A Different Kind of Evil

by Andrew Wilson

  “You weren’t to know,” he said in a quiet, preoccupied manner.

  “Know what?”

  Professor Wilbor looked down, seemingly unable to say a word.

  “Professor Wilbor, what do you mean?”

  He looked confused and then angry with himself. “Oh, dear. I wasn’t supposed to say anything.” His big gooseberry eyes moistened a little. “What a fool. Why couldn’t I just keep quiet?”

  “Don’t blame yourself, please.”

  “Mr. Mabey found the whole thing very upsetting. It was he who first found the body, you see,” said the professor, his hands twitching nervously.

  “Of course, very distressing indeed,” I said. “It must have been horrible to find a body—in that condition.”

  “So you know that someone had tried to mummify it?”

  “Yes, I do. Terrible. And awful for you to see, too.”

  “Well, of course it was a horrible shock. It was early morning. We had been working on a nearby cave for a few weeks. We had found some Guanche skulls, some bones, some shards of prehistoric ceramic before we moved on to the one overlooking Martiánez beach. Mabey entered the cave first. He had a lamp, and when the light illuminated what was on the ground, he took a step back. He was in shock, bent double. I think he was nauseous. He was gesturing to me to take a look. I stepped closer, and that’s when I saw it. I shouldn’t call it that. It was—or had been—a man’s body. I will never forget the expression on his face. You see, many people make the mistake of thinking that mummies are things that have never lived. But as an archaeologist, one always has to have in mind that these fascinating objects were once human, once drew breath like you and I. Sorry, I’m going off at a tangent here.”

  “I think that’s terribly important,” I said softly. “But what—what did you see?”

  “Oh, the most horrible grimace imaginable. As if the man was still feeling the pain of that initial assault, as if the person who had tried to mummify him had also managed to capture the horror and fear of the moment of death itself.”

  “How shocking. Who would do such a thing?”

  Professor Wilbor fell silent once more. “I can’t imagine. But of course, if that wasn’t bad enough . . . Poor Rupert.”

  “Yes?”

  “The murdered man’s skin seemed to have been covered with a dark, viscous substance. At first we thought it was blood. But then it came to light that his body had been covered with sap from the dragon tree. You see, when the sap comes in contact with air, it takes on a reddish color exactly like blood. Of course, you know this was used by the Guanches to mummify their bodies. But it would never have been applied to the skin.”

  “I see.”

  “Of course it was a horrible shock for both of us. But when I recovered myself I looked at Rupert and he was still on the ground—crying, sobbing, retching. He was in a real state. Rupert had come in contact with the dead before, so I knew there was something else wrong. The depth of his grief signified something else, something more personal.”

  Professor Wilbor cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “I didn’t understand at first, because I didn’t recognize the body. But Rupert knew who it was—or rather, who it had been—straightaway. You see, Douglas Greene and Rupert Mabey were brothers.”

  13

  “Brothers? I don’t understand. No wonder he felt unwell just now. How awful.” I felt a blush rising from my neck to my face. “How insensitive of me.”

  “You weren’t to know,” said the professor. “Actually, I should say half brothers. They shared the same father, but different mothers. Douglas’s father, Patrick Mabey, was a botanist, and thirty or so years ago, on a trip to Tenerife to study the wild fauna and flora of the island, he met a beautiful Spanish woman, Francesca. They had a child, a boy—Douglas—conceived in love, but they never married. Patrick’s sweetheart died while giving birth and it was thought best by all concerned that the boy be brought up by Francesca’s mother and her other daughters. Patrick returned to England, where he married into a grand Devon family—Lucinda, I believe his wife was called—and a few years later Lucinda gave birth to Rupert. Patrick sent money over to his dead lover’s family and later paid for Douglas’s schooling and education in England at a Catholic boarding school in the north. The two boys grew up knowing nothing about each other.”

  “But . . . but,” I stammered, trying to formulate in my mind the questions that began to ricochet like bullets through my brain. I remembered a comment Davison had made about the reaction of Greene’s parents when he had broken the news of their son’s death. I had thought it odd that the mother had reacted with stoicism while the father had suffered a nervous collapse. Now it made a little more sense. “But what about their surnames? Why was one called Greene and the other Mabey?”

  “Simple—Greene was a translation of the Spanish woman’s surname, Verde. When he was enrolled at boarding school it was thought best to give him an English name.

  “And you say neither one of them knew about the other?”

  “No, they had no idea. Douglas was told that his father, an Englishman, had died in a swimming accident, that he had been drowned off Martiánez beach, and that a trust had been set up to pay for his education. There was no one in Tenerife who knew of Patrick Mabey and his relationship with Francesca Verde except for her mother and sisters. I believe that after the death of Señora Verde some years back, her daughters moved to Spain.”

  “So how did the two brothers find out about each other?”

  Professor Wilbor drew out a handkerchief from his top pocket and ran it over his sweating face. As he opened his eyes, he looked as though he were waking up from some kind of strange dream. “Oh, I’ve said too much already,” he said, nervously. “Listen to me gossiping. Why I’m telling you all of this I don’t know.”

  “But—”

  At this moment, Guy Trevelyan and Helen Hart returned to the table in a wild heat of laughter, their spirits revived by the dancing. Guy asked the professor if he would care for a brandy or liqueur, and the two men started talking about rocks, sediments, and suchlike.

  “Mr. Winniatt and his damnable questions!” exclaimed Miss Hart, her attention directed towards me. She motioned to a pair of seats, and we settled down to converse. “I think it’s a beastly thing to do, don’t you, Mrs. Christie?”

  I tried not to show my annoyance—after all, I was sure Professor Wilbor had been about to tell me something of great importance—and instead asked Miss Hart if she wouldn’t mind expanding her point.

  “Well, I’m sure you must have been mightily fed up being chased like a fox through the country when you disappeared last year. The last thing you probably want is any more questions about it.”

  I felt myself blushing. “Yes, it was rather exhausting for the spirits. That’s one of the reasons I am here. To have a good rest.”

  “Is it now?” she said, cocking her head, her blond hair swinging about her pretty face. She studied me with a penetrating glance before she continued. “Earlier, at the table, Guy was terribly upset by something Winniatt said. I don’t suppose you heard?”

  “No, I’m sorry, but I was talking to Mrs. Brendel.”

  “He won’t tell me, the beast, no doubt trying to protect me,” she said, gazing over at Guy with affection and amusement. She lowered her voice so only I could hear. “I suppose Winniatt must have asked him something about Gina.”

  “It’s natural to be upset by such a question. But why don’t you ask Mr. Winniatt?”

  “He’s gone to bed, I believe. No doubt to write everything down. For ‘posterity.’ ” She imitated Winniatt’s pomposity in a way that made me smile.

  “How do you know the Winniatts?”

  “Howard and Daisy? Oh, we met them the first night on the Gelria. He may seem quite serious, but I’m certain that underneath that pompous exterior is someone quite wild. I think you find that with some people. They seem one thing, but deep down they are something rather different. Don’
t you agree?” Again Miss Helen studied me closely, as if she were trying to see beneath my skin or into my brain.

  “Yes, I do believe you’re right.”

  “Do you have a secret side, Mrs. Christie?”

  “I’m sure all of us do,” I said, brushing a strand of hair back from my face. “We would be the most terrible bores if we were all just what we seemed.”

  “So what’s yours?”

  I hesitated.

  “Oh come on. You know everything about Guy and me. Look at the scene you witnessed on the boat—or rather scenes, I’m afraid. I think it’s your turn to spill the beans. Just what is it you’re doing here? Guy and I have been debating the real reason. Come on.”

  “Well, as you know, I had my fair share of unhappiness in England towards the end of last year.”

  “Yes, now what was that about? It all seemed very queer, if you ask me. I didn’t really believe the nonsense in the newspapers that you had lost your memory.”

  “The newspapers did write an awful lot of twaddle about it. But I’m afraid that is the truth of the matter. The doctors thought it was an attack of amnesia brought on by the death of my mother, my inability to write and my, my—”

  “Your brute of a husband having an affair with . . . was it his secretary?”

  “Not quite, but—”

  “But even so, I don’t understand how you could lose your memory and yet do the kind of things you did. For instance, when you were in Harrogate—”

  I really could not allow her to continue to interrogate me like this. “I’m afraid the doctors have said it’s something I mustn’t dwell on. Forgive me.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it? Yes, I understand. I perfectly understand.” Helen paused as she took out a small mother-of-pearl cigarette case, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew out the smoke in my direction. “I must go to bed. So many things to do at the studio tomorrow.” She picked up her jeweled evening bag and stood up. Before walking over to Guy, Helen turned to me and said, “Winniatt was telling me what he’d seen earlier today. About you and a fair-haired gentleman down towards the beach. Winniatt said he thought he’d seen him on the boat over here. Very romantic, meeting on an ocean liner.”

  “Oh no, it’s nothing like you think—”

  “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. As you know, I’m in no position to judge.”

  As Helen joined Guy and took his arm to walk out of the dining room, together with Professor Wilbor, she looked back at me with a triumphant smile. She had, or so she believed, found out a piece of information that seemed to suggest that I was a woman of her temperament, subject to the same needs, desires, and sins of the flesh as she. “Love has the power to turn us all into criminals,” she whispered with a sphinxlike smile as she said good night.

  14

  I woke up feeling as disoriented as I had on the Gelria. The tilting motion I had experienced on the ship had returned, but its source was not so much a physical one but something psychological in origin. It was as if some outside force was playing with my perception, undermining what I had assumed to be true. I had to question everything I had previously considered as a statement of fact.

  Professor Wilbor’s revelation left me wondering about Davison once more. Did he know that Greene and Mabey were brothers? Surely he must have done, as his relationship with Greene had been intimate. But why hadn’t he told me? What was he trying to hide? Wilbor, I knew, had felt nervous about revealing so much about the background of the two men, but who was he afraid of? Could it be Grenville? Did the specialist in the black arts have some kind of hold over him? After all, it was interesting that Wilbor never mentioned his name during the course of our conversation. And what of Winniatt? What had he seen? How much did he know about my friendship with the man he took to be a stranger I had met on the voyage over? How could he know of Davison’s real identity or the purpose of our mission here? And what of Helen Hart? She suspected something, but hopefully Winniatt’s sighting of Davison and me had put her off the scent.

  The maid had already delivered my morning tea to my bedside. As I took a sip, I thought of Helen Hart’s parting words as she had said good night. They were, I knew, true enough. Love could turn people into criminals; it also had the power to drive us insane. I thought of Violet’s reaction to the news of Edmund’s illness, and the threat that she would kill herself if she was not allowed to marry him. I pictured poor Gina Trevelyan standing on the side of the Gelria, then stepping off into the sea. I recollected the nasty scenes on board the ocean liner, when Helen Hart and Guy Trevelyan were dealing with the grief and guilt and shock brought on by the news of Gina’s death. I thought of Davison’s love for Douglas Greene and the sadness in his eyes when he thought of the fate of his dear friend. I even allowed myself to run over my feelings for Archie, a man who I had assumed would stay with me until my dying day.

  How could love, something supposed to be so magical and transformative, even divine, have the power to wreck lives and turn us into savages?

  “Mummy! Mummy! Are you awake?” said Rosalind, bursting through the connecting door. She jumped up in bed with me, her skin smooth, soft, and warm after a good night’s sleep.

  At least this type of love—the pure love a mother felt for her daughter—seemed not to be so prone to the same kinds of problems as those one often saw in relationships based on sexual desire. But then I had encountered mothers jealous of their daughters’ beauty, frustrated that they were losing their looks and their allure. I had known a widowed woman consumed with anger because her estranged daughter had married a rich man, while she herself had to face the prospect of a lonely old age in penury. And then there were the fathers and sons! Human relationships of whatever kind were so very complicated and fascinating. That was what made them such good material. Winniatt’s insult came back to me. The pompous man knew nothing! I thought of some of the greatest, most critically acclaimed works of Western literature. What were the Oresteia, Hamlet, Bleak House and The Duchess of Malfi but brilliantly told crime stories? A line from Webster’s play whispered its sinister meaning to me. “Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: she died young.” Beautiful words, yes, but why had they come into my mind?

  “Mummy, can I play with Raymond this afternoon?” asked Rosalind from the womb-like space under the covers.

  “Yes, of course, darling. You’re on holiday and you can do whatever you like.”

  “I know he pretends not to be sad, but he must be sometimes. Like his governess, Madame Something or Other—oh, I can’t pronounce her name. I think she must be sad. Raymond must miss his brother, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he does. And it’s very kind of you to want to cheer him up.”

  “I’ll go and tell Carlo,” she said, bolting from the bed and off into the next room.

  I proceeded to wash and dress and took breakfast downstairs at a table on the terrace. As I made some notes for my new novel, I felt the soft rays of the sun warm my face. In the distance was Teide, rising up like a shadow of death. I thought of what Davison had told me about Grenville, the rumors about his ghastly scheme. Surely that could not be true? Even though the air temperature was beginning to rise, I shivered. How would I be able to find out Grenville’s intentions? Was Violet the key? Would she betray her father? She was obviously quite angry with him for his refusal to give permission for her desired marriage to Edmund Ffosse. If I persuaded Violet to turn against her father, would she reveal everything she knew about the murder of Douglas Greene? Or was there another way? Grenville himself told me that he had admired some of my supernatural stories. Could I convince him that my interest went beyond the literary?

  * * *

  I spent the morning with Carlo. We did a little work—me dictating, Carlo typing—but my heart wasn’t in it. Carlo suspected something was wrong—she kept stealing concerned glances at me when she thought I wasn’t looking—and so I talked about my lack of faith in the new novel. It was true enough—The Myst
ery of the Blue Train lacked something; was it drive, energy, verve?—but of course this was not the whole story. Rosalind also kept interrupting, which didn’t help my efforts at concentration. At one point, I’m afraid I rather lost my temper with her—this was when she had burst into my room for the fifth or sixth time in an hour asking whether it was time to go and play with Raymond—and so I sent her away in tears.

  “If only I could be here to relax like the rest of the visitors,” I said to Carlo. “What a heaven that would be!”

  “Can’t the book wait?” she asked.

  “I wish it could. But from now on, we can’t depend on Mr. Christie to help us.”

  “I suppose not,” she said.

  “But I’m determined not to give up. I’ll finish this book even if it kills me.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” she said, a serious tone to her voice.

  “It’s only an expression, Carlo.”

  “It may be, but all the same, you don’t want to tempt fate.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” I said somewhat irritably. “Anyway, I think we’ve done enough for today, don’t you? I’ve got an appointment to take tea. Would you mind watching Rosalind?”

  “Of course,” said Carlo, looking down. It was obvious I had hurt her feelings. “Who are you going to see?”

  “No one you know.” The words came out sharper than I had intended. I saw Carlo’s wounded expression, and although I tried to explain that they were a father and daughter, residents of the island, not guests of the hotel, the damage had been done.

  “Forgive me, Carlo,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. “I didn’t mean to say anything to upset you. It was just that—”

  Carlo came to me and wrapped me in her arms as though I were a child. “I understand,” she said softly. “It’s been hard for you. You’re still getting over . . . last year.”

  She was, in a way, quite right. But she knew nothing of the true horrors I had been forced to endure. Or, almost certainly, the horrors yet to come.