Troubled Deaths

by Roderic Jeffries

  He should have studied the motives together, instead of separately. Wherever there were large sums of money, there was motive for murder, wherever there were strong emotions, there was motive for murder. The tontine had been set up by the three of them, Freeman, Mabel Cannon, and Charles Brent. (Surely this must have been at Freeman’s suggestion, ostensibly to avoid their having too much money available to spend which might have drawn attention to themselves, in fact because he had an eye firmly fixed on the main chance?) Each of them, after buying a house, had been drawing a very good income from the tontine, soon to be made even larger by the strength of the Swiss franc when compared with softer currencies. In April of this year, Freeman had passed fifteen million pesetas through his bank account in Palma which had not gone through his account in Puerto Llueso. Where had it gone and why had he had to draw it? Assume he had earlier been engaged in some sort of financial speculation which had gone sour, leaving him owing this large sum of money. Where was he going to get it from? There was more than enough left in his share in the tontine, but that capital could not be drawn without the written consent of the other two members and as the survivor took all it was not in their interests to allow him to withdraw so much. Mabel Cannon wouldn’t have bothered where her interests lay because she was in love with him, but Brent would have objected. Being the younger man, Brent would have hopefully believed he was going to be the survivor who inherited all, little realizing the unlikelihood of this if Freeman had his way. So unless Brent’s veto could be removed, there was no hope of Freeman withdrawing the money he needed. Brent had died in the middle of March and the cause of death had been recorded as accidental whilst drunk. But that must have been a carefully planned murder.

  With Brent dead, Freeman could have had little difficulty in persuading Mabel Cannon to agree to his withdrawing fifteen million pesetas in Swiss francs from the tontine. And as everything had gone so smoothly with the first death, why not start thinking earlier than he would otherwise have done about the second one which would make the tontine wholly his? A thought which might well have been underlined if and when she began to talk about making restitution to their old firm. (She had sought spiritual guidance from Father Farras. The little priest, who never fought Satan with less than a full armament, would have insisted on that.)

  Freeman could have killed her and made her death look like another accident, but he was a clever man, as proved by his successfully planned and executed swindle, and he realized that there was always the chance, however remote it might seem in times of optimism, that someone in authority would learn about the tontine and the ‘accidental’ deaths which had overtaken two of the members and would begin to investigate. So he decided she must appear to commit suicide.

  She was very interested in the flora of the island and in her house was a book on poisons in plants. He read through the book and chose colchicine. The motive for her suicide was easily found. She loved him sufficiently to shut her eyes to all his affairs. There’s none so blind as they that won’t see. But what happens when you force a thirty-nine-year-old spinster into seeing the truth in all its naked passion?

  He’d asked her to lunch at his house on the Thursday. (Here he made a mistake - he didn’t record the invitation on his appointments calendar with the consistent redhead.) On that day he met Veronica and took her back to Ca’n Ritat and there, with one eye on the time wherever the other eye was fixed, he began to make love to her in the sitting-room. Would any man, experienced in affairs, normally make love to a woman in the sitting-room, knowing the servant might enter whatever she’d been told to do? Veronica had protested, but he’d given her sufficient drink to make certain her protests weren’t as strong as they would otherwise have been. And sharp on time (people like Mabel Gannon were always good timekeepers, even in Mallorca) Mabel Cannon had come into the sitting-room and seen them. A sight to shock and torment a love-sick spinster.

  His biggest mistake, of course, had been to underestimate Mabel Cannon’s passion for him, presumably because he had held her in contemptuous amusement. He had never bargained for the depths of her shock or the breadth of her torment. She planned a revenge that would punish him for his wicked betrayal of her and yet at the same time give her the chance to nurse him back to health and so prove that her devotion would survive anything. Her biggest mistake had been to fail to understand the potency of the poisonous llargsomi.

  So he died, but he had reached out from his grave to murder her. Just prior to the carefully contrived love-scene with Veronica which was to provide the motive for suicide, he had emptied the contents of one of her antihistamine pills and substituted colchicine. It was a foolproof method of murder, suffering only the one disadvantage that the time of her death must be haphazard. Yet if she died very soon after finding him in flagrante delicto, people would say the awful shock had tragically affected her, if she died many days afterwards they would say that she had been brooding over what had happened until she could no longer face the world.

  She took the fatal pill after Anson visited her on the Thursday after Freeman died. Her hay fever had obviously been triggered off both by causative agents and by such agents combined with heightened emotions. And Anson, with typically blunt words, had upset her so badly that she’d had a bad attack. She took one of the pills and it contained the colchicine. If Freeman had not previously died, her death would almost certainly have been recorded as suicide, exactly as planned.

  Alvarez poured himself another drink.

  On the following Monday afternoon the head booking clerk in the Palma office of Iberia rang Alvarez. ‘Regarding that call of yours. I’ve managed to trace out the flight you’re interested in.’

  ‘That’s great. When was it?’

  ‘Señor Freeman flew on the sixteenth of March.’

  Brent had died on the eighteenth. ‘When did he come back?’

  ‘Three days later, on the nineteenth.’

  It wasn’t proof in the legal sense - perhaps the death of Brent now never could be proved to have been murder – but it was proof enough for him. He thanked the other and rang off. He stood up and crossed to the window and looked down at the street, rather dismal under the steady rain which had been falling since early morning. Almost all the loose ends were now tied up, but it occurred to him that he should bring the appointments calendar away from Ca’n Ritat because it provided one link in the chain. There was, he thought with satisfaction, a measure of morality in all that had taken place. Three people had carried out a swindle: these three had died because they had taken with them their greed and their passions.

  He left his office and went downstairs and out to his car. He drove to the Llueso,‘Palma road, turned left, and as he passed the new school he wondered whether Juan was now working at his studies harder than he had been. If Isabel could get excellent, why couldn’t he? The road rounded the outcrop of rock and he came in sight of the mountains. Because of the rain they were slate grey in colour and bleak in nature and they made him feel unhappy so that he was troubled by the thought of who would visit his grave when he was dead. Isabel and Juan? But the young today didn’t observe the customs as their parents had. How many of them now spent All Souls’ Day in the family cemetery? How many welcomed their aged parents (and uncles) into their homes when they were no longer capable of looking after themselves?

  There was a car in the drive of Ca’n Ritat and when he parked behind it and looked into the courtyard he saw Caroline. Suddenly the day was no longer grey.

  She was wearing a lightweight anorak with a hood that was pulled over her head, to make her look like a pixie. She was feeding the dog which looked round at Alvarez but did not bother to bark. When he entered the courtyard, she said: ‘Hi, there! I’m just feeding Cheetah.’

  ‘Lucky dog!’ He watched her empty out a piece of meat from a plastic bag. The dog caught it and began noisily to eat.

  ‘Mabel used to do this every Monday because it’s the Blancos’ day off. She was always so afraid that they w
ouldn’t bother to feed him because . . . Oh!‘Her expression became confused.

  He smiled. ‘No doubt, señorita, she did not believe any Mallorquin could be trusted to bother about a mere dog on his day off?’

  ‘She was rather silly when it came to animals.’

  ‘But you also must have a little doubt or you surely wouldn’t bother to come here today?’

  After a while she smiled ruefully at him. ‘All right, you’ve caught me out fair and square. I did wonder whether they’d remember Cheetah and I couldn’t bear to think of him going hungry so I bought a couple of lamb chops.’

  ‘Whole lamb chops, señorita?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He would never begin to understand the English. Lamb chops cost so much that it made him incredulous just to look at the prices. But she had bought two for a dog which would have been better off with a lump of paunch.

  She watched the dog swallow the last of the bone. ‘There you are, Cheetah. At least you ought to have pleasant dreams tonight.’ She pointed at the battered drum which was the kennel. ‘That can’t be watertight. Why don’t people look after their dogs better out here? I mean, you see them chained up in fields with much worse shelter than this drum and so thin they’re obviously half-starved and then there are all the strays with the most awful sores . . .’ She stopped. She reached up and pushed the hood a little further back from her forehead. ‘I’m terribly sorry, I shouldn’t have criticized like that. After all, you’re hot like us - you don’t need to have a society to prevent cruelty to children. But it so hurts to see animals suffering.’

  ‘I think you are a person who hurts too easily.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She sighed. ‘Ted sometimes calls me a naive idealist who doesn’t know how much ideals cost. . . I often wonder where he read that.’ She smiled once more. ‘Now I’m being beastly to him. It’s not my day, is it?’

  ‘How is he?’ he asked, not giving a damn.

  ‘The same as ever,’ she said, and there was now a strained note in her voice.

  He looked at the kitchen door. ‘Let’s go and see if we can beg a cup of coffee to drive away the rain.’

  ‘But they’re out.’

  ‘Of course.’ He was irritated by his own stupidity. But when he looked at her, more beautiful than a field of wheat ready for harvest, he became stupid.

  ‘I wish he weren’t so terribly stubborn,’ she said, breaking the silence.

  She desperately wanted to talk about Anson, he thought. And because every word she spoke would hurt and because he had so many sins to try to expiate, he must listen and suffer. ‘Señorita, will you come and have coffee with me in the village? It would be a very great pleasure for me.’

  ‘All right. . . I mean, I’d love to.’

  If Anson had asked her, she’d have been thrilled. But in the name of reason, why should she be thrilled when a near-pot-bellied, middle-aged detective asked her? He watched her pat the dog and promise that she would be back next Monday, and tried not to think of the depths of affection she would have for the man she loved. He went with her to her car and held the driving door open and the smile of thanks she gave him was like a knife.

  In the square there were two empty parking places adjoining and they drew into these. He saw her out of her car and then led the way into the Club Llueso. The bartender looked at Caroline with obvious appreciation, but when Alvarez glared at him he hastily assumed a blank expression. Alvarez showed her to a table and then returned to the bar. ‘Two coffees.’ He hesitated, then added: ‘And two coñacs.’

  He sat down opposite her, by a window which looked out on to the steps leading up to the raised section of the square. She opened her small leather handbag and brought out a pack of cigarettes, which she offered. Once her cigarette was alight, she said, a far-away look in her eyes: ‘Teddy’s so stubborn, I could kick him. I’ve argued and argued, but I might as well have saved my breath. And I used to think . . .’

  ‘You used to think what, señorita?’

  ‘I used to think he was really modern. But he’s as old-fashioned and stick-in-the-mud as my grandmother’s clock - which never worked.’

  The barman brought over the coffees and the brandies.

  ‘I thought that perhaps you would like a coñac with your coffee?’ said Alvarez.

  She nodded, but it was clear that she wasn’t really paying any attention to what he said. ‘I asked him who the hell worries about security these days? There isn’t any for anyone. But he went on and on about how I must be so careful and how we’d have to wait and see what happens. There isn’t the time to wait.’

  He poured a brandy into his coffee, added a spoonful of sugar, and stirred.

  ‘In the end I told him I’d just move in with him.’

  A small fire of hate built up in Alvarez’s mind.

  ‘But he wouldn’t hear of it because we aren’t married. In this day and age! Half my married friends aren’t married.’

  He was shocked that she could talk like this.

  She fiddled with her cigarette. ‘He won’t marry me because he hasn’t any money and he won’t get any money until he’s a partner and he won’t become a partner because he hasn’t any money. He won’t take what I’ve got and see if Ramon would credit him with the remainder, especially if I went and worked in the office to help with the paperwork. He won’t live with me because he says we’ve got to be married first . . . I could brain the stubborn man.’ She suddenly looked at Alvarez with surprise. ‘I can’t think why I’m talking to you like this, as if you were my favourite uncle.’

  At least, he thought, she hadn’t said her father. ‘Sometimes, señorita, it is easier to talk about events that worry you to someone who is a stranger.’

  ‘But you’re not a stranger, you’re a friend.’

  ‘Señorita, you are very kind. It is a great honour to be your friend.’

  She smiled warmly. ‘I love the way all of you are so emotionally kind. If any islander can help someone who’s in trouble, he will. I know for certain that if I came to you for help you’d give it to me, if you possibly could.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She sighed. ‘If only I could.’

  ‘Could what, señorita?’

  ‘Ask you to knock some sense into his thick, thick skull,’ she said fiercely, then laughed. ‘Oh well, that’s more than enough of all my troubles. I never used to bore everyone with them, so I can’t think why I do now.’ She drank, finishing her coffee. ‘I suppose I’d better get moving because I said I’d call in and see Betty. The poor woman’s fallen and broken her hip so she can’t get around anywhere and not very many people are calling in to see her.’

  He vainly wished he could find the words which would hold her, even for just a little longer.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, and stood up. He followed suit. ‘I should have said, Until the next time, shouldn’t I, not goodbye?’ She smiled and left and her manner made it clear she did not want him to accompany her back to her car.

  He sat down, looked at his empty cup, then at his smoking cigarette, which he stubbed out. ‘Let’s have the same again,’ he called out to the bartender, ‘but don’t worry about the coffee this time.’

  ‘One large coñac coming up.’

  The barman brought the brandy to the table. ‘A lovely woman . . .’

  ‘She’s a lady and you’d better not bloody well forget that.’

  ‘Sure,’ said the barman and, thinking that you could never really trust a policeman, he returned to the bar.

  Alvarez drank and very soon his glass was empty. ‘Bring me another,’ he ordered.

  ‘Are you sure, Enrique? It’s still only the afternoon and the last time you got pissed in the afternoon you asked me never to . . .’

  ‘I’m not asking, I’m telling you. Bring another large coñac.’

  ‘One large coñac,’ said the barman morosely.

  Alvarez lit another cigarette and was hardly aware of the precise moment when the brandy was brought
to the table, although after a while he reached down for the fresh glass and drank the contents. She didn’t belong to the modern, hard, selfish world: she needed an age of soft elegance and wide compassion . . . Yet it had been she who had suggested an affair and Anson who had rejected the idea. How to understand that? How could she love Anson? He might have some qualities which one could eventually learn to admire, but he’d never have the wit or subtlety to appreciate her as completely as he should. Who could ever imagine him buying lamb chops to feed the dog because it was the Blancos’ day off. . .?

  Sweet Mary! he suddenly thought.

  He looked at his empty glass. Was he drunk, so that his mind was a maze of nonsense? But since when had a mere three brandies affected him?

  It was totally impossible! He couldn’t still be wrong. But the dog had barked and howled. Monday was the Blancos’ day off. Matilde had not cooked the supper even though it had been a Thursday . . .

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Orozco was dressed in torn sweater, patched trousers, and the cheapest kind of work shoes made from old tyres and canvas uppers. He faced Alvarez across the entrance hall of his house and waited with stolid patience.

  ‘I thought I’d come and have a word with you,’ said Alvarez.

  Orozco continued to stare.

  ‘Is there somewhere where we can sit?’

  They went into the kitchen. There was a stone sink, fed by a single cold water tap, a bread oven fired by wood, a butane cooker, a wooden table, a cupboard, and two chairs. They sat, on opposite sides of the table.

  ‘You fought in the war,’ said Alvarez finally. ‘You left the island an idealist and like all the other idealists you had your idealism shot away and by the time it was over you’d discovered only four things in life were really worthwhile: a hole to shelter in, water to drink, food to eat, and a friend for his friendship.’