The Coconut Killings

by Patricia Moyes

  “You’re…what?”

  “I have to disqualify myself, sir. You see, I wouldn’t be an impartial investigator.”

  “This is ridiculous, Tibbett. Explain yourself.”

  “I’ve been trying to, sir. You see, my wife and I are old friends of the Colvilles—the couple who run the Anchorage Inn. The suspect under arrest is their barman. In fact, my wife had a letter from Mrs. Colville only this morning, ironically enough, asking if I couldn’t go over there and try to sort the case out. She’s considerably worked up about it.”

  “Hm. That’s not so good, Tibbett, I agree. These Colville people are white, I presume?”

  “Yes, sir. A retired economist and his wife. They only took over the inn last Christmas.”

  “I see. It certainly wouldn’t do if it were known that you were a friend of these white people, who must be eager to see this fellow—what’s his name?—this Sanderson Robbins convicted and sentenced as soon as—”

  “Oh, no, sir. You misunderstand me. The Colvilles are passionately convinced that Sandy—that Robbins is innocent. That’s why they asked for my help, to try to clear him. They know him well, you see, and obviously they like him very much. They think he’s been framed in some way.”

  “They do, do they? Now this is interesting, Tibbett. This puts a different complexion on things. Do the islanders in general know that these Colvilles are rooting for Robbins?”

  “I should think they must, sir. Margaret and John are both pretty outspoken people, and the letter made it plain how strongly they feel.”

  “Well, now, Tibbett, this could be to our advantage. If it were known that you and your wife were friends of these people—that you could be presumed to have a bias in Robbins’s favor, if anything—then your eventual conclusion that he was guilty could not possibly be suspect. Yes, the more I think of it, the more I think that a leaning in that direction would be positively helpful. I suggest that Mrs. Tibbett should travel with you and that you should both stay at the Anchorage Inn. That does raise a small problem, however. You will need the assistance of Sergeant Reynolds, and you know our policy of accommodation for officers of different ranks.”

  “Why shouldn’t Sergeant Reynolds stay at the Golf Club, sir? It’ll be useful to have somebody there, and I believe his handicap is coming down nicely. I don’t play golf myself, so it would be a very suitable arrangement.”

  “You know what sort of a place it is?”

  “Yes, sir. Gold-plated and ultrasnobbish. British owned, but patronized almost entirely by Americans.”

  “You think they’d accept Reynolds as a temporary member?”

  “They’d have to, wouldn’t they, sir?”

  “Yes, in the circumstances, I suppose they would. Might do ’em a bit of good. Cheer the place up a bit.”

  “That’s what I thought, sir. And another thing—I assume that my presence on the island will get a fair bit of publicity, but there’s no need for anybody to know who Reynolds is, is there?”

  “I suppose the secretary will have to know.”

  “All right, just the secretary. Nobody else. It will give him much more freedom to operate.”

  “A good idea, Tibbett. A very good idea.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE TRAVELER WISHING to get from England to St. Matthew’s must first of all take a jet plane from London to Antigua, which represents more than ninety-nine percent of the journey in terms of mileage and is accomplished comfortably in a matter of a few hours. After that, things become more complicated and take longer.

  The quickest way should be to fly on a small two-engined Heron to the island of St. Mark’s, and from there ride on an open launch over the transparent blue waters of the Caribbean, in the company of assorted merchandise. Unfortunately, however, the launch runs only once a day, and is carefully timed to leave St. Mark’s just ten minutes before the flight from Antigua arrives. For some time now, the authorities on St. Mark’s and St. Matthew’s have had a lurking feeling that this schedule could be improved upon, but things move at a leisurely pace in the Caribbean, and nobody has yet gotten around to doing anything about it.

  In practice, the most painless way to make the journey is to spend the day in Antigua, and in the evening board the ferryboat called the Island Queen. You will wake up the following morning in the sparkling little harbor of Priest Town on the southern coast of St. Matthew’s (there is controversy locally as to whether the village owes its name to an association with missionaries or whether it is a corruption of Preston, the northern English textile town from which early settlers were said to have emigrated).

  In any case, the question of convenient transportation from Europe hardly arises on St. Matthew’s, because less than one percent of the visitors arrive from across the Atlantic. The lifeblood of the island is the stream of wealthy Americans who patronize the Golf Club, and they are carefully catered to. Smooth, swift jetliners fly from New York, Washington, and Miami to the American island of St. Boniface, where smartly uniformed Golf Club staff are waiting to escort members to the club’s own luxury motor launch for the last lap of the voyage. Mere travelers who are not members of the club must undertake a complicated journey by way of the independent island of Tampica—a journey so exhausting and inconvenient that they seldom try it a second time. It is also possible to hire a local boat to St. Matthew’s, but this fact is kept very quiet. The committee and members of St. Matthew’s Golf Club are anxious to discourage ordinary tourism on the island. Several times suggestions have been made in St. Mark’s that St. Matthew’s should build a small airstrip, but the Golf Club owns the only stretch of land flat enough for such a project and has no intention of selling. After all, the rich, beautiful, and important people of the world must have someplace where they can enjoy a little privacy.

  Henry and Emmy Tibbett, arriving from London, traveled by an even more roundabout route than usual, because Henry wanted to break his journey on Tampica and visit an old friend there. So while Sergeant Reynolds went sightseeing on Antigua before embarking on the Island Queen, Henry and Emmy took the Heron to St. Mark’s, and from there climbed into a tiny four-seater Piper Aztec and were soon craning their necks to catch a first glimpse of the familiar shape of Tampica, with its harborside town and golden crescents of beach and hilly green center.

  “Good Lord,” Henry said suddenly. “Look at that.”

  “Look at what?” Emmy raised her voice against the thrumming of the engine.

  “Down there. Barracuda Bay.”

  The few years since the Tibbetts’ last visit had transformed the island. Where previously there had been just one harborside hotel and one luxury resort complex, now huge high-rise concrete buildings ringed the sandy bays, gleaming white in the brilliant sunshine. An enormous construction site boasted a sign, clearly legible from the air, announcing the imminent completion of the Tampica Hilton. The sheltered anchorage of Barracuda Bay currently harbored no fewer than five big cruise liners, brave with fluttering bunting, and motor launches traced foaming white curves on the sapphire water as they ferried passengers ashore. Inland, developments of holiday homes looked like a sprawl of nursery building blocks on the deep green carpet of the hillside—uniform little boxes in orderly rows, some brightly painted, some still the drab gray of unfinished cinder block.

  “Margaret didn’t tell us the half of it,” said Emmy. “Oh, well, I suppose it’s good for the economy. But I do hope everything hasn’t changed.”

  She was soon reassured. The airstrip was still a short length of dirt road, and the terminal building a small concrete hut—although the presence of bulldozers and a gang of men in hard hats showed that a billboard promising TAMPICA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, OPENING SOON was making no idle boast. However, the sunshine and the sweet scent of frangipani on the warm breeze were the same as ever, and so was the big, burly figure of Barney, the local garageman-cum-bar owner, waving a huge black hand in welcome beside the Mini-moke—the little lightweight open wagon, typical of the Caribbea
n—which they had ordered to meet them at the airstrip.

  “Good to see you folks again,” Barney said. “Where you stayin’? Pirate’s Cave, or one of the new places?”

  “I’m afraid we’re not staying anywhere,” Henry answered. “Just passing through. We’re catching the afternoon boat to St. Matthew’s.”

  Barney’s normally merry face clouded. “Bad business, that killing on St. Matthew’s,” he said. “Wouldn’t never have happened if they’d gone come independent with us, like we wanted. Now they see how fine we doin’, they’re jealous, man. That’s the root of it. Jealous.” He shook his head. “Ah, well, no trouble of that sort here on Tampica, thank the Lord. You’ll be off to see Miss Lucy, then?”

  “How did you know?” Emmy asked.

  Barney grinned. “Ain’t nobody who bin to Tampica before comes just for a day and hires a Moke and isn’t headed for Sugar Mill Bay.”

  “How’s the road over the hill?” Henry asked.

  “Got it tarred ’bout a mile beyond the Lodge and a parapet wall on the sea side going down to Sugar Mill.”

  “Thank heaven for that,” Emmy remarked.

  “Wall’s not a foot high, wouldn’t stop you goin’ over,” Barney added cheerfully. “It makes the visitors feel safer, that’s all. Well, here’s your keys. Don’t forget to drive on the left now.”

  “We’re from England,” Henry reminded him. “We always drive on the left.”

  “Sure, sure. Sorry… I just say it automatic whenever I rent a car. Have a good trip now, man.”

  “Want a lift back to the garage, Barney?” Henry asked.

  “No, thanks a lot. Got a couple more Mokes waiting for the St. Thomas flight.”

  As the little wagon wound its way from the airstrip along the coast road, Emmy said, “Well, Barney hasn’t changed.”

  “No,” said Henry, “but his establishment has. Look.”

  When the Tibbetts had last seen Barney’s garage, it had been a fenced-off area resembling an untidy junkyard, with a ramshackle open shed as repair shop. Across the road, Barney’s Bar had been a little concrete box of a house, painted pistachio green and surrounded by scarlet hibiscus and pink oleanders. Now, as they rounded the bend in the road, a row of gleaming gasoline pumps stood like sentinels on the concrete apron under an illuminated sign reading TAMPICA TRACTION AND TAXI CO. Behind the pumps, a modern and well-equipped workshop was alive with activity, as mechanics worked in the inspection pits and operated sophisticated repair machinery. Across the way, the little green house was no more than a small annex to the long, low, hacienda-type building, with terrace tables shaded by striped umbrellas, uniformed waiters serving drinks and food, and the muted beat of canned music. A purple neon sign announced that this was Barney’s Cocktail Lounge and Restaurant. Only some undisciplined hens pecking about on the roadway were a reminder of the old days.

  Emmy sighed. “It’s not fair to begrudge them all this,” she said. “I mean, the place is transformed and they’re all doing well. All the same…”

  “Remember what Barney said,” Henry reminded her. “According to Margaret, St. Matthew’s now is just what Tampica used to be like—and see what’s happening there.”

  The road took them through the principal town of Tampica Harbour, which they remembered as a sleepy little waterside community. Now it throbbed with life—new shops, new apartment buildings, new hotels. It took some time to negotiate the town, because the narrow streets were crammed with tourists in parrot-bright resort clothes and big straw hats. There was also a marked increase of new cars. It was easy to see why Barney’s business was flourishing.

  As soon as they left the town, however, and began to climb the sinuous track over Goat Hill, things became more familiar. True, the road was tarred for a mile or so beyond the Lodge— the prime minister’s residence—but after that it became the old, boulder-strewn dirt track that Henry and Emmy remembered. The views were the same as ever: limpid blue water creaming over coral reefs and breaking on beaches as curved and golden as fresh croissants; white sails of yachts leaning to the breeze; the scatter of tiny rocky islets punctuating the sapphire-and-emerald sea. Everything was really just the same.

  Making the steep descent down the hairpin turns to Sugar Mill Bay, Henry saw what Barney meant about the protective parapet walls. They were tiny and obviously fragile; and yet, it somehow made a big difference to feel that there was something between the Moke, with its unreliable brakes, and the thousand-foot plunge onto the rocks below. Nevertheless, it was with the usual sense of relief that Henry took the last snaking turn and came out onto the flat coastal track that led to Sugar Mill House and Miss Lucy Pontefract-Deacon.

  Sugar Mill Bay had changed very little. True, there were a couple of jeeps parked near the beach and a handful of vacationers basking on the sand, but otherwise the little settlement of sugar-almond-colored houses was as Henry remembered it, with barefoot children and sleepy dogs and young goats with impertinent tails going about their business. The big gates of Sugar Mill House stood open, and there in the driveway was Lucy Pontefract-Deacon, her arms held wide in welcome.

  Henry pulled the Moke to a halt and jumped out. “Lucy, my dear—you haven’t changed one little bit!”

  Lucy beamed. “That is a lie, of course,” she said. “After eighty, every year leaves its mark. But bless you for saying it.”

  “But it’s true, Lucy,” Emmy protested. “You look wonderful.”

  “If Emmy says so, then it must be true,” conceded Miss Pontefract-Deacon. Indeed, the old lady was impressive, with her tall, upright figure, her snow-white hair, and her suntanned face—lined, but astonishing in its look of youthful innocence. “Well, then, let me return the compliment. You are half my age, so the years show only half as much. And you’ve lost weight,” she added to Emmy, approvingly.

  “A little. Not enough.”

  “Don’t want to get skinny, my dear. It wouldn’t suit you. Now come in and have a drink and tell me all about this dreadful affair on St. Matthew’s. That’s why you’re here, of course.”

  Henry began, “How did you—” and then checked himself. “I should know better than to ask how. You know everything that goes on.”

  “On Tampica, yes. But a few things that happen on the out islands manage to escape my notice.” Lucy led the way through her comfortable drawing room and out onto a shady terrace. “Come and sit down. Iced tea or rum punch?” She tinkled a small silver bell, and a black lad with a wide grin appeared from the house. “Three rum punches, please, Martin. Now, where was I? Oh, yes—I don’t pretend to keep track of everything over on St. Matthew’s, but Geoffrey Patterson was here to tea the other day—he’s an old friend of mine—and he happened to mention that you were coming over to look into this murder.”

  “ ‘Happened to mention’ indeed,” said Henry, with a grin. “I suppose he had told you all about the case before he even knew he was being pumped.”

  “There’s no need to take that attitude with me, young man,” replied Lucy, with spirit. “You’re every bit as bad as I am, and you know it. What about that mild mousy manner and positively apologetic interview technique? I know how you get your information.”

  Emmy laughed. “You’re perfectly right, Lucy,” she said. “You and Henry are two of a kind.”

  “Our methods are different, but we make a good team,” Lucy agreed. “Ah, here are your drinks.” She waited until Martin had gone and then said, “Well? What do you want to know?”

  “Everything that you know,” Henry said.

  Lucy considered. “That doesn’t amount to a great deal. I know Sandy Robbins—he once had a girl here on Tampica. It would surprise me if he was guilty as charged.”

  “You mean, you don’t think he’s capable of murder?” asked Henry.

  “I mean no such thing, nor did I say it. Sandy handles a machete as well as any man in these islands, and he has a quick temper. If it was a question of a fight over a girl, say, or if somebody had done a friend o
f his a really bad turn, yes, I can imagine Sandy killing. What I do not believe is that he would get mixed up in some extremist political group, much less murder a total stranger as a result.”

  “That’s the police theory, I understand,” Henry said.

  “Yes. That’s why I used the words ‘guilty as charged.’ The evidence against him is very strong—no doubt about that. Before you rule Sandy out as the culprit, you’ll have to dig pretty deeply into his relationship with Senator Brett Olsen.” Lucy stirred her rum punch with a slender silver spoon.

  “You think there may be a relationship?”

  “I have no idea. I only know Olsen as the name of a committee, and a man who vacations in the Caribbean. I’m just telling you that if Sandy Robbins killed him, it was personal, not political.”

  “What possible personal connection could a Matthewsian barman have with a U.S. senator?” said Emmy.

  Lucy smiled. “Islands are small places,” she said. “Sandy Robbins has lived all his life on St. Matthew’s, and this wasn’t Olsen’s first visit. Sandy has always been a great one for the girls, and I understand from Geoffrey that the senator’s wife wasn’t with him—she flew back from Europe when she heard the news. There might be a line of investigation there.”

  “What’s the governor’s opinion?” Henry asked.

  Lucy gave a little impatient sigh. “Geoffrey simply wants the whole thing cleared up and disposed of as soon as possible. I suppose it’s inevitable that he should only think of the political angle—but then, he never did have much imagination. He wants Sandy tried, sentenced, and hustled off to prison on St. Mark’s—out of sight, out of mind. Then he feels sure that Owen Montague can deal with the political troublemakers, given some police reinforcements from other islands. I told Geoffrey that he was making a serious error of judgment.”

  “Did you? Why?”

  “Because it’s too late for those tactics now. The political ball has started rolling and gained momentum, and Sandy’s conviction would simply make things worse. People in these parts are volatile and emotional, and a very ugly situation could develop. No—what’s needed now is a slow, painstaking investigation, no assumption of guilt, justice being seen to be done. That’ll allow a cooling-off period, and if you do find proof of Sandy’s guilt—as I am very much afraid you will—at least there’ll be nothing hole-and-corner about it. You will also certainly find that the motive was not political, which is very important. So don’t let Geoffrey bully you, Henry. Take your time. Get the facts. Above all, don’t provoke the troublemakers. What if a few more windows are broken? It’s better than a full-scale riot.”