his beer and stood up. “I will check,” he said, “if I get the chance, with this new hurricane developing. But I think it will be useless. We may indeed trace some Blackstones in Baltimore, but you can be sure they will not be the same people as the two young criminals on board Windflower. As for Anderson, I will ask him, of course, but his son is not…well, never mind. I will ask him. Meanwhile, Mrs. Tibbett, you are staying on the island?”

  “Of course. I’m taking a room at the Harbour Prospect.”

  “Good. It would be better if you did not leave the Seawards just now.”

  “I understand that I am not allowed to leave the Seawards, Inspector. “

  “Well…I suppose that’s one way of putting it… ”

  “It’s the only way of putting it, Inspector Ingham,” said Emmy. “Don’t let me keep you. I see my lunch is arriving.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AS SOON AS she had finished lunch, Emmy went back to the telephone and called the Harbour Prospect Hotel. Not surprisingly, they had plenty of rooms vacant and agreed to reserve one for her. Then she asked if Mr. Leonard Venables was in the hotel. His room number was called without success, whereupon the switchboard operator promised to have Mr. Venables paged. Sure enough, within a few minutes Emmy was talking to Dr. Vanduren.

  “Mr. Venables? This is Emmy Tibbett.”

  “Ah. Glad to hear from you. Where are you?”

  “St. Mark’s marina, at the moment. I’m on my way to the Harbour Prospect. I shall be staying there for a few days.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll be checking in very soon,” said Emmy. “Perhaps we could meet for a cup of coffee in about half an hour.”

  “I’d be delighted. You’ll find me on the terrace.”

  The required deposit on Emmy’s room at the Harbour Prospect left her with fifty dollars in traveler’s checks and twenty-one dollars in cash. In normal circumstances—since the room, without service or meals, cost thirty-five dollars a day—Emmy would have been reduced to nervous hysteria by this state of events. As it was, however, she found herself feeling perfectly calm. She had enough to worry about, she felt, without concerning herself over mere cash. She established herself with her one suitcase in the pretty room that overlooked the harb
or and then took the elevator down to the restaurant and went out onto the terrace, where the few remaining guests of the Harbour Prospect were having their coffee.

  Dr. Vanduren was sitting alone at a remote table, and he welcomed Emmy warmly.

  “Delighted to see you, Mrs. Tibbett. So you had your interview with the Governor. What have you to tell me?”

  Emmy related her talk with Sir Alfred Pendleton, his subsequent exposure of her lie about Dr. Duncan of Tampica, and finally the news that Henry had been transferred to St. Mark’s General Hospital, and Dr. Harlow’s view that it was probably too late for definitive testing for PCP.

  Dr. Vanduren listened in silence and then said, “Well, we can’t win’em all, can we?”

  “No,” Emmy agreed, but added, “Still we don’t have to lose the lot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “First, I’m in an impossible position so long as you won’t let me tell anybody you’re here and that I’m in touch with you.”

  “I can’t help that. My instructions remain the same. What else?”

  “Well…I told you just now…Dr. Harlow says that any tests taken now may well reveal nothing, even though PCP intoxication had taken place.”

  “That’s true,” Vanduren agreed. “Still, with the behavior that your husband is exhibiting—”

  “He’s not,” said Emmy.

  “He’s not?”

  “I saw him before lunch. He was perfectly normal. His speech is just as usual. The only thing that’s wrong is a memory blackout, which is apparently to be expected after a concussion.”

  “But earlier, at the Golf Club—?”

  “When I first saw him, just after he regained consciousness,” Emmy said, “he was very much under the influence of…something. He was desperately trying to convey some message to the Governor. Now, he doesn’t remember a thing about it.”

  “Did he give any hint of the message?”