“To be accurate, it was Violet Grenville who discovered Mr. Winniatt. My recent acquaintance Mr. Blake came along with Mr. Grenville in the car.”
“I see. And where is he now?” asked Helen.
“I believe he may have moved to another hotel. Somewhere on the south coast,” I said, lying. I knew that Davison had traveled fifteen or so miles westwards.
“That’s a shame for you. Howard said you were quite chummy. Never mind, these things can’t be helped.” She gulped back some more white wine and called the waiter for another bottle to be served. “Poor Howard. We’d only just met him, but of course we’ll miss him. What with his devotion to the higher arts. Now, I wonder what’s become of that notebook? I wonder if Daisy has had any thoughts of publishing the magnum opus?”
“I would have thought it would be a little too soon for that,” said Guy Trevelyan.
“Do you think so? Yes, I suppose you are probably right,” replied Helen. “Perhaps I’ll create a piece of sculpture in memory of him. Isn’t that the most fabulous idea? I can just see it now, fashioned from white marble. Of course, it wouldn’t be a mere conventional representation of the man. It would have to be fitting to Winniatt’s literary aspirations and ambitions. What about a sculpture of something approaching the form of a full stop? Or would you say a semicolon?”
She then fell into a discussion with Guy, while I attempted to strike up a conversation with Rupert Mabey. He was not well disposed to me and did not make discourse easy.
“I feel I need a little distraction to take my mind off today,” I said. “Tell me, Mr. Mabey, what have you been doing?”
“I’ve been helping the professor with the work on a burial site near Mal País.”
“So you too were in the area today? That’s not very far from the rambla.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
There was a silence while Rupert Mabey lit a cigarette.
“But you didn’t see anything odd or untoward?” I asked.
“I thought you said you wanted to take your mind off what happened?” His tone was mocking, cruel even.
“Yes, of course, you’re right.”
His rudeness forced me to turn to my other neighbor at the table, Mrs. Brendel. Despite warnings from Professor Wilbor, I could tell she was only too keen to ask me more about the gruesome discovery. To prevent her from doing so, I started to quiz her about what she knew about Gerard Grenville.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was responsible,” she growled. “He’s a demon incarnate, that one. The things he gets up to simply cannot be repeated.”
“What kind of things?”
“Oh, you don’t want to hear,” she said, murmuring about certain illicit acts and satanic rituals.
“And who told you all of this?”
“I’ve seen it in black and white, in the newspapers. It makes for shocking reading, I can tell you.”
“Don’t you think it’s all a bluff?” I said. “From my experience, I doubt the whole enterprise—contacting the dead, table turning. It’s nothing but nonsense.”
“My sweet innocent child, I think it best if you continue to believe so,” she said, patting my hand. “However . . .” and she launched into a long story about the daughter of a friend of a friend who had inherited a pearl necklace, not knowing that its original owner had been strangled while wearing it.
The dinner dragged on until Helen Hart decided that she would like to take the night air. She enlisted Mrs. Brendel and me to accompany her, leaving Professor Wilbor, Rupert Mabey, and Guy Trevelyan to take brandy and cigars in the library.
As we were strolling along the terrace, past a low-lying hedge of neatly shaped oleander, I suddenly had an idea. I pretended to shiver and asked to be excused for a moment, telling my two companions that I wanted to fetch my shawl from the hotel. I ran up the stairs, remembering the number of the Winniatts’ room: 107. I listened at the door for a moment, gently knocked in case the doctor was still in attendance, and quietly tried the handle. It was open. Trenkel must have just stepped out for a few minutes and I knew I did not have long. I quietly slipped into the room. The layout was similar to my own room, so I could find my way around easily in the dim light cast from a single lamp in the far corner. Daisy lay in bed, a small figure who seemed bereft and alone in an enormous four-poster, her breathing shallow, her face as pale as death itself. It seemed as though the doctor had given her a generous dose of sedatives; I was certain that she would not wake up until the morning.
Daisy had said that night at dinner on the ship that her husband always carried his journal with him, yet it had not been found on his body. So where was it? Had he for some reason decided to leave it behind at the hotel? Or had someone taken the notebook from the corpse after they had murdered him? Perhaps I would find a clue here in their room.
I crept over to a chest of drawers on which Howard Winniatt’s possessions were still laid out: a bottle of hair oil, a fountain pen and ink, a set of combs and brushes, a hip flask, a few novels (most of which I had never heard of), and some notebooks. I picked up each in turn, but the pages were blank and empty, waiting for Winniatt’s words. Now, of course, they would never get filled with the lives of others. Perhaps that was for the best, I thought to myself. I searched through Winniatt’s drawers, blushing as his socks and underclothes passed through my hands. I felt no better than those fiends who had pursued me and hunted me down at the end of last year. I had to tell myself that I was doing this not to produce a form of perverted entertainment, but to help solve the murder of an innocent man.
I turned my attention towards a half-unpacked leather case that stood in the corner. Inside, there were some well-thumbed copies of a literary journal, some starched handkerchiefs, a snake’s nest of ties, and yes, a black notebook. I was about to turn its pages when I heard a noise at the door. The handle started to turn. The room had been fitted with the same wide wardrobe as mine, and without thinking, I opened the door and slipped inside. I pushed myself between Daisy’s gowns, their flimsy fabrics playing and dancing across my face, squatted down, and drew my knees towards my chest. At the very last moment, I managed to stretch out my arm, pull the small key from the lock, and then close the door. I rearranged myself so I could peer out of the tiny lock.
I heard a figure cross the room and then silence, followed by the sound of someone humming to himself. I saw nothing more than a man’s legs and waist, dressed in a dark suit. He walked over to the bed and stood by Daisy. It had to be Trenkel, the doctor. He waited by her side for a minute or so before he walked back around her bed towards the door. I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. What did he intend to do? Did he know that I was in the wardrobe? Or were his intentions even more sinister?
I saw his form pass by the front of the wardrobe and lost him for a minute or so. Everything went quiet, and then I heard the sound of humming once more. I recognized the tune. What was the name of the popular song? The humming became louder, and in an instant, my sight line went black. Trenkel was standing directly in front of the wardrobe. Only a few inches of wood separated him from me. I tried to stifle my breathing, but with each moment I felt as though I was about to choke. Then, just as I could stand it no longer, he stepped away from the wardrobe and moved towards the bed. I had to suppress the urge to exhale loudly, and used one of Daisy’s dresses to cover my mouth as I breathed out.
Trenkel placed a hand directly over Daisy’s face. Oh, please, no. At what moment would I have to make myself known? If he was to attempt to do something despicable to the sleeping woman I would, I knew, have to stop it. But how would I explain my own odd behavior? The fact that I had stolen into the Winniatts’ room, and hidden in their wardrobe? I couldn’t think about that at this moment. The main thing was to prevent a horrible assault on an unconscious woman. I raised my hand towards the door and was about to push it open and emerge into the room when Trenkel moved away from Daisy. I watched through the lock as he walked from the bed towards the dres
sing table. He stopped, opened a jewelry box, and fingered what looked like a brooch and a ring. He picked up a strand of pearls and carried them over to the lamp in the corner of the room, where he inspected them. Then he returned to the dressing table, closed the jewelry box, and slipped the pearls into the inside pocket of his jacket. He went to check on Mrs. Winniatt once more before he walked back across the room, unlocked the door and disappeared.
I waited a minute before exhaling deeply and noisily. I pushed open the wardrobe door and climbed out. I went to check on Mrs. Winniatt to make sure that Trenkel had done nothing to harm her, examined the jewelry box, which was full of valuable pieces, and then returned to the suitcase. I pulled out the notebook, which seemed to have been written by Howard Winniatt, and then slipped out of the room.
19
I sent word down to Mrs. Brendel and Miss Hart that the day’s events had taken their toll and I had retired to bed. Carlo and Rosalind were already asleep and so, after undressing, I was free to read Howard Winniatt’s notebook. A quick glance told me that this journal was not the most recent, as it contained only reproductions of conversations and incidents up to the moment of our disembarkation at Grand Canary. A large section focused on the voyage on the Gelria.
As I flicked through the journal, written in a small, ordered hand, my own name jumped out at me. Winniatt related some of the snatches of conversation between Mrs. Brendel and me, as well as a few choice words of his own. “Successful, no doubt, but writes books of the lowest kind,” and “Apparently the creator of a Belgian detective of some note and fame, but as I see it, Mrs. Christie deals in clichés and types.” Another entry made me smile: “Not unattractive per se, but very middlebrow.” But then he had added underneath: “She grew up in Torquay, which perhaps explains it.” What was wrong with Torquay? I felt angry on the town’s behalf. After all, my birthplace had attracted its fair share of artists, royals, society figures—even Mr. Wilde himself. Henry James had taken tea at my parents’ house, as had Kipling. And then there were all the scandals—divorces, embezzlements, even the occasional murder—of which Mr. Winniatt had known nothing. For all his bohemian friends, the unfortunate Winniatt must have been a very blinkered man indeed.
Nevertheless he had taken the trouble to record in detail conversations with all sorts of people on the Gelria, men I had never seen, crew members I hardly knew existed. Here were snapshots of hidden lives, transcriptions of interviews with engineers, cooks, boiler men, restaurant staff, and porters. How any of this would ever make a book was anyone’s guess. I doubted any publisher would take it on, but then perhaps Winniatt, funded by his wife’s fortune, had considered financing publication himself. I continued to read into the early hours, learning many details of ship life. I was particularly gripped by a section on death at sea, the conversations prompted by Gina Trevelyan’s suicide. One crew member told Winniatt of an incident in which a steward had been found dead in an empty swimming pool. Scotland Yard had suspected foul play, so they had ordered the officers to keep the body cold. It was decided to place the corpse in the ice room, but because they were afraid the body might freeze to the deck, the crew were told to turn the body every twelve hours. The boatswain related the rituals surrounding death and burial at sea. Normally a corpse would be placed in a canvas bag, which would be sewed up, with a final stitch through the body’s nose to prevent it from slipping around inside the bag. Before the burial ceremony, the body would be draped with an ensign, and the exact time and location would then be recorded in the ship’s log.
I went on to read about the work of the liner’s photographer, who would often have to create makeshift darkrooms from lavatories, ironing rooms, or laundries. Sometimes hot water would gush out of both taps, causing the negatives to reticulate and be destroyed. In high temperatures, a strong hardening bath would have to be used to stop the emulsion from slipping off the photographic film. I read about the experiences of the waiters, pursers, and porters, two of whom had carried Guy Trevelyan’s trunks on board. Winniatt had described the men as having faces as red as beetroots, a not particularly original metaphor for someone who held himself in such high esteem as a writer. I scanned over the testimony of one of the officers who related how, when a ship entered tropical climes, the crew would change from their blue uniforms to white.
All this detail, while superficially interesting, told me little about why someone would want to murder Winniatt. The real reason, I suspected, would have been found in the contents of Winniatt’s last notebook, which the murderer had no doubt taken from his jacket pocket after his death. Had Winniatt written or witnessed something that would implicate Grenville in the murder of Douglas Greene? Or had the two men known each other in the past? Was there some hold Winniatt had over Grenville, a bond that could be broken only by murder?
Rupert Mabey had told me that he had been in the area earlier that day near where Winniatt’s body had been found. Could he have had a motive for wanting him dead? Could Winniatt have stumbled across evidence to show that Mabey had killed Douglas Greene, his own brother? And what did Daisy know about any of this? Had Howard Winniatt let anything slip to her, some seemingly insignificant detail that might help shed some light on the strange series of events? Or were the two deaths—those of Douglas Greene and Howard Winniatt—not connected at all? And how did Dr. Trenkel fit into all of this?
As I turned out the light, unable to sleep, the questions kept running around my mind, chasing each other in an interminable greyhound race. I closed my eyes, but I kept seeing Winniatt’s broken body lying in the dry riverbed. It seemed as though someone had either killed him by a hard strike to the head and then thrown him over into the rambla or had sedated him and finished him off with a series of vicious blows down there by the rocks. And then there was the violent, theatrical flourish of splicing his eye with a spike of the bird-of-paradise flower. That had been a truly horrible touch. But what did it all mean?
20
Inspector Núñez lost no time in beginning his inquiries, taking over a corner suite at the Taoro for the purpose of his investigations. The next morning he called in people one by one, beginning with Guy Trevelyan and Helen Hart, other guests such as Mrs. Brendel, and then finally Gerard and Violet Grenville. Reliving the discovery of the body had been a difficult process for the girl; when she emerged from Núñez’s room, she was being supported by her father.
“Núñez was as kind and gentle as he could be, but even so, it was hard for Violet to talk about it all,” Grenville said as he helped his daughter into one of the chairs placed outside the room. He turned to me and said in a whisper, “Of course, you know the inspector is in love with her. But she gives him no encouragement. No encouragement at all.” He looked down at his daughter with a tender expression. “A truly awful thing for you to witness, my dear. I’ll give you something for the shock when we get back home.”
Violet did not speak.
“And of course a terrible shock for you, too, Mrs. Christie. I say, why don’t you come over to Mal País for some dinner later? I also thought about inviting Mr. Blake, but he seems to have disappeared.”
What did Grenville suspect? I had to think quickly.
“Yes, he was greatly distressed about the discovery of Mr. Winniatt’s body, and unfortunately the incident forced him to remember something in his past which he has been trying to forget.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I believe his younger brother died in rather suspicious circumstances. So he has checked into a hotel in a different part of the island. He needed a change of scene.”
“How tragic,” said Grenville. “But we would be so delighted if you would join us. I know Violet here would appreciate a little female company, wouldn’t you, dear? It’s the least I can do to thank you for helping as you did.”
“Yes, that’s very kind of you,” I said, trying to force a smile.
At that moment Núñez’s assistant opened the door and asked me to enter the suite. The inspe
ctor had established himself behind a huge mahogany desk with what appeared to be two of Winniatt’s notebooks in front of him. I knew there were none on his body, and no other ones visible in his bedroom apart from the one I had taken. Had Núñez found the missing journal? I was conscious that I must return the notebook I had taken to Daisy’s room; it nestled in my handbag, waiting for an opportune moment.
“Please take a seat, Mrs. Christie,” said Núñez. “I see that you are wondering about Mr. Winniatt’s notebooks. Yes, very astute of you.”
“I was just thinking whether they might offer a clue to the murder.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he said. “Unfortunately these two date back to his time in England before he left. It seems as though the book he was using at the very end of his life has gone missing.”
“Mrs. Winniatt did say that her husband carried it on his person at all times. I trust it wasn’t found on his body?” I asked.
Núñez raised an eyebrow. “No, it wasn’t,” he said.
“And have you questioned Mrs. Winniatt about whether she knows what could have happened to it?”
“I went to talk to Mrs. Winniatt, but unfortunately she is not responding to my inquiries.”
“I suppose she must still be sedated,” I said. The image of Dr. Trenkel standing over her lifeless body flashed into my mind. For a moment, I considered telling the inspector about the theft of her pearls, but something told me to hold back this piece of information. Perhaps I would need to use it later.
“She was a little groggy, yes, but I also got the sense that she is still in a state of shock. Of course, it doesn’t help that she is faced with having to talk to an official-looking man first thing in the morning. In fact, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind going to talk to her. I think she would respond better to another woman.”
A Different Kind of Evil Page 12
