A Different Kind of Evil

by Andrew Wilson

  Guy looked down, stung by the insult. “I think it’s best if we call it a night,” he said, standing up. “I’m sorry, but please excuse us. We’re both still suffering from the shock of yesterday.”

  “Yes, quite understandable,” said Mrs. Brendel, a sentiment echoed around the table.

  He reached out to take Helen’s wrist, but as he did so, she resisted. Guy continued to maintain his grip, but then Helen wrenched away her arm with such determination that, as she freed herself, she was forced to take a step backwards to steady herself. In that moment, her other arm brushed against a glass of red wine belonging to Mr. Winniatt, who had been seated on her other side. The dark liquid tipped over onto the white tablecloth and splashed onto the pages of Mr. Winniatt’s open notebook. The cries of astonishment, apology, and anger came all at once.

  “Oh, no!” said Mr. Winniatt, immediately using a corner of his white napkin to try and remove the spots of wine from the pages. “My notebook! My words!”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Guy. “Please let me help.”

  “No, I’m sure we can manage,” said Mrs. Winniatt as she used her own napkin to try to clean the book.

  “Look, you’re making it worse!” snapped Mr. Winniatt as a great arc of blood-red liquid smeared across the pages of his journal. There was desperation in his voice. “The ink is smudging, the words are disappearing.” I couldn’t help but feel more than a little pleased.

  Helen’s face was masklike, a portrait of misery. “Stop it!” she screamed, taking up a glass from the table and smashing it onto the parquet floor. The effect was instant. Each person froze—no one dared so much as breathe—as we listened to Miss Hart’s violent outburst.

  “They’re just words. Nothing but empty words. Can’t you see that? It’s just a form of glorified dictation!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Winniatt looked down, embarrassed and hurt. From Mrs. Brendel there came a sharp intake of breath. Perhaps Helen realized she had gone a little far, because she then softened her voice.

  “I’m sorry, but a woman jumped off the ship yesterday. She was driven to it, the poor thing. Driven to it by us, by me.” She looked around her with an air of astonishment, as if the shards of glass that glittered on the floor had been the result of a stranger’s sudden intervention. “I’ve lived with this long enough, but I can’t go on. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go to the captain. I simply can’t take it anymore. I have to confess. I killed Gina Trevelyan.”

  4

  Helen’s announcement acted like a sinister little explosion, disturbing our psyches and dispersing us to separate parts of the ship. Guy immediately fled with Helen, and the Winniatts returned to their cabin to continue arguing about the management of the wine stain on the notebook. Mrs. Brendel, misreading my confusion for distress, ordered me to accompany her to her cabin for a stiff drink. I relented, knowing that she would be able to tell me more about the background of Guy Trevelyan and his unfortunate wife.

  “Now, I must insist,” she said, as she sat me down in one of the armchairs. “You must take something rejuvenating. Whiskey or brandy?”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid it doesn’t really agree with me,” I said.

  “A little eau-de-vie then?”

  I let her pour me a small glass of the colorless liquid. “Spirits do the world of good after shock, and I can see that you’ve had quite a shock,” she said. “When I was hauled onto the Carpathia—oh, the indignity of it—after a night spent out in a flimsy lifeboat in the middle of the freezing Atlantic, I was given a glass of brandy. Warmed me and restored me in a matter of minutes. In fact, I believe it would be a good idea to have one now. I don’t normally partake of alcohol, but there are some occasions when I’m afraid it has to be prescribed for medicinal purposes. In fact, it’s the only way I’m managing to make this sea voyage at all. I’m sure my doctor would approve. Yes, that whole nasty scene at dinner unsettled me as it did you. Now, take a sip.”

  I raised the glass to my lips, but the strong alcoholic vapors were more than enough for me. As I pretended to take a small sip, the liquid burnt my lips.

  “You’ll begin to feel better in a moment or so,” she said, swallowing a large mouthful of brandy. “Really, I didn’t know where to look. Such an awful scene. And we were having quite a delightful evening, don’t you think so? I do hope Mr. Trevelyan won’t blame me for the upset.”

  “I’m sure he won’t,” I said.

  “When Miss Hart said that thing about killing Gina, I turned to you and saw the color drain from your face,” she continued.

  “Yes, it left me rather puzzled.”

  “Puzzled? How?”

  I stopped myself from telling her my real thoughts—about how the day before, Helen had confessed to me that she was pleased that Gina Trevelyan had died and how this seemed to contradict her most recent confession of guilt about the woman’s death.

  “Well, I was there when it happened,” I said. “I saw the whole thing. There was no way that Miss Hart could have had any direct hand in Mrs. Trevelyan’s death. She didn’t push her. She didn’t encourage her to step off the ship. I was a witness, I saw it all. If anything, it looked as though Miss Hart was doing everything in her power to stop Gina from throwing herself off.”

  “So you think that Miss Hart was just being a little overdramatic?”

  “Yes, the pangs of a guilty conscience.”

  “I see what you’re suggesting,” said Mrs. Brendel, her gray eyes sparkling.

  I paused and let the woman talk. The delight at being able to impart the information lit up her face. “Of course, everyone in London knew about the affair between Guy and Helen.” Mrs. Brendel took another gulp of brandy. Her face looked quite flushed now, but her eyes were bright. “It was no secret. And those of us who knew Guy could, I am afraid, hardly blame him. Gina was the most difficult woman to live with. Mentally unstable, you see. Poor Guy didn’t know the half of it when he married her, as it seems her father and mother thought it best to keep it from the Trevelyans. Oh, you should hear Mary—that’s Guy’s mother—on the subject!”

  “I see,” I managed to say as Mrs. Brendel took a quick breath and then continued.

  “To begin with, it seemed as though Guy could manage her eccentricities, her moods, and suchlike. And of course the money made his life all the more bearable. The Trevelyans are quite a grand family; well, they have a name, but the money dwindled with each passing generation. Their mines in Cornwall are not what they were. Not much demand for tin, of course. You should have seen poor Mary having to make do and mend after the death of her dear Albert. We all tried to help her, but Mary is a proud soul. And Guy’s work as a geologist at the university in London didn’t pay very much.”

  “So Mr. Trevelyan married Gina for her money?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t express it in quite such bold terms.” Mrs. Brendel looked at me with an air of surprise and astonishment, the implication being that I was the one with a love of gossip and tittle-tattle. “Anyway, after the death of Gina’s parents, her illness became steadily worse. It became too much for poor Guy to deal with. He sought out the help of experts, psychiatrists, but none of them could do much good. It was during one of these periods, when Gina had been confined to an institution for a time, that Guy came to know Miss Hart. I understand that he met her at the opening of one of her exhibitions. I still can’t believe Gina is dead. But I suppose, at the end of the day, it’s a mercy.”

  I tried to stop myself from sounded taken aback. “A mercy?”

  “Well, Gina’s mental state was becoming nothing short of a curse. She could see no way out. Perhaps she did the right thing.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” I said. Suicide, I believe, often serves as a slow, subtle form of murder, poisoning the lives of those left behind. I was about to cite the example of how Gina’s death had started to eat away at Helen and Guy, but stopped myself. Instead I said, “But what of Gina’s relatives and friends?”

  “As I said,
her parents are dead and she was the only child. And I think after she married Guy, she became so dependent on him that she didn’t need any friends.”

  “I see,” I said, thinking for a moment. “And what did she look like? Gina, I mean.”

  “Oh, she used to be such a beautiful girl with a lovely figure, and she moved like a ballerina.”

  That explained Gina’s delicate movements in the moments before her death.

  “In fact, I think she had once toyed with the hope that she might enjoy a career as a dancer. It didn’t come to anything, though, because she put on a great deal of weight. Can’t blame the poor girl, what with all her problems.”

  I knew about dashed hopes and broken dreams. Not only had I abandoned the idea of being a sculptor, but I had been forced to acknowledge that I would never be any good as an opera singer or a concert pianist. My teachers had told me that I had some talent, but I just could not cope with the pressure of being onstage in front of an audience, with all those people staring at me.

  “Look, you haven’t touched your drink and you’ve gone all pale again, my dear,” said Mrs. Brendel, studying my face. “If you’re not going to have the merest sip of that eau-de-vie—and I can see that you are not—then I think you need some night air. The sea has calmed now, and I believe the storm has passed. What do you say to a stroll around the deck?”

  “Yes, a very good idea,” I said.

  As we stepped outside into the velvety blackness of the night, I noticed that the air had lost some of its cold edge. We were definitely beginning to pass into warmer climes. After the damp and darkness of England I was yearning for sunlight.

  Mrs. Brendel took my arm in hers, and as we began our promenade beneath the stars, she started to narrate a now-all-too-familiar tale. “It was a beautiful night when the ship went down, very cold, but beautiful, the sky full of stars . . .” I let her voice drift past me as we walked. I thought about the final moments of Gina Trevelyan and tried to imagine her desperate state of mind. I also wondered about the practicalities of a death at sea. In whose jurisdiction had the suicide occurred—Portugal, Africa—or did the sea sit in a no-man’s-land, a kind of limbo? And which authority would take charge of the investigation, if indeed an investigation was ruled necessary?

  “You’ve gone very quiet again, my dear,” said Mrs. Brendel, withdrawing her arm from mine. “I’m sorry, I do hope I wasn’t boring you.”

  “Oh, no, not at all. All very fascinating, and I would love to hear a great deal more about that night and how you suffered from the loss of so many things. But I must admit I was just thinking about Mrs. Trevelyan’s death.”

  “In what regard?”

  Just as I started to outline my concerns, I saw the shadow of a tall, dark-haired man approach us. The light from a deck lamp revealed the figure to be Guy Trevelyan, his face a mask of barely contained anger. Mrs. Brendel stopped and reached out her hand in a gesture of compassion.

  “What is it about women?” he snarled, brushing her fingers from his overcoat.

  “Guy, I know you must be terribly upset, but—”

  “But what? My mother’s just as bad. All of you are,” he said, turning his gaze to me. His eyes were full of dark fury.

  “Guy, I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Brendel.

  “Oh, you will in time,” he said. “I’m sure it will all become clear in due course. A cobra. An Himalayan she-bear. A squaw from the Huron or Choctaws.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re beginning to frighten me now, Guy. Do you need to see the doctor?”

  “No, I’ve just come from him,” he said dismissively. “He’s given Helen a sedative.”

  “Yes, probably a good idea,” she said. “I’m sure that tomorrow when she wakes up, she will be able to put everything into perspective. You’ve both had such an awful shock.”

  “Waking up tomorrow,” he said, his voice beginning to crack. “That’s something that Gina will never be able to do.” His black eyes filled with tears. “ ‘Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons!’ ” he whispered as he pulled the collar of his coat up around his face and disappeared down the deck into the night.

  “Oh, dear, I couldn’t make head or tail of it, could you, Mrs. Christie?” said Mrs. Brendel. “He’s reduced to talking utter gibberish. I do believe the death of his wife has unbalanced his mind. Oh, poor Mary. This is the last thing she needs—a son who has lost his wits.”

  I knew my Kipling. “I don’t believe he has, Mrs. Brendel.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, not for one moment.”

  What was that line about the basking cobra? Something about how the male of the species avoided the careless foot of a man . . .

  “ ‘But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail,’ ” I quoted. “ ‘For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.’ ”

  5

  We approached the island of Grand Canary just as dawn was breaking, the sun casting a light pink glow over the barren mountains that rose up from the backbone of the island. The port of Las Palmas was situated on a headland that stretched out into the ocean like a clenched fist, railing its anger against the world like a fierce god from a Greek myth.

  At first sight, the island did not look like the subtropical paradise that I had been promised—were the islands not supposed to have been the site of the Elysian fields?—and I felt a sting of disappointment. A memory came back to me from my childhood when my parents had taken me to a village situated at the foot of the Pyrenees. My father had led me out onto the terrace of the hotel and, with a great flourish, had presented a vista of snow-covered mountains. In my imagination I had constructed a more sublime view, one that had the power to thrill, even terrify me. The real view did not live up to my wild expectations, and I never forgot that crushing sense of anticlimax and the guilt I felt afterwards at my lack of enthusiasm. Despite my disappointing first impressions of Grand Canary, after six days at sea I was ready to leave the Gelria behind. One could endure only so much deck tennis, quoits, shuffleboard, and “horse,” “dog,” and “frog” racing—the animals being crafted from wood. I was not the sporty type, and the death of Gina Trevelyan had cast a pall over the games. I was desperate for the feel of firm ground beneath my feet and keen to start my investigations into the murder of Douglas Greene.

  While the majority of the other passengers disembarked, the captain had asked me, Helen Hart, Guy Trevelyan, and William McMaster to stay behind to answer a few questions relating to the suicide at sea. I told Carlo that if she and Rosalind waited for me at the hotel in the port I would be with them promptly, while I reassured my daughter, who was showing signs of anxiety at the possibility that I might be late, that we would certainly not miss our connecting boat to Santa Cruz, the port of Tenerife.

  As we waited in the library, we tried to make small talk about the change in the weather, our delight at being in warmer climes, and what we had planned over the course of the next couple of weeks. Miss Hart and Guy Trevelyan—both of whom seemed to have relaxed a great deal—informed me that they were going to stay in Helen’s house by the sea. Helen hoped to work on some pieces of sculpture over the winter in preparation for another exhibition in London. Mr. Trevelyan wanted to continue his study of the volcanic rocks of the island and find some samples he could take back to England. Mr. McMaster, of course, had no such leisurely plans; later on that day the boat would sail on to Pernambuco, Rio de Janeiro, Montevideo, and Buenos Aires.

  At the sound of the door’s opening, we turned our heads to see a handsome man with unusually pale coloring for a Spaniard. His hair was blond, his skin was the color of cream, and his eyes were a piercing blue. He walked towards us, removed his hat and introduced himself as Inspector Artemi Narciso Núñez.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in an accented but nevertheless fluid and clear English. “As Captain Hewitt informed you, I’m here to ask you a few questions about the unfortunate deat
h of Mrs. Trevelyan. First of all, I’d like to talk to each of you individually—I believe the captain has set aside a private room for that purpose—and then once I’ve finished, if I could ask you to accompany me as a group to the scene of the accident. I promise you I will be as quick as I can, as I am sure you are all keen to disembark and carry on with your journeys.”

  He led each of us out in turn, during which time the remaining group in the library fell into silence. When the inspector’s assistant called my name and led me down the corridor, I felt my cheeks begin to blush slightly. As he thanked me once again and gestured towards a chair I realized why: Núñez had a dimple in his chin just like Archie.

  “First of all, Mrs. Christie, I must confess that I am a great fan of your books,” he said. “When I was in England—I spent some years in London as a student at the university—detective fiction is all I read. They were one of the ways I learnt English.”

  “Well, I’m sorry if I set you a bad example,” I said, smiling.

  “Not at all. Perfectly succinct—that is the right word? And wonderfully readable. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd—now, that is a story!”

  That had been Dr. Kurs’s favorite book, too. “Thank you,” I said, trying not to think of him.

  “There’s no need to feel nervous, Mrs. Christie. As you know, I simply want to try to establish the facts of what happened. I believe you witnessed the unfortunate incident?”

  “Indeed.” I outlined what I had seen. “But what I find curious is Miss Hart’s reaction afterwards.”

  “In what regard?”

  “Well, it seems a little contradictory. One moment she was telling me that she was pleased that Gina—Mrs. Trevelyan—was dead. Then she appeared to blame herself for her suicide. In fact, she said that she was responsible for her death.”

  “She tried to confess to the captain,” said Núñez, “but I think he saw through her. She may have felt as though she had contributed to Mrs. Trevelyan’s death, but as your statement proves, she actually tried to stop her. And of course I am not here to stand in judgment on a person’s morality or otherwise.”