Death in Cyprus: A Mystery

by M. M. Kaye

  He saw Amanda throw a quick look over her shoulder at the empty hall behind her and said: ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of tonight, dear, I promise you. The person who planted that stuff is going to make quite sure of being well in the public eye and surrounded by alibis up to a late hour tonight. Nor are they going to come near the place or ask any questions tomorrow. And in any case, the chaps who are watching this house won’t let so much as a bluebottle past them between now and tomorrow morning.’

  ‘They let you in,’ said Amanda unsteadily.

  ‘That,’ said Mr Howard, ‘is different. Word has gone round that I am really Marilyn Monroe in disguise, and they are all hoping to get my autograph.’

  He removed himself into the night and Amanda bolted the door behind him and went upstairs to bed; but not to sleep.

  17

  The inquest on Monica Ford was unexpectedly brief. The jury system did not prevail in Cyprus, and an apparently bored judge listened without much interest to the pathologist’s report and an account of the police findings. But Amanda received the unpleasant impression that the perfunctory questions did not add up to lack of interest or any conviction that the comfortable theory that a casual thief had been responsible for the murder was necessarily correct. It seemed more as though the officials involved were acting under orders, and she wondered uneasily if someone was being lulled into a false sense of security.

  The proceedings had been too smooth—too suave. The voices too silkily polite and the eyes too hard and watchful.

  They were all there. Claire and George, Persis and Toby, Alastair and Glenn, Lumley and Anita, Steve, Miss Moon and herself.

  Amanda had found that she too was watching them with furtive, frightened eyes, afraid that one face might betray surprise or fear at the sight of Miss Moon. But she had surprised no such expression and did not know whether to be relieved or sorry.

  She and Steve Howard had described the finding of Miss Ford’s body, and Glenn had told of his meeting with his secretary earlier that afternoon and explained about her brother’s death and her recent agitation of mind. He had not looked at his wife, and no further questions had been put to him beyond asking him for the time of his departure from Hilarion and his arrival at Nicosia. The latter had been corroborated, according to the police, by the two young National Service men to whom he had given a lift, and the various members of the picnic party had confirmed the times of his arrival and departure from Hilarion.

  Miss Moon had stated that owing to an attack of migraine she had, in fact, been in the bedroom in the Villa Oleander throughout the afternoon, but had heard nothing beyond the sound of a woman’s voice raised in apparent agitation some time during the earlier part of the afternoon.

  They had accepted the statement without comment and had returned unexpectedly to Amanda. They had asked her four questions, and this time the suave voices had been considerably less suave.

  Was it true that she had seen a great deal of Major Blaine in Fayid?

  Was it true that Mrs Blaine had died in her cabin on the way to Cyprus?

  Was it true that she had been alone in the drawing-room of the Villa Oleander for several minutes—perhaps five or even ten?—before Mr Howard had found her standing beside the body of Miss Ford?

  What dress had she worn that day, and would she describe it?

  The room had been stiflingly hot and airless and it was pleasant to get into the open again and feel a faint breath of breeze and smell the scent of sunbaked dust and flowering trees.

  Miss Moon declined an invitation from the Normans to return to their house for a glass of sherry, and announced her intention of returning home immediately. Andreas was driving her in her own elderly car, and Toby had offered Amanda a lift. Miss Moon went over to talk to Persis Halliday, and someone touched Amanda’s arm and she turned to see Glenn Barton.

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to you before,’ said Glenn in a low voice. ‘I wanted to thank you. For saying what you did. I–can’t tell you how grateful I am. I know I shouldn’t have let you do it, but—well I think you’re a brick!’

  Amanda said quickly: ‘Don’t Glenn. Anyone would have done the same; but not many people would have risked their necks for me at Hilarion. And I never even thanked you for that.’

  Glenn Barton smiled at her and held out his hand: ‘Shall we call it quits?’

  Amanda put her hand into his, and an exceedingly dry voice behind them said: ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I’d like a word with Miss Derington.’

  Amanda snatched her hand away and turning quickly looked up into Steven Howard’s face and experienced a sudden shock of dismay.

  Steve was looking at her as though she were some complete and not particularly attractive stranger whom necessity compelled him to address, and his voice was cold and remote and entirely devoid of expression.

  He said: ‘I understand that you have a guardian who is at present somewhere in the Middle East. I suggest that you write to him as soon as possible and ask him to come over.’

  Amanda stared at him, bewildered. ‘But–but why?’

  ‘Because it looks as though you are going to need some responsible person to advise you. You made a statement to the police two nights ago that was entirely untrue and which looks like leading to a lot of trouble.’

  He threw a glance of cold dislike at Glenn Barton, and continued curtly:

  ‘In these circumstances I think that you would be well advised to let your uncle know what is going on, and let him decide if he thinks it is worth coming over or not. You won’t find that it is in the least amusing being mixed up in a murder case in this part of the world.’

  ‘But he’s in Tripoli!’ said Amanda.

  ‘I know. Miss Moon told me. That’s why I wanted to speak to you. I have a friend in the R.A.F. here who happens to be flying to Tripoli tomorrow, so if you can let me have a letter before midday tomorrow I’ll see that your uncle gets it the same evening. He can probably pull enough strings to get here by Monday or Tuesday at the latest. Think it over.’

  Steve turned on his heel and walked away and Amanda stared after him; helplessly aware that there were tears in her eyes, and restraining herself with a strong effort from running after him to catch at his arm and demand to know why he had looked at her and spoken to her like that? He could not be jealous of Glenn Barton!—he could not be. Couldn’t he see____?

  Glenn said soberly: ‘He’s right you know. You ought to let Mr Derington know about this. Would you like me to cable him instead?’

  Amanda winked the tears from her eyes and said: ‘I–I’ll think about it.’

  She did not believe for one moment that she was in any danger of arrest. The idea was too ludicrous to be entertained even for a second. She had not, as Glenn Barton and several others had, taken in the significance of those three final questions, and she did not think of them now. She could only think of Steve’s face and voice and feel hurt and bewildered and angry.

  A police officer came up and spoke to Glenn Barton and Glenn excused himself and they walked away together and re-entered the building.

  There was a jingle of bracelets and Miss Moon patted Amanda’s arm with a be-ringed hand and said affectionately: ‘There, there dear. You must not mind. He is not in the least annoyed with you. Only with himself. And with Glenn of course. Gentlemen are so foolish!’

  Amanda laughed a little shakily and said: ‘You don’t miss much, do you Miss Moon?’

  ‘No dear. It is only the young who seem unable to see what is under their noses. Of course he knows quite well that you cannot really have the slightest interest in poor Glenn, but I think that he has a great deal on his mind and that it annoys him to realize that he cannot prevent his attention being distracted by–by extraneous emotions, shall we say?’

  ‘Not extraneous emotions,’ corrected Amanda with a somewhat watery chuckle. ‘“Unprofitable by-paths”.’

  ‘Is that what he said, dear? Well there you are! What did I tell you.
And now, as I understand that Captain Gates wishes to drive you back to Kyrenia, I think I will return home. I shall be seeing you for luncheon.’

  She turned away as Persis and Toby, who had been buttonholed by Lumley Potter, detached themselves at last and came towards Amanda. A few yards away George Norman, Alastair Blaine and Claire were standing on the kerb in a patch of shadow talking to Steve Howard who was sitting at the wheel of his car. Amanda noted resentfully that he appeared to be in excellent spirits and that the group beside his car, despite the fact—or possibly in reaction to it—that they had just been attending an inquiry into murder, were laughing at something that he had just said.

  Anita Barton was standing by herself, a little apart. She was looking forlorn and unhappy and there were dark shadows under her eyes. Her usual air of defiant disregard for public opinion was entirely lacking and she looked noticeably ill at ease.

  Amanda, studying her, saw that she was not quite steady on her feet and suspected that she had been drinking—perhaps to give herself courage to face the curious gaze of those who knew how much she had disliked her husband’s secretary.

  Persis, looking as usual like an advertisement for Saks, Fifth Avenue, caught Amanda’s arm in an affectionate clasp and said in plangent tones: ‘Well honey, how does it feel to be Suspect Number One?’

  ‘Shut up, Persis!’ said Toby crossly. ‘Your humour is misplaced. Come on Amanda darling, we’re all going along to the Normans’ to get drunk. Only possible course, after a session like that.’

  ‘Who’s “all”?’ inquired Amanda.

  ‘The gang, honey,’ supplied Persis. ‘The Associated Society of Suspects. Little did I think when I decided on visiting the birthplace of Venus that all I should get handed in lieu of Love would be a coupla’ corpses. It’s time the boys at the Tourist Bureau rewrote that “Come to Sunny Cyprus!” stuff, and urged the prospective visitor to pack a gat and bring a lawyer with them.’

  ‘The trouble with you, Persis,’ said Toby sourly, ‘is that you can’t really believe anything you don’t see with your own eyes. None of this is any more real to you than one of your own stories, merely because you never saw the bodies of either Julia Blaine or this secretary woman.’

  ‘And did you, Toby dear?’ inquired Persis softly.

  ‘No. But Amanda did.’

  Persis turned swiftly to Amanda and said contritely: ‘He’s right. I keep forgetting what heck and hades it must have been for you honey. What would you like me to do? Prostrate myself on the pavement as a penance, or dedicate my next book “To Amanda, who stole all my beaux”?’

  ‘Meaning Toby?’ inquired Amanda with a smile. ‘Was he your beau?’

  ‘He certainly was. But humiliating as it is to own it, I am compelled to classify him as one of the ones that got away.’

  ‘What you really mean is one of the ones you couldn’t even bother to gaff,’ said Toby, lifting one of her hands and kissing it.

  ‘Toby! What a Continental gesture!’ exclaimed Persis in mock admiration. ‘I had no idea that____’ She broke off and said rather sharply: ‘Say, what’s bitten Glenn?’

  Amanda, turning to follow the direction of her gaze, saw Glenn Barton come quickly out into the sunlight, and realized what had prompted that startled exclamation.

  Glenn’s mouth was compressed into a tight line and he looked frightened and desperate. He stood for a moment looking about him with his eyes narrowed against the glare, and then seeing his wife walked swiftly over to her and put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Anita____’

  Anita Barton whirled about, her face white under its heavy make-up, and almost in the same movement she wrenched his hand from her arm and turned as though to walk away.

  Glenn’s hand shot out and he caught her arm again and swung her round to face him. ‘Anita, please! I’ve got to talk to you. Just for a few minutes. It’s for your own sake. Darling please.’

  His voice was hoarse and desperate and he appeared to be entirely oblivious of the fact that his words were perfectly audible to everyone within a dozen yards and that at least as many inquisitive, interested or appalled pairs of eyes were openly watching him.

  An ugly wave of colour flooded up into Anita Barton’s livid face and she wrenched herself from his grasp and struck him across the face with the full force of her arm. She stood there for a moment staring at him, her breath coming fast, and then turned on her heel and walked rapidly away, leaving her husband standing in the bright sunlight with the red marks of her fingers showing clearly against his haggard face.

  Persis was the first to recover herself and to rush in where angels might justifiably have feared to tread. She went swiftly across to him and said: ‘Why, Glenn Barton—I thought you’d gone!’ and slipping her hand through his arm almost forcibly turned him round: ‘Have you got a car here? Because if you have, you’ve gotten yourself a passenger. Will you take me some place to get a drink before I drop dead from sunstroke?’

  Glenn looked at her with a dazed expression, and then seemed suddenly to focus her, for he smiled a stiff-lipped puzzled smile and said: ‘Why–why of course, Mrs____?’

  ‘Persis,’ supplied Persis briskly. ‘Is that your car over there? Good. Let’s go.’

  She led him firmly away, talking animatedly and at random, and the entertainment was over.

  Steve Howard’s car, followed by the Normans’, slid away down the road. Lumley Potter hurried off in the wake of Anita Barton, and Amanda, suddenly deciding that she could not bear the prospect of a social gathering at the Normans’, asked Toby to drive her instead to the Villa Oleander.

  She was feeling mentally and physically exhausted, and by two-thirty was much inclined to follow Miss Moon’s example and retire to her bedroom for a siesta. She was still considering the advisability of this course when she heard someone run quickly up the front steps and walk into the hall without knocking. It was Glenn.

  ‘Amanda____!’ He gave a quick gasp of relief at the sight of her. ‘Amanda, can I talk to you please? Somewhere where we can’t be overheard?’

  His voice was jerky and uncontrolled and he appeared driven to the verge of collapse. Amanda looked at him for a long moment and then turned without a word and led the way into the drawing-room.

  He came in after her, and shutting the door, leant against it.

  ‘What is it, Glenn?’

  ‘Anita,’ said Glenn desperately. ‘She won’t see me. She doesn’t understand! Amanda, I know she didn’t kill Monica. I know she didn’t. She may do rash, silly things, but she could not kill. I tell you I know. Good God!—who should know, if I don’t? I don’t pretend to know what she was doing in this house that day; she must have been here I suppose, because of that hellish flower. But whatever the reason, it can have had nothing to do with Monica Ford’s death. She probably came in to see you, or Miss Moon, and found Monica dead, and panicked. No one could blame her for that!’

  Amanda said urgently: ‘Glenn, don’t stand there. Come and sit down here and tell me what has happened. There’s no sense in tearing yourself to pieces like this.’

  Glenn laughed. It was a short, curiously wavering laugh that had no amusement in it. He walked unsteadily to the sofa and sank down on it as though his knees had suddenly given way under him.

  Amanda looked at him with an anxious frown and left the room abruptly; returning a moment later with a glass containing a stiff proportion of Miss Moon’s brandy. Glenn took it from her hand and gulped it down gratefully.

  ‘You’re a brick, Amanda. I seem to have said that a good many times of late, don’t I?’

  He looked up at her with a crooked attempt at a smile and Amanda said: ‘What is it, Glenn? What has happened?’

  ‘The police,’ said Glenn wretchedly. ‘It’s that damnable flower. I think they’ve found out who it belongs to. They asked me if I’d recognized it. And—they asked a hell of a lot of other questions too. About her quarrel with Monica, and wasn’t it true that she had told me that either I sacked
Monica or she’d leave me, and–and that when I wouldn’t, she had left me. They went over and over it. And then they–they wanted to know if I knew that she was friendly with Major Blaine____’

  ‘With Alastair!’

  ‘Yes. Oh, I know they asked you the same thing, but that was just routine. This was far more serious.’

  Glenn stood up abruptly, and walking over to the french windows stood staring blindly out across the garden, his back to Amanda.

  He said in a harsh, jerky voice: ‘They suggested that she knew him rather well and that–that his wife’s death had made him a rich man. They pointed out that she—Anita____’ His voice failed suddenly and Amanda saw his shoulders jerk in a small shudder. Presently he said in a more normal voice:

  ‘They wanted to know if she could have got her hands on any poisons, and asked if it were true that her father had been a doctor. They–they seemed to know so many things. I got scared then, and I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t speak to me____’

  His voice held a sudden hurt, bewildered note. He turned and walked back to Amanda and stood looking down at her, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and said in a flat, exhausted voice: ‘I know I shouldn’t ask you—I know it’s an unforgivable thing to do, but I can’t think of any other way out. Will you help me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Amanda, lightly and quite steadily.

  Glenn stooped quickly and lifting her hand, kissed it. ‘Bless you!’ There was a sudden break in his voice.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Persuade her to go away. Lumley’s a useless fool. He’ll be no help to her. She must get away for a while; to give them time to find out who really did kill Monica.’

  ‘But Glenn, how can I! Persuade her to go where?’

  ‘Lebanon. We have friends there who I know would take her in. And I’ve got a good many friends among the local fishermen here. I could arrange all that; if only she could be persuaded to go.’