A Different Kind of Evil

by Andrew Wilson

  Gustavo told a couple of his assistants to accompany the Winniatts and Mrs. Brendel to their rooms on the first floor—numbers 107 and 117—while he walked with us up to the second floor. He led us down a long corridor to a suite of rooms, numbers 207 and 208, which were situated on the western side of the hotel, with windows that looked out towards Teide. I would have preferred a sea view, but Rosalind squealed with delight when she saw the peak. She said she would do nothing but sit and stare at the volcano, watching it for signs of eruption. When Gustavo and the boys bearing our luggage had left, Carlo touched me on the arm with a concerned expression in her eyes.

  “Grand by name, grand by nature,” said Carlo before she continued in a whisper. “Are you sure we can afford this?”

  “I’ve just sold a handful of stories to an American magazine that pays a ridiculously high rate.” I didn’t tell her the whole truth, which was that Davison’s office was meeting most of the cost of our stay on the island. “And anyway, I thought you said that one’s health was beyond price.”

  “True, true,” she said, suppressing a smile.

  “Talking of health, after that journey I’m in need of a walk. Would you mind if I left you for a few hours?” Núñez had told me that Greene’s body had been found in a cave by the Martiánez beach and I was keen to take a look at it.

  “No, not at all, I doubt we’ll go far,” said Carlo, turning her head to see Rosalind’s face pressed up against the glass.

  I rinsed my face, changed into a lighter dress and a pair of comfortable shoes, pocketed a box of matches that I had found on one of the tables in the room, and went back down the stairs in search of Gustavo. I told him that I wanted to walk to the sea, and perhaps see the black sands at Martiánez that I had heard so much about.

  “Please do not be tempted to swim down by Martiánez,” he said, providing me with directions and a basic map. “An Englishman, a very strong swimmer, was drowned only last year. The currents are treacherous and the rocks even worse. If you do want to bathe, there are some rock pools at the far left-hand side of the beach, where you can lie down and let the water wash over you. But remember—no swimming.”

  I expressed disappointment—at some point I would have liked to have swum there—and made my way out of the hotel and down a gentle, winding path towards the sea. Instead of taking one of the tracks that led to a cluster of white houses around the harbor, I followed a path that passed a charming house called Sitio Litre and then down towards the semicircular black bay of Martiánez. As I approached, the wind began to pick up and waves dashed against a jagged spur of black rocks out at sea. There was something terrifying about the power of the sea here, something brutal and elemental, not only in the way the waves crashed upon the shore but also in the terrible noise with which they withdrew, sucking a line of black stones back into the water like the rattle of a hundred skulls.

  The beach was empty except for a group of Spanish children playing in the rock pools on the far left-hand side of the bay. I skirted along the edge of the bay and started to walk up a steep path that looked as if it led towards the top of the cliff. I stopped to catch my breath, hearing the roar of the ocean below. Windbeaten prickly pears and various species of cacti, their fleshy protuberances contorted and bent like witches’ fingers, clung to the rock face. As I climbed, I noticed a dark pocket of a cave above. I hesitated for a moment before I stepped inside. I noticed that the cave split off into different sections. I chose one of the paths at random, but as I eased myself forwards, feeling the dankness seep out of the walls, the light from the outside world lessened. With shaking fingers, I lit a match, and the dim glow cast curiously shaped shadows onto the walls. Just as I began to step farther into the cave, I thought I heard something. Just then my match burnt out. My fingers fumbled for the matches, striking one, striking another, but to no effect. One lit, but then burnt the tip of my thumb, forcing me to drop it onto the earth below. Just then I heard, or thought I heard, the sound of footsteps. There was someone inside the cave, walking along one of the other pathways that led back towards the entrance.

  “Who—who is it?” I managed to say, my voice rasping with fear. “Who’s there?”

  I smelt a sourness that reminded me of the sharp metallic rankness of breath, just like Kurs’s fetid breathing—the man who had nearly destroyed me the year before. My hands, desperate now, reached again for the matches, and in a blind panic I felt them falling onto the ground. As I bent down to pick them up, my hands as ineffective as if they had been frozen numb, I heard the sound of footsteps again. As quickly as I could, I made my way back towards a point where I could see the front of the cave, but by the time I got there, I saw nothing more than a vague silhouette, which then melted away.

  I returned to gather the matches, and after placing most of them back in the box, I lit one and then another, repeating the process so that the light illuminated a series of niches that ran deep into the cliff. There was no one here. I was alone. I slowly walked to the entrance of the cave and eased my head forwards. There was no one on the path below, and the beach was still empty save for the cluster of Spanish children playing in the shallow pools. I edged along the path and, taking hold of a branch of an old fig tree growing out of the rock face, strained to look down over the edge of the sheer drop. The scree from the path began to give way, sending fragments of stone falling below. I held my grip and peered over.

  There at the very bottom, back pressed against the undercliff, was a hatless man. I could see only the top of his head—his hair was blond—and the back of his white linen jacket, but I was almost certain of the man’s identity. It was Davison.

  8

  Gently I eased myself backwards and steadied myself against the rock face. I hurried down the path that led towards the beach, breathless and panting with shock, anger, and indignation.

  “Davison, Davison,” I called out. “What on earth are you doing?”

  By the time I reached the black sands, Davison had moved away from the undercliff. His face was as implacable as ever, without a trace of guilt.

  “What was the meaning of all of that? What were you trying to do?”

  “What do you mean?” The tone of his voice, with its rarefied vowels bred and perfected within the privileged halls of Eton and Cambridge, was as innocent as that of a young boy who had yet to experience the sins of the world.

  “If you wanted to scare me, I’m pleased to tell you that you well and truly succeeded,” I said, feeling my face begin to redden.

  “Agatha—Mrs. Christie, I’m not quite sure I quite understand.”

  “Up there,” I said, gesturing towards the path, but this was met by nothing but a blank expression. “The cave.”

  “Yes, that’s where Greene’s body was found.”

  “But inside the cave. Standing there silently. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Davison remained very still and quiet as he considered what to say next. “I admit I followed you from the hotel, because I was—I am—concerned about your safety.” He blinked. “I thought you might take the opportunity to see where Greene’s body was found, and I wanted to make sure that you—well, that you didn’t get into any danger. But no, I remained down here.”

  “So it wasn’t you—inside just now?”

  “No, it wasn’t. When I heard someone come out of the cave—and I assumed it was you—I pushed myself against the undercliff.”

  Could I believe him? After all, I knew he had not given me the whole truth about the circumstances surrounding Greene’s death. And Inspector Núñez had told me Davison was suspected of being involved in the man’s death.

  “I presume that the person must have taken the path up to La Paz at the top of the cliff,” he continued, looking up at the mirador. “But I can’t see anyone there now.”

  “Perhaps because the person went down the path and towards the beach rather than up the path to the top of the cliff.”

  “But I’ve seen no one down here.”

  “P
recisely,” I said.

  “Oh, my, you’re shaking.”

  As he took a step towards me, I moved backwards.

  “You’ve had a terrible shock. We must get you back to the hotel. I’ll go and see if I can find—”

  “No, just stop here, for a moment, please,” I said. “I need to tell you something.”

  “That sounds very serious,” he said.

  “Yes, I am afraid it is, rather,” I said. “When you first tried to persuade me to come out here, I was more than a little reluctant, do you remember?”

  “Yes, I do. And I’m very pleased that you agreed. As I said, both my boss Hartford and myself believe that—”

  “I should have listened to my instincts and never got involved with your department. It was only because—well, because of what had happened to Flora Kurs and Una. I felt I had to do something so their deaths were not in vain. That probably blinded me to the reality of the situation. I feel I’ve made a dreadful mistake. Of course I will reimburse the cost of our passage on the Gelria and the hotel rooms. We’ll have to move into a cheaper hotel while we wait for the next boat home. I’m sorry, but there it is.”

  “Look, I know you’ve had a terrible scare. There was obviously someone else in the cave with you just now. I don’t know who or what they were doing there. It’s understandable that you feel a little anxious after that fright, but—”

  I couldn’t repress the question any longer. “Did you kill Douglas Greene?”

  The color drained from Davison’s face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did you murder Greene?”

  He remained silent.

  “You see, this is exactly why I can no longer continue helping you. I know your department sometimes has to make difficult decisions, sometimes ones that involve life and death. But I cannot—”

  “I suppose you must have been talking to Inspector Núñez. Am I right?”

  “Yes, he came on board the Gelria when we docked to ask some questions about the suicide of Gina Trevelyan.”

  “And presumably he told you some nonsense about me being wanted for questioning regarding the murder of Douglas Greene.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “He did.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Well, I did wonder why you were bothering to travel under a different name. I thought perhaps Greene might have been a double agent or he was working against the interests of Britain. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to believe.”

  “Do you really think that I could have done anything to hurt him?”

  Shadows of pain darkened his face, and I began to understand. Davison gestured for me to sit by him on a rock, and as the waves crashed on the shore, he began to tell me something of his friendship with Greene, a friendship that had a deep and intimate connection.

  “I think when we first met—this was in London—both of us knew immediately what was going to happen. It was an instant draw, impossible to resist. He was a Cambridge man but a few years younger than myself. Of course we had to do everything in our power to keep it secret. And I think we both put on an act that we didn’t take the friendship seriously, that—I don’t know—that we’d grow out of it. But we knew, deep down, there was more to it than that.”

  “And then Greene got posted out here?”

  “Yes, at the end of 1925. There was nothing either of us could do. After all, work came first, both of us knew that. I managed to visit him a couple of times in Tenerife. We had the most delightful, glorious time. We talked about our future, nothing more than silly prattlings, but it made us happy thinking about what might be. And then, early this year, I got the news that Douglas had been killed. That his body had been found in that damnable cave up there. Sorry . . .” His voice broke and tears formed in his eyes.

  “I see. But what makes Inspector Núñez believe that you had anything to do with his murder?”

  “The last time I came over, in September, I learnt that he had been—well, that he had become rather too friendly with one or two of the Spanish boys. Awful types, really. Only interested in trinkets, bits of spare cash. I suppose I must have become jealous. We’d had a few too many drinks. One of these boys, Diego, came round to the house and I couldn’t stand it. We had a blazing row. There were some glasses smashed. An awful scene, one I’m not proud of, and I stormed out. I booked into the hotel and then the next day I took a ferry to Grand Canary, from where I got the boat home. Seems like Douglas disappeared at the same time. When the police started to dig into what had happened, Diego told Núñez about the row that he’d witnessed. Núñez found a letter I’d written to Douglas at his house. I’d always told him to burn my letters, but somehow this one had escaped the fire.”

  “So why don’t you simply go to Núñez and tell him all of this? About what happened?”

  Davison looked at me as if I were a fool. “Of course, I understand,” I said. “You’re afraid that it would get back to Hartford. That you’d never be trusted again.”

  “Yes, and also I’d be a sitting target for every dirty blackmailer out there. But if I can provide evidence of who really killed Douglas, then at least that might satisfy the police here.” He stared at me with his kind, intelligent eyes. “I’m sorry I had to keep this from you. I thought you might think less of me.”

  “Not at all, don’t be silly,” I said, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “I just wish you could have trusted me a little more.”

  “Yes, it was wrong of me, I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

  I paused before I turned to him and said archly, “Well, I was already beginning to regret my decision to leave the Grand. Such a lovely hotel and so very comfortable.”

  “Quite right, too,” said Davison, smiling. “A lady on her travels has certain standards to maintain. Now, what do you say to having a proper look at this cave?”

  9

  Davison took a flashlight out of his pocket and shone it into the dark space. The cave seemed to split into three, with each of its sections stretching farther back into the cliff. I spotted the place where I had dropped the matches—there was still a cluster of them on the ground. Then, as I continued to explore, I found a trail of footprints on one of the pathways that led from the back of the cave to its entrance.

  “So it appears that there was someone in here, after all,” said Davison, shining his flashlight at the ground.

  “Did you think I was suffering from some sort of hysterical delusion? Or not telling the truth?”

  “No, not at all. But it’s always good to find corroborating evidence to back up a story,” he said, bending down. “But you say you couldn’t make him—or her—out.”

  “No, only the vague silhouette at the entrance to the cave.”

  “But from that impression, would you say it was a man or a woman?”

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t be certain.”

  We moved on towards the back of the cave, to the spot where, according to Professor Wilbor’s testimony, Greene’s body had been found. Davison hesitated for a moment before he approached. Although I couldn’t see his eyes—Davison directed the flashlight towards the earth—I was sure that they were full of sadness as he gazed upon his friend’s last resting place. I bent down and studied the ground for traces of anything left behind, my fingers moving over sharp stones and old pieces of animal bone.

  “What a horrible place to die.” Davison’s voice was nothing more than a whisper. “If only we hadn’t argued that day, then it might never have happened. Who could do such a thing to him? What must he have thought when—”

  “There’s no use thinking of the past now,” I said, in a deliberately sharp manner. Davison wouldn’t thank me if I allowed him to become overemotional. In fact, I was sure that if I was to witness an honest display of deep feeling, he would soon come to be embarrassed by my presence. “If you want to help Greene, as I’m sure you do, then we need to find a way of working out what happened here.”

  “Of course,” he said, covering his mo
uth with his fist. “Yes, you’re right.”

  “Let’s check the ground for anything unusual,” I said. “I’ll work on this area here and you do that section towards the back.”

  “Good idea.” He knelt down and balanced the flashlight on a rock between us. “I suppose the police must have looked, but as I told you, their methods are basic, to say the least. What were your impressions of Inspector Núñez, by the way?”

  “Charming,” I said. “But maybe that was because he said he was a fan of my books.”

  “Did he now?”

  “He seemed intelligent enough and spoke very good English, I think because he spent some time in London.”

  Davison remained silent. “I’m not having much luck,” I said after a while, a stream of black sand running through my fingers. “Have you found anything?”

  “Nothing but a few old goats’ teeth.”

  “By the way, how do you hope to keep out of Núñez’s way? He told me that he was coming to Orotava next week. I know you’re traveling under another name, but surely at some point Núñez will circulate a photograph of you?”

  “I will deal with that when and if it happens,” said Davison.

  “It sounds as though you may have something up your sleeve.”

  “Perhaps,” he said enigmatically.

  “Well, I won’t question you any further, as I know it makes you uncomfortable. But I only hope you feel you can tell me—when the time is right, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I promise.”

  “Look,” I said, flinging down a handful of dry sand, “we’re getting nowhere here. Let’s try something different. Let’s think about the kind of person who did this.”

  “Very well,” said Davison, standing up. “As I said to you before, from my reading and from what I’ve heard, this could well be the kind of thing dreamt up by that occultist Gerard Grenville.”

  “Yes, that’s what Núñez suspects, but if that’s the case, why doesn’t he just arrest him and have done with it?”