Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  The children scattered, leaping and giggling: Prudence was already leading Emmy down toward the sea shore. Lucy Pontefract-Deacon said, “Do come in, Mr. Tibbett, and sit down. I think we have quite a lot to talk about.”

  15

  The house was comfortable and very much lived-in. Miss Pontefract-Deacon led the way through the drawing-room to a terrace overlooking the sea, shaded by white cedars and frangipani. Once Henry was comfortably settled in a canvas chair, she said, “If this was your first drive over the mountain in a moke, I am sure you need a drink. With your permission, I will bring a couple of weak rum punches.”

  Two minutes later, she was back with the drinks. She sat down, stirred her rum punch with a thin crystal stick, and said, “You were called in, quasi-officially, to assist Sergeant—I’m sorry, Inspector Bartholomew in his investigation of Mavis Ironmonger’s death. The result is that Dorrie Hamilton apparently confessed to murdering Mavis and then killed herself. Am I right?”

  “Not quite,” said Henry. “She confessed as she was dying, after her suicide bid.”

  “Well, be that as it may, you see that I know quite a lot about you, Mr. Tibbett. I don’t imagine you know very much about me.”

  Henry sipped his drink, and considered. “I know that you are called the Queen of Tampica. I know that you know everything that goes on here, often before it happens. I know that you are loved and trusted.”

  “That is a great compliment,” said Miss Pontefract-Deacon. “I will tell you a little about myself. My father was a clergyman. He came here with my mother in 1884, as vicar of Tampica Harbour. I was born here during the ‘nineties.’ I grew up here. I have seen . . . She hesitated. “. . . much. When my father retired in 1920, he went back to live in England. My mother had died some years before. However, I decided to stay here. There was nothing heroic about my decision, I can assure you. I stayed because I liked the place and the people, and it was my home. I did not spend my life nursing or teaching or doing good works—although, of course, I helped Alfred and Matthew and Prudence whenever I could. My father was a man of substance, and I have always been comfortably off. I want to make it quite clear that this island has been my benefactor, rather than the other way round.”

  Henry smiled. “You’ve made your point,” he said. And then added, “And you never married.”

  “I never married, for reasons which I do not propose to discuss. There are compensations for remaining single, you know, Mr. Tibbett. People come to me and tell me things. That is why I am so well-informed. For some quite unfounded reason, they imagine that their secrets are safe with an old maid who has no family to tattle to.”

  “And are they, Miss Pontefract-Deacon?”

  The old lady smiled, very sweetly. “That all depends,” she said. “I am perfectly capable of keeping a secret. I disseminate knowledge in those quarters which I judge to be appropriate.” She paused. “I can see that you want information from me. I am assuming that you will favor me with your confidence in return. Please tell me about this wretched business—and about Dorrie Hamilton in particular.”

  Somewhat to his own surprise, Henry found himself doing as she asked, without misgivings. He outlined what had taken place at the Embassy reception: Mavis Ironmonger’s outburst, removal and subsequent death. He went on to talk about Dr. Duncan’s analysis, and the Alcodym.

  At once, Miss Pontefract-Deacon said, “That must have come from Dorrie.”

  “You knew? About her drinking problem?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “But even Dr. Duncan didn’t know. She went to another island for treatment!”

  “Certainly. I advised her where to go and whom to see. I did not think it advisable to tell Alfred. He is a great gossip, you know.”

  Henry said, “I see what you mean about keeping secrets, Miss Pontef ract-Deacon.”

  “Please call me Lucy.”

  “Thank you. Lucy.” Henry went on to describe the inquiries which he and Inspector Bartholomew had made, and finally the circumstances of Dorabella’s death, and her last words in the hospital.

  “It looked so obvious,” he said. “Suicide in a fit of remorse. But Mrs. Drayton, who is known to her friends as Bella, was convinced that she heard her name being called from the street just before the accident. The way I see it is this. Dorabella was walking home along Exeter Place to keep her appointment with me. A car came along, driven by somebody she knew. It slowed down, and the driver called her name—Dorabella. That’s what Mrs. Drayton heard. Miss Hamilton must have run across the quiet street to talk to the driver—whereupon he accelerated murderously, hit her and drove off at high speed. The doctor assures me that she was so badly concussed, apart from the injuries that killed her, that she certainly wouldn’t have remembered any details of the accident when she regained consciousness briefly in hospital. What she tried to say then was what she wanted to tell me at our meeting.”

  Lucy Pontefract-Deacon nodded seriously. “That would be about the Alcodym, of course,” she said. “Dorrie undoubtedly supplied it, and probably put it in the drink, without realizing it was part of a murder plot.” She frowned, and said, “I don’t understand about the handbag.”

  “That puzzled me,” Henry agreed. “I can’t be sure, of course, but the doctors seem to think that Dorabella was flung into the air by the car, not run over. In that case, the bag must have flown off her arm and landed on the roof or bonnet of the car. The murderer had to make a getaway with that embarrassing piece of evidence still with him . . . or her. The obvious course was to take it back to the Embassy as soon as possible and leave it in Dorabella’s office—having carefully wiped it clean. Winston Nelson obligingly found it there and put his prints all over it.”

  Lucy Pontefract-Deacon considered. “That points very clearly to somebody at the Embassy,” she said. “Have you checked on where people were? I mean—who has an alibi?”

  “Nobody,” said Henry. “Among the possible suspects, that is. Winston Nelson was working late—he was alone in the office section of the Embassy. He could easily have followed Dorabella when she left, and still been back in time to take my phone call. Michael Holder-Watts was on his way home, and it wouldn’t have taken him far out of his way to go via Exeter Place. I haven’t been able to find out just where his wife was.

  “Sir Edward was invited to a cocktail party at the British Embassy, which is some distance from Georgetown. He left about five o’clock—before Miss Hamilton—driving himself in his own car. I haven’t been able to check exactly what time he arrived at the British Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue—but the party didn’t start until six, so he must have been off on some private errand first. He had ample opportunity to be in Exeter Place at a quarter past five.”

  “You haven’t questioned him about it?” Miss Pontefract- Deacon sounded accusing.

  “No,” said Henry. “You see, you and Emmy are the only people in the world who know that I suspect anything other than suicide. We are supposed to be here on holiday. I particularly don’t want to alarm anybody by appearing suspicious.”

  “I shall have to give this matter some thought,” said Miss Pontefract-Deacon. “There are several things that . . . well, never mind. Thank you for being so frank with me. Now, what did you want to know from me, Mr. Tibbett?”

  Henry said, “How much do you know about the Tampica Research and Development Company?”

  Lucy gave him a long, hard look. “A certain amount,” she said. “Such as?”

  “It is a speculative venture. The stockholders are banking on the breakdown of negotiations between the United States and Tampica over the naval base. The company is busy buying up property around Barracuda Bay. If the U.S. Navy remains in Tampica, the land will be worthless and the speculators will lose. If not, there are fortunes to be made.”

  “I understand,” Henry said, “that only Tampicans may own stock. Do you know the names of the principal investors?”

  “I know of one person who has bought a considera
ble amount.”

  “And who is that?”

  Lucy Pontefract-Deacon smiled, conspiratorially. “Me,” she said.

  Henry threw back his head and laughed. “I congratulate you on your business acumen, Lucy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And the other stockholders?”

  She regarded him, head slightly on one side. “I’m not sure that it would be proper to tell you. Francis Fletcher from Pirate’s Cave is the Chairman, and has some shares. Alfred Duncan, I think, has a modest holding. So has Barney. I think that is as far as I should go.”

  “Sir Edward Ironmonger?” Henry asked.

  Lucy leaned forward and patted his hand. “I won’t tell you I don’t know,” she said, “because you wouldn’t believe me. I shall simply say that if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you.” She paused. “Eddie is a delegate at this conference, you know. If he had a financial interest in its outcome, it would be most improper for him not to declare it and disqualify himself. And the same goes for his staff. Ah, I see your charming wife coming back from her walk with Prudence. And Matthew has joined them, after his dip. Shall we have tea?”

  She picked up a small silver bell, which tinkled elegantly. A moment later, a goodlooking Tampican boy in a white jacket came out onto the terrace.

  “This is Martin, Mr. Tibbett. Martin Fletcher, Francis’s brother. I don’t know how I’d run this house without him. He’s been with me—how long is it now, Martin?”

  “Six months, Miss Lucy.”

  “That’s right. Ever since Eddie and Mavis stole Walter Jenkins from me to take him to Washington. Ah, well, I couldn’t blame him for going. Sugar Mill Bay isn’t the liveliest place in the world, is it, Martin?”

  Martin grinned broadly, but said nothing. Lucy went on, “Oh, it’s all very well for you, my lad. You’ve got at least two girls here and heaven knows how many in Tampica Harbour.” Martin’s grin stretched even wider, until it threatened to break his face in two. “Well, be that as it may, we’re ready for tea, if you please. There will be five of us. And I’ve told the Bailey children to come to the kitchen for some cake.”

  “O.K., Miss Lucy,” said Martin cheerfully, and disappeared into the house just as Emmy and the Barringtons came climbing up the stone steps from the beach.

  “You see, Lucy?” Prudence called out. “Success! Dead on time! We actually met Matthew on his way up from the beach at exactly five to four. Show Mr. Tibbett your new watch, Matthew.”

  A little sheepishly, Matthew Barrington held out his left wrist to display a handsome watch in a stainless steel case. Good to see you again, Tibbett,” he said. “Yes, this is my new toy. Waterproof, shows the date, everything. Prudence gave it to me for my birthday last week. I lost my old one—can’t think how . . .”

  “The old one was a disgrace,” said Prudence. “I’m delighted that you lost it. And you really like the new one, don’t you, dear?”

  “I’m getting used to it,” the Bishop admitted, “but I’m not sure that I enjoy knowing the right time after all these years. Well, I suppose we all have to make our little sacrifices in the cause of progress. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and put on some more seemly clothes for tea.”

  As soon as Matthew had disappeared into the house, Prudence leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “Matthew didn’t lose his old watch at all! I stole it!”

  “Whatever for?” asked Emmy, laughing.

  “It was driving me mad, never being able to rely on Matthew being on time for anything. I tried to get it repaired, but the man said it must have been running slow for years, and there was nothing he could do. So I just let Matthew go on thinking he’d lost it, and bought him the new one. You must promise never to tell. It’s a great secret.”

  “It won’t remain one for long, Prudence,” remarked Lucy Pontefract-Deacon, “if you persist in telling all and sundry whenever Matthew isn’t here. If you want a secret kept, keep it yourself.”

  The glass door from the house opened and Martin appeared, wheeling a trolley-full of delicacies—cucumber and watercress sandwiches; brown bread and butter sliced thinly, with Gentlemen’s Relish; homemade shortbread; chocolate and walnut sponge cakes topped with cream; crisp brandy snaps and lady fingers. The centerpiece was an enormous silver teapot, decorated with an extravagance of Victorian frills, twirls and grace notes.

  “Tea,” said Martin, unnecessarily, “is served.”

  The drive back to Tampica Harbour was less hair-raising than the trip over, due to the fact that the reassurance of familiarity had already begun to assert itself, and there was not the feeling that every bend in the road might reveal a new horror. However, Henry’s concentration was all on his driving, and not until the moke reached the tarmac surface at The Lodge did conversation become a practical possibility.

  Emmy said, “What a marvelous old lady. I’m so glad we made the effort and drove over. What did you and she talk about all that time?”

  “This and that. The island. The case. How did you get on with Mrs. Barrington?”

  “Oh, she’s very sweet and so is the Bishop—but she does tend to ramble on. She was telling me in tremendous detail all about the night Lady Ironmonger was killed and how they heard about it on the television news. It seems they almost missed it, thanks to the Bishop’s old watch, which was obviously a family joke. Now, tell me what you found out.”

  “I’m getting more and more interested,” said Henry, “in the Tampica Research and Development Company. It’s perfectly clear that the stockholders are vitally concerned that the naval base talks should break down and the Americans leave. It’s also clear from what Belmont said that Ironmonger is the strong man. If he should drop out of the picture, the United States would make a deal with Drake-Frobisher, and the navy would stay. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  “I see,” said Emmy, “that it would be interesting to know who holds the stock.”

  “Lucy Pontefract-Deacon is a big stockholder,” Henry said. “She told me so. Dr. Duncan has some shares, too—and so do many of the islanders. That’s all perfectly proper; they can take a gamble if they want to. What would be extremely improper would be if Ironmonger or any of his staff owned shares. They know that, so if any of them are concerned in this, their stock will be held by a nominee. I think we should have a word with Francis Fletcher.”

  They were in the town of Tampica Harbour by now, threading their way along narrow streets to reach the waterfront before taking the road to Pirate’s Cave. Henry said, “It’s extraordinary how helpful it can be to go right through the case with a complete outsider, as I did this afternoon. It clarifies things in one’s mind.”

  “And answers questions?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. It poses questions—things I should have asked myself sooner.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, for a start, why was Mr. Finkelstein being introduced to Lady Ironmonger?”

  “That’s easy. Because he was a guest at the reception and she hadn’t met him before.”

  “Exactly. And then—”

  Henry got no further. As he stopped at a red traffic light, a squeal of recognition from the pavement revealed Mr. and Mrs. Watkins, laden with paper bags from various souvenir shops. “Yoo-hoo! Mr. Tibbett! You going back to Pirate’s Cave? Mind if we hop in the back?”

  They scrambled in just as the lights changed. “I feel quite exhausted,” said Pauline Watkins. “We were just doing some last-minute shopping—little gifts for people back home, you know. We’re off this evening, you see.” She simpered. “The Prime Minister’s yacht sails for Antigua tonight, and Sir Samuel has kindly suggested we travel on her, to catch the plane to London in the morning. So much more restful than getting the early flight from here tomorrow.”

  “Pity you couldn’t find that picture postcard of the boat to take home,” Hubert remarked.

  “Never mind, I shall take a nice snap of her in Antigua tomorrow. The ladies at the bridge club will be most interested. Afte
r all, it’s not every day one travels in the Prime Minister’s yacht.” Pauline preened herself. Henry thought—poor Mavis . . . poor Dorabella . . . He turned the moke in through the gate of Pirate’s Cave.

  “This is where we get off,” trilled Pauline. “Thanks ever so much, Mr. Tibbett. Come and see us if you’re ever in Penge . . .” Henry parked the moke, and he and Emmy walked through the scented twilight toward their cottage.

  “What were you going to say, Henry? Before the Watkinses caught us?”

  “I. . . I forget. . .”

  George and Magnolia Belmont were having a drink on their verandah and cordially invited the Tibbetts to join them. George looked glum when Henry inquired about the progress of the talks.

  “We’re meeting again Monday,” the Senator said, “but if you ask me, there’s no way. Ironmonger won’t give an inch, and if I’m to be frank with you, there’s a couple of East Coast liberals on our team who aren’t giving us the support we need. You may have noticed that Otis Schipmaker turned up on the island yesterday. I don’t need to tell you what that means.”

  “Some people,” declared Magnolia, “are just not patriotic. Some people don’t even deserve to have a navy. When I think that Otis’s brother’s wife’s sister is married to a fine young naval officer—well, some people don’t have any family feeling any more, either. Did you see Ginny Schipmaker on the beach this morning?” she added, addressing Emmy.