“Thank you, Carlo. I don’t know how I would have ever managed without you.”
15
I carried a vision of Carlo’s angelic face with me as I walked across the hotel grounds towards Mal País. I kept telling myself that Grenville was nothing more than a showman, albeit a sinister one, and he really didn’t possess any dark powers or occult abilities. But the anxious look Gustavo gave me when I asked at the hotel desk for directions to the house worried me, as did the fragments of conversation that I recalled between Grenville and his daughter.
I had attended a séance or two, and had sat at a table when a Ouija board had been used, but part of me had always been skeptical about so-called mediumship. All that theatricality: the dimmed lights, the banging on tables, the strange voices. And yet, and yet . . . could there be something in it? I was certain that some people, such as my mother, were more instinctive than others. But she had been a sincerely good person. What if a person had these talents, then used them in the name of evil? That was a truly frightening prospect.
I had arranged to meet Davison at the gates of Mal País, but was in no mood to see him. How could he expect me to help him investigate a murder when I was not in full possession of the facts? I thought back to the excruciating moment in the ballroom when I had been dancing with Rupert Mabey. I took a few deep breaths, but my anger would not dissipate. First of all, Davison had kept back the secret that he had had a close relationship with Douglas Greene. That was, I acknowledged, understandable. His reputation, his very career, was at stake. If that information fell into the wrong hands, such as unscrupulous blackmailers, or even the so-called right hands, such as the police, he could face prison and ruin. But this? Why keep the connection between Douglas Greene and Rupert Mabey a secret? I would have to say something to Davison, even if it meant a rupture in our friendship.
After walking through the manicured grounds, I passed into a section of garden that seemed to have been allowed to grow wild with prickly pears, cacti, fig trees, and low-lying palms. A path here led up to a tall iron gate, the entrance to Mal País, where I saw Davison waiting for me. I did not meet his eye and refused to greet his smile.
“Agatha, are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m very well, thank you,” I said coldly.
“Oh, dear, what have I done wrong?”
There was no point in sulking. I had to say something. “When were you going to tell me that Douglas Greene and Rupert Mabey were related? That they were half brothers?” I deliberately kept my voice low so as not to be heard by anybody who might be lurking nearby.
His face became serious. “I see. You’ve found that out already, have you?” Davison also spoke in a whisper.
“Yes, what did you take me for?”
He didn’t answer.
“Look, as far as I’m concerned,” I went on, “I can travel to Santa Cruz tomorrow and wait for the first available boat to take me back to England. I don’t need to be here. I’ve got work to do, a book to finish. I can’t afford to waste my time.”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
“But why didn’t you? Perhaps you’ve got something to hide after all.”
“You know that’s not the case,” he said, his face reddening slightly. He took a deep breath as he ran his fingers through his blond hair. “The truth is, I wanted you to come to this situation with a completely fresh perspective. I didn’t want you to be blinded by certain things that I thought might obscure your perception of the case.”
“I would have thought this was essential to the understanding of the crime. It was quite embarrassing. I was dancing with Mr. Mabey and started prattling on about how I had visited a Guanche cave. I knew that the professor had discovered the body and I started to ask Mr. Mabey about it. The poor man turned white and had to leave the ballroom and return to his room. I felt so stupid, so callous and unfeeling.”
“Yes, but there’s something I didn’t tell you on purpose, something that—”
At that instant the gate opened to reveal the great bulk of Grenville standing there with his arms spread wide in welcome. A huge smile cut into his face, showing off his rotting teeth.
“Buenas tardes y bienvenidos,” he said in a perfect Spanish accent. “Please come in.”
He gestured for us to step inside the gate. We smiled a little awkwardly—had he heard our whispers?—and entered an enormous walled garden. My first impression was of a tropical paradise, a botanic garden with tall, fleshy plants that stretched up to the sky, ridiculously gaudy flowers, and unusual exotic specimens I had never seen before. Butterflies the size of small birds fluttered around the garden, and the deep hum of insects vibrated in the air. Grenville witnessed our astonishment, a reaction that obviously pleased him.
“Yes, it’s quite extraordinary I’m sure you’ll agree,” he said, leading us down a path past some clusters of white and pink oleander bushes. “When I first arrived on the island, fifteen or so years ago now, this was nothing but a patch of barren earth. Mal País. Bad land.”
“You must have worked terribly hard to achieve this,” said Davison.
“I did. I cleared away the top layer and imported some soil. But do you want to know what the secret is?”
We looked expectantly at him. “Blood and bone, blood and bone.” He watched for our reactions. When we didn’t say anything, he added, “That in itself is not unusual. However, in this case . . .” But he left the sentence hanging for full effect. “Yes, a great deal of planning and of course cultivation.” He stopped to finger the leaves of what he called a Carissa plant. “We have a wide range of delightful varieties here.”
As he pointed around the beds, which seemed to have been arranged according to some sort of pattern, Grenville recited the names of the plants: cardoon, angel’s trumpet, the calla lily, lantana, poinsettia, henbane, and hemlock. I remembered how Socrates had been killed. It was this, the last name in Grenville’s list, that caused me to come to the slow realization of the true nature of his seeming paradise. Grenville had created a garden full of evil.
“I see, Mrs. Christie, that you understand something of the characteristic of these plants,” he said, watching me closely.
“Yes, I think I do. All of the plants have the capacity to cause some degree of harm to the human body.”
“Exactly so,” he said. “For instance, hemlock, or at least this species, Conium maculatum, acts very like curare on the human nervous system, causing muscular paralysis and death due to lack of oxygen to the brain and heart. The ingestion of six or eight leaves would be enough to lead to death. Isn’t that fascinating? I know, just by reading your books, that you have a great deal of knowledge on the subject, and I was keen to share my little hobby with you.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, trying not to look too horrified by what I saw. “Quite fascinating.”
“And look, the dear Ricinus communis,” he said, referring to what I knew to be the castor oil plant. “It looks so harmless. And indeed, the castor oil produced by its seeds is considered to be a tonic for small children, invalids and the like. But its seed also contains ricin. Eating—or I should say, chewing—the innocent-looking seeds results in a burning sensation in the mouth and terrible stomach pain. Subsequent effects include severe dehydration and a drop in blood pressure, followed by seizure and death with three to five days. Oh, yes, a very powerful little plant indeed.”
He gazed around with pride. “I suppose you could call this a poisoner’s paradise,” he said. “I’ve got everything I need here to protect myself and those I love. Not that I would go to such extreme measures, you understand. But it’s nice to know it’s here—just in case.” I thought of my own little set of poisons, which I had secured away safe and out of sight in a locked suitcase at the hotel. I hoped I would never have to use them again.
Grenville continued to lead us through the elaborate paths of the garden, up a steep path, and onto a rocky outcrop. From here, we looked down onto a cluster of dragon trees,
their top branches splaying out to form an impressive umbrella-shaped canopy.
“A wonderful display of the Dracaena draco,” said Davison. First his expertise on Guanche civilization, now his knowledge of botany—was he an expert on everything? “And of course the ‘blood’ from the dragon tree has been put to many different uses over the years.”
I knew what Davison was up to. Greene’s body, after being drained of its own blood, had been painted with the red sap from the tree. I watched Grenville to see if he reacted in any way, but his toad-like features did not register any sign of distress.
“Yes, I believe it’s been used to treat watery eyes, minor burns, dysentery, the spitting of blood, and suchlike, so the garden is not just full of things that do harm,” said Grenville. “Of course, I harvest it for my own purposes. I’ve tried it as an ink, very good for inscribing magical seals and talismans. And it also seems to increase the potency of certain spells.”
He looked first at Davison and then at me. “I hope what I say doesn’t shock you? I’m sure both of you are sophisticated and educated enough to understand the subtleties of what I do. Some of the things that have been written about me have been complete fabrications, indeed libelous. Of course, I could have sued the various publications and individuals, but to do so would only admit to a form of bourgeois thinking that is against my general ethos, don’t you think? Anyway, why don’t we go inside and have tea, and we can have a nice chat? Violet isn’t here, but I expect her back very soon.”
We followed him along a walkway lined with palms towards an enormous house. It was Spanish in style rather than English, with a series of arches that ran the length of a veranda, and on its first and second floors, a number of elaborately carved wooden galleries decorated with various pots containing brightly colored flowers. Grenville led us through the doorway into an open courtyard paved with white marble, in the center of which stood a tall, thin palm tree. The two levels of galleries, with a series of columns, had been created from dark wood into which a number of scenes or tableaux had been carved. In pots around the courtyard stood exotic plants, including the vivid bird-of-paradise, with its bright orange-and-violet flowers, and another plant which boasted an almost obscene display of open fleshy redness twinned with a bright yellow stamen.
“I see you admiring my collection of Anthurium andraeanum,” said Grenville. “A thing of strange beauty, don’t you think? The flamingo flower with its red ovate spathe and then the erect yellow spadix, a plant combining certain elements of the female and the male.”
“What an extraordinary house,” I said, changing the subject.
“Thank you,” said Grenville. “It mostly dates back to the late seventeenth century. The beams are of Canarian pine; the ceilings and columns carry some very interesting detailing. But that’s for another day. I want to know more about your fascination for the supernatural, Mrs. Christie. Please sit down.”
He gestured towards four basket chairs that had been arranged in a loggia formed under the first floor. An elderly Spanish woman, thin and pale and careworn, brought in a silver tray of tea things.
“How did your interest begin?” he asked, his eyes fixed on mine.
I began to talk about my mother and her psychic gifts, her uncanny ability to know what those close to her were thinking. I recalled how I had started to read the stories of May Sinclair, and how I had tried to write tales in a similar manner. But then I also told him about a friend I had had, Wilfred Pirie, who had tried to indoctrinate me in the wisdom of theosophy, which I had found nonsensical. Pirie had related to me stories about two young women who were mediums. Some of the anecdotes about them were too ridiculous to be true, and as a result, I lost all respect for him.
“Whereas you, Mr. Grenville, I believe you have something very special,” I said. “From my briefest of meetings with you I feel that you have a gift.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “And I feel the same about your abilities. I can sense that you have a great store of psychic energy that has not yet been fully tapped.”
“Do you think so? Well, I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Everyone has these reserves, even you, Mr. Blake,” he said, smiling at Davison. “And really it’s just knowing how to build and strengthen and sharpen the sense. I can help you if you like.”
“Could you? I wouldn’t want to take up any of your precious time.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Christie. It would be a pleasure. In fact, if you have got nothing planned, we could even start now.”
“I’m not sure if we—” said Davison, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“I don’t think I need to get back until six o’clock,” I said.
“Very well. If you will excuse me for a moment, I’ll go and bring my Tarot cards.”
With some effort, he pushed himself out of the chair and crossed the courtyard and up the stairs to the first floor.
“What are you thinking of?” hissed Davison.
“You said yourself that if we are ever going to discover who killed Greene, we must find out more about Grenville. I need to get close to him.”
“Yes, I realize that, but is this the right way to go about it? I’m not sure I trust him.”
“Of course you don’t trust him. Neither do I. But how else—”
At that moment I saw Grenville’s huge form appear at the top of the stairs. His dark eyes flashed with an excitement bordering on the manic.
“Now, this set of Tarot cards is incredibly powerful, very potent energy, indeed,” he said as he descended. “It was said, when I bought them from a dealer in Paris, that they were colored with the blood of several virgins.” As he walked towards us, he watched us carefully before he burst into laughter. “Sorry, that’s just my odd sense of humor, you’ll have to forgive me. No, the cards were colored with nothing more than dead animal and vegetable matter, the cochineal beetle, the dragon tree, and suchlike.” He paused as he looked at me and then Davison, and then continued, “Actually, Mrs. Christie, I think this would work much better upstairs, in one of the private rooms. The courtyard is just too light and open. We need an enclosed space to concentrate your energies. If you could please follow me.”
“Of course,” said Davison, rising from the chair.
“I would be grateful if you would remain here, Mr. Blake,” said Grenville.
“I’m not sure whether—” said Davison.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Blake, I’ll only be upstairs,” I said, interrupting him.
“Are you quite certain?” he said. The words did not convey the depth of Davison’s concern, but the anxiety that darkened his eyes certainly did.
“Yes, I’ll be quite all right,” I said breezily as I followed Grenville towards the stairs. Inside, I felt my heart begin to beat faster, my stomach turning to liquid.
“We won’t be long, only half an hour or so,” said Grenville. “Please help yourself to some more tea. And feel free to look around the house and garden, too. I’ve got a good collection of Guanche figurines and ceramics in the library that you may find intriguing.”
“Thank you,” said Davison.
“Now, if you come this way, Mrs. Christie,” said Grenville. “I think you’ll find the experiment most interesting.”
I followed him up the stairs to the first floor and along the open gallery, with its thick floorboards darkened by age. We passed a large drawing room full of baroque paintings and blackened mirrors, then entered a study with walls the color of blood. Grenville gestured to one of the chairs around a small baize table. As I sat down, I noticed that on the walls were a number of woodcuts and engravings of beasts with cloven hooves, ravens, skulls, and other representations of the occult arts. In the corner of the room stood Grenville’s desk, covered with papers.
Grenville cleared his throat. “I’d like you to take a number of deep breaths and clear your mind of any worries and concerns you may have,” he said, still standing. “Now close your eyes.”
I did as he wi
shed, trying to forget the images that flashed through my mind like a horrible tableau vivant: the shadowy figure I had encountered in the cave; the mummified body of Douglas Greene; the sight of Gina Trevelyan throwing herself from the ship; the spectacle of poor Violet Grenville ministering to Edmund Ffosse; the dangerous beauty of Grenville’s poison garden and those horrific portrayals of Satan that hung on the walls of the study.
“Yes, that’s right, a few more deep breaths,” said Grenville. I then felt a light touch on the top of my head, which I presumed to be Grenville’s hand resting on my skull. I heard him breathing behind me and felt—or at least imagined I felt—the light brush of his thigh against my shoulder.
“I’m going to pass you the Tarot pack now—hold out your hands.” A moment later I felt the cards in my palms. “We will start simply. Shuffle the pack and continue to clear your mind. Then ask the Tarot a question and, after placing the cards on the table, cut the pack with your left hand. Yes, that’s right, the table is just a little to your left.” I did as he said and, even though I had my doubts, asked the question to myself: “Who is responsible for the murder of Douglas Greene?”
“Then with your right hand, take a card from the pack,” said Grenville. “Now you can turn—”
Just then Grenville’s words were interrupted by shouts of distress from downstairs.
“Help! Father! Father!” It was Violet’s voice.
I dropped the card, opened my eyes, and followed Grenville as he bolted from the room. We ran down the gallery and saw Violet being comforted by Davison at the entrance to the house. She was in a terrible state, crying, gasping for breath and unable to get out her words. Her eyes were wide with terror, her face was even paler than normal, and her hands were shaking.
“Darling, what is it? What on earth is the matter?” Grenville ran towards her.
“It’s—it’s all too horrible, I can’t—”
“Just calm down now. Take a few deep breaths,” he said.
Her desperate, frantic eyes jumped from her father to Davison to me and to the Spanish maid, who had heard the commotion.
A Different Kind of Evil Page 10
