A Different Kind of Evil

by Andrew Wilson

  “No, I don’t believe I did.”

  “He’s a dreadful bore, terribly pompous. A writer. But, of course, a much grander writer than I could ever be.” I remembered his comment to me on the ship. As I told Davison about Winniatt, the cloud of melancholy I had felt a few moments before began to disperse. A smile formed on my lips, and soon both of us were laughing at the absurdity of it all.

  “What a fool,” said Davison. “Who does he think will read his magnum opus?”

  “Oh, I’m sure a whole brigade of high-minded literary critics will work themselves into a frenzy at the idea of his unrefined reality, or whatever it is he calls it.”

  “Well, I don’t think you need to worry about the competition,” said Davison. “He’s not going to steal any readers from you.”

  “To be honest, I don’t think he’d have them,” I said. “He’d regard them as not the right sort.”

  On the taxi journey back to the hotel we discussed the events of the day, what we had found in the cave, our impressions of Gerard and Violet Grenville, and our thoughts about the sad fate of Edmund Ffosse. Davison decided to leave the taxi at the entrance to the hotel’s grounds, from where he would walk back to his room at the Taoro.

  “After all, we don’t want any gossip,” he said.

  “You mean any more gossip,” I corrected him. “Did you see the way Grenville looked at the dust and dirt on my dress? I don’t know what he thought we had been up to.”

  “Well, some misinformation of that sort is always helpful,” he said, pausing. “Una often accompanied me to various events and dinners.” He turned from me, a sadness in his eyes. He would, I knew, never get over her death. “Goodbye,” he said.

  “I know I’m a poor substitute,” I replied, trying to cheer him up, “but it’s about time I did a little more socializing myself. See you tomorrow.”

  In truth, I was not in the mood for company, but I had given my word to Mrs. Brendel that I would accompany her to the dinner later that night. On returning to the hotel, I managed to discard my dirty clothes and have a long bath before I saw Carlo and Rosalind, who had spent the afternoon playing in the gardens with a couple of other children who were staying at the Taoro.

  “You’re never going to die, are you, Blue Teddy?” said Rosalind, as she picked up her favorite toy and gave it a tight hug.

  I looked at my daughter with concern. “What makes you say that, dear?” I asked gently.

  “Oh, nothing. Only that Raymond, the boy I met this afternoon, he told me that last year his brother died.”

  “Well, I expect that the little boy is very sad,” I said.

  “He didn’t seem terribly sad,” said Rosalind. She paused and then looked at me with questioning, serious eyes. “Will you die one day?”

  “Yes, my dear,” I said, stroking her hair. “All of God’s creatures have to die. But that doesn’t mean that I will ever stop loving you.”

  “How can you love me after you’re dead?”

  “A very good question, but it’s a matter of belief.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know Grannie—my mother—died last year.”

  “Yes, and you were very, very sad.”

  “I was, and in some ways I still am. But she hasn’t left my heart and that is all that matters.”

  Rosalind blinked as her young mind tried to process what I had just said. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

  “Well, it depends on what you mean by a ghost.”

  “Raymond said that sometimes he sees the ghost of his brother walking into his bedroom at night.”

  “It might have been a trick of the light,” I said. “But don’t worry, there’s no reason for you to be scared.”

  “Did you hear that, Blue Teddy? We have nothing to be afraid of.” And with that Rosalind proceeded to run across the room to show her adored stuffed toy something she had spotted, or imagined she had seen, on the floor.

  But were those words true? How would I react if an apparition were to appear to me in the night? Would I be driven to the edge of madness? Or, were it my mother or father, for instance, would I feel comforted to know that she or he was at close quarters? Just how porous was the barrier between this world and the next? These kinds of questions lay behind many of my most recent ghost stories, like the one that Grenville said he had enjoyed.

  An idea for a story began to form at the back of my mind, an image of a young boy dead for some time, but terribly lonely. What if he, this spirit child, were to yearn for a companion? One day a family could move into the house where the dead boy had once lived. What might happen then? Would the spirit want to claim the life of another young boy so as not to feel so lonely? I picked up a notebook and jotted down the scrap of the idea, together with some lines of poetry that came into my head. Where had I heard this?

  “What Lamp has Destiny to guide

  Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?”

  “A Blind Understanding,” Heaven replied.

  12

  The words of the poem haunted me all evening. I too felt like a child stumbling in the dark, searching for a meaning that did not exist. Gina Trevelyan had thrown herself off the ship, her body never found. Douglas Greene had been murdered, his body left to mummify in a cave, and still his killer was at large. Violet Grenville had just learnt that the man she was about to marry had only months to live. Nothing seemed to make any sense. Was this because it was never possible to really know another person? Were we all just figures in some kind of elaborate shadow dance, destined to communicate by a series of superficial gestures?

  After dressing for the evening I made my way to the hotel dining room on the ground floor overlooking the gardens. As I looked around the room and saw the faces of the guests sitting around the table—Guy Trevelyan and Helen Hart, Mr. and Mrs. Winniatt, Mrs. Brendel, and two new members of the party who had been pointed out to me, the archaeologist Professor Wilbor and his assistant Rupert Mabey—I took a moment to wonder at the meaning of it all. For many, life was chaotic, messy, and sometimes without purpose. Perhaps that was why I wrote the kind of books I did, and perhaps why they proved popular with readers, too.

  “You’re looking ever so serious tonight, my dear,” said Mrs. Brendel, sitting between me and Mr. Winniatt.

  “I’m sorry, I was just thinking of something my daughter said to me earlier,” I said.

  “Not bad news, I hope?”

  “Oh, no, just a silly aside,” I said, not wanting to dwell on it.

  “Now, Mrs. Christie, what have you been doing today?” asked Mr. Winniatt. He had a notebook at the ready, but of course I wasn’t going to tell him about the day’s events.

  “Oh, nothing very much, I’m afraid. I have been enjoying the comforts of the Taoro.”

  “But I thought I saw you walking down by the beach, what’s it called, the Martiánez?”

  What else had he seen? “Yes, I did take a stroll in that direction. I thought about the possibility of swimming in the sea, but I was warned off by Gustavo.”

  “That’s quite right, dear,” said Mrs. Brendel. “I would never swim there. I’ve heard such awful stories about that bay. Of course, it’s quite all right to sit in one of the rock pools, but no, I would never venture into the rough waters.”

  “Did you by any chance have an encounter, pleasant or otherwise, on your walk?” asked Mr. Winniatt, looking up from his notebook with a cruel, hard expression in his eyes.

  I knew exactly what he was referring to—he had obviously seen me with Davison—but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a confession.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Winniatt, I’m not exactly sure what you mean.”

  “I must have been mistaken, but I thought I saw you walking in the company of a fellow guest from the hotel.”

  What a thoroughly unpleasant man, I thought to myself. The insult he had thrown at me back on the Gelria played in my mind, stinging me once more. At my side Mrs. Brendel tutted disapprovingly.r />
  “Imagination can sometimes get the better of us,” I said, smiling sweetly, “especially writers of such rank as you. I’m afraid my abilities are confined to the lowest rung of the literary ladder, while you occupy the very top.”

  Winniatt looked momentarily confused before his expression changed to one of supreme self-satisfaction. He was obviously so stupid as not to realize the sarcastic nature of my comment.

  “Yes, that is the problem with fiction when it is conceived as nothing but entertainment,” he said. “The drive for narrative does rather function as a pollutant. And of course the detective genre is really the lowest of the popular forms.”

  “Well,” sniffed Mrs. Brendel.

  “I wouldn’t quite—” I mumbled, reddening, before I was interrupted by a loud and confident voice from down the table.

  “I don’t know about you, but I enjoy a murder mystery just as much as the next man,” said Guy Trevelyan, who was sitting to the left of the high-minded writer. “I know, why don’t you ask me what I’ve been doing since I arrived? I’m sure I can give you some interesting information. But some of my stories do involve rocks, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to bear with me.”

  Guy winked at me as he began to relate to Winniatt what had changed in Puerto Orotava since his last visit, his impressions of certain guests at the Taoro, his opinions on the sculpture of Miss Hart, before he ventured off into the very specific and technical world of geology. I heard mention of such terms as basaltic rock, substrates, and fault lines before Mrs. Brendel turned her back on Mr. Winniatt and began to whisper to me about how she had changed her mind about him. There was no excuse for such rudeness, she said. She would much rather read a proper story with a beginning, middle, and end—and detective stories had such clever endings—than a mere reportage of the details of everyday life. What was the point of that? she asked.

  “Although I did tell him I would let him record my memories of the fateful voyage, I don’t think I will now, not after the way he’s behaved towards you,” she said. “I should think he’s just jealous, my dear. So don’t pay any attention to him. There was a man on the Titanic who was just like him. You should have heard some of the things he said. He didn’t survive. Went down with the ship like many of the first-class men. Of course, it was only right that . . .” She continued in this vein, telling me more stories of life and death on the tragic ship until she looked towards her left with a puzzled expression. “Oh, my, now he’s gone and upset poor Guy, after everything he’s been through. Really, it’s not on.”

  Mr. Trevelyan’s eyes seemed fixed on a point directly in front of him, a glass perhaps or a knife or fork. Noticing a slight chill descend on the table, Miss Hart turned her attention to what was happening.

  “Darling, are you all right?” she whispered, quickly glancing at each of us in turn to assess our reactions to the situation. “Guy?”

  Guy did not respond and Mr. Winniatt continued to scribble away in his notebook.

  Helen slowly stood up from her seat and walked over to the two men. Her hand lightly caressed Guy’s shoulder, but her eyes did not look in his direction.

  “It’s nothing, honestly—just thinking of Gina, that’s all,” Guy said, his eyes continuing to look down. “Would you like to dance?” He stood up and, without giving Helen a chance to respond, led her off towards the ballroom. The Winniatts followed them into the ballroom, leaving me and Mrs. Brendel sitting at the table like two old maids. But then, just as I was beginning to lose patience with the elderly woman’s prattle, Professor Wilbor came to my rescue.

  “Would you care to dance?” asked the professor, a fat man of late middle age with a red face, a shock of gray, untidy hair, an unkempt gray beard, and kindly eyes the color of stewed gooseberries. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but what was the alternative? Yet more Titanic talk with Mrs. Brendel? I had heard enough about that ocean liner to last me a lifetime. And there were certain questions I wanted to ask Professor Wilbor.

  “Yes, I would love to, thank you,” I said, standing and taking his hand. But instead of leading me towards the ballroom to join the rest of the swaying couples, he gestured towards his assistant Mr. Mabey. “What could I be thinking? No, you must dance with my colleague here. May I introduce you to Mr. Rupert Mabey, one of the finest young archaeologists in England. I don’t know what he thinks he is doing working with a shambolic old fool like me, but there you are. Rupert, this is Mrs. Agatha Christie.”

  The invitation to dance with me was greeted with little enthusiasm. “How do you do?” Mabey said in a nonchalant manner.

  Mr. Mabey was a few years younger than me, and when he stood up, I became aware of an air of strong, arrogant masculinity. He was handsome, with fine features and dark, slicked-back hair. As he led me towards the ballroom, he did not look in my direction, and his manner was detached and reserved.

  “How long have you been working with Professor Wilbor?” I asked as we stepped onto the dance floor.

  “Two years now,” he said, looking over my shoulder. His style of dancing was just like his personality: efficient, but lacking in warmth or passion.

  “It must be fascinating work, studying the Guanche culture. I heard they used to mummify their dead, is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Like the Egyptians?” I asked, a question that received only a cursory nod of the head. “I hope you don’t think I’m ghoulish, but you see I write about crime, so of course I’m very interested in the customs of death, rituals and the like.”

  “Really?” He obviously regarded me as nothing more than a sexless middle-aged matron, and he made no effort to disguise his lack of interest.

  “And what was the process, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  His voice was monotonal and completely devoid of emotion. “The body would be washed. The internal organs would be removed. Certain unguents and aromatic woods would be used.”

  “And have you found many mummies in Tenerife?”

  “A fair number,” he said.

  With each step I looked forward to the moment that we might be released from each other’s arms.

  “I paid a visit to a Guanche cave today,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “The one set into the cliff, overlooking Martiánez beach.”

  I felt his arms and shoulders go stiff, and for a moment, I thought that he was about to stop in the middle of the ballroom, release me from his grip, and let me fall. He glanced at me with renewed interest, almost as if he was seeing me for the first time, and then continued with the dance. Was it my imagination or had his breath suddenly quickened?

  “And what did you find? Any skulls? That’s the thing the tourists seem to want.” His tone was harsh and mocking. “Dreadful how so many of them have been looted. I expect they decorate many a suburban mantelpiece in Croydon or Purley.”

  “No, no skulls, I’m afraid,” I said as if I were terribly disappointed. I hesitated deliberately, letting Mr. Mabey wait and suffer. A few beads of perspiration appeared on his upper lip, which was free of a mustache, and about his forehead. Could I also smell the faint aroma of fear about him?

  “Did—did you find anything else?”

  I didn’t answer. “I heard that a body had been found there recently.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And Professor Wilbor was the one who found it?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Were you with him that day?”

  “I was.”

  “It must have been an awful shock for you,” I said softly. “What with—”

  “I’m sorry, would you mind if we sat down?” he said as he stopped moving and unhanded me. “It’s just that I’m feeling a little—”

  “No, not at all,” I said, relief washing over me.

  He led me along the edge of the ballroom back towards the table. Mrs. Brendel had retired to bed, leaving Professor Wilbor by himself. When he saw us approach, he looked surprised and a little befuddl
ed.

  “Back so early? I thought you were having fun!”

  “I’m afraid I started to feel a little worse for wear. Perhaps it was the water I had from the spring at lunchtime,” said Mabey.

  “My dear boy, come and sit down.”

  “Would you mind if I went to my room? I’m terribly sorry, but I do feel rather out of sorts.” Mabey did look pale and sickly, and perspiration now covered his face.

  “Of course, of course. Let me know how you feel in the morning. I can always continue with the dig up by Mal País without you.”

  After Mr. Mabey said his goodbyes, I took a seat next to Professor Wilbor. We made small talk about the house in Puerto Orotava that he shared with his younger colleague, the hotel and its history, and the climate of the island, before I started to ask him about his love of archaeology. To see the past come to life was a wonderful thing, he said. To uncover the layers of history beneath one’s feet, to be able to visualize the customs and habits of ancient cultures, was a joy. I agreed wholeheartedly with him and talked a little of my love for the British Museum. He continued to speak of his fascination for the Guanche culture and his ambition to recover their lost language. He then started to demonstrate how some of the people might have talked, employing a curious series of whistles and strange noises. I let him have his fun before turning to the matter of most interest to me.

  “I hope Mr. Mabey will feel better tomorrow,” I said. “He did seem to take a turn for the worst when I mentioned something about a Guanche cave that I had visited earlier today. The one in the cliff, up from Martiánez beach.”

  Professor Wilbor’s face turned grave. “Oh, I see, yes,” he said stroking his gray beard. “I suppose you brought up the question of the body we found there?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I did. Perhaps it wasn’t in the best of taste. Oh, I am sorry if I said the wrong thing.”