Murdered by Nature

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Why ask?’

  ‘Because you haven’t rudely shouted for a coñac.’

  ‘It’s work.’

  ‘Disturbingly unfamiliar?’

  ‘My superior asks the impossible.’

  ‘Don’t they all? So are you ordering or d’you want to pay a parking fee?’

  ‘A coñac.’

  ‘Ever heard of that little word “please”?’

  ‘Not in here.’

  Alvarez carried a well-filled glass over to a window seat. Bitter thoughts were briefly banished when he saw a young brunette whose frock appeared to caress her as she walked towards the steps up to the old square. She would never confuse him with being in his mid-sixties.

  He drank. Salas, unwilling to accept the worth of those under his command, had vetoed the questioning of Señora Ashton. But he had not mentioned the staff at Son Dragó. One of them might be able to understand if there was any significance in the address being in Kerr’s notebook. And there was pleasure to be gained in uncovering evidence which would prove Salas had made a stupid decision . . . Yet was so ephemeral a pleasure worth the effort?

  His glass was empty, and he took it to the bar to be refilled.

  Dolores said: ‘You are troubled, Enrique?’

  ‘I’m trying to decide whether or not to follow up an idea,’ Alvarez replied.

  ‘Was she telling you to get lost or giving you the catch-me-if-you-can routine?’ Jaime queried.

  Her tone became sharp. ‘As my mother used to say, a man’s mind is always searching.’ She spoke to Alvarez. ‘The problem is with work?’

  ‘If I take one course of action, I may gain the chance to prove to Salas he’s been wrong.’

  ‘There is a preferable alternative?’

  ‘No, but it would mean having to undertake a hell of a lot of extra work.’

  ‘Without doubt, for you a problem without a solution.’ She stood. ‘There is one decision you will take now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To help clear the table.’

  He watched her carry plates through to the kitchen. Women had never been good philosophers, since their thoughts never rose above a domestic level.

  He braked to a halt in front of Son Dragó, stepped out of the car into the sunshine. He looked across blue Llueso Bay, with its mountainous backing; at s’Albufereta de Llueso, now a nature reserve; at Port Llueso, saved from overdevelopment by those few who placed charm above profit; at the final thrust of the Serra de Tramuntana which reached eastwards to the lighthouse at Cap de Parelona and on which ran a road of endless, vertiginous twists and turns, bordered by plunging rock faces. A road to terrify someone who, as did he, suffered from altophobia.

  In the long area that ran from road to house and from house to the end of the promontory grew, in no planned form, indigenous plants, or those which over very many years, sometimes since the time of the Moors, had become so. For him, a far more attractive sight than the multicoloured, highly cultivated plants in the gardens of most foreign owned properties. The palm trees appeared to have escaped the bug which was killing so many. Saved by the enveloping sea? In the spring, the many almond trees would provide clouds of white. Had he been a god, he would live here, not on Olympus.

  He heard footsteps and turned, faced a squarely built man with a face sketched by sun, wind, and rain, dressed in working clothes.

  ‘Thought it must be you, seeing as you’d nothing to do but stand and stare.’

  ‘Felipe Salcedo!’

  ‘Felipe García.’

  ‘Of course. But as they say, call a rose a bramble and it will still smell sweet. What are you doing here?’

  ‘With a mattock in me hand, you need telling?’

  ‘I thought you were in building.’

  ‘So I was, even after I bloody near fell head first down the well we were deepening. But a foreigner cleared off leaving all the bills unpaid for a new house, the boss retired, and it was time to find a new firm. Only, work had become tighter than a Mestarian’s pocket because of those sods in banks, and the old woman was bellyaching because I didn’t bring home good money and still spent time in a bar.’

  ‘Women dislike bars.’

  ‘Dislike anything what gives a man a bit of fun.’

  ‘Had you previously done any garden work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did you persuade the señor to take you on?’

  ‘Told him I wasn’t no pansy gardener, but the stuff he wanted looking after, I’d known since I was a kid.’

  ‘It’s an unusual garden.’

  ‘It’s what he liked. Growing island history, he called it. Waste of money, a mate of mine says. If some plants are dying out, let ’em, there’s plenty more. The señor wanted to conserve. See that tree?’

  Alvarez looked at a very ordinary, spindly tree with dull green leaves.

  ‘He said there wasn’t more than a dozen of them left and they only grow on the island.’

  ‘Don’t recognize it. What’s it called?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Some Latin name which sounds like you’re gargling.’

  ‘Can’t be much you haven’t got?’

  ‘There’s palms, olives, oaks, carobs, almonds, lentiscs, mastics, pistachios, strawberry trees, heathers, buckthorns, myrtles, what he called the sacred tree of Venus, whoever she is, and a lot more.’

  ‘How did the señor regard your gardening skills?’

  ‘He told me more than once that it was just how he wanted things. And the señorita said as how, shortly before he died, she had to wheel him over to a window so as he could look out at everything.’

  ‘It was kind of her to tell you that.’

  ‘Came natural to her. Like when Juana was really ill.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Daughter. Doctor didn’t know what was wrong. The señora said Juana was to go into a clinica, and they saved her. Ain’t many, however rich, what would have paid the bills they did for an employee’s child.’

  ‘You sound as if you have a great respect for her.’

  ‘Surprises you?’

  ‘D’you think she’ll inherit the estate?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t she?’

  ‘Rich men can act strangely. A billionaire in America died not long back and left his children nothing because he reckoned they should make their own way through life, same as he had to.’

  ‘Silly bugger.’

  ‘Did he get on well with the señora?’

  ‘Married to her, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Doesn’t mean everything was sweet.’

  ‘You’ve a miserable mind.’

  ‘Comes from the job.’

  ‘Find another one.’

  ‘Perhaps I should try gardening.’

  ‘When you look like you haven’t the strength to pull out a bramble?’

  ‘Someone said the señor was keen on sailing.’

  ‘Often went out in his yacht.’

  ‘With the señora?’

  ‘If he wasn’t going far. She told me she enjoyed it for a while, but not when it went on day after day and all you saw was the sea.’

  ‘Did he sail far?’

  ‘Menorca, Ibiza, France, Italy, Turkey, Morocco.’

  ‘Did you ever go on the boat with him?’

  ‘When he was having trouble with the motor.’

  ‘Thought it was a sailing yacht.’

  ‘Never heard of being trapped on a lee shore?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘He told me about it.’

  ‘Now tell me.’

  ‘A tide or a wind takes you in towards the shore and you can’t put up enough sail to escape. Without an engine, you smash on to the rocks and likely drown.’

  ‘I’ll stick to land. When the engine seemed to be uneasy, you were out with him if it needed to be put right?’

  ‘Weren’t to haul the ropes.’

  ‘You’re an engineer as well as a gardener and builder?’

  ‘I know enough about engines t
o get it going again.’

  ‘Did you ever go to Morocco with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How often did he sail there?’

  ‘As often as he wanted.’

  ‘Did the señora go with him?’

  ‘Ain’t I said, she didn’t like long trips?’

  ‘Did he bring stuff back from there?’

  ‘You want to charge him duty?’

  ‘Not my problem. What kind of things did he bring?’

  ‘Herbs, spices, stuff like that and some kind of prepared food. Gave me and the wife some of that. She tried it and chucked it.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Copper caskets. Collected ’em.’

  ‘Antiques?’

  ‘Might have been. Messed around in what he said was classical decoration. Some of them came from hundreds of years back.’

  ‘What sort of size?’

  ‘Thirty, fifty centimetres long.’

  ‘Were they heavy?’

  ‘Copper ain’t made of feathers.’

  ‘The weight might have been what was in them?’

  García shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You never saw what was inside?’

  ‘Don’t poke me nose where it’s not wanted. Why are you going on about them?’

  ‘I’m interested in old things.’

  ‘Kind of family feeling?’

  ‘I want to know—’

  ‘I’ve finished with answering.’

  ‘You want another feather in your cap from hindering the law? Builder, gardener, mechanic, criminal?’

  ‘You’re a daft sod.’

  ‘D’you get strangers wandering around the estate?’

  ‘On the two days when they’re open to the public it’s like Palma. Leave enough mess and damage for twice as many. But the señor takes a couple of euros from all of them and gives it to charity.’

  ‘What about people at other times?’

  ‘Because the garden’s mentioned in guidebooks, there’s some who think the place is public.’

  ‘Have you—’

  ‘I was mentioned in one of them,’ García proudly interrupted.

  ‘Favourably?’

  ‘Said I was a real expert gardener.’

  ‘Fame indeed! You’ve heard about the body fished out of the bay?’

  ‘I can read.’

  ‘He had the name Roca Nesca written down in his notebook. So you could have seen him wandering around. Five, six centimetres taller than you, slim, wavy brown hair, kind of rat-faced good-looking, white skin because he hadn’t seen the sun for a time, a very noticeable scar on his neck. Maybe he was in the garden, hoping to ask your advice.’

  ‘Ain’t seen anyone like that.’

  ‘Who works in the house?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’ll have to ask them questions similar to those I’ve asked you, and it’s polite to know their names.’

  ‘Same as you knew mine?’

  ‘Is there a big staff?’

  ‘The señor didn’t like too many people around. He’d often come out here and sit in the shade, not doing anything but enjoying what was around him. Said the greatest luxury was peace and quiet.’

  ‘Tell me the names of the staff.’

  ‘Manuel, Beatriz, Inés, and a couple who come on alternative days to help clean.’

  ‘Manuel who?’

  ‘Benavides. Comes from Valladolid. Calls himself the butler.’ García hawked and spat an unspoken comment on social delusions.

  ‘And Beatriz?’

  ‘Does the cooking.’

  ‘Is she good at it?’

  ‘The señor liked his grub so he wouldn’t have had her if she weren’t. Not that I’ve ever said to the wife how good she is. Nothing starts a cat-row faster than telling a wife she ain’t the sharpest cook.’

  ‘How right you are! I ought to move.’

  ‘Don’t reckon to stop you.’

  Alvarez walked slowly. A pattern was beginning to emerge. He went around the house to the back door and, since this was ‘Mallorquin territory’, did not bother to knock, but opened it and entered a small square, off which were three inner doors. He called out. Benavides entered, was momentarily surprised to see him.

  Alvarez introduced himself. ‘I’ve come to have a word with you. It’s been a tiring day, so is there somewhere we can sit?’

  ‘If you will kindly follow me, inspector, we will go into the staff sitting-room.’

  They walked along a corridor, past the kitchen from which came evocative culinary scents, turned into a small room, reasonably furnished.

  ‘Please sit where you would like.’

  Alvarez was disturbed by Benavides’ obsequious manner, but accepted that someone from Valladolid could not be expected to enjoy the same sense of equality as a Mallorquin. ‘I’m hoping you will be able to help me over one or two matters.’

  ‘If that is possible, I shall be happy to do so.’

  ‘I need to find out more about Kerr, the man who drowned in the bay. You’ll have read or heard he had a noticeable scar on his neck below the right ear and this was large enough to make for easy identification. Did he come here before he died?’

  ‘Had he done so, inspector, in view of all the publicity, I would have immediately reported the matter.’

  ‘It’s heartening to hear that.’ And unusual. The islanders would denounce each other without hesitation, but saw little need to inform the police about something which did not concern themselves. ‘I’ve looked through the possessions of the dead man, left in the villa he was renting, and amongst them was a notebook in which was written this address. I had a word with Felipe before coming to the house and asked if he’d seen someone resembling Colin Kerr wandering about the estate. He hadn’t. So I thought Kerr might have come directly to the house. You tell me he didn’t. To your knowledge, was Kerr a friend or acquaintance of the señor?’

  ‘I have no reason to believe so.’

  ‘He never called at the house?’

  ‘Again, I fear I cannot help you.’

  ‘Then likely Felipe was right.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘Kerr probably read about the gardens in a travel guide, made a note to look at them, never did so.’

  ‘That sounds reasonable.’

  ‘I’d better have a word with Inés and Beatriz now, to make certain I’ve spoken to everyone.’

  ‘I can assure you they will agree with what I have said.’

  ‘My boss will cast doubts on anything not told directly to me; there are times when he finds reason even to doubt what I say.’

  ‘You have an unfortunate superior?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Those of us lucky enough to work here would disagree.’

  ‘D’you know who’ll inherit the estate?’

  ‘No. But it is the wish of us all that Señora Ashton does.’

  ‘She couldn’t enjoy a better recommendation.’

  ‘An opinion, inspector. An employee does not recommend.’

  ‘Not even to a would-be employee?’

  Benavides managed a cramped, brief smile.

  ‘Did the señor and señora get on well together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Roca Nesca promotes perfect relationships.’

  ‘Marriage, in their case.’

  ‘Even a marriage made in heaven has its downsides. They could hardly be human and not have had a row or two.’

  ‘If that had been the case, the discussion would have been in private. The señor always behaved as a man in his position is expected to.’

  ‘You never heard so much as a spat?’

  ‘The señora would sometimes disagree with him, but she always expressed herself in a gentlewomanly manner.’

  ‘A marriage not only made in heaven, but spent there.’

  ‘You will excuse my saying that it is a shame to disparage the happiness of others.’

  ‘It was awe, not dis
paragement. When the señora did quietly express her opinion, what was it likely to be about?’

  ‘Domestic matters.’

  ‘Who was likely to win?’

  ‘They would come to a happy agreement. Indeed, I can recall only the one instance in which one might say it was obvious they strongly disagreed.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘The señor had to return to England for three weeks, and since he would be in Manchester, said they’d travel together and she could visit her old friends. She did not wish to go, and that upset the señor.’

  ‘She had a reason for staying here?’

  ‘I cannot answer.’

  ‘A young, male friend?’

  Benavides’ tone became very butlerish. ‘She has friends, all of whom remained just friends.’

  ‘No honey buttering?’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Secret smiles, furtive touches.’

  ‘You completely mistake the señora.’

  ‘No young male friends ever stay here?’

  ‘I can recall only Señor Browyer, and it may disappoint you to know that neither the señor nor the señora enjoyed his company.’

  ‘Then what was his attraction?’

  ‘He was a nephew of the señor.’

  ‘And what was wrong with him?’

  ‘It is not my place to comment.’

  ‘Move on until it is.’

  ‘The señor was of a generous nature, yet I inadvertently heard him say to the señora that he had more than once lent money to Señor Browyer, none of which had been repaid, so he was not going to lend him any more.’

  ‘Browyer is a sponger?’

  Benavides did not answer.

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘In England.’

  ‘When did he last stay here?’

  ‘In May.’

  ‘There has been no word from him since then?’

  ‘I cannot be certain.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I answered the phone not long before the señor died. The caller asked to speak to the señor. I answered that he was not at home and asked the caller for his name. He rang off. His voice had been muffled, but it reminded me of Señor Browyer’s. I did not express the possibility to the señor, but I did later hear him speaking very angrily on the telephone when there was another call from the same man.’

  ‘Browyer asking for more money?’

  ‘I cannot answer.’