A Different Kind of Evil

by Andrew Wilson

  “I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Christie.”

  “I hope nothing serious?”

  “No,” he said, his eyes looking shiftily around the room. “A fuss over nothing, really. But I do believe she is a woman of your acquaintance.”

  “Someone I know?” I said, pretending to start in my chair.

  “Yes, Mme Giroux, but there’s no need to worry,” he said, gesturing for me not to move. “She’s perfectly fine. A simple case, a fainting spell.”

  “I thought the nurse said she was having a fit?”

  “A misinterpretation of the symptoms.”

  “So she’s all right now? I—”

  “Yes, she’s made a full recovery.”

  “I’m so pleased to hear that.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are,” he said. Had Trenkel’s voice taken on a knowing tone? “Now, where were we? Yes, that’s right. We were talking about your nerves.”

  As the doctor continued to talk, about hidden aspects of the unconscious and certain types of irrational behavior, I found myself thinking about the handwriting in the files. How curious, I thought to myself. A theory began to form in my mind, one so elaborate and strange that I could hardly believe it. Of course I would need some proof, evidence that could be very difficult to find. It could be done, but it would involve a certain element of risk. And yet I could see no other way forwards.

  “I’m not sure about all this—about talking about one’s past, about one’s childhood,” I said. “In fact, I had an idyllically happy time as a girl.”

  “Well, perhaps that’s something to think about in the future,” said Trenkel. “Firstly, let’s deal with the here and now. From your symptoms it seems that you could be suffering from neurasthenia. So I would recommend a tonic to relax you, something like Clay and Paget’s Glycolactophos, but I wouldn’t rule out the kind of talking cure I’ve outlined.”

  “Could you write down the name of the tonic? I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch it.”

  “Of course, quite a mouthful,” he said, scribbling the name across a piece of paper with his fountain pen. “Take two teaspoonfuls two or three times a day. It’s important that you blend the powder with water into a paste first. Then you can add water or milk, or you could even take it with cocoa or beef tea.”

  As he passed me the scrap of paper, I noticed that the words, like the ones in all of his reports bar one, had been written in a loose, far-from-precise hand.

  “Or I can always make you something up myself,” he said.

  “I think I’ll try this one first,” I said, standing up.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything more about exactly what happened to Mr. Winniatt,” said Trenkel, referring to the awkwardness at supper. “Inspector’s orders and all that.”

  “I understand,” I said. “It’s a very difficult situation.”

  “By the sound of it, I think it’s best if you try and forget all that business. You’ve been under a lot of strain. The last thing you need is more worry and anxiety.”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  “Would you like to make another appointment with the nurse on your way out? Perhaps the day after tomorrow?”

  “As soon as that?”

  “It’s best to nip these things in the bud.” With that, he made a gesture with his fingers as though pinching off a flower bud that had been infected with a nasty attack of blackfly. “And in the meantime, if you do need to discuss anything else, please don’t hesitate to contact me. As you know only too well, the mind can play funny tricks, particularly when we least expect it.”

  35

  I had promised Mrs. Brendel some time ago that I would accompany her on a group visit to picnic beneath the giant Dragon Tree in Icod de los Vinos. When she told me what time I should meet her the next morning, I initially hesitated. No doubt it would be foolish to risk traveling to that town, knowing that there was a slight chance that my fellow guests would spot me talking to Davison. But there was something I needed to ask him, something that he needed to do which I thought outweighed that risk. All I needed to find was an excuse to slip away from the group for half an hour or so.

  In addition to the practical considerations, it was important for me to behave as though everything was perfectly normal. Even though people suspected me of the theft of Mrs. Winniatt’s pearls, I had to appear blameless. I had to pretend that I could not smell the stench of evil breathing down the back of my neck.

  After breakfast our little group—Mrs. Brendel, Professor Wilbor, Rupert Mabey, Helen Hart, Guy Trevelyan, Carlo, Rosalind, and I—met on the front steps of the hotel. We traveled in two taxis—the women and my daughter in one, and the three men in the other—along the coast road, past banana plantations and disused onion seed farms. After Rosalind had gone to sleep on my lap, the talk turned to Howard Winniatt’s funeral. Daisy had borne her grief with fortitude, and the service, conducted by an English vicar who lived in the parsonage not far from the Taoro, had been simple but dignified. My absence from the service had attracted no comments, but as Mrs. Brendel discussed the finer points of Psalm 23—the same one that I had recited to myself as I had made my way to Grenville’s house—I saw Helen Hart looking at me with a curious expression, as though I held the answer to some secret.

  Her blue eyes seemed to ask the unspoken question that everyone wanted to know: was this lady writer really capable of stealing a string of pearls from a recently widowed woman? If not, what exactly had she been doing in Daisy Winniatt’s room? Helen Hart was the one person with enough guile to ask me outright, and the prospect of dealing with this question created a bird of panic to flutter in my chest.

  “Enough of this talk of death,” said Helen, placing a hand on Mrs. Brendel’s knee. “I’m so looking forward to the party on Monday, aren’t you, Mrs. Brendel?”

  “Well, yes, of course, my dear, but—”

  “But nothing. It’s important that we get on with life, don’t you agree, Mrs. Christie?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “But I’m sure Mrs. Brendel only wanted to—”

  “I know, I know. But it’s so morbid. You are all coming, aren’t you?”

  All of us said we were looking forward to it, apart from Carlo. “I think I’ll stay at the hotel and look after Rosalind,” she said, from the front seat of the car.

  “But why don’t you bring Rosalind along?” asked Helen.

  Carlo looked at me pleadingly. I could tell that the idea of attending a party, especially one hosted by a woman such as Miss Hart, was her idea of hell.

  “As you can see, she has been rather overdoing it lately,” I said, looking down at my sleeping daughter. “I think it wise if she stays with Carlo.”

  “Very well,” Miss Hart said before addressing Carlo. “But it’s a shame you won’t be able to see the new sculpture I’ve been working on.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I’m not going to say a thing. I want people to come to it completely fresh. But it’s something I’ve been making on and off for the last couple of years. I had to leave it here in my studio on my last visit just as it was nearly ready—it was so frustrating not to have the time to complete it—but since I’ve been back, I’ve been adding the finishing touches.”

  “It sounds intriguing,” I said.

  “I hope so,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling. “Now, what are you working on, Mrs. Christie?”

  “As Carlo knows only too well, I’m having difficulty finishing my latest book,” I said, sighing. The thought of it was like a lead weight. “I’ve rather neglected it of late, but I must get back to it.”

  “What’s it called again?” asked Miss Hart.

  “The Mystery of the Blue Train,” I replied.

  “Fancy that you, a writer of detective novels, should get yourself mixed up in all this trouble here! It seems, I don’t know, almost too perfect for words.”

  I tried not to sound too cynical. “Really?”

  “It’s like one of your books,” sh
e said, voicing an observation that seemed to please her.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I said.

  “No, I suppose I shouldn’t be so presumptuous. As I told you, I haven’t read your novels, but am I right in thinking that by now your clever detective would be tying all the loose ends together, so as to expose the dastardly murderer?”

  I did not answer. Miss Hart, however, was in no mood to bring the conversation to a close.

  “Doesn’t writing about murder and crime depress you?”

  “I never think of it like that,” I said. “It started out as a hobby—a challenge, really, to see if I could do it. It’s true I’ve had a little success with writing, but now I can’t think about it too much. I just have to get on and do it. Now that I have no husband to support me, it’s the way I will have to earn my living.”

  “I see,” she said. “And tell me, have you any theory about who did it? Who killed Mr. Winniatt?”

  I could have said something then, but I thought it best not to respond. “No, but I’m sure the inspector will get to the bottom of it all.”

  “Do you think so? I don’t know about you, but I don’t think much of Núñez. I wouldn’t be surprised if it ends up as one of these unsolved crimes, like—”

  “And who’s being morbid now?” interrupted Mrs. Brendel. “Fine talk indeed in front of a child, even a sleeping one.”

  “Yes, you’re quite right, Mrs. Brendel, I’m sorry,” said Miss Hart, who did not look in the least bit apologetic. “Let’s talk about—I don’t know—about the view from the car. No? What about the weather, then?” Her voice took on a sarcastic tone. “Yes, that’s always a good subject if in doubt.”

  Helen Hart was a fascinating creature, a woman who seemed full of contradictions. She was the kind of person who often said one thing but meant something completely different. I looked back at her strange behavior on the Gelria, and the way she had reacted to the death of Gina Trevelyan. One moment she had been racked with guilt; the next, she seemed so light and gay, as if her greatest worry in the world was which dress to wear to her next party. I knew that she had a liking for alcohol, but I was beginning to suspect that she might be fond of other substances, too.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have another misty day like yesterday,” I said, smiling at her.

  Just as she was about to reply, I caught a flash of contempt in her eyes. The effect was so subtle as to be almost undetectable, but there was no doubting what I had seen. Helen Hart knew that I had noticed it because, a split second later, her face radiated with an overcompensatory smile and her blue eyes twinkled.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” she said.

  “I am so looking forward to seeing the famous Dragon Tree,” I said. “People say it’s more than a thousand years old. I wonder if it’s true?”

  “Who knows? But it’s certainly a beautiful specimen.”

  “I’ve always loved trees,” I said. “In fact, it may sound odd, but one of my first imaginary friends was called, quite simply, Tree.”

  “Really?” said Helen. “How delightful.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Carlo.

  “I suppose it’s because we had so many lovely ones at Ashfield,” I said, turning to Helen Hart to explain. “That’s the house where I grew up in Torquay.”

  “They make for wonderful sculptural forms.”

  “Yes, I believe I saw some of them in your last exhibition in London,” I said.

  “What kind of trees did you have in your garden, when you were a child?” I knew Helen Hart was only asking this to try and be polite. She didn’t give a fig for the answer.

  As I told her something of the magnificent trees of Ashfield and how I still dreamt of them, her eyes glazed over. “How very fascinating,” said Helen. There was a certain false brightness to her face, as if she were forcing herself to be interested in what I had to say. I didn’t blame her; this was deathly dull stuff, not her usual conversational fare of parties, gossip, drink, and sex. “Look, your daughter is waking up.”

  I leant forwards and saw Rosalind’s eyes begin to open. As I placed my hand on her head, she asked whether we were nearly there and before long was telling us all how much she wished we could have taken an excursion to the volcano instead. We could see the snowcapped Teide on the left-hand side of the car, and we discussed the practicalities of such a visit before finally discounting it as too dangerous. The decision put Rosalind into a sulk, and Carlo tried to cheer her up by the promise of certain treats to be had at the picnic.

  “Could you look after her for half an hour?” I whispered to Carlo as the taxi pulled into Icod. “I’d like to get her a present, something to surprise her with.” Although my daughter’s dark mood gave me the perfect excuse to slip away to meet Davison, I felt guilty at using her in this way.

  “Of course,” said Carlo, smiling.

  “I’ll meet you at the tree. I’m sure it can’t be difficult to find.”

  I stepped down from the car into a grand square shaded by a large fig tree and planted with laurels and hibiscus bushes. The other taxi had arrived in front of us. As I passed by Guy Trevelyan and Professor Wilbor, the men tipped their hats, while Rupert Mabey turned his back and pretended he had not seen me. I remembered the directions Davison had given me. I walked up a white stone staircase past the church of San Marcos and onto Calle San Sebastián, then turned off onto Calle San Agustín. Instead of stepping into Davison’s small hostal straight away, I walked up the street past the convent of Espíritu Santo and around the block to make sure nobody was following me. By the time I arrived back at the hostal, I was convinced that it was safe to enter.

  I pushed open the door and stepped into a hallway full of shadows. The front shutters were closed, and the only light allowed into the gloomy interior came from a partially open door that led onto an inner courtyard. Gradually, as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw that the walls of the hall had been covered by a series of religious icons—figures of saints and images of Christ on the cross, bloodied of brow and wearing a crown of thorns. The smell of incense hung in the air. I wondered for a moment whether I had stumbled into a small private chapel, and I was about to step back into the street again when I heard a deep voice say something incomprehensible. The noise came from a tiny, shriveled old woman dressed in black, sitting in an armchair.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” I said, knowing that I sounded like an imbecile.

  She repeated another sentence, quick and garbled, a mouthful of hisses and exotic-sounding vowels that I didn’t understand.

  “Is this the hostal Espíritu?” I asked.

  “Sí, sí,” she said, nodding her head, her black eyes shining in the darkness. “Necesita usted una habitación?”

  “I am looking for Mr. Arthur Jones. Is he here?” The question was met with silence, and so I repeated the name slowly. “Mr. Arthur Jones?”

  “Si, Señor Jones. Le conozco. Un caballero. Pero desafortunadamente Señor Jones no está aquí.”

  Finally, after a great deal of repetition and sign language, I understood from the elderly woman that Davison, although a guest at the hostal, had gone out. I took out a piece of paper from my handbag and proceeded to write him a short note, telling him of my presence in Icod and that I would be picnicking with the group from the Taoro under the Dragon Tree. I outlined what I needed him to do—there was a piece of information from England that I wanted him to obtain—adding that this was a matter of urgency, as I was afraid that I would soon be arrested for the theft of Daisy Winniatt’s pearls. I didn’t have time to tell him about my latest thoughts regarding Grenville or the horrors I had seen at Mal País, but I related how I believed I had made a fundamental error that had skewed my judgment and given rise to some false assumptions. I placed the letter inside an envelope from my bag, addressed it to Arthur Jones, and left it in the clawlike hands of the widow of Espíritu.

  When I walked back out, the sudden brightness of the day blinded me and for a mom
ent I had to steady myself by the wall of the hostal. Avoiding the main shopping street, I managed to find a pastelería that was just on the point of closing for lunch. I went in and bought a selection of small biscuits for Rosalind and asked for directions to the dragon tree. Although the pale-faced girl behind the counter could not directly communicate with me, she did go to the trouble of drawing a makeshift map on the back of a paper napkin. With this, I made my way through the network of streets towards the west side of the square and down another series of alleys until finally I stepped into a clearing that led to the tree. The sight of it stopped me in my tracks. Not only was it enormous—it must have been well over forty feet tall—but it had an immense grace and nobility, like a sleeping giant. The group from the Taoro sat on rugs beneath the wide shade of its canopy.

  “Mummy!” shouted Rosalind as she spotted me. “I told them we should have waited for you before we started eating, but the men said they were starving and couldn’t hold off any longer.”

  “Quite right,” I said as I joined the party.

  “Now, what would you like, my dear?” asked Mrs. Brendel. “The Taoro has done us proud. There’s some pâté, a flan, plenty of bread, and I believe there’s even some chicken left.”

  “Oh, a little of the pâté and, yes, some bread would be very nice, thank you,” I said.

  Rosalind made a space for me next to her and Mrs. Brendel, and I savored the moment under the shade of the tree, eating a plate of simple food in the company of my daughter and Carlo. I felt the warm breeze on my skin, my eyes taking in the pleasing vista of lush terraces and vineyards that ran all the way down to the sea. The talk was of the Dragon Tree, its history, mythology, and medicinal uses.

  “Apparently, there used to be an even larger one than this,” said Professor Wilbor. “The explorer Alexander von Humboldt saw it when he visited the island in 1799, and it was supposed to be over sixty feet tall and forty-five feet in circumference. Even though I find it hard to believe, it was said to be six thousand years old, and that the Guanches hollowed out its trunk to make a kind of altar or sanctuary.”