A Different Kind of Evil

by Andrew Wilson

  But to get back to atropine itself, some believed that it had been used by Cleopatra to dilate her pupils and make her more attractive. In Paris, at the end of the last century and the beginning of this one, certain types of women had used the juice of Atropa belladonna for the same cosmetic purposes. It had its deadly qualities too, of course. The clue was in the name: Atropos, one of the Three Fates of Greek mythology. She chose how a person was to die.

  23

  Before I left for Grenville’s house I sent a letter to Davison, care of his hostal in Icod de los Vinos. He had assumed that Núñez would start searching for the mysterious Alexander Blake, so he had made provision to register under the name of Arthur Jones.

  In the letter I told Davison that I intended to spend the night at Grenville’s house. If anything was to happen to me, then he could safely assume that Grenville was guilty. The thought of never seeing Rosalind again, or dear Carlo, or my sister and her family, entered my head. Tears filled my eyes as I remembered touching Rosalind’s soft face soon after she had been born. Trying to swallow my fears, I took up the pen again and wrote a short letter to my daughter, outlining how much I loved her. I placed it in my large suitcase, one that the hotel staff would no doubt search in the event of my disappearance. I dashed off a quick note to Carlo, saying that I was spending a night at the house of Violet Grenville. I also wrote down a summary of what I had discovered so far about Grenville, which I addressed to Inspector Núñez, and which I left inside the case, next to the partially completed manuscript of my new novel. What would happen to that in the event of my death? Perhaps it was for the best if it never saw the light of day. Even so, I was slightly irritated at having to leave the book in that rather shoddy state. If only I had a little more time to work on it, then I was sure I could get it into a shape to be published. Loose ends, in fiction and in life, did get on my nerves.

  I knelt down by my bed and prayed, not only to God but to my mother, who I hoped would be watching over me. I looked back at the previous year when I had been at my lowest ebb, nearly driven mad by the grief of losing her, the shock at discovering Archie’s betrayal, the horror of not being able to write, and then the appearance of Dr. Kurs in my life. During one of the conversations I had endured with Kurs, the doctor had told me that the experience might actually be the making of me. I had dismissed the suggestion at the time as nothing more than a sick joke. But looking back, Kurs had been right. If I had not encountered him, I would never have become involved with Davison and the Secret Intelligence Service. Writing about murder was one thing, but actually helping solve one was something quite different. It was messier, and of course much more dangerous. But fundamentally it was worthwhile. By working with Davison I hoped to make a difference. As I had told Daisy Winniatt, evil could not be allowed to triumph. I pictured the poor woman in her bed, and recalled the noise of her retching when she had been forced to remember the horrible way in which her husband had died. The image of the bird-of-paradise flower skewered through Howard Winniatt’s eye flashed into my mind. If Grenville, or whoever had done that, thought they could get away with it, then I was afraid they were wrong. Very wrong indeed. I had always been intrigued by the idea of Nemesis, the figure of the avenging angel. Perhaps I could draw some strength from it.

  I gathered my things together, placed my note for Carlo on the desk in her room, dropped off the letter for Mr. Jones at the front desk, and walked out of the Taoro.

  As I made my way through the pleasing gardens I breathed in the late-afternoon air, full of the aromas of exotic flowers. The beauty of it was deceptive. I approached Mal País with the words of Psalm 23 on my lips. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” It was one thing to say the words quietly to oneself; another thing to believe them. I clutched my handbag tightly. Like Grenville, I had my poisons. But would they be enough to protect me?

  24

  Violet, still pale and troubled, met me at the door of Mal País. “Father’s upstairs. He won’t be long,” she said, gesturing for me to step inside.

  “I’m sure you must be feeling terrible. I know I am,” I said.

  “I’ve never seen a dead body before,” she said, her anxious eyes meeting mine. “That awful mess, that blood, those rocks.”

  “I know. Even though I worked as a nurse and saw some very serious things in the war, it was a horrible sight.”

  “Did it look as though the man had suffered? I mean, was his death instant, do you think?”

  From Violet’s demeanor, it was clear that if her father had killed Winniatt, she likely knew nothing about the crime. But I had to make sure.

  “Well, one hopes so,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” Her hands went up to her swan-white neck and then her face.

  “In cases such as these, one can never be quite certain,” I said, looking around the courtyard. “Is there somewhere quiet where we could talk?”

  “Of course,” she said, leading me towards a drawing room on the ground floor. “Please sit down while we wait for Father.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind us having a little talk without him. If that’s all right with you?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said nervously. Her hands ran through her hair, playing with a strand that had escaped from underneath her hat. “What was he like? The man who died?”

  “To be honest, I didn’t like him very much. I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but there it is.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, let’s just say I found him to be a little pompous and opinionated. But that doesn’t mean I’m pleased he is dead.”

  “Do you have any idea if the inspector knows who was responsible?”

  “Not yet, I’m afraid.”

  “It was horrible to have to relive it all. Even though he was very kind and considerate—I know he is rather sweet on me. But still, all those questions he asked me.”

  “A necessary evil,” I said. What a strange phrase, I thought to myself. Was there ever really such a thing? I believed that evil, true evil, could never be justified. I took a deep breath and moved a step closer to Violet. “I know you said you didn’t know Winniatt, but are you sure you never caught a glimpse of him? After all, what you saw down in the riverbed bore no resemblance to the man.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “You didn’t see him come to the house?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Never saw him with your father?”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all. I just wanted to get a few things clear in my head.” I knew Violet’s weak point and was prepared at this stage to exploit it. “It’s his wife I feel sorry for, of course. Poor Daisy. She is quite beside herself. It’s the funeral soon. Of course, I don’t need to explain to you how dreadful she must feel. Losing one she cared for so deeply.”

  The comment stirred an emotion deep within the girl. She tried to keep her face steady and composed, but her feelings about the imminent loss of Edmund Ffosse could not be contained. Her eyes filled with tears, her lips trembled, and then her body was overtaken by a sob that forced her to fall back into a chair.

  “Oh, my dear, how insensitive of me,” I said, going to her side. “Calm yourself now.” I took out my handkerchief and passed it to her. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Coming across Winniatt as you did was shock enough for you. The last thing you need to think about is losing someone close to you.”

  The sob consumed her, sending her body into a kind of spasm. I knew the feeling. Sympathy was all very well and good, but I got the impression that Violet was not telling the whole truth. I knelt down by her side and placed a hand on her knee.

  “Violet, if you do know something, even perhaps something you regard as insignificant, I would beg that you tell me. Your words could make all the difference. It’s hard for you, and you know why Edmund is dying. But try to place yourself in Daisy’s position. Imagine if Mrs. Winniatt never knew t
he answers to all those questions that must be racing around her head. Not knowing who killed her husband will haunt her to the last of her days. It will most likely destroy her.”

  “Yes, I know,” she cried. “But it wouldn’t be right.”

  “What wouldn’t be right?”

  Violet did not respond and so I continued. “When we love someone, it can be difficult to acknowledge that they may have sides to their characters that are, well, that are not all that we’d like them to be. And of course no one is totally good or totally evil. If your father has ever—”

  “Has ever what?” said Gerard Grenville as he walked into the room.

  Violet looked suddenly terrified, like some kind of cornered wild animal, and she bolted from the chair.

  How much had Grenville heard? “Violet was just telling me about your work. I was wondering whether you had ever met a malevolent force, something or someone you regarded as truly evil.”

  His big eyes stared at me with an expression of slight surprise, and then, as he considered the question, a look of unmistakable glee spread across his ugly face. “From this world or the next?” he said.

  “Either, I suppose,” I said, trying to steady my nerves.

  Grenville cast a concerned look at his daughter, who had turned her back on her father and was now standing by a drinks table in the corner of the room.

  “Darling, are you all right? It’s this beastly business, isn’t it? Perhaps we should go away for a while? What do you think?” He walked over to her and touched her lightly on the shoulder. At this she recoiled, shrinking back as if she had suddenly felt a snake or another kind of reptile caress her skin. “Violet?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she said flatly. “Honestly, Father, I’d rather just stay here.”

  “I thought a trip to Paris might do you the world of good. Or there’s always Athens or Cairo.”

  At this Violet looked repulsed, as if the mere mention of the names was enough to turn her sick to the stomach. What had she encountered there?

  “Another time, perhaps,” said Grenville, patting his daughter on the shoulder before turning to me.

  “Now, Mrs. Christie, what do you say to a little consultation with the Tarot cards?”

  Keen to ingratiate myself with Grenville, I nodded my head in agreement. “You’ve got so much you can teach me,” I said. “I really do feel that my visit to Tenerife was meant to be.”

  “That’s very sweet of you to say so, Mrs. Christie. Let’s start where we left off, in the study upstairs. And Violet, why don’t you go and help Consuela with the food? There shouldn’t need to be too much done—it’s quite a simple cena we have in store for you, Mrs. Christie.” He turned back towards Violet. “I told Consuela that after she has prepared the dinner she may go. I think José is causing her some trouble again.”

  I thought back to what Davison had told me about José, the young man who had informed Greene about Grenville’s plan to release the spirit of evil from the mountain. The scheme may have sounded quite preposterous, but there had been two murders on the island already.

  “Boys can be so troublesome,” I said as Grenville led me out of the room and towards the stairs. “I know my sister’s young son can be an absolute terror at times.”

  “The masculine drive can be an extremely powerful force, often very disruptive.”

  “Is that what is worrying Consuela?”

  “Well, she wouldn’t put it in quite those terms, I don’t think,” said Grenville, smiling to himself.

  “Do you know the young man well?”

  “Not very well. He used to work here. He did the odd bit of carpentry, odd jobs, helping out in the garden at times. But I’m afraid we had to let him go.”

  “Oh really,” I said in as casual a manner as I could manage. “Lazy, was he?”

  “If only,” said Grenville, opening the door to his study. “No, José’s problem was that he had developed an attachment to my daughter. Terribly embarrassing, of course. Violet wasn’t interested, but it all got a little heated. I didn’t blame the poor boy. The sexual urge at that age is so very strong, and it’s only a matter of biology, trying to spread one’s seed far and wide. But it was very distressing for Violet, so we had to let José go.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “If that wasn’t bad enough, José then started to spread the most ridiculous rumors about me.”

  I made a mental note to try and find José.

  “I told Consuela that she would have to deal with her son, or she would find herself out of a job too, and I think now he has calmed down,” Grenville continued. “Anyway, to the matter in hand.”

  He turned to me and gestured that I should take my place at the table. He closed the door softly behind us. Although I was nervous, I was not afraid, as I doubted that Grenville would do anything while Violet and the Spanish servant woman were in the house. But what would happen when Consuela left for the day?

  “I’m very grateful you are taking the trouble to do this, Mr. Grenville,” I said as I took my seat.

  “Gerard, please. And it’s fascinating to witness your raw talents emerge. On your first visit you chose a card that predicted a death. I wonder what you will see today.”

  Grenville took out his pack of Tarot cards and began to shuffle them in his large, sausage-like fingers. We went through the motions again, but this time he asked me to close my eyes and select several cards from the pack and then tell him my impressions of the imagery. This was, he said, not a reading, but a simple exercise to strengthen my powers, whatever they might be. Part of me was highly skeptical—after all, how did I know that Grenville had not made the whole thing up? I had not seen the death card; I had only his word for it. Perhaps he had drawn out the card from the pack himself, or if he had indeed murdered Winniatt, then he would have known exactly which card to choose so as to make the maximum impact. Instinct about people, places, and certain situations was one thing; yes, most probably I did possess a range of highly tuned sensitivities on that score. But power of clairvoyance? I doubted it very much.

  With each of the cards I selected—the Three of Swords (which showed three swords puncturing a heart), the King of Cups (a man enthroned, wearing regalia), the Eight of Swords (a blindfolded and bound maiden on a seashore surrounded by eight swords)—I related my vague impressions of them. On seeing each of the images Grenville nodded, discerning, or at least pretending to discern, significance where I could see none. Then he asked me to close my eyes once more and ask the cards a question. This time I was going to make sure that I saw the card I selected from the pack. Instead of inquiring about the murder of Douglas Greene I asked—again only to myself—about the death of Howard Winniatt. My fingers hovered over the pack; then after a few seconds, I selected one of the cards from down towards the bottom.

  “Now, this is interesting, very interesting indeed,” said Grenville, his dark eyes lighting up.

  I opened my eyes to see a card showing a man dressed in a white Roman tunic and a scarlet cloak, standing next to a red table on which sat a cup and a pentacle. In his right hand he was holding up what looked like a staff.

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  Grenville’s fat fingers began to paw the card. “The Magician, reversed,” he said, turning his gaze towards me with a heightened degree of intensity.

  “Reversed?”

  “If you draw it out of the pack upside down like this it gives the card a different kind of meaning,” he said, before he paused. He ran his fingers across his fleshy lips. “Do you mind if I ask what you inquired of the cards?” he asked.

  Should I risk telling him the truth? After all, I might gain something by studying his reaction. I blinked, and said in as innocent a voice as I could manage, “Not at all. I was simply wondering who was responsible for the murder of Howard Winniatt.”

  Grenville fell silent and his huge, grotesque face reddened.

  “And in this case?”

  “I think it best if you choose
another card,” he said, taking the Magician and incorporating it back into the pack.

  “But why? Have I done something wrong?”

  “No, nothing at all, but I sense there’s been an interruption in the energy in the room. What I call a false reading. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Very well,” I said.

  Just as I reached out and started to take another card Grenville said, “Now, remember, you must close your eyes. And keep your mind blank, if you can.”

  As I shut my eyes, I heard Grenville get up from his chair and come and stand behind me, just as he had done on the previous occasion. I felt something hardly discernible at the back of my neck, like a feather brushing against my skin. The temperature in the room seemed to increase—I felt my face burning, my cheeks flushing. I took a deep breath and thought about the bloodied, broken corpse lying at the bottom of the dry ravine. Who was responsible for this act of evil? I selected a card, turned it over, and opened my eyes. It was the Magician again.

  25

  “I don’t know what was going on in there,” said Grenville, leading me out of the room and back down the stairs. “Perhaps it’s the alignment of the planets at the moment. We will have to try it again at some other time.”

  I followed Grenville towards the sitting room, where a tray of drinks had been laid out.

  “Now what would you like? We have a local wine, quite strong and not to everyone’s taste, but also sherry—or would you prefer a cocktail?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Grenville—Gerard—but I don’t care for alcohol.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, never mind. What would you like instead?”

  “Don’t go to any trouble. I’m happy with water.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, indeed,” I said

  “It’s from the spring down by Martiánez beach—such pure, wonderful water,” he said as he went over to the sideboard and poured me a glass of water from a large ceramic jug. “The water from the same source the Guanches drank, all those years ago.”