A Different Kind of Evil

by Andrew Wilson

  Thinking along these lines would not help me. I splashed cold water over my face and tidied myself. I sat on the bed and thought about how best to proceed, arranging a few items that I thought might prove helpful. Half an hour later, I heard a key turning in the lock. Instead of rushing to the door, I remained seated on the bed and looked up to see Grenville’s great bulk.

  “Violet tells me you’re still feeling unwell,” he said.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said, thinking it best to play along with his sinister game.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs. Christie. She also tells me that you seem to be running a temperature and suffering from delirium.”

  “I believe I was a little feverish in the night, yes.”

  “I’m sure there’s something we can do to help,” he said. As his large frame filled the small room, he looked like some kind of giant trying to squeeze itself into a dollhouse. From the pocket of his jacket he took out a vial of clear liquid. “This is the essence I mentioned last night. Do you remember?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Perhaps it will do me some good after all.” The compliant words seemed to unsettle him slightly, as though he had not expected to encounter such an easy, submissive prey.

  “Now, where’s your water glass?”

  “Here it is,” I said, picking up the tumbler from my bedside table and holding it out. I readied myself for what I was about to do. Before Grenville had appeared at the door, I had decanted some of my liquid smelling salts into the glass. I just had to wait until the right moment when I had Grenville within range.

  He stepped towards me and proceeded to release a few drops of what he told me was the herbal essence into the water. He watched my every movement as I took up the glass and placed it near my lips.

  “It will make you feel better in no time,” he said. “After all, we wouldn’t want you to suffer from any more confusion. Most exhausting, delirium, don’t you find?”

  My fingers tensed around the glass. “Yes, I’m feeling very weak still,” I said. “I would do anything for a few hours’ sleep.”

  Another second or so and I would have his eyes in a direct line.

  “ ‘To sleep, perchance to dream,’ ” he said, quoting Hamlet. “ ‘For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.’ ”

  I had no intention of shuffling off my mortal coil, at least not yet, and certainly not at Grenville’s hands. As I pretended to sip the water, the overpowering stench of the smelling salts filled my nostrils. But it would have a more devastating effect on Grenville when I threw the liquid into his eyes. Hopefully, the solution would blind him, albeit temporarily, which would give me the opportunity to escape.

  “Are you drinking that? Now you must swallow it,” he said, watching my lips. “You’ll begin to feel the benefits almost immediately.”

  The atmosphere in the room seemed heightened, as if the air were charged with electricity. Grenville’s dark eyes burned with a strange intensity. There was a hypnotic quality to them that seemed to cloud my mind. My hand felt numb, paralyzed.

  “I can see that you are feeling very tired,” he said softly. “Drink, and you can rest. I know the troubles you have been through. Close your eyes.”

  My eyelids felt heavy, my brain almost stupefied. I felt so tempted to lie back on the bed and go to sleep, forget everything. I wouldn’t have to think about Greene in that cave, about Winniatt with the bird-of-paradise flower sticking out of his eye. I could stop worrying about my unfinished novel. I would never have to think about Archie again. I need never concern myself with the horrors that Violet had had to endure. But then the image of the poor girl on that bed and the terrible sadness in her eyes came into my mind. No, what Grenville had done could never be forgotten, neither could his behavior be forgiven. Although I felt a renewed surge of energy rush through my system, I gave Grenville the impression that his hypnotic voice had worked its sinister power on my brain.

  “That’s right. Any moment now you will feel the warmth begin to wash over you,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Now take a sip of the water, and then you can sleep for as long as you like.”

  I opened my eyes to see him staring at me with a kind of morbid fascination, almost as though he was viewing me not so much as a person but as a mere object. Was he already imagining me dead? My fingers gripped the glass with such a force that I feared I might shatter it. In that instant, he realized that he no longer had control of me, possibly never had, and I saw a spark of fear in his eyes. I lowered the glass from my lips, and just as I was about to throw the ammonia into his face, I heard a commotion from downstairs.

  “I’m afraid she’s still ill in bed, she’s asleep,” I heard Violet shouting, her voice full of panic. “No, please, you cannot—”

  “Agatha! Agatha!” It was Carlo, dear Carlo, who had come to my rescue.

  “Carlo, I’m here, upstairs,” I called. I was answered by the sound of fast-approaching footsteps.

  Grenville’s face flushed with anger. “If you don’t want my treatment, you won’t have it,” he said, grabbing the glass out of my hand and smashing it against the wall. The smell of the ammonia began to leach out into the room. “What the hell is that?” He looked at me with amazement, soon followed by disappointment and then undisguised disgust.

  I grabbed my bag and ran out of the room and into Carlo’s arms. “I was beginning to get worried,” she said. “Violet said you were feeling unwell. How are you now?”

  “Much better, but I do believe it’s time to get back to the hotel. I’m sure Rosalind must be missing me.” Despite the horrors of what I had encountered in Mal País, I still found it difficult to be uncivil. I knew that Violet would not have the strength to endure a public humiliation.

  I turned to see Grenville stumbling along the passage, a handkerchief over his mouth, his face reddening, his breathing turning asthmatic. The noise reminded me of the sound of his panting in that bedroom. The memory of that grotesque squirming form on the bed brought back a wave of nausea. “Goodbye, Mr. Grenville. I’m sure I will see you soon.” I grabbed Carlo’s hand and pulled her down the passage and towards the stairs, where Violet was standing.

  “You’re so pale,” Carlo whispered. “What’s happened?”

  “We need to leave—quickly,” I said so only she could hear. “That man is a monster.”

  Her eyes acknowledged the danger. “Thank you, Mr. Grenville, Miss Grenville,” said Carlo as we walked hand in hand towards the girl. “I’m sure I can look after Mrs. Christie now. But thank you for all your concerns and your kindness.”

  As I passed Violet, I stopped and placed my hand on her arm. She could not meet my eye. “You need to get away from here,” I said quietly. “It’s not safe.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Christie,” she said coldly, moving her arm away from my touch. “I do hope you make a full recovery.”

  “Violet—”

  My words of warning were cut off by Grenville, who had followed us, a manic grin on his face.

  “Keep walking,” I whispered to Carlo.

  “It’s a shame you are leaving us so soon, Mrs. Christie,” he said, and he reached the top of the stairs. “There are so many things left to discuss. I suspected you of harboring certain talents, but you’ve surprised me. Your resourcefulness is really quite extraordinary.”

  When we descended the stairs and passed into the courtyard I kept my head bent forwards so as not to look up towards Grenville. As we stepped out of Mal País, I heard Grenville’s shouts begin to ring around the house, soon followed by the pitiful cries of his daughter.

  29

  “What on earth were you thinking?” said Carlo as soon as we were at a safe distance from the house.

  “I know, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t see any other way of trying to find some proof.”

  “Proof about what?”

  “That Grenville is the killer, of course.”

  The comment stopped Carlo in her tracks. She turned to me with a look of horror on he
r face.

  “So you went in there, into that house, knowing, or at least suspecting, that that man was a murderer?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Thank goodness you left me a note. Do you really want to make Rosalind an orphan?” she said harshly, the anger intensifying her Scottish accent. “Is that what you want?”

  “No, of course not, but the police have nothing to go on. I had to try to find out a little more about Grenville and his so-called dark arts.”

  “And what did you discover?”

  “More than I bargained for,” I said. As we walked, I went on to tell her something of the terrible things I had seen in Mal País: the depraved contents of Grenville’s notebooks, the man’s seemingly unquenchable appetite for perversity, the array of titles about magic and demons and poisons on his shelves. I told her too of my suspicion of his intention to try and poison me with his “herbal essence,” the one he promised had restorative qualities. “When you arrived, he smashed the glass against the wall, no doubt afraid I could take it away and have it tested,” I added.

  I did not, however, mention anything about how I had planned to escape or anything about my secret collection of poisons. I left out all details that might link Grenville to the death of Douglas Greene, as Carlo had to remain ignorant of the true reason I had traveled to the island and my work for the Secret Intelligence Service.

  “The worst thing was when, after Violet told me to call at her room at two o’clock, I saw Grenville in—in bed with his own daughter.”

  Carlo looked as though she might retch. “You can’t mean that—”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do,” I said, before I told her of how the girl had tried to make out that my illness had caused an attack of delirium and that I had suffered from hallucinatory dreams that had warped my perception.

  “So when you spoke to Violet this morning, she denied all knowledge of it?”

  “Yes, but only because she’s afraid of what her father might do to her. I think if I got her alone again, I could persuade her. In the meantime, every single minute she spends in that rotten place she is in danger. When we get back to the hotel I’m going straight to the inspector to tell him everything I know.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” asked Carlo.

  “What other choice do I have? I can’t let that girl suffer as she is at the moment. Every day, each night, must be like a little hell for her.”

  “But what if she continues to deny it?”

  I couldn’t answer her.

  “And despite the sinister nature of his library and the contents of his journals, as I understand it, there’s nothing concrete that you’ve found to show that Grenville is a murderer.”

  The suggestion raised my hackles. “But everything fits, don’t you see? His interest and knowledge of poisons, particularly henbane. The location of the murder, near his house but out of sight of other properties. The bird-of-paradise flowers that grow in his garden. And his professed obsession with the occult.” I could have added something along the lines of his collection of Guanche sculptures, figures that linked him to what Davison and I had discovered under Greene’s body in the cave by Martiánez beach.

  I could tell that Carlo remained unconvinced by my argument. “If you had looked into his eyes as I have done, then you would be in no doubt of his guilt,” I said.

  As we walked over the bridge that led across the rambla where Winniatt’s body had been found, we fell silent for a moment. I had to admit to myself that Carlo was right.

  “Even though I can’t give Núñez definitive proof that Grenville was responsible for the murder of Howard Winniatt, I can at least tell him about the other crime that is going on under that wicked roof. Hopefully Núñez might think that if Grenville can do that to his own daughter, then he would be capable of other things, too.”

  “As long as you know what you’re doing,” said Carlo.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It might open a very nasty can of worms, that’s all.”

  “But I can’t just remain silent on the subject.”

  “Perhaps not,” she said. “All I’m saying is that we don’t know how certain people will react. How will Violet take this kind of exposure?”

  “I’m hardly going to shout about it now, am I?” I felt my voice rising, my cheek flushing. “I hope you think I’m a little more sensitive than that.”

  “Of course,” said Carlo, taking my hand and trying to calm me. “It’s just that I’m worried. I’m anxious not only about Violet but also about you. I promised that I would look after you. I don’t want to see you upset like this, getting involved in other people’s grubby lives. We don’t want a repetition of what happened last year.”

  There was nothing I could say on the subject. According to the version of the truth that Carlo knew, I had suffered a breakdown caused by the death of my mother, an episode of writer’s block, and my discovery that Archie had been having an affair. She believed the doctors’ diagnosis that when I had disappeared to Harrogate, I had been in the grip of a prolonged attack of amnesia. She could know nothing of the sinister Dr. Kurs or my secret work for Davison.

  “Yes, perhaps you’re right,” I said, trying to appease her. “Before I do anything, I promise to think it over.” I wanted to change the subject, so I asked her about what Rosalind had been doing. We talked of my daughter and her continuing obsession with her teddy bear before we moved on to chat about some of the fellow guests at the hotel. Mrs. Brendel continued to declaim her never-ending monologue about the Titanic to anyone who would listen. Professor Wilbor and Rupert Mabey had dined at the hotel the previous evening, where the conversation continued to center around the death of Mr. Winniatt. Daisy had still not appeared in public since the discovery of her husband’s body. She had remained in her room under the care of Dr. Trenkel. Helen Hart and Guy Trevelyan had not been seen at the Taoro.

  “No doubt they were busy with preparations for the party on Valentine’s Day,” I said. “It’s not really my kind of affair,” I added, thinking of Helen’s and Guy’s insatiable appetite for alcohol. “But I promised to make an appearance. I suppose it will be interesting to see her studio and her work. Why don’t you come?”

  “You know me, I hate parties even more than you do,” said Carlo, smiling. “No, I’d much rather stay at the hotel with Rosalind and a good book.”

  We found Rosalind in the garden with her friend Raymond, watched over by his French governess, a woman with light auburn hair and sad eyes who was sitting on a bench reading in the shade of a palm tree. The two children were playing with their teddies when suddenly the little boy grabbed hold of Rosalind’s and ran off with it. My daughter looked down at her empty hands and burst into tears.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?” I said, running up to her and wrapping her in my arms, closely followed by Carlo.

  For a moment she could not speak, and then she cried in a pitiful voice, “B-Blue Teddy—Raymond has taken Blue Teddy.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” I said, wiping the tears from her face. “Let’s see where he’s gone to . . . Is that lady over there Raymond’s governess?” Rosalind nodded. “Well, I’m sure she will be able to help.”

  Carlo introduced the sad-eyed lady as Madame Giroux and inquired as to whether she had seen the altercation between the two children. She had not, she told us, as she had been reading, but when she heard what had passed between them, she immediately took to fussing over Rosalind as if her own daughter had been hurt.

  “That’s right, ma petite, dry your tears,” she said in her French accent, before standing up and turning to us. “Raymond can be naughty at times, but I think it’s because of what happened in the past, losing his brother. Of course, that doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

  She suggested we walk towards the back of one of the greenhouses where she knew Raymond liked to play. We found him there, sitting on the ground with his legs crossed, holding both teddies.

  “Raymond, I think you
owe your friend an explanation, don’t you?” Madame Giroux said as she approached the boy. Raymond did not look up from his game. She knelt down and spoke to him softly before he looked up and gestured for Rosalind.

  “You can have your teddy back,” he said.

  “Go on, darling,” I said, giving her a little push of encouragement. “He’s trying to be nice.”

  Rosalind smiled as she walked awkwardly towards her friend. She reached out to take her teddy, but as she did so, Raymond smacked her hand away.

  “That’s not yours, he’s mine!” he shouted.

  Rosalind immediately burst into tears and ran back into my arms.

  “Raymond, what on earth has come over you?” Madame Giroux said to her charge in French. “I just cannot understand why you are being so naughty.”

  “But she tried to take the wrong one again!” shouted Raymond, his face flushing with anger. “Can’t you see? She’s been doing it all day!”

  “Oh, Mummy, why is he being so horrid?” pleaded Rosalind. “Why won’t he give me Blue Teddy back?”

  “Now, now,” I said. “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for all of this. Come on, let’s go and talk to him.”

  Although Rosalind resisted, I managed to persuade her to walk with me over to the boy.

  “Hello, Raymond, I’m Rosalind’s mother,” I said in a soft, gentle voice. “There seems to be a misunderstanding. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  “I’m not being naughty, I’m not!” he said.

  “I’m not here to scold you,” I said. “Now which one is which?”

  “You see this one here?” he said, lifting up the teddy that Rosalind had just tried to take from him. “This is George, my teddy.” Had Carlo not mentioned that the boy’s dead brother had been called George? “You can see it’s George because he’s missing an eye. But this one here, this is Rosalind’s.” He passed the toy to my daughter, who clutched it tightly to her chest.