And there had been, of course, lots of onlookers. These had in theory been kept back by ropes which had marked the stadium off from encroachment; in theory, because in practice they had just stepped over the rope and pressed forward to satisfy their curiosity. The police had been too few, the technical staff too busy to stop them.
And, of course, they had trespassed on the workspace. And it would have been possible to tamper with the balloons. When the balloons were launched, an effort had been made to clear the space and the Inspector claimed that it had succeeded. At the moment of launch the space around the balloon had been clear. That was why he felt certain that any last-minute interference must have been carried out by somebody from the balloon crews.
Some of the people now watching the racing might well have been present on the day of launching. That was why he was going round talking to everyone. People had their favourite spots, he said. Like the bands, they were territorial. And someone might have seen something.
Seymour found a steward who had been present at the launching of the balloons and asked him to describe what had happened.
It had been on a Saturday, the man said, so that as many people as possible could see it and so that the stadium would be clear for races the following day. They would have had the whole of the Sunday morning to dismantle the balloons and pack them away. Of course, while they were doing that they would not have been able to go to church but the organizers had assured everyone that the balloonists would have been able to attend early Mass if they wished to. In any case - carried away - was not the experience of ascent itself akin to a religious experience? A moment of uplift? The Church did not think so. Seymour saw, however, how the Church was a continual point of reference in Malta, even for those who were not themselves devout.
But so, for many, was the racing at Marsa. It was a great social occasion. Many people brought picnics and towards the end of the racing spread out over the grass.
He had joined up with Chantale and was about to leave when Sophia came running up. Surely they were not going to leave without joining in the family picnic? This, too, was a considerable occasion. About twenty or thirty people had gathered and were laying tablecloths on the grass, and in the middle of them Mrs Ferreira was beckoning vigorously.
Not to be refused. Especially when the dishes started to be distributed on the cloths. ‘Fenek.’ said Sophia, ‘and torta tal lampuki.’ Lampuki were fish and the torta was when they were made into a pie covered with spinach and cauliflower and olives. But the rest, she assured him, was fenek in its various forms, fried, casseroled or roasted with chips. Fenek was rabbit, very popular in Malta. He hadn’t seen many wild rabbits, and perhaps that was why.
‘A regular fenkata,’ said one of the relatives, grinning, seeing him looking at the dishes.
A fenkata was, apparently, a rabbit occasion, when rabbit, in various forms, was the chief dish. It was a popular evening out.
And also, of course, there were the usual piles of sweet cakes and biscuits, some of which he had already met: the aniseed-flavoured mquaret, the ricotta-filled kannoli, like huge cigars, the treacly quaghaq, the kzuarezimal, honey-and-almonds, and various almondy cakes. As he had previously spotted, the Maltese were very keen on almonds.
The names, which interested him, he did not know at all. On the other hand, the names of the beers - Hopleaf Pole, Farson’s Shandy, and Blue Label - were always comprehensible although not always familiar.
For the most part the group was talking in English although here and there he could hear Malti. Chantale picked out the Malti, too, mostly because she was conscious of the Arabic in it. It wasn’t just a question of incidental words. Some of the most basic were Arabic: la for instance, no, although the Maltese pronounced it ‘le’, iva, yes, pronounced ‘eeva’, inta, you, usually, though, without the ‘a’ on the end, ‘int’.
Mrs Ferreira brought them into a circle which included her parents. Both had worked at the hospital, her father briefly before joining the Navy and going to sea, as a porter, her mother as an assistant in the dispensary. It seemed that most of the family had worked at the hospital at some time. Quite a few others had worked for the Navy in some capacity or other, as stewards, as nursing assistants, or as seamen, often down below in the engine room. There was quite a naval confraternity, apparent in the frequent casual references to ships and conditions on board.
At some point a little group of musicians turned up, bandsmen with their instruments. They put their instruments down in the grass and joined the groups around the tablecloths. Apparently they were members of the family, too, and had been playing until the bands dispersed.
One of them came and sat next to Chantale. He was introduced as Uncle Paolo.
‘But we’ve already met!’ said Chantale.
It was the man who had brought the knife victim.
‘Luigi,’ explained Paolo, as if they all knew him.
‘How is he?’ asked Chantale.
‘All right; but I sent him home. I told Marta to see that he lay down for a bit,’ he said to the others around him.
‘Not badly hurt, I hope?’ said Mrs Ferreira.
‘Badly enough,’ said Paolo. ‘It’s come to something when bandsmen get knifed.’
‘They’re an easy target,’ said someone.
‘Yes, but that’s why they shouldn’t be attacked,’ said Paolo. ‘They’re playing for everybody. They’re sort of neutral.’
‘I don’t know what things are coming to,’ said Mrs Ferreira’s mother, shaking her head.
‘But Madame, here, patched him up,’ said Paolo, turning to Chantale. ‘For which we are very grateful.’
There was a little murmur of acknowledgement around the tablecloth.
‘But what a thing!’ said Mrs Ferreira. ‘She comes to Malta to see how the St John does its work, and what do we show her? Someone being stabbed! What must she think?’
‘It happens, Madame,’ said Chantale. ‘I know from Tangier.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Paolo, ‘you come from Tangier.’
‘Tangier is one thing,’ said Mrs Ferreira’s father, ‘Valletta is another.’ He raised a glass to Seymour. ‘Valletta is like the beer: English.’
‘Even in London there are stabbings,’ said Seymour.
‘I have never been to London,’ said Paolo.
‘But you have been everywhere else,’ said Mrs Ferreira.
‘Only in the Mediterranean,’ said Paolo. ‘I work the liners,’ he explained to Seymour.
‘Now,’ said Mrs Ferreira’s father.
‘I’ve changed around a bit.’
‘He was in the Navy,’ said Mrs Ferreira proudly.
‘Once,’ said her father.
‘And now I work the liners,’ said Paolo easily. ‘More pay.’
‘Seasonal,’ said Mrs Ferreira’s father dismissively.
‘Sometimes I am between ships.’
‘As now.’
‘Fortunately,’ said Mrs Ferreira. ‘For then he comes to see us.’
Her father snorted. Evidently he did not altogether approve of Paolo.
There was an awkward pause.
‘You speak Arabic excellently.’ said Chantale. ‘May I ask how that comes about? Not by touching in briefly at Tangier, surely!’
‘Ah, well - ’
‘It came about like this - ’ began Mrs Ferreira.
‘Oh, no!’ cried Sophia. ‘She’s going to give us the family history now!’
‘My sister - ’ continued Mrs Ferreira determinedly.
‘This could take a long time.’ muttered Sophia.
‘ - Debra,’ said Mrs Ferreira’s mother.
‘Debra.’ continued Mrs Ferreira,’ married a Libyan - ’
‘ - and went to Tripoli,’ said her mother.
‘A big mistake,’ said her father.
‘ - which she soon realized.’ said Mrs Ferreira, ‘and came back home.’
‘ - with her son - ’
‘Me.’ said Paolo.
‘ - and then she married Uncle Piero.’
‘Me,’ said a man at the next tablecloth.
‘Don’t think you’re going to get off lightly,’ said Sophia. ‘You’re just at the beginning. Our family’s a big one.’
‘Sadly,’ said Uncle Piero, ‘Debra died, having her second baby - ’
‘- third.’ said Mrs Ferreira’s mother.
‘Don’t forget me!’ said Paolo.
‘We didn’t know what to do.’ said Piero.
‘Well, you didn’t - ’ said Mrs Ferreira.
‘Well, Christ, a newborn baby
‘Me!’ called a voice from another tablecloth.
‘So I took her over.’ said Mrs Ferreira.
‘- but you already had Nico and Carlo and Rosalie and - ’
‘- me.’ said Sophia.
‘- so we were a bit stretched.’
‘It took me all my time to look after Roberto.’ said Uncle Piero, ‘and, of course, I couldn’t spend all my time looking after him because I had to work. So - ’
‘So he called in Liza.’
‘Are you still with us?’ asked Sophia.
‘His sister. But she already had three children of her own. Roberto, she could manage. But Paolo - ’
‘Too much, as always,’ said Paolo.
‘ - went to a cousin - ’
‘Keep hanging in!’ advised Sophia.
‘- who lived at Medina. Medina is an Arab town. At least, we call it the Arab town.’
‘It is an Arab town,’ insisted Mrs Ferreira’s father.
‘- because it belonged to the Arabs a thousand years ago. We don’t forget these things in Malta.’
‘Could you hurry it along, Mum?’ pleaded Sophia.
‘She had many friends - ’
‘Look, let’s keep it to relations, please.’ said Sophia.
‘- who had family - ’
‘Oh, no, please!’ said Sophia.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t quite got this bit - ’ said Felix, who had been listening earnestly.
‘- in Tripoli. Which was where Paolo’s father had come from. And they happened to know him, and told him about Paolo. And he said he would take Paolo back.’
‘Got it?’ Sophia asked Felix.
‘I think I’ll have to write it down,’ said Felix.
‘You could draw a chart. Look. I’ll show you,’ said Sophia.
‘It’s quite easy, really,’ said Paolo. ‘I was born in Tripoli, came to Malta, then went back to Tripoli - ’
‘We could put arrows on the lines,’ said Felix.
‘- and then sort of drifted around,’ said Paolo. ‘But I grew up in Tripoli.’
‘And so you speak Arabic,’ said Chantale.
‘Phew!’ said Sophia. ‘Got there at last!’
The Inspector went round the tablecloths shaking hands with everybody. He kissed Mrs Ferreira.
‘Hello, Maria!’ he said. ‘As beautiful as ever!’
‘Flattery will get you anywhere!’ said Mrs Ferreira.
‘The most beautiful woman in Valletta!’
‘What about me?’ said Mrs Ferreira’s mother.
‘And me?’ said Sophia.
‘You may grow into it,’ conceded the Inspector.
He seemed to know the whole family.
‘You back?’ he said to Paolo, shaking hands.
‘Until the Ascania gets in.’
‘She’s coming in next week, so you’d better make the most of it while you can.’
‘I have been.’
‘It’s time you settled down. Found yourself a good wife. Don’t you think so, Maria?’
‘I keep egging him on. But every time I find him a nice girl, he runs away to sea!’
The Inspector came to Chantale and looked puzzled.
‘Medina?’ he said.
‘London,’ said Chantale.
‘She’s staying with me,’ said Mrs Ferreira. ‘She’s with the Ambulance.’
‘Oh! Just visiting, then?’
‘She’s been making herself useful. She’s the one who bandaged Luigi.’
‘On her first day here!’ said Mrs Ferreira. ‘What impression of Valletta will that give her?’
‘I think Valletta is a very nice place,’ said Chantale.
‘Yes, but a bandsman!’ said Paolo, still aggrieved. ‘They’re supposed to leave us alone!’
‘Well, they do, usually, don’t they?’
‘Yes, but they cut Luigi. Why did they do that? You ought to look into it!’
‘I will. But I’ve got other things to look into as well.’
‘Where were you when they went for Luigi?’
‘On the other side of the racetrack. Doing my job. I can’t be everywhere.’
‘But you knew there was likely to be trouble there. You ought to have put someone there.’
‘I had to put them somewhere else. There’s always trouble somewhere or other.’
‘Yes, but you ought to keep a particular eye on the bands. I mean, that’s where there’s likely to be trouble.’
‘There is, Paolo, if you’re around.’
‘People ought not to be allowed to get at the bands.’
‘I’ll bear your advice in mind, Paolo.’
The Inspector wandered off.
‘It’s not right!’ insisted Paolo.
‘Okay, Paolo, calm down!’ said Mrs Ferreira’s father.
‘I thought you were going to see how Luigi was?’ said Mrs Ferreira.
‘I am, I am! I’m going now!’
‘He always feels so deeply!’ said Mrs Ferreira fondly.
‘Felix!’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr. ‘It is time we were going home.’
‘Can’t I stay a bit longer, Mum?’
‘You’ve trespassed on Mrs Ferreira’s hospitality long enough.’
‘Not at all - ’ murmured Mrs Ferreira deprecatingly.
‘And where is your father?’
‘I think he met someone he knew. Someone from the hospital.’
‘A doctor?’
‘A nurse, I think.’
‘A nurse!’
‘And a doctor, too,’ said Sophia quickly. ‘I think there was a little party of them. Come to see the races.’
‘I do wish your father wouldn’t go off without telling me!’
‘Shall I go and look for him?’ asked Felix hopefully.
‘Then we would lose you, too!’
‘I could go with him,’ said Sophia. ‘Then I could bring him back here. Or to the hotel if you wanted.’
‘I do wish he wouldn’t wander off like this. There are things I have to do. Like planning tomorrow’s programme, for instance.’
‘I thought you’d done that?’ said Felix.
‘Well, of course I have. But I like to go through things in case a late adjustment is necessary.’
‘I’ll bring them back very quickly,’ promised Sophia.
‘I think I ought to go myself,’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr.
‘No, no, I think that would be a bad idea.’ said Sophia hurriedly. ‘I mean, when you’ve got things to do.’
‘If you’re sure you know where to find him
‘Oh, I’m sure. I’m quite sure!’
‘Well, then - if you wouldn’t mind. And, Felix, don’t let yourself be lured away again. You must be back by eight thirty. I’ve arranged an early dinner, especially for you.’
‘Gee, thanks!’ said Felix. ‘On my own?’
‘We will have ours later. But I think you could do with an early night.’
‘Could Sophia have dinner with me?’
‘No, no, no - ‘ began Mrs Ferreira.
‘That would be nice,’ said Sophia.
‘Surely you don’t need another meal,’ said Mrs Ferreira. ‘After what you’ve just had?’
‘They’re all the same,’ said Sophia sotto voce to Felix. ‘Mothers!’
‘Just a little one.’ coaxed Felix. ‘After all, I’ve been battening on Mrs Ferreira all day.’
‘Yes,
indeed. It has been most kind of Mrs Ferreira. Yes, perhaps she could. And that would probably ensure that the pair of you were back at a reasonable time. Eight thirty is the time I have booked.’
‘Eight thirty it will be,’ promised Sophia.
‘And if you’re sure about finding my husband - ’
‘I know the person he’s with,’ said Sophia. ‘He’s one of the doctors in Ophthalmics.’
‘Oh, good. That would be very kind of you, Sophia. I really do need to go through the programme for tomorrow. I’m spreading us all around the hospital, you see,’ she explained to Chantale. ‘This is a good chance to see a hospital in action. A foreign hospital.’
‘Most interesting,’ murmured Chantale.
‘And I’ve reasons of my own for wanting to take a good look at some of the practices in that hospital.’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr grimly.
‘I shall be over there myself tomorrow.’ said Seymour. ‘Which ward will Miss de Lissac be in? Perhaps I could look her up.’
‘Ward C, I think.’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr.
‘Would you mind if she switched to Ward J?’ asked Seymour. ‘I have a particular reason for asking.’
‘That is the ward where one of those poor men died,’ said Mrs Wynne-Gurr.
‘Yes.’ said Seymour.
Mrs Wynne-Gurr smiled.
‘I understand.’ she said. ‘I was thinking of going there myself. However, if that is where you are focusing your inquiries, I shall go to the other one - the other one where a patient died.’
‘I look forward to comparing notes.’ said Seymour.
‘The racing has all stopped.’ said Felix.
‘But the drinking hasn’t,’ said Sophia. ‘And that’s where we’ll find your father.’
‘I don’t think he’s much of a one for drinking.’ said Felix doubtfully.
‘But Dr Cassar is,’ said Sophia, ‘and that’s the doctor he was with the last time I saw him.’
Around the racecourse, set back from the track and behind the seats, were stalls where quick food and drink could be purchased, and around the stalls, particularly around the ones selling beer, was a seething mass of people. Finding anyone in the mass seemed impossible but Sophia wormed her way through to the counter in each case and looked around. Felix saw her arm wave and there, yes, was her father talking earnestly.
A Dead Man in Malta Page 8