“You know John and Margaret Colville?” Henry asked.
“Certainly I do. I first met them while they were vacationing here, and after that they came to visit me each time they were on St. Matthew’s.” The old lady’s eyes twinkled. “In fact, I flatter myself that I may have had a small part in their decision to buy the Anchorage. They are just the sort of people we need on these islands—but residence permits and so on can be tiresome and lengthy to arrange.”
“Unless you know the right people,” said Emmy.
“Exactly, my dear. It is fortunate that I am now on the telephone—an underwater line from St. Mark’s. Very convenient. I was able to speak to Geoffrey Patterson and get the whole thing fixed up in no time.”
Henry said, “So you approve of John and Margaret.”
“Of course I do.”
“You know they are convinced of Sandy’s innocence?”
“I could hardly fail to know. Margaret has been on the telephone every day. I can only repeat—I do not believe the boy is guilty as charged, but that’s a far cry from blameless innocence.” Lucy paused and sipped her drink. Then she said, “I am very pleased that you are here. Please keep in touch with me—here is my telephone number. And if I can be of any help…” She glanced at her watch. “I don’t want to rush you, but if you are going to catch the afternoon boat, I think you should be on your way. I don’t like anybody to take the Goat Hill road too fast, parapet or no parapet.”
“I agree with you,” said Henry, feelingly. “Thanks a lot, Lucy. We’ll be off. If you should happen to think of anything…”
The Tibbetts were already in the Moke and Henry had his hand on the ignition key when Lucy said, “You shouldn’t overlook Sebastian Chatsworth. Or Teresa.”
Henry said, “Chatsworth? He’s the secretary of the Golf Club, isn’t he?”
“He is. And Teresa is his wife. Sebastian is extremely stupid, but he has a lot of influence on St. Matthew’s. Teresa is…not stupid. If you handle her right, she will be very useful to you. If not, she would be a formidable enemy.”
“Thanks for telling me,” said Henry.
“I wonder,” said Lucy, “whose side she is on. It would be interesting to know.”
“I’ll telephone you,” Henry said, and turned the key to start the engine.
CHAPTER THREE
THE FERRY FROM Tampica tied up alongside the wooden jetty at Priest Town, St. Matthew’s, just as the sun was going down and the green and red harbor lights began to glow in the brief tropical twilight. On the quayside, a few sparse and inadequate streetlamps made it just possible for Henry and Emmy—the only passengers—to make out the figures of John and Margaret Colville, who were waiting to greet them.
It should have been a happy reunion, but inevitably it was not. Margaret’s fine-boned, sensitive face looked strained and tired and her golden hair grayer than Emmy remembered. John’s usual bluff good humor was subdued. Hands were shaken, cheeks briefly kissed, and then luggage was loaded into the ubiquitous Mini-moke.
The streets of Priest Town were unnaturally quiet. There seemed to be a lot of policemen about. Small groups of black youths lounged on street corners, smoking, smiling slowly, saying little. Several shop windows appeared to have been recently boarded up. There was no music.
Margaret said, “It’s been quiet today, thank God. But you can feel the atmosphere. If Sandy is found guilty…”
John said, “This isn’t the way we would have liked to welcome you to St. Matthew’s. God, why do people have to play politics all the time? This was—this is a happy island. Let’s hope we can keep it that way.”
“Has it been—that is, do they know I’m here, and why?” Henry asked.
“The governor is making a speech on the radio this evening,” said John. “He thought it better to get you here safely first.” He changed gear noisily as the Moke left the town and began to climb a cliffside track. “Trouble is, we don’t know who or what is really behind this political unrest. All I’m sure of personally is that someone has really got it in for St. Matthew’s. Poor old Olsen and Sandy are just pawns in the game—a splendid excuse for a small revolution. Christ, it makes me mad.”
“Well, don’t show it, darling,” said Margaret, “unless you want to land us all in the soup. Major Chatsworth was in the bar at lunchtime, and he said two of his clients had taken one look at your face and canceled their reservations on the spot.”
“Bloody fool,” muttered John, peering into the darkness ahead, which was only minimally dispersed by the Moke’s headlights. On each side of the narrow, rutted lane, hedges of oleander and frangipani stretched out their dark branches and pale blossoms glimmered.
The man stepped out from the shadows so suddenly that Emmy gave a tiny cry of surprise and alarm. John braked abruptly, swerved to avoid the pedestrian, then began to accelerate.
“Stop, John!” Margaret’s voice was sharp and incisive. John hesitated, then stopped. The man was behind them now, running toward the car.
Margaret stuck her head around the canopy and called, “Daniel! Want a lift to the Anchorage?”
“Thank you, Margaret. Sure do. It’s a long dark walk from the club.”
“Climb in, then. You’ll have to sit on the baggage at the back, I’m afraid. Daniel, meet Henry and Emmy, friends of ours from England. This is Daniel Markham. He looks after the greens at the club.”
“Pleased to know you.” Daniel Markham extended two skinny black hands and gripped Henry’s and Emmy’s simultaneously. Then he leaped lightly into the back of the Moke and perched on a pile of suitcases. As the car moved forward, Daniel reached in his pocket for tobacco and paper and began to roll a cigarette, balancing miraculously on his swaying perch. He said, “Hear you canceled the dance tonight.”
“It’s because of the governor’s speech,” said Margaret easily. “Everyone’ll stay home to hear it. We wouldn’t get enough customers to keep the band in beer.”
“Knowing that bunch, you’re sure right.” Daniel sounded amused. “Hear there’s to be a dance at the Bum Boat, all the same.”
John, at the wheel, made a sound that started off as a growl and ended as a cough.
“Well, you can always go there, can’t you, if you get bored at the Anchorage?” said Margaret, just a shade too brightly. “Ah, here we are.”
The Moke had topped a small hill and was coming down into a little settlement beside the sea. Henry and Emmy could just make out a few houses—some dark, some glittering with lights. The largest building was a foursquare white structure illuminated by a small floodlight. It stood in a garden lit by colored lanterns, and the rhythmic pounding of the surf on the shore was enhanced by the crisp obbligato of a Chopin étude for pianoforte. Outside the building, mounted on a white post, swung a traditional English pub sign depicting an old-fashioned anchor.
“Must’ve known I was comin’,” Daniel remarked. “Playin’ my favorite record. Sandy always—” He stopped abruptly. “Sorry. For a moment I forgot. Who’ve you got behind the bar tonight?”
“Me,” said Margaret. “Harper’s just been standing in for me while we went to Priest Town to meet the boat.”
Daniel jumped down from his pile of suitcases. With no particular emotion, he said, “Reckon you’ll have to get another regular barman. Sandy won’t be back in a long, long while. Well, thanks for the ride.” He strolled off in the direction of the bar.
“You’d better get back on the job, darling,” said John. “I’ll help Henry and Emmy upstairs with their luggage.”
“OK.” Margaret climbed out of the Moke, took a step toward the bar, then turned back. “I don’t want to rub it in,” she said, “but tonight was a case in point. If you—”
John held up his hand. “All right, all right. I thought it was Daniel, but I couldn’t be sure. And Henry and Emmy were with us.”
“You see what I mean?” Margaret appealed to Henry. “You see what’s beginning to happen to us? All these people are our friends. If it ge
ts to the point where John’s afraid to stop and give a lift to Daniel, then this island is in bad trouble and getting worse. If I hadn’t made John stop—well, every time something like that happens, the wedge goes in deeper. Them and us. Fear and suspicion. It never used to be like this.”
“We’d never had a racist murder before,” said John somberly. “Come on, Emmy. This way. Mind, there’s a steepish step…”
John picked up a couple of suitcases and led the way up an outside staircase to the upper floor. At the top, he stopped, put down the cases, and fumbled in his pocket for a key.
“That’s another thing,” he said. “We never locked this door until a week ago, and Margaret still wants to leave it open. Says it’s insulting to the islanders. Well, maybe it is or maybe it isn’t, but I’ve got my guests to think of. You’ll find a spare key to the outside door in your room. Be a good chap and lock it behind you when you come down, will you, Henry? After all, one does have responsibilities…” John sounded defensive.
Henry said, “Of course. It’s only sensible.”
“Well, here you are. Make yourselves at home. Shower through that door, balcony out here. See you in the bar.”
The room was simple but immaculate, and the balcony looked out over a gentle slope toward the silver sea and the lights of Priest Town across the bay. As she unpacked, Emmy said, “I’m so glad we came. It’s one thing to read about things in the newspapers, but quite another to feel them at first hand. It seems to me this is more than just a case to be solved, Henry. It’s the future of this island.”
“Is it?” Henry had lit a cigarette and was standing at the open balcony door, watching the lights of a cruise ship out at sea. “It all depends how the case comes out, doesn’t it?”
“Well…”
“Besides, this murder may be a symptom of political change that nobody can stop.” He paused. “It sometimes seems as though history has been altered by a single event, but it’s almost always untrue. The event is produced by the historical process, rather than the other way around.”
“Now you’re getting too deep for me,” said Emmy. “I just want this island to go on being happy and uncomplicated, like it’s always been.” She closed a drawer, snapped an empty suitcase shut, and swung it up on top of the closet. “There. All unpacked. Let’s go down and have a drink.”
The bar of the Anchorage Inn was roofed, but otherwise open to the lamplit garden. A handful of people—black and white, men and women—sat on tall bamboo barstools, chatting and sipping drinks. Behind the bar, Margaret was busy concocting a complicated rum punch. She looked up and smiled as the Tibbetts came in.
“Ah, there you are. Come and have a welcome drink on the house—I’m just making you a couple of Anchorage punches.” She added some dangerous-looking pink liquid and began slicing a fresh lime. “Every bar on every island has its own special recipe, you know. Fortunately, we inherited this one, along with Sandy.” In went a dash from another bottle, a sprinkle of nutmeg, and a straw. “There. See how you like it.”
“It’s delicious.”
“Good. Now, you must be introduced. Henry and Emmy Tibbett, great friends of ours from London. Daniel, you know. Sebastian and Teresa—that is, Major and Mrs. Chatsworth from the Golf Club. Tom Bradley from Washington, D.C.—he’s been staying with us for a couple of weeks. Harper Robinson and—oh, heavens, it’s seven o’clock. We’ll miss the gov.”
Quickly Margaret switched the loudspeaker from turntable to radio, and Chopin was replaced by a silence broken by anticipatory cracklings. Then an announcer with a marked West Indian accent said, “This is Radio St. Mark’s, seven o’clock. Ladies and gentlemen, the governor of the British Seaward Islands, His Excellency, Sir Geoffrey Patterson.”
A pause, the clearing of a throat, and then a plummy upper-class British voice took over.
“Good evening, my friends. I’m sure I don’t have to remind any of you that our islands—and in particular I am thinking of St. Matthew’s—is…em…are going through a difficult and painful experience. First, we had the savage and meaningless murder of a distinguished visitor from the United States of America. I refer, of course, to Senator Brett Olsen. Then the arrest of a suspect, which was followed by a regrettable outbreak of sporadic violence on the part of a very few individuals, violence which nevertheless has had and is having a dislocatory effect on the stability of our Crown Colony.”
Sir Geoffrey paused and cleared his throat again. Teresa Chatsworth muttered, “For God’s sake, get on with it,” and Daniel asked nobody in particular what the man was talking about. A voice called, “About Sandy, man.”
“Now I am sure,” resumed the voice, “that these individuals are not politically motivated. They are simply unhappy about what they fear may be a miscarriage of justice.” Daniel nodded seriously. “So it is to these people that I speak first this evening. I want to reassure them that they need have no fear. I have been in personal touch with Scotland Yard in London, and they have sent us one of their most experienced men— Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett of the CID—to make a thorough investigation into the case.”
Every head in the bar turned to look at Henry, who grinned broadly.
“The chief superintendent will stay on St. Matthew’s until this case has been finally solved beyond a shadow of doubt. He is, of course, completely unbiased, but I happen to know that he holds with the utmost firmness to the basic cornerstone of British law—that a man is innocent until he is proved guilty. He will not be swayed by mere circumstantial evidence. He will track down the murderer—whomsoever that may prove to be—until guilt can be irrefutably demonstrated. I ask you all to cooperate with Chief Superintendent Tibbett in his difficult task, and to make him welcome. I also ask all those who have the welfare of our islands at heart to stop the violence, to have confidence in the judicial process, and to—”
Whatever Sir Geoffrey’s next exhortation was going to be, the listeners in the bar of the Anchorage never found out. At that moment, a well-aimed brick—thrown from the outer darkness of the garden—caught the radio fair and square, sending it crashing down from its shelf above the bar, scattering and splintering glasses and bottles as it went. Margaret screamed, ducking down and shielding her face from the broken glass. Sebastian Chatsworth was on his feet, shouting. John Colville came running from the kitchen. For a moment, all was pandemonium. As the confusion subsided, the voice of the governor came serenely from the radio—now lying on its side under the bar, but still operational.
“—and peace. Good night, my friends. Good night.”
John Colville mopped his brow. “Good… night,” he said. Then, “Where’s Henry?”
“I’m here.” Henry stepped in from the shadowy garden. “No hope of catching…whoever it was. Got clean away. What’s the damage, Margaret?”
Margaret’s head appeared from underneath the bar, like a jack-in-the-box. “Just a whole lot of glasses,” she said, “plus a bottle of Scotch, two bottles of rum, and our last real French crème de menthe until the next boat comes in. Still, I suppose it could have been worse. I think that merits drinks all around, on the house. Teresa, what can I get you?”
“You can get me a dustpan and brush,” said Teresa Chatsworth, “and let me clear up that broken glass for you. No, no, you get on with serving the drinks. Just leave the damage to me.”
Watching Mrs. Chatsworth take charge, Emmy decided that Lucy Pontefract-Deacon had been right, as usual. Teresa was an attractive woman, small, slim, and neat. Her brown hair was cropped short, and her skin—devoid of makeup—was deeply and evenly bronzed. By contrast, her husband was a tall man, vague of face, and untidily put together. He had managed to add to the general confusion by knocking over several barstools at the moment of the attack, and was now toppling others as he endeavored to set the first upright. Emmy decided in her own mind that he had probably been given the job of Golf Club secretary on the strength of his English accent, his handlebar moustache, and his wife.
“
There you are. Two rum punches.” Margaret pushed the drinks across the bar to Henry and Emmy. Her hands were not as steady as her voice. “Sorry about that. I suppose it was because—”
“Because of me, I expect,” said Henry. “Bless you, Margaret. Your health.”
“I think we should drink to yours,” said Margaret.
“Nonsense.” Teresa Chatsworth swept a final sliver of broken glass into the dustpan and stood up. “I’ll need a lot of old newspaper to wrap this in, Margaret. Thanks. No, you’ve no need to worry, Chief Superintendent. The people here are basically decent and perfectly biddable. Aren’t they, Sebastian?”
“What? Oh, yes, rather. I mean, perfectly.” Major Chatsworth looked at his watch. “Better be getting back to the club, old girl. Dinner and all that. Have to put in an appearance,” he added, addressing Henry apologetically.
“Of course,” Henry said. “By the way, I’d like to come and see you tomorrow, if I may.”
“Certainly. Certainly. Any time. Temporary member, and so forth. We had hoped that you and your wife might have—”
“We’re old friends of John and Margaret’s,” Henry explained, “so we decided to stay here.”
Teresa Chatsworth threw the last bundle of newspaper into the trash can and turned to look Henry squarely in the eye. “To stay here,” she said, “and to conduct a completely unbiased investigation.”
Henry smiled. “That’s right.”
The Coconut Killings Page 3
