“And the gun—what do you think about the gun?” Winnie demanded.
It was Eleanor who answered, in a flood of near hysteria. “That’s the awful part, Mr. Nelson! It seems almost as though she did it on purpose . . . planned it just to embarrass us and make us look ridiculous . . . I don’t know how she could do such a thing!”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Holder-Watts?”
“Shut up, Eleanor,” said Michael, easily. “The point is this, Winnie. She shot herself with Eddie’s gun.”
“So I understood. But—”
“He kept it in his desk drawer, as I expect you know. Well, after Mavis had been found, and everybody was running round like beheaded chickens, Dorabella calmly remarked that she had noticed early this afternoon that the gun was missing from the drawer. Dorabella didn’t worry because she remembered the conversation we had the other day—you were there, I think—about it being more sensible to keep the gun in the bedroom in case of intruders, so she just concluded that either Eddie or Mavis had moved it. But now, both she and Eleanor seem to think that Mavis planned her suicide deliberately, took the gun, and then got good and stinking to cock a final snook at the diplomatic world before she went. It’s pure guesswork, of course, but Eleanor feels rather strongly about it.”
“It was a . . . a dreadful thing to do,” said Eleanor tearfully. “Mean and spiteful and cruel and unpatriotic and . . .” She searched for the ultimate word. “. . . and common!”
“Mavis was common, darling,” said Michael. “We all knew that.”
“I’ll never forgive her,” sobbed Eleanor. “Sir Edward may be only a Tampican, but at least he’s a gentleman!” And, having packed the maximum possible snobbery, bigotry and lack of tact into one short sentence, she ran out of the room, her handkerchief to her eyes.
A heavy silence followed her departure. Then Michael yawned, stretched and said, “I imagine Eleanor has gone home.” The Holder-Wattses had rented a little Victorian house on the next street. “I may as well join her. There seems nothing to be done here.”
“Nevertheless, I will remain,” said Winnie. “It is true that Eddie appears to have no need of my services, but I feel it my duty to stay.”
Michael had risen and walked to the door. He said, “Pity you didn’t feel that way earlier this evening.”
Winnie said, “So you insinuated before. I fail to see how my presence could have improved matters.”
“Do you? Well, in that case, better not try to puzzle it out. It might keep you awake at nights.” Michael opened the door.
“One thing does puzzle me, Michael. How did the newsmen get hold of the story so quickly?”
“Oh, that was Eddie’s idea. As soon as the doctor had confirmed that Mavis was dead, he got Dorabella to ring the U.P.I. and give them a short statement.”
“My goodness me.” Winnie spoke with a sort of affectionate, amused admiration. “I don’t believe I would ever have thought about that at such a moment.”
“Many people wouldn’t, dear boy,” said Michael lightly. “But Eddie is exceptional, as we know. That’s why he is an ambassador and we are not. Eddie is very, very careful. Good night.”
Winston sat quite still. He heard the front door close behind Michael, and then the house was silent, apart from the faint tapping of Dorabella’s typewriter in the Ambassador’s study.
4
The shrilling of the front doorbell woke Winnie from his uneasy cat nap on the library sofa. He scrambled to his feet and glanced at his watch. Ten past three. Doctor Duncan would not even have taken off from Antigua. He hurried out into the hallway, and had the front door open before Dorabella appeared, tired but businesslike, from the back of the house.
An impeccable, middle-aged gentleman in a dark suit stood on the doorstep. Gravely, and in hushed tones, he said, “My name is Rollins. Rollins Funeral Services. May I come in?”
Dorabella laid a hand on Winnie’s arm, and gently but firmly pushed him aside. She said, “Please do, Mr. Rollins. It was kind of you to come so promptly, and in person. I explained to you on the telephone what is necessary.”
“Yes, indeed, madam.” He turned to Winnie and bowed. “Please accept my deepest sympathy, Sir Edward.”
Winnie was wide awake by then. He said, “No, no, Mr. Rollins. You are mistaken. May I present myself . . . ? Winston H. Nelson, First Secretary.”
“Ah, yes. . . most understandable . . .” murmured Mr. Rollins, somewhat obscurely. Then, to Dorabella, “And now, if I might see Lady Ironmonger, I can make the necessary. . . em . . .”
Dorabella said, “I’ll take you up.” Winnie noticed that, for the first time, she seemed nervous and ill at ease. Her hand, in which she held a key, was not quite steady.
Winnie said, “I’ll go up with Mr. Rollins, Dorabella.”
“Sir Edward asked me to—”
“I expect he didn’t know I was still here.” Winnie held out his hand for the key. “Come on, Dorabella. You’ve been through enough for one night. Let me take over.”
She gave him a tiny smile. “All right. Thank you, Winnie.” She handed him the key. “Nothing is to be touched unless it is absolutely necessary. Mr. Rollins will be taking measurements for the coffin.”
She turned, and almost ran back toward the study.
“This way, if you please, Mr. Rollins.” Winnie preceded the undertaker upstairs, their footsteps inaudible on the deep pile of the golden carpet. Irrelevantly, Winnie remembered that the stair carpet had been the subject of a lively disagreement between Eddie and Mavis. Eddie had picked pale gold, to complement the deeper sheen of the old waxed wooden stairs and banisters. Mavis had wanted dark red. Eddie had dismissed red as vulgar. Mavis had retorted that pale gold would get filthy in no time, with all the people using the staircase. Eddie, of course, had won. Now, as he climbed the stairs ahead of Mr. Rollins, Winnie saw for the first time that the carpet was already showing signs of grubbiness. He felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for Mavis Ironmonger.
“Here we are,” he said. He unlocked the door of the Ironmongers’ bedroom and stood back to let Mr. Rollins in.
What was left of Mavis Ironmonger was lying on one of the twin beds—a long, slender outline covered by a white sheet. The room reflected most precisely the differences of taste and character of the Ironmongers. The lime-green carpet and matching slub-silk curtains had of course been chosen by Eddie, so had the beautiful antique English walnut furniture. Mavis’s touch was proclaimed by a collection of Disney-like animals in glass, china and wood on the table by her bed; by the frilly pink skirt which made a mockery of the Queen Anne dressing-table; by the serried ranks of scent and cosmetic bottles glimpsed through the open door of her adjoining bathroom (Sir Edward’s bathroom, leading off his dressing-room, was almost Spartan in its simplicity). Over Mavis’s bed hung a painting (an expensive original) of a saucer-eyed comic strip child clutching a puppy, and on the bed she kept a big, lifelike angora cat, made of white rabbit fur, which acted as a cover for the wisp of transparent froth which she called her nightdress.
Now, however, the cat lay askew on the floor beside the bed, with pink nylon spewing from its interior, like intestines. Beside it, also on the floor, was a Smith and Wesson lightweight revolver, which, if it were not Eddie Ironmonger’s, was certainly its twin.
Winnie was somewhat surprised to see that the revolver had been carefully outlined in soft white chalk, which made a blurred, powdery design on the soft pile of the carpet. The nightdress case had been similarly treated, and two other chalk marks were so positioned that Winnie took them to mark the spots where Mavis’s right hand and foot had been touching the floor when she was found. Eddie, as Michael had remarked, was certainly careful.
Working with a solemn reverence which thinly masked highly professional speed, Mr. Rollins gently removed the sheet from Mavis’s body. Predictably, death became her magnificently. She lay, like the Lady of Shalott, serene and remotely beautiful in her dark silk dress, with her fair hair tumblin
g from under the white silk scarf which the doctor had placed, loosely, to cover the wound in her head. Never again would vulgarity, drunkenness, or obscenity stain her flawless features. From now on she would exist as an exquisite silver-framed photograph on Sir Edward’s desk. As such, she would probably help his career considerably. After all, to be a handsome widower mourning a lovely young wife never did anybody’s charisma any harm.
Mr. Rollins had taken a notebook from his breast pocket and was making discreet, valedictory jottings, casting a practiced eye over Mavis in the same way that Winnie, as a boy, had seen old boat-builders in Tampica Harbour size up planks for a hull, or canvas for a sail. The true expert has no need of a measuring tape.
Mr. Rollins worked fast. He was just making his final entry in the notebook when the door opened and Sir Edward Ironmonger walked in. He did not even glance at Mr. Rollins, but went straight to Winnie, and said softly, but with fury, “Please leave this room at once.’’
It was like a slap in the face. Winnie did not trust himself to say anything, for fear of desecrating the death chamber. Expressionless, he walked out of the room, down the stairs and through the front door into the brisk, clear, Georgetown night.
His car was still parked outside the Embassy, and he got into it and revved up the engine with unnecessary vigor. Then he drove off down the deserted, lamp-lit street. A few minutes later, he was inside the comfortable bachelor apartment which he had rented in a modern block near the Washington Circle. He had intended to go to bed and try to snatch some sleep from the remnants of the night, but instead he found himself pouring out a generous measure of scotch and sitting down gloomily in a large armchair to drink it. It was not more than ten minutes before the telephone rang.
Wearily, Winnie stretched out his arm and picked it up. “Nelson.”
“Winnie? This is Eddie.”
Winnie said nothing.
“Winnie, I’m calling to apologize. And to explain, if I can. I’m sorry I said what I did.”
Stiffly, Winnie said, “It is I who must apologize. Your orders were disobeyed.”
“Let me explain, Winnie. It is true, I told Dorabella that nobody but she, myself and the undertaker should go into that room until Dr. Duncan arrived. I was angry and upset when I learnt you were up there. I admit it.”
“You had every justification. You are His Excellency the Ambassador, after all.”
“For God’s sake, Winnie. Just listen, will you? Why do you think I issued those orders?”
“It is hardly for me to surmise.”
“Come off it, Winnie. I’ve got enough to worry about, without you—”
“I’m sorry.”
“Above all, don’t apologize. Can you come back to the Embassy right away? Dorabella’s out on her feet, and I’m sending her home. Now, don’t start getting prickly again. She’s done the donkey-work, and the difficult part is about to begin. That’s why I need you.”
“The difficult part?”
“Another statement to the press. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Please come, Winnie.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Four-thirty a.m. As Winnie parked his car, he saw a little knot of people assembled outside the door of the Embassy. He supposed that one or two of them must have been there when he left —he simply had not noticed. The curt announcement on the ten o’clock news bulletin had obviously been enough to cause the stationing of a look-out in the vicinity of Oxford Gardens. Later on, the comings and goings had alerted news-sensitive antennae. The ghouls were gathering, and Winnie could not hope to escape them as he walked from his car to the front door.
“Mr. Nelson!” Somebody was bright enough to know his name. The others took it up.
“A statement please, Mr. Nelson!”
“What was the cause of Lady Ironmonger’s death?”
‘Was it during or after the reception?”
“What’s the medical report?”
“No comment,” muttered Winnie, fumbling for his key.
“When did you last see Lady Ironmonger alive?”
“Will there be an autopsy, Mr. Nelson?”
“Have the police been called in?”
The key slid into the lock, and turned. Winnie said, “A further statement will be issued in due course. Thank you, gentlemen. Good night.”
He opened the door just far enough, slid inside, and banged it behind him. Eddie Ironmonger stepped out of the shadows into the lighted hallway. He said, “Press?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It was only to be expected. That is why we have to make another statement before Duncan arrives.”
“I don’t see that it’s any journalist’s goddam business,” said Winnie crossly.
Eddie laid a hand on his arm. “That’s what I have to explain to you, Winnie. Come into the study.”
As soon as he entered the study, Winnie was aware of the heavy smell of cigar smoke in the air. Typical of Eddie, he thought. Good cigars were the Ambassador’s one great luxury, but Dorabella was a nonsmoker, and even under the stress of this evening’s tragedy, Eddie had not lit up until his secretary had gone home. Not for the first time, Nelson speculated on his chief’s extraordinary attention to detail. Was it self-discipline, good organization or just habit? He did not know.
He said, “I thought everything was explained by now.”
“Not by a long chalk, Winnie. It is bad enough to have to contemplate the fact that Mavis killed herself. But the truth may be even worse.”
Winnie felt a cold breath of fear, like an icy draught on his back. “You’re not suggesting she was murdered?”
“I’m not suggesting anything at the moment. I’m just saying that we must be very careful.” There was something uncanny to Winston in this echo of Michael Holder-Watts’s words. “By forbidding you to go into that room, Winnie, I was trying to protect you. Don’t you see that? If . . . if the worst should happen . . . it is very important that those who are patently innocent should do nothing to compromise themselves. You were not even in the Embassy when Mavis . . . created that scene. You were driving Bishop and Mrs. Barrington home—nobody could want more trustworthy witnesses. I want to keep you entirely—untainted. You see, the rest of us are in a different position.”
“What do you mean?”
Patiently, Eddie Ironmonger said, “Eleanor was in the bedroom —she took Mavis up there. Michael was there—he found her body. Naturally he called me—and later it was also necessary for Dorabella to go into the room. That makes four people, not including the doctor and the undertaker. Four was already too many. Now it is five.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve asked you before not to apologize.” For the first time, Sir Edward’s smooth fagade seemed on the point of cracking; then he squared his powerful shoulders, and said evenly, “It is just in case of any unpleasant possibilities that I intend to draft another statement to the press. We are keeping this a strictly Tampican matter, but not only must everything be completely aboveboard —it must be seen to be so. Do you have a pen? Write this down and see how it looks.”
He paced up and down beside his desk. “A doctor has been summoned from Tampica to establish the exact cause of death of Lady Ironmonger, wife of etc. It can be stated that apparently Lady Ironmonger did not die of natural causes, but no more positive announcement can be made until the medical reports have been received. Lady Ironmonger’s body will be flown home to Tampica this morning . . . no, change that . . . will this morning be flown home to Tampica, where an autopsy will be performed if doctors consider it necessary. Their findings will be made public, and another statement issued in due course.” He paced the length of the room again. “No, delete the last bit about a further statement. Unnecessary. Their findings will be made public. Full stop. Funeral arrangements will be announced later. Read that back, would you, Winnie?”
Winnie did so. Ironmonger nodded. “That should do. We can’t stop the gossip, so I intend to forestall it as far a
s possible. Telephone that through to U.P.I., if you will, and then go home and get some rest. Tell the carrion crows outside that a statement has been . . . no, better, read it to them. Point out to them that they’ll catch nothing but a cold standing on the pavement till morning. Get rid of them somehow. They make me nervous.”
“I’ll do my best.” Winston consulted Dorabella’s list of telephone numbers, and dialed United Press International. He read the statement, emphasized that he had nothing further to add, and rang off. Then, the paper still in his hand, he stood up.
Sir Edward had pulled back the curtains from the long window that overlooked the garden, and was standing, his back to the room, gazing out at the clear sky. Already, faint glimmers of light were diminishing the blackness, and the garden trees, still bare of leaves, could be made out as skeletal shapes behind the ghostly whiteness of a magnolia in bloom.
Winnie said, “I’ll be off, then. I presume Dorabella’s arranged for Duncan to be met at the airport?”
“She’s going herself. The plane touches down at half-past seven. With any luck, he’ll be here soon after eight. I’d appreciate it if you were too, Winnie.”
“Of course.”
“And meanwhile, get some rest.”
“And what about you, Eddie?”
The Ambassador did not turn round. He had lit another cigar, and was raising it to his lips as Nelson spoke. For a moment, the movement was arrested, like a movie jammed in the projector. Then the dark hand continued its upward movement. Sir Edward said quietly, “I do not think that I shall sleep. Good night, Winnie.”
It was a dismissal. Winston went out into the hall and through the front door to face the small cluster of journalists outside.
5
The plane from Antigua touched down at Dulles Airport exactly on time. While the other passengers—many of them incongruously dressed in their brilliant Caribbean resort clothes—waited for the mobile lounge to whisk them across the tarmac to the airport building, an elderly gentleman in a sober black suit was helped down the boarding ladder from the first class section, and into a waiting limousine driven by a big, handsome black girl. There was no question of Customs or Immigration for Dr. Duncan. He was being given the full VIP treatment.
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