by Alex Pavesi
He lived in an impossibly small village on a wild stretch of the coast. She’d never lived outside of the city before, but it was that or starve.
Her belongings fitted neatly into a single suitcase.
She was driven to the house, the last along a wooded lane. Charles helped her carry her things inside, then gave her a tour of the residence. It was small and dark; the trees blocked most of the light. But it was his childhood home and he swung enthusiastically through the rooms without noticing that she was taller than him and had to stoop, that with each step the ceiling loomed at her like a fist.
Her bedroom had a brown carpet, a desk and a single bed. The window felt cold when she stood beside it, but the view was breathtaking. At the other side of the short garden was an overgrown area of clifftop and then the sudden and deadly sea, shining like marble.
The daughter, Henrietta, was shy around Sarah for the first few weeks. But she never missed a lesson. They did three hours in the mornings and two in the afternoons – ‘there are no schools around here,’ Charles had said – in a room with rocking horses on the wallpaper. She was almost thirteen, though her knowledge was advanced and it was clear that she was unusually intelligent. She looked nothing at all like her father, with green eyes and copper skin, and Sarah wondered if she was really his child. Her mother had died of malaria when she was very young.
Sarah knew nothing about children and spoke to her like an adult. Henrietta flourished and the two women became close friends.
Charles spent most of his time working on a bulbous memoir of his years in India. The work was exhausting and during the winter he contracted an unknown illness; Sarah nursed him as she’d done with her father, taking soup up to his cold room at the top of the house.
He became feverish. At his worst point he was capable of saying only one lucid thing, taking Sarah’s hand when she brought him some water. ‘If I die, look after Henrietta.’ She found it surprising that this was his main concern when his consciousness was down to a whisper; she rarely saw them in the same room together and had taken to thinking of father and daughter as two unrelated entities. She was surprised, too, by Henrietta’s reaction; the girl was almost silent, trembling as Sarah sat across from her at the dinner table.
A few days before Christmas there was a shift in Charles’s fortunes. He swallowed a whole bowl of soup, sat up and declared himself healthy again. Sarah was there by his side. He thanked her for her kindness and devotion during his period of sickness, then – still unshaven and wearing his pyjamas – he proposed marriage, as if it was a gift he was giving her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t think that would work.’
Charles looked momentarily shocked, then gently lowered his head. ‘I understand.’
The second proposal was indirect and came a few weeks later, when he was dressed and had composed himself; it came hidden in an act of humility. ‘Sarah, I must apologize for my indiscretion a few weeks ago. I was feverish. My thoughts were still unclear. It was inappropriate, to put you under pressure like that.’
A wash of relief came over her.
‘However,’ he continued, ‘I must tell you that the sentiment itself was not a delirium, but an honest expression of my heart.’ Her relief tightened to a knot. ‘I cannot deny that I do have a certain affection for you. You are really a remarkable woman.’
He took out his pocket watch and started to play with it, moving the hands around as if they meant nothing.
‘Let me give you some time to absorb what I’ve said.’ He licked a fingertip and ran it across the smeared glass face of the watch. ‘You must take as long as you need. My only concern is that one day your presence here will become too painful to me, like an unfulfilled promise. Then it might be better for both of us if we make alternative arrangements. And you find employment elsewhere.’
She took that as a veiled threat and it left her with little choice; a bad reference could destroy her prospects of employment. They were married in the spring, his greying hair neatly combed and hers tied back in a bow. He said the words of his vows out of order. She spoke them back to him like a sombre parrot, dressed in a greyish blue. It’s this or destitution, she thought.
Summer came and Sarah and Henrietta took their lessons to the summer house, a squat structure of wood and glass at the highest point of their garden. It commanded a clear view of the sea. A telescope stood in one corner; a birthday gift for Henrietta.
One quiet morning in June, Sarah entered the summer house and found Henrietta crouched down by the telescope, scanning the line of the coast. The girl heard the door click behind her and turned around. ‘Sarah, come and look. There’s trouble on Blue Pearl Island.’
Sarah went to her side. ‘What do you see?’
‘The front door is open. It’s banging in the wind. There’s a broken window and a pile of clothes on the grass.’
Blue Pearl Island was a stubborn lump of stone, about three hundred yards out to sea, centred in a ring of sharp black rocks that lay just below the surface of the water, which made it almost inaccessible by boat. You could reach it when the tide was high enough, at two times during the day, but then only if you knew the route through the rocks. When the tide withdrew, the falling water filtering through those stone teeth appeared to be boiling, so it was known by some as Hell Island. But the colonel found this name distasteful and had always called it by the name he’d called it in childhood: Blue Pearl Island.
Twenty years ago an American millionaire, struck by the dramatic setting, had a house built on top of it. But the stone was unyielding and the whitewashed house had settled with all its angles slightly out of alignment, like a melting block of ice. An expensive folly, it was later abandoned to its impracticality and had stood empty for years. But it must have been advertised somewhere because occasionally someone would take occupancy. An artist had lived there one summer, working on a series of sea paintings. An austere family had managed a year before leaving. And the navy had taken it once as a base for some kind of training exercise. But most of the time its windows were dark.
‘Is there a boat?’
Henrietta checked the small jetty where boats would usually tie up. ‘There’s one half of a rope that’s been cut, but no boat.’
‘How can you tell the rope has been cut?’
‘It’s tied to a post, but isn’t long enough to reach the surface of the water. That makes no sense unless it’s been cut.’
Sarah stroked the girl’s hair. ‘You’re right. This might be serious. The rest could all be down to debauchery, but if the only boat has been cut loose that suggests something else is at work. May I look?’
She’d known there was something strange happening at the house when she saw the visitors arrive a few days before; usually it was taken by those seeking solitude, or a communion with nature, not by large groups of people chatting breezily to one another. She’d wondered if they were a secret society or political party, though they certainly hadn’t looked like either. It seemed, instead, to be some kind of social gathering.
It had begun on the Wednesday, when a Mr and Mrs Stubbs had arrived in time for that evening’s crossing. A local fisherman was with them to teach them the route, a yellow dog following at his heels. Sarah was outside reading in the last of the day’s light, on a chair in the garden where it bordered the wooded lane, which led down the hill. At the bottom of the lane was a small stretch of sand where many people kept boats. She’d greeted them – it was a rare sight to see anyone passing by so late – and they’d stopped to say how nice her house was.
‘Such a remarkable part of the world,’ said Mr Stubbs.
‘Quietly beautiful,’ said Mrs Stubbs.
‘Are you heading for the island?’ asked Sarah.
The fisherman bobbed impatiently behind them – the dog circling his legs – while Mr Stubbs explained the purpose of their trip. They were both in service; they’d been asked to arrive early and prepare for a large group on the following Friday. T
hey couldn’t say who was coming, or who their employer was. But it would be a very important occasion. ‘I hope we’ll see you on our way back home.’ And with that, they walked on.
The guests had arrived two days later, at various times throughout the day. They’d come in pairs, clutching yellow sheets of paper that Sarah assumed were written instructions. She was outside for most of the day, tending the garden. She counted eight guests; men and women, old and young, though all relatively affluent. Together with the Stubbses that made ten. A large number for such a small island.
The only clue she got to their identity was a single name.
‘How do you know this man, Unwin?’
One of them had said it to another as they’d passed.
‘I don’t, in fact,’ the other had replied.
They’d heard nothing of the party since then. It had rained the last two days and none of Sarah, Charles or Henrietta had even ventured into the garden; from inside the house the view was blocked by rhododendrons. But now, looking through the telescope, it seemed a terrible wave had washed the occupants away.
Sarah found her husband in his study with a newspaper and a flask of coffee. His half-finished memoir teetered on the edge of his desk, casting a long shadow on the floor below it.
‘We must go to Blue Pearl Island,’ she said. ‘The people there are in trouble.’
He checked his watch, then a chart on the wall. ‘There are two hours left of this morning’s tide. What kind of trouble?’
‘It’s impossible to say. But the front door is open and the place looks empty. At least one of the windows is broken.’
‘Perhaps the people that were staying there have left?’
‘Their boat has been cut loose.’
Charles looked at her as if her thoughts were written on glass, transparent and fragile. ‘Sarah, dearest, you always think the best of people. They probably had a party, made a mess of the place and then ran away from their responsibilities.’
‘Charles,’ she took a deep, dismissive breath, ‘no one runs away from a broken window.’
‘Then what are you suggesting?’
‘They could be dead. A fire could have broken out. It’s impossible to say. There are clothes strewn on the grass.’
Henrietta appeared in the doorway behind her. ‘One of them could have fallen ill, and spread the disease to the others.’
Charles stood up and slapped down his newspaper with a rare burst of energy. ‘You too, Henrietta? I’ll have none of this.’ His face fell. Charles had daydreamed of a second marriage as if it were the acquisition of another chess piece for his side of the board; instead his new wife not only overpowered him in most arguments but encouraged his daughter to do the same. ‘Clothes strewn on the grass could mean all sorts of immorality.’ The colonel’s thoughts turned dark and he loosened his collar. ‘If something disreputable has happened then we should send one of the local men to investigate. It’s no place for a woman.’
‘There isn’t time,’ said Sarah. ‘If we go up to the village we’ll miss too much of the tide. Charles, I’d rather you came with me, but I’m going to the island now. Henrietta will be quite all right by herself.’
He sighed, once again checkmated by the women in his life. ‘Well, if we must go then let us hurry.’
‘Thank you.’
He took a revolver and a raincoat, though the day was bright and peaceful. They left Henrietta with a sandwich for lunch and a book to keep her amused, then the two of them hurried down to the sandy inlet at the end of the road where they kept a small dinghy and two oars. Charles dragged it into the water and the two of them got in.
Having grown up locally, and having been an adventurous young boy, he knew the route through the rocks by heart; he’d learnt it before the house was even built, when the island was safe for children’s games. ‘What do you think we’ll find there?’ he said, taking the oars.
‘Disruption,’ said Sarah, sitting by herself at the stern of the boat. ‘But please, let me concentrate and memorize the route.’ Charles laughed gently, as he always did when it came to her constant efforts to acquire knowledge. ‘In case I need to come back alone.’
At this distance the effect of the black rocks lurking beneath the tide was to spread a thin white foam across the expanse of the sea. Their simple wooden boat cut through it like a knife cutting into a wedding cake. The colonel didn’t turn his head, but steered by the things he saw in their wake, with the treacherous fearlessness of a teenaged boy.
Occasionally, Sarah thought, there are things to admire about him.
The route took them to the right of the island, as seen from the shore, and then behind it to land on the left side. At the back of it – the part that pointed out to sea, away from the sun – the clustered rocks rose to a surprising height; a section of them was cut away in a sudden sharp drop, forming a kind of cliff. That left a flat wall of dark stone overlooking the sea, like an eyepatch. At the bottom of this cliff there were a few yards of sandy slope leading down to the water, too steep to be called a beach.
Sarah, looking ahead, was the first to see it. That short, grey patch of sand, scattered with coarse grass and seaweed, held two dead bodies: tilted forward for display. Charles glanced over his shoulder and wiped the sweat from his brow. He turned back to Sarah, his face crumpled into what was clearly meant as a question mark. ‘They’re dead, Charles. We must hurry.’ He took the oars again. As they approached the beach it became clear they were the bodies of a man and a woman, both twisted into impossible angles, as if they’d been picked up by some monstrous sea creature and wrung out like wet bathing suits then left to dry on the sand.
Sarah leaned forward; she recognized them. ‘Oh god, that’s Mr and Mrs Stubbs. He was so friendly and she seemed so sweet.’ She made the sign of the cross above her heart.
The colonel was standing now in the centre of the tiny craft, upsetting its balance with his usual casual confidence, his pistol pointed at the sky. ‘What happened? Have they been murdered?’
‘They fell,’ she said. ‘It could have been suicide. Or an accident. Or they could have been murdered.’
‘Both of them?’ He seemed confused.
‘It looks that way.’ She didn’t tell him the image that was forming in her mind, of the eight guests drunkenly throwing their servants off the cliff.
‘Then it would be madness to continue. Their murderer may still be on the island.’
‘The house looked abandoned.’
‘This morning? But the killer could have just been asleep.’
Sarah knew this was a possibility, but in truth the danger appealed to her. ‘The evidence suggests otherwise.’
There was a loud scraping sound. The colonel promptly sat down again and tilted the oars up towards his chin. The boat had drifted. ‘The rocks! It’s not safe to linger here. Should we go on or turn back?’
They arrived at the island’s only landing place a few minutes later. No sign of life had shown itself in that time. Kneading his tired hands as if they were made of clay, the colonel looked up towards the house at the top of the grassy slope.
‘Hell Island.’ The words shocked his wife, as if he had sworn.
He signalled for her to wait while he disembarked, with the gun held out before him. Then he tied up the boat, turned towards the house and reached back to offer his arm. She took it just to please him, but the gesture ended with him holding her hand while she stood uphill and towered over him: a parent with a small child. He frowned and adjusted his glasses.
‘Wait here, my darling.’
He stepped forward tentatively, one pace at a time. There was a tang of excrement coming from a nearby patch of grass and she hoped he would hurry up.
At the top of the slope he cried out. A cry of disgust more than of fear or pain, with a slight, stifled retch behind it. Sarah raced forward. He motioned for her to stay back, repeating the gesture until she was standing by his side, then he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and he
ld it over his mouth. He was looking down at another dead body. A man, lying face down on the ground.
Sarah spoke as the realization came to her: ‘The pile of clothes strewn on the grass.’
Her husband looked up and confirmed that their own summer house was just about visible, if you knew where to look for it, with a direct view of this spot.
‘Henrietta,’ said Sarah, wondering if the girl was watching them now.
The colonel stepped in front of the body. ‘I wouldn’t want her to see this. I’m not sure you should see it yourself. Perhaps you should wait in the boat, my daffodil. Where it’s safe.’
Sarah looked at him playfully. ‘Charles, you would get hopelessly lost in the house by yourself. Besides, there is no reason to think it’s any safer in the boat.’
He frowned. ‘There’s a wire around his neck, I wonder if that’s what he died of?’
‘A garrotte, attached to a weight. It’s been tricked to pull tight when the weight is dropped, with a catch so it can’t be loosened. A painful death.’ She shuddered. ‘And a particularly nasty trap. The kind of thing you’d use to catch a rabbit.’
The colonel examined the small metal clasp at the back of the body’s neck and wondered how she’d inferred that whole mechanism. ‘Come away,’ he said. ‘This is a horrid sight.’
She ignored him. ‘We have three dead bodies now.’
‘Killed by the same person, do you think?’
‘Perhaps. Though the methods are very different.’
She wondered if one of the guests had gone mad and tried to kill the others, then the rest had fled. Or whether they’d all turned against each other.
‘More than one killer? A disturbing idea.’
‘It’s possible.’ Sarah knelt down and looked closely at the body. She was thinking back to the faces that had passed her by along the lane on Friday, as she’d clipped the dead flowers from the rose bushes. Smiling, excited faces. Had he been one of them? She believed he had. She could see him wearing a brown suit, walking with a younger man, the yellow sheet of instructions folded into his top pocket. He’d worn glasses then. It was the younger man who had mentioned Unwin, and this man who had confessed to not knowing him. She stood up.
