Well, she was what I’d call gauche. And she did seem to resent so much and she was always being clumsily rude, if you know what I mean.’
‘Did you ever visit her at Ca’n Ibore?’
‘We never went there, no.’
‘I mean you on your own, señor.’
‘Are you quite certain?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Yet one day Señorita Stevenage was very concerned because she thought you might be out with Señora Carrington.’
‘That . . . that’s impossible.’
‘It seems not. Can you say why Señorita Stevenage should have been concerned if she and you were not close friends?’
‘But that’s a terrible inference to make. I hardly knew her and yet you’re trying to suggest . . . ’ He swallowed heavily.
‘Do you know Señora Carrington ?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘How well do you know her?’
‘You’re not going to start inferring anything more, surely to God?’ He stared at the front door again. ‘We just knew her to speak to, that’s all. Avis never wanted to get too friendly because she says Diana’s too fast. After all, she is divorced and she’s always going round with different men.’ He didn’t realize it, but there was now a trace of wistfulness in his voice.
Alvarez was silent for a few seconds, then he said: ‘Thank you for your help, señor.’
Just before Alvarez left, Elliott said urgently:‘You must believe me. I’ve never been out with either of the ladies. In fact, I’ve . . . I’ve never been out with anyone else but Avis since we were married.’
As Alvarez drove slowly down the narrow lane which wound round the side of the hill, he thought about the two men. Dunton was the eternal womanizer. A lot of women would be attracted by his raffish, slap-and-tickle character and he wouldn’t think twice about betraying his wife.
Elliott would think a hundred and ·one times about actually betraying his wife and even to look lustfully at another woman would fill him with worry for fear his wife might find out. But his weakness could provide a challenge to some women and if the challenge were strong enough, Elliott would surely succumb to their blandishments?
CHAPTER XIII
Down in the Port, Diana drove along the front to a parking space, then left her car and walked along what had now become a path, closed to traffic, until she came to the jetty from which ski boats were allowed to take off. She saw Waynton in the water beyond the pier giving instructions to a young man. She sat on a bollard and when an ice-cream tricycle came along and stopped she bought a strawberry cone.
The ski boat’s engine started and settled down into a regular rhythm. Waynton gave the signal and the helmsman took up the slack in the ski lines and then knifed the boat through the water. The two skiers came upright and for a short while cut parallel lines through the water. Then the tyro began to lose his balance, tried frantically to regain it but inevitably was flipped over in a flurry of spray. Waynton released his tow bar and sank gracefully down into the water. The ski boat, revs down, circled round.
After a short while the skiers tried again. Waynton was at ease, the other man was clumsy but gaining confidence as he managed to stay upright. They raced across the bay towards the distant shore, fuzzy because of the heat haze.
She finished the cone, pushing some of the ice-cream down with her tongue as she had done ever since a child, so that the last mouthful was not solely one of biscuit. She lit a cigarette. She could, she thought, so easily have said ‘Yes’ in Cala Tellai. What more did she need to know about Harry’s feelings for her, or her feelings for him? To put the question was to know the answer. The memory of Evan and the sad bitterness of a marriage which had started, as all marriages should, in a cloud of excitement and had then deteriorated into dull unhappiness. Evan, she’d discovered only after their marriage, needed to be dominated, not physically but mentally. The facile explanation for this would probably be that it was because his father had died when he’d been very young and his mother had brought him up far more strictly than could possibly have been necessary: but Diana was fairly certain he’d have wanted to be dominated however he’d been brought up.
She’d been amused when, on their honeymoon, he’d kept deferring to her wishes and her opinions and apologizing for his own. That was love. But then she’d discovered, as time lengthened, that it wasn’t love, it was an emotional masochism (for want of a more accurate description) and she had sadly come to despise him be cause in her eyes he had become less than a man. And because she had to respect to love, she had ceased to love him: to cease to love him meant she could no longer live with him. He had begged and begged her to stay. She suspected that the marriage had become even more precious to him when he knew that she no longer loved but despised him. In the end, realizing that she would never alter her decision, he had characteristically insisted on settling a large capital sum on her and making this settlement irrevocable. The grand gesture of an honourable, if weak, man? Or a masochistic gesture?
Harry was not like Evan. And yet had Evan been like Evan before the marriage? It was a Catch 22 situation. Never marry a man until you can be certain what his character is: you can never be certain of a man’s character until you’ve married him.
She left her thoughts and returned to the present. The ski boat was pounding its way back across the bay, taking a broad sweep towards the headlands to keep clear of a large ketch. She saw that there was only one skier now, Harry, because the other man was a passenger in the boat. He was sweeping from side to side, riding over the wake with inclined body and at each turn sending up sheets of curling spray. He made it look like a ballet on water.
Close to the pier the boat slowed and turned and Waynton let go of the rope. He slowly, gracefully, subsided into the water.
He gave the boat owner a hand to secure and it was twenty minutes before he came up to where she sat. ‘Hi! I wish I’d known before that you were here — I’d have got Dick to give you a run on the skis.’
‘It’s just as well you didn’t. He and I are agreed that we heartily dislike each other.’
‘Why so?’
‘He’s a fool.’
He laughed. ‘Now tell me what’s got you extra sharp and scratchy ?’
‘I’ve a head.’
‘Then I can’t think of a more sensible way of dealing with that than sitting out in the blazing sunshine.’
She slid off the bollard and linked her arm with his. ‘It’s nice to discover you’re the sympathetic type. Harry, I’d like a coffee.’
‘I’ll pick up my clobber and we’ll go to the cafe further along.’
They walked past large houses, hedged in with palms for the shade and walls often ablaze with bougainvillaea, and came to a cafe which fronted the beach.
As soon as they were seated and he had ordered, he said: ‘Is something wrong?’
She didn’t immediately answer, but opened her handbag and brought out a slim gold cigarette case and offered it.
‘I hope if there is, it’s nothing serious?’ He struck a match for her.
‘There is trouble, but it’s nothing to do with me. It’s to do with you.’
‘As far as I know I’m as trouble-free as the wind.’
‘Do you know Avis Elliott ?’
‘By sight — which is as familiar as I want to get with her.’
‘She’s going round the place saying that Betty was murdered and probably you murdered her.’
He stared at her in amazement, then laughed.
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ she snapped exasperatedly.
‘Me stupid? I’m obviously not in the same league as dear Avis.’
‘Why won’t you take anything seriously?’
‘Because most things don’t deserve to be. That woman is responsible for more nonsense talked than half”a dozen other females all put together. But let’s be charitable. If you’re married to a man like Gordon, you’ve got to find something to do to stop yourse
lf going crazy.’
‘Haven’t you the wit to realize that a lot of people listen to what she says.’
‘All right. So there are a few simple souls who’ll give themselves a thrill by believing her. So what?’
She shook her head in a gesture of impatient annoyance. Before she could say anything, though, the waiter brought two cups of coffee to their table.
She slit open a small pack of sugar and poured half of this into her cup. As she stirred slowly, she looked at him and said: ‘Suppose Betty didn’t die accidentally?’
‘Why suppose any such thing? If Avis said she didn’t, it’s ten to one she did.’
‘But there hasn’t been a funeral yet because they’re carrying out a post-mortem.’
‘It’s probably the same here as at home — if a death’s sudden and unexpected, there’s a PM as a pure matter of course.’
‘But apparently there’s been a detective around, asking people a lot of questions.’
‘Right. He’s been to my place, asked his questions, and got his answers. It doesn’t signify anything.’
‘Of course it does. Detectives don’t go around asking people personal questions unless they’ve a reason to. Did he want to know if you were friendly with Betty and had visited her at her house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Harry, why d’you suppose this detective is asking those particular questions?’
‘I can only imagine that if there is a hint of something wrong they believe that maybe she’d been messing around with a bloke while Bill was confined to his bed.’
‘And who’s the only person known to have been at all friendly with her? You.’
‘Which by devious routes leads to today’s bad joke. Is that Avis’s line of reasoning? If so, she needs to fumigate her mind. I felt sorry for Betty, but as for bedding her while Bill was slowly pegging out upstairs . . .’
‘The gossips of the town are going to have a field day.’
‘Then the best of British imperial luck to them!’
The sunshine edged past the outermost branches of a pine tree to fall directly on her face and she opened her handbag and brought out a pair of dark spectacles. ‘Don’t take this lightly, Harry. Things could easily get unpleasant for you.’
‘Things’ll get more unpleasant for anyone who comes and accuses me.’
‘There won’t be any direct accusations. There’ll be whispers and then more whispers. It’s a tight little community here, so if it got bad life could become rather impossible for you.’ She fiddled with the cigarette, twisting it round between forefinger and thumb, then suddenly stubbing it out. Without looking up, she said: ‘You were talking about its being time to leave the island and return to the UK. Why not speed things up and go quickly? That way, you’d pull the rug from under their feet.’
He showed his amazement. ‘You’re suggesting I cut and run away with my tail between my legs because a tired old gossip is naming me as a candidate for a murder that almost certainly never was?’
‘You’re not running away as you’ve done nothing to run away from. You’d just be easing yourself out of an un pleasant situation that was none of your making. If only you could recognize such a thing, you’d know that that was common sense.’
He laughed. ‘Ten out of ten for semantic ingenuity, nought out of ten for logic.’
‘Damn you, I was only trying to help,’ she snapped.
He managed to sound chastened. ‘I’m terribly sorry and I humbly apologize.’
‘Liar.’
He reached across the table and put his hand on hers.
‘This is genuine. Thanks for your reasons . . . The real trouble is I was born stubborn and I’ve just gone on developing.’
‘So instead of being sensible and leaving, you’re going to stay and stick your solid head out for everyone to stamp on?’ She sat back, annoyed and exasperated . . . And yet also glad.
Alvarez sat under the shade of an olive tree whose massive, gnarled, twisted trunk seemed to speak of some past agony, and stared out across the fields. Tomatoes, peppers, aubergines, lettuces, beans, potatoes, groundnuts, plums, apricots, almonds, walnuts, pomegranates, figs, oranges, lemons . . . Man would never have lost his soul if only he had stayed close to the soil.
He sighed, reached over and picked up the last piece of bread which had been coated with olive oil and sprinkled with salt. The sun was dipping down towards the mountain tops, highlighting their crests. Time to return to the office. Soon, he thought miserably, the phone in the office was going to ring and Superior Chief Salas would impatiently be demanding to know what was happening in the case of the dead Englishwoman. Well, what was happening? She had died an unpleasant death: why? She had probably had a lover who had usurped her other, dying lover: who?
He ate the bread and lit a cigarette. The señorita had not eaten mussels for lunch on that last day, so why had there been mussel shells and a segment of lemon in the bucket under the sink? Had she eaten some mussels before sitting down at the table where she had eaten more? Why eat some in the kitchen and the rest at the table? . . . Had two people eaten mussels, had one been taken fatally ill, and had the other tried to hide all traces of his visit but in the stress of the moment had acted instinctively and before washing up his plates and cutlery swept the shells into the waste bucket under the sink?
The short, fat man who stood at the bar of the restaurant between Llueso and the Port tapped the side of his nose several times. ‘You mark my words, there’s something very funny about Betty’s death.’
The other man present momentarily looked up from his sixth gin and tonic. ‘Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar — makes a big difference, you know?’
‘Funny ve-rey peculiar. There’s been a detective going around asking questions.’
He finished his drink. ‘Bert,’ he shouted. ‘Hurry up. My throat’s like bloody sandpaper.’
‘Alex said this detective asked him how well he knew Betty and had he ever visited her house on the q.t.’
‘Had he?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Pity.’
The bartender finally appeared through the doorway behind the bar.
‘Heard the latest, Bert? Mr Cochrane’s just told me that that young filly was murdered.’
‘You don’t say, sir!’
‘I didn’t say,’ snapped the short, fat man irritably. ‘But it does look as if her death can’t have been accidental.’
‘Can’t see the difference myself: too subtle. Trouble with the world today — it’s all become too subtle . . . Now am I going to get that drink?’
CHAPTER XIV
On the Friday, and for the first time in over two weeks, the sky was cloudy at daybreak. But by midday few clouds were left and these, drifting in front of a light westerly wind, cast no more than temporary shadows on the land below.
The restaurant was sited dramatically, poised a hundred and fifty metres above the rock-strewn sea with its balcony stretching out beyond the cliff edge. In the evening diners could watch the sun sink below the horizon, flooding sea and sky with an infinity of teds and oranges.
Compton ordered wine and the wine waiter left. ‘As I never tire of saying, this is one of the few restaurants on the island to know what service really means.’
‘Why the enthusiasm?’ asked Diana. ‘Because they call you “sir”?’
He smiled. ‘As needle sharp as ever and twice as piercing! It’s because the tables are laid with clean tablecloths and silver, the waiters know which is the correct side, and the food is served, not slapped down with a take-it or leave-it attitude.’
‘If the food’s good what’s it matter whether it’s served on your right or your wrong side?’
‘There are times when it makes a subtle difference to one’s enjoyment of it.’
‘Only if you’re being pompous.’
‘You’re not going to convince me that there aren’t moments when you of all people don’t prefer eating in style.’
; ‘If I want servility I don’t look for it on this island. The people aren’t servile, thank God!’
The waiter brought them their drinks: she had a Campari and sweet vermouth, he had a gin and tonic.
‘Cheers.’ He smiled. ‘Even if it’s now considered very LMC to say “cheers”.’
‘Christ, those labels!Where d’you live, what school did you go to, is it true your aunt’s cousin’s nephew is tided? Why can’t we English accept each other for what we actually are and not for our backgrounds?’
‘But what are we?’
‘Right now I expect you’d name me bitch and yourself long-suffering.’
‘I hope I’d be slightly more subtle than that.’
‘I’m sure you would be. Nothing too, too direct for Hugh Compton, noted democratic bon viveur.’
He laughed. ‘All right, that’s me tabbed and tabulated . . . By the way, I’ve just had a letter from a friend of mine who lives near Cannes. He’s got rather a nice place up in the hills.’
‘Would any friend of yours live in a hovel?’
‘To listen to them, some of them do . . . This house is an old one, recently modernized, and when it was being used as a farmhouse Renoir painted it. Jocelyn wanted to buy that painting — until it came up for sale and made as many thousands as he could have afforded tens.’
‘What’s supposed to be the moral of that story?’
‘No moral. Just a snippet of information which might have been received with interest but wasn’t.’
She smiled, for the first time that evening. ‘All right, in your ever-so-charming way you’ve indicated I’m not being good company.’
He studied her. ‘Obviously something’s worrying you?’ She nodded.
‘There’s a saying which no doubt you’d dismiss with scorn: a trouble shared is a trouble halved.’
‘Out here a trouble shared is a trouble published . . . There’s no secret. I’m worried about Harry. You must have heard what people are saying?’
He drank, replaced the glass on the table, and idly traced a pattern across the frosting with his forefinger.
Murder Begets Murder Page 7
