Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  Sir Edward Ironmonger, the ambassador to the United States from the newly independent island republic of Tampica, and his beautiful, temperamental wife, Mavis, are throwing a party for the Washington diplomatic corps. Despite her promises to behave, Mavis manages to insult the Israeli ambassador and is quickly removed to her room, where her corpse is discovered a few hours later. Suicide is ruled out by an autopsy, and to avoid embarrassing publicity Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett is brought in to conduct a discreet investigation.

  Henry Tibbett, Chief Superintendent of Scotland Yard, has for years delighted those who love a classic British detective story. A modest, self-effacing man, Tibbett possesses an almost uncanny “nose” for crime, and those who know him well realize that his gentlemanly demeanor masks a shrewd mind and a fearless spirit. When he teams up with his wife, Emmy, a cheerful but formidable woman, there isn’t a criminal any-where who can rest secure.

  “In the top echelon of mystery writers no name is more admirable than that of Patricia Moyes.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  BLACK

  WIDOWER

  Copyright © 1975 by Patricia Moyes

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is for Tony and Betty

  and Horatio, who look after

  our special island for us.

  Author’s note

  Any book set in such a real-life location as Washington, D.C., is bound to be, to a certain extent, a mixture of fact and fiction: consequently, I would like to make it clear which is which.

  All the characters in this book—American, British, and Tampican—are purely fictitious, and bear no resemblance whatsoever to any real persons, living or dead. I stress this in particular in the case of the diplomats, politicians, doctors, policemen, and other public figures portrayed.

  There are no such streets in Georgetown as Oxford Gardens and Exeter Place, and Maycroft House is imaginary—but anybody who knows the area will recognize all three as being typical. Chevy Chase is real, but if it has an Episcopal Ladies’ club, I have not been able to trace it. The Georgetown Garden Tour, however, is a delightful reality, and my good friends at 3320 Dent Place (whose garden has indeed been featured on the tour) have kindly given me permission to use their address.

  The islands of Tampica and St. Mark’s are entirely fictional, and so is Pirate’s Cave Hotel—although it does more or less resemble several superb Caribbean resort establishments which I know. On the other hand, Antigua, St. Thomas, and St. John’s are all real places.

  A word of caution. Please don’t try to book yourself on a direct flight between Dulles International Airport and Antigua, as described in the book. You have to change at Puerto Rico.

  Finally, my most sincere thanks to Dr. Pierre Dorolle and his colleagues at the World Health Organization in Geneva, who once again spared their precious time to set me right on medical details.

  P.M.

  BLACK

  WIDOWER

  1

  The invitation cards were very impressive. Under a complicated gold-embossed coat of arms, the die-stamped legend, in flowing italic type face, read:

  His Excellency the Tampican Ambassador

  and Lady Ironmonger

  request the pleasure of your company

  at a Reception

  on Thursday, April 14th

  Cocktails 6-8 p.m.

  R.S.V.P.

  The Embassy of Tampica

  3119 Oxford Gardens, N.W.

  Washington, D.C. 20007

  The impression of quiet dignity was only marred by the fact that the words “To say Hullo!” had been written across the top of the card, in a childishly looped hand, by a purple ball-point pen. This addition had been Mavis Ironmonger’s own idea, and Michael Holder-Watts, Counsellor to the Embassy, was currently remonstrating with her about it.

  “You’re just an old stuffy-pants, Mike,” protested Lady Ironmonger. “I think it’s nice. A sort of homey touch.” She leant back in her armchair and gave him a long, slow look from her violet eyes.

  “My dear Mavis,” said Michael, “for heaven’s sake get it into your thick head that Eddie isn’t just a bright, young Tampican lawyer any more. He’s an ambassador, and you’re his lady wife—and you’d better start behaving like it.”

  “But Mike,” Mavis pointed out, “when Tim and Elvira Beckett gave their farewell party in Tampica, Tim himself wrote ‘To say good-bye’ on all the cards. And he was a governor-general, which is much higher up than an ambassador.”

  “That was quite different. The Becketts had been in Tampica for years, and they were inviting personal friends.”

  “Very, very good friends,” agreed Mavis Ironmonger, in a soft, husky voice.

  “To some of whom,” Michael added tartly, “Elvira for one was undoubtedly delighted to say good-bye.”

  “Oh, Mike, don’t tell me you’re jealous.” The violet eyes opened wide. “There never was anything between me and Tim. Well, only the tiniest little twinkle.”

  “Your tiny little twinkles have led to plenty of trouble in the past. I just hope you’ll start behaving yourself now.”

  “Oh, Mike. How can you say that? You know you don’t mean it.”

  “Mavis, once and for all. . .”

  “Of course I’ll behave myself in public. But in private, Mike darling . . .”

  Half an hour later, retying his Old School Tie in front of an ornate gilt-framed mirror, Michael Holder-Watts said, “Well, if you absolutely insist, for God’s sake spell ‘Hello’ with an e, not a u.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the way the word is pronounced.”

  “I always say ‘Hullo.’ ”

  “I stand corrected. It’s the way the word should be pronounced, by anybody who speaks the Queen’s English.”

  “Oh, Mike, you are beastly to me. . .”

  The next day, the invitation cards—purple ink and all—began dropping through the letter-boxes of Washington, and ended up on the desks or breakfast tables of diplomats, statesmen, politicians, social celebrities and other notables. They produced a mixed bag of reactions.

  “Tampica?” remarked an antipodean ambassador to his secretary. “Where the hell is Tampica?”

  “It’s that Caribbean island that became independent a few weeks ago, sir. You know how they always rush to open up an embassy here. Shall I accept for you and Mrs. Braithwaite?”

  “In the Commonwealth, are they?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Oh, very well. Needn’t stay more than a few minutes. Got to show the flag.”

  “Tampica?” said a prominent New England senator to his wife. “You really ought to know, my dear. She’s a very new country, but already she’s making a brave stand against the United States government that will certainly embarrass the White House. A question of the U.S. naval base. Certainly we’ll go.”

  “Well, well, well,” said Prudence Barrington, adjusting her reading glasses and holding the invitation at arm’s length. “Just fancy that. Eddie Ironmonger. Why, I remember him at Sunday School. Such an attractive child, with those bright eyes and white teeth lighting up his chubby, little black face. And now to think he’s His Excellency the Ambassador! What a surprise!”

  “The surprising thing,” replied her husband, “is that he’s only an ambassador, and not prime minister. It’s a disgrace.” The Right Reverend Matthew Barrington, Anglican Bishop Emeritus of Tampica, cleared his throat angrily and took a gulp of coffee.

  “Whatever do you mean, Matthew? Surely it’s a great honor for any man to be his country’s ambassador to the United States?”

&
nbsp; “For most men, yes, I agree. But Eddie Ironmonger is by head and shoulders the most outstanding figure Tampica has produced —and she needs her best men now, at this moment in history. Goodness me, I’ve followed Eddie’s career all the way from that waterfront slum, through schools and scholarships—First Class Honors at Oxford—Gray’s Inn—absolutely brilliant. Alpha plus.” ‘Then why . . . ?” Prudence Barrington’s kindly, rather vague face looked troubled. “Oh, you mean because of Mavis? Well, just because she’s an English girl—”

  “English hussy,” corrected Matthew, always a stickler for the mot juste. “Miss Luscious Lollipop of nineteen-sixty-two. And that’s the whole trouble. Now, don’t misunderstand me—” The Bishop held up an admonitory hand, although his wife had shown no sign of wishing to interrupt. “I would never reproach anybody for humble origins, and I am aware that many charming and . . . em . . . virtuous girls may enter beauty contests, and even occasionally win them. But I fear that Mavis Watkins was not one of them. Her behavior at the time, and ever since . . . well, as you know, everybody tried to warn Eddie, but he was young and impressionable and in a strange country . . .”

  “But we’ll go to the reception, won’t we, Matthew?”

  “We will. Indeed we will. Poor Eddie. He will need all the friends he can muster . . .” Matthew Barrington sighed deeply, and began buttering a third slice of toast.

  “Normally,” confided Mrs. Otis P. Schipmaker II to her friend and neighbor Mrs. Margaret Colville, “Otis and I never go to parties at these jumped-up little embassies—but this is a must!”

  “Is it? Why?”

  “Because of her, of course. Everybody’s talking about her. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Otis didn’t want to accept, but I just insisted. Will you and John be there?”

  Margaret smiled. “Not invited,” she said. “Not important enough. Anyway, John will be in New York then, for the conference.”

  “Oh, honey, what a shame. You should be there—she’s English you know. Oh, well, we’ll meet again for coffee and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “. . . not really an embassy at all,” said Magnolia Belmont to her husband. “Just a house in Georgetown . . . embassy and residence all rolled into one. Why, the whole itty-bitty island of Tampica isn’t any bigger than my sister Melinda’s estate in Texas. Me, I just do love these quaint, simple, primitive folks, but I reckon we’ll pass this one up, honey? Anyways, don’t we go to Florida that week?”

  Senator George Belmont studied the invitation card. Then he said, “No, baby. This one we accept.”

  “But George—”

  “I know how y’all feel, honey, but we have to make sacrifices. This is a question of the U.S. naval base.”

  “I don’t care about your silly old naval base. Little me wants to go to Florida.” Magnolia was pouting in true southern style.

  Her husband was conciliatory. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s not just as simple as the naval base, see? These darned nigg—black people—are getting too damn cocky, and you know how soft the White House is . . . somebody’s got to stand up and be counted . . . somebody’s got to represent the silent majority, and anyhow I’m on that committee. . . .”

  Magnolia smiled at her husband. A proud smile. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t realize it was like that. Certainly we’ll go.”

  “. . . Uncle Tom of the worst sort!” declaimed Franklin D. Martin to an enrapt audience in a rickety church hall in North East Washington. “Traitor to his own people! Sir Edward Ironmonger. . . .” He swept a mock bow. “Accepting phony titles from Whitey! Well, man, he shouldn’t have been dumb enough to come to Washington, D.C. Shall we show him, or shall we show him?”

  “Right on!” chanted his listeners.

  “Outside the embassy, April fourteen, six-fifteen! Who’ll be there?”

  “We’ll be there!” screamed the audience.

  “Who’ll carry banners?”

  A handful of people jumped up, waving their arms. “Right on!” shouted the rest.

  Franklin D. Martin became business-like. “Banner-carriers give their names to the committee before leaving the hall,” he said. “The committee is me. The rest of you, assemble April fourteen six o’clock outside the Georgetown Pig Station in Volta Place, for a protest march on the Tampican Embassy.”

  “You gonna to get Pig permission?” called an unbelieving voice from the hall.

  “Man, you’ll see what we gonna get,” replied Franklin D., ominously.

  One way or the other, the invitations caused quite a stir.

  Thirty-one-nineteen Oxford Gardens was not a large house by Georgetown standards, but it was a very pretty one. For those who know Georgetown only as a vaguely-remembered name from American political novels, a little history is perhaps in order.

  Long before Washington, D.C., was established as the capital of the uneasily-united states of America, tobacco merchants from Virginia had been bringing their precious cargoes of dried leaves up the Potomac River to the port of Georgetown, there to be transferred to larger vessels for shipment all over the world. High above the port, the Rock of Dumbarton rose, a wedge-shaped height towering between the Potomac River on the south, and the stream known as Rock Creek on the east.

  Soon, the rich merchants began to build great, beautiful houses for themselves on Dumbarton Rock—pleasantly cool in the hot, humid summer weather; close to the nerve-center of the port; isolated in shady green gardens. In the year 1750, Georgetown was established as a city and its boundaries marked by engraved stones; it remained a favorite residential area, even when the silting-up of the Potomac drastically curtailed the tobacco trade in the port at the foot of the hill. Consequently, it came as no great surprise when George Washington, who knew and loved Georgetown, decided to found his national capital city on the far side of Rock Creek in 1791. It was a pleasant site, on the river, strategically poised between North and South. Nevertheless, Georgetowners tend to remember that their city preceded the nation’s capital by some forty years.

  Today, after various changes in fortune, Georgetown is again a quiet, pleasant residential area. Some of the great mansions still remain, set in acres of show-piece gardens. At the other end of the scale, little wooden frame houses originally constructed as slave-quarters change hands at vastly inflated prices. In between, solidly successful businessmen have continued over the years to build themselves modest but comfortable houses, each with its plot of garden, and these are the most sought-after dwellings in Washington.

  The government of Tampica, marshaling the meager resources available to it, had considered the possibility of renting an expensive downtown office suite as an embassy, and purchasing a mediocre suburban house as the ambassador’s residence. Fortunately, Edward Ironmonger—who had great good taste and had lived in Chelsea for some years—was able to convince his countrymen that 3119 Oxford Gardens, a red-brick house built at the turn of the nineteenth century in the heart of Georgetown, would serve both purposes and be a better long-term investment.

  Consequently the house had been purchased, and now the green and purple flag of Tampica flew proudly outside its yellow front door. Inside, while Sir Edward and Lady Ironmonger were at the White House presenting their credentials, a somewhat grim conference was taking place in the Ambassador’s study on the ground floor. The conferees were Counsellor Michael Holder-Watts and First Secretary Winston Horatio Nelson.

  The two men could hardly have presented a greater contrast. Holder-Watts, fair and willowy and full of the charm that only an expensive British education can bestow, was one of the few Foreign Service officials who had elected to take Tampican nationality with the self-professed object of guiding her representatives through the first, thorny steps of the diplomatic jungle. His veneer of delightful, Wodehousian vagueness and social polish gave no hint of the incisive judgment and steel-trap ruthlessness under the surface. And at the moment, Michael Holder-Watts was very worried.

  Winston Horatio Nelson had been born a few years late
r than Edward Ironmonger, in the same waterfront slum on Tampica Harbour. According to family legend, his great-great-great-greatgrandfather had been a sailor in Nelson’s ship, H.M.S. Boreas, which had put into Tampica briefly while on patrol in the West Indies in the 1780’s. This accounted for Winston’s slightly lighter coloring as compared to Eddie, for example, and also for his name —for the local ladies, unable to differentiate between one British sailor and another, had apparently dubbed them all Horatio Nelson. Ever since, the eldest son of the family had been christened Horatio, and the family’s Anglomania had led them to add the name Winston in the case of the baby born during the Second World War.

  In spite of all this, Winston Horatio Nelson—known to his friends as Winnie—had grown up to be a fanatical fighter for independence. He had not—as he was the first to admit—the mental ability of his neighbor and hero, Eddie Ironmonger. He had won no scholarships to Oxford nor First Class Honors. However, with the help of his good friends Bishop and Mrs. Barrington, he made full use of the educational facilities which Tampica had to offer, completed his schooling in Antigua, and returned to throw himself with vigor into the life of a civil servant on the up-grade. He also recognized brilliance when he saw it, and thus had attached himself firmly to the coattails of Edward Ironmonger, which was why he now found himself as First Secretary of Tampica’s Embassy, sitting in a study in Georgetown and discussing with Michael Holder-Watts how to avert disaster at the Embassy’s first official reception. The object of their concern was, of course, Mavis Ironmonger.

  “If we can just get through this first evening without a frightful scandal,” Michael was saying, “things won’t be so bad. All the local ghouls seem to have heard about her reputation, and they’re turning up in their hordes, rubbing their hands in anticipation. If only she can behave herself this once—”