A Different Kind of Evil

by Andrew Wilson

  He looked down at Mrs. Brendel in the water, the strands of her hair curling around her head like a halo of seaweed. The skin of her neck bore the red marks of where someone had wrenched the necklace from her in a struggle. It seemed that after that fight, Mrs. Brendel’s murderer had strangled her and, to make certain she was dead, he or she had then filled the bath with water and drowned her.

  “Poor Mrs. Brendel,” I said. The elderly woman had told me that after her experiences on board the Titanic, she had feared water. It seemed so cruel, so terribly pathetic, for her life to end like this, in a foot or so of bathwater.

  “I hope she didn’t suffer,” said Gustavo as he left the room.

  I could not bring myself to reply, because in those last frantic few seconds before her life had been snuffed out, Mrs. Brendel must have suffered a very great deal indeed.

  38

  As Carlo opened the door to the room, I fell into her arms.

  “Oh my goodness,” she said. “What on earth happened?”

  At that moment, Rosalind came running through the door to the adjoining room. “Mummy! Are you all right?” Her little hands pulled at my skirts.

  “Yes, I am. But I feel much better for seeing you both, I can tell you. It was a terrible misunderstanding. The inspector took me for a jewel thief, can you believe that?”

  “Silly man!” exclaimed Rosalind.

  “You’re right, darling,” I said, forcing a smile. “A very silly man indeed.”

  I felt a soft touch on my arm. Carlo, I knew, would not be so easily fooled, and she could tell there was something terribly wrong.

  “Why don’t you go and put Blue Teddy to bed now, dear,” she said to Rosalind. “Your mother and I need to talk for a moment.”

  “Oh, but do I have to? Blue Teddy says he has only just got up.”

  “Yes, come on, none of that nonsense,” said Carlo.

  “Very well, but I can tell you now that he won’t go to sleep,” murmured Rosalind as she carried her favorite toy into the next room.

  “You look awful,” said Carlo, closing the connecting door so my daughter couldn’t hear our conversation. “Now, what’s been going on?”

  “I’m not surprised I look awful. I spent the night in a horrible cell down by the harbor,” I said as I collapsed onto the edge of the bed.

  “So the inspector really thought that you were responsible for the theft of Mrs. Winniatt’s pearls?”

  “Yes, it seems so.”

  “And why did he let you go?”

  I was tired of Carlo’s questions, but she deserved some answers, even though I couldn’t tell her the whole truth. “Inspector Núñez has found who he thinks was behind the crime,” I said.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something else you’re not telling me.”

  I felt guilty keeping secrets from Carlo; in addition to serving as secretary and part-time governess, she was one of my dearest friends. But she could not know about my secret intelligence work with Davison, or the real reason why I had traveled to Tenerife.

  “Yes, I’m afraid there is,” I said. “It’s Mrs. Brendel. She’s dead.”

  Although Carlo did not know the elderly woman well, I knew that she had become quite fond of her quirks and eccentric nature.

  “What happened?” she said, tears in her eyes. “It’s not another—”

  “Yes, she was found drowned in her bath. There’s no mistaking it—it was murder.”

  “How awful. But why?”

  “I think she saw or overheard something, something she regarded as insignificant, but which if it were known would be incriminating evidence against a dangerous criminal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It will all come to light shortly,” I said in a deliberately vague fashion.

  “You promised me you wouldn’t get involved in anything like this,” said Carlo. “You said that you were just here to rest.”

  “And I was—I am. I can hardly help it if a fellow guest, or guests, get themselves murdered.” I didn’t mean the words to sound cruel—after all, I was trying to put Carlo off the scent—but cruel they sounded. “Listen,” I said, taking Carlo’s hand, “I know I promised you that I would try and relax, but I think I know, or I am on the point of knowing, who was behind the murders.”

  “So you’re going to tell everything you know to the inspector?”

  “I’m afraid I tried that approach, but it was far from successful. He chose not to believe me.”

  “So you still think it’s that monster Grenville?”

  “He may be a monster, but I don’t believe he is the murderer.”

  “You don’t? Then who is?”

  “Please be patient, Carlo,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I know it’s frustrating and I realize my behavior must be quite maddening, but there are just a few more pieces of evidence I need before everything slots into place.”

  She looked at me with a concerned expression. “And you’re not going to put yourself in danger?”

  I didn’t answer the question. “Now, what I would like is a steaming hot bath and a few hours’ sleep.”

  “But—”

  “Then later I’ll order lunch—I couldn’t eat a thing at the moment, not after the smell I encountered in that cell.”

  “Why won’t you answer me?”

  The image of Mrs. Brendel’s body floating in that bath flashed into my mind. “This has got to stop, Carlo. It can’t be allowed to carry on. The inspector has shown little insight so far and I doubt if he will show any in the future. Yes, a horrible series of crimes have been allowed to happen. And it seems people have been powerless to prevent them. But now that is all going to change.”

  “You said that you wouldn’t—”

  “What I said is all immaterial now,” I said, my face flushing. It was all beginning to come together. “There’s a nest of vipers that needs to be destroyed. It can’t be allowed to continue.”

  “You’re beginning to scare me now.”

  “Well, it’s a very frightening prospect. Evil breeds evil, don’t you see?”

  “Here, let me help you out of those clothes,” said Carlo, evidently trying to change the subject. “I fear that we’ll never be able to get that stain out of your skirt.”

  It was the stains on the soul that worried me, an observation I chose not to share with Carlo in case it alarmed her even more.

  “Oh, a telegram came for you first thing this morning,” she said. “I hope it’s not more bad news.”

  “A telegram?”

  “The terrible news of Mrs. Brendel made me forget about it. I’m sorry,” she said, as she handed me the envelope from my dressing table.

  I ripped open the paper and read the message. It had been sent from a man in Hartford’s office—the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service—back in London. Davison must have managed to send over the request for the information—asking for it to be forwarded directly to me at the Taoro—before he had handed himself in to Núñez. The telegram listed the names and occupations of three young women who had gone missing in England in the week before the Gelria sailed from Southampton. One name—that of Susan Saunders—stood out, not because it held any special significance, but because of the two words that came after it. Occupation: dancer. This was a crucial part of the evidence I needed to make my case. Everything was beginning to fall into place. Poor Susan Saunders was another victim in this terrible cycle of death.

  39

  After bathing and dressing, I heard a knock at the door. The news of Mrs. Brendel’s death had brought Inspector Núñez back to me. He looked terrible—the shock had left him ashen-faced.

  “I just don’t know how to explain it,” he said as Carlo ushered him into the room. “I’m at a complete loss. I thought I had it all worked out, that Mr. Blake was responsible for the murders of Douglas Greene and of Howard Winniatt, who had somehow uncovered incriminating details about his career as a jewel thief and perhaps threatened to expose
him. But it seems Mrs. Brendel was killed at some point last night after I had taken Mr. Blake and Mme Giroux into custody.” His words trailed off and his head dropped in defeat.

  “Would you care for a glass of water?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s very kind, thank you,” he said as he took the glass of ice water I had poured for him from a jug on the table. “Forgive me, Mrs. Christie. I believe I’ve been dismissive of your observations. I know in the cell—that terrible place, how could I ever have taken you there?—you told me that you thought Mrs. Brendel’s life was in danger. But I swept aside all your concerns with a rudeness for which I am truly ashamed.”

  I did not correct him.

  “What I want to ask, if you will forgive me for my earlier indiscretions, is what led you to that conclusion?”

  “Well, Inspector, it is a very curious case. Please sit down, as it may take some time to explain.”

  I sent Carlo and Rosalind out of the room and started to outline the series of seemingly unconnected events that had taken place so far. The incident of Gina Trevelyan throwing herself off the side of the ship on the passage over. My initial suspicions of Gerard Grenville (I did not tell him what I knew of the true nature of the relationship between father and daughter) and the conversation I had had with José regarding the rumors he had spread about his former employer. Because Mr. Winniatt and Mrs. Brendel had noticed a small, seemingly insignificant detail about Guy Trevelyan’s trunk—how it had been full and heavy when it had been loaded onto the Gelria back in England, but empty and light by the time it had arrived in the Canary Islands—and now the pair were dead.

  “I’m right in saying that if you had known about this tiny detail—about the empty trunk—you would have had your suspicions about Guy Trevelyan?”

  The inspector nodded. There was a certain blankness to his expression.

  “You would, no doubt, have started to investigate and perhaps asked some questions about what had been in that trunk,” I continued. “And perhaps Mr. Trevelyan might have given himself away. But I suppose nothing would have prompted you to start making inquiries back in England as to certain missing women. Of course, one mustn’t forget the use of atropine. Yes, that really is one of the keys to the case.”

  Inspector Núñez was blinking with incomprehension. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Sorry, I’m running ahead of myself,” I said, standing up. “But there isn’t really time for me to go into it all here, as there is another thing I really must check. It is rather complicated, Inspector, but the motive for all the murders is linked and I’m still putting the pieces together.”

  “What happens now?” he said, looking like a little boy who had just lost his mother. “I can’t see how—”

  “We carry on as normal,” I said. “Of course, there will be another funeral. It remains to be seen whether Helen Hart will have her party at her house tomorrow night. Knowing her, I’m sure she will. After all, she’s never let death stand in the way of her having a good time.”

  “And should I arrest Guy Trevelyan?”

  “Oh, no, not just yet,” I said. “It’s a great deal more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”

  “It is?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s like some kind of rotten onion. Peel away one layer of evil and there’s another layer beneath. A different kind of evil. What we need to do is get to the very center of it. The nasty, rank core of it all.”

  “Perhaps we could go through this one more time. I’m still don’t quite understand the—”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “But before we do, I’m afraid you will have to do one thing for me.”

  “Anything at all. I’m still feeling terrible for what I put you through. No lady should have to endure a night in that cell, least of all—”

  “You must release Mr. Blake and Mme Giroux.”

  “Do what?”

  “They have nothing to do with the theft of Mrs. Winniatt’s pearls. Please, Inspector Núñez, you must trust me.”

  “But Mr. Blake himself confessed to the crime. How do you—”

  “He did that to try to ensure my release. I can guarantee that neither Mr. Blake nor Mme Giroux had anything to do with the theft of those pearls. I know who did it, you see. I saw him with my own eyes.”

  “But it cannot be Dr. Trenkel. Why would he risk everything for the sake of a string of pearls?”

  “Why, indeed—yes, a very good question. I’m sorry, there’s a great deal I’m afraid I cannot tell you at the moment, but it will come to light shortly. It’s all connected, you see. The suicide of Gina Trevelyan on the ship. The death of Douglas Greene whose body was found in the cave. Mr. Winniatt’s murder and now the strangulation and drowning of poor Mrs. Brendel. The theft of the jewels is a small piece in a much larger puzzle. And hopefully I’m close to finding the very last clue—or couple of clues, I should say—which should explain everything.”

  “I’m not sure. What if my superiors discover that—”

  “Your superiors will be most displeased if they realize you have failed to prevent yet another murder on the island.”

  “What do you mean? Another murder?” said the inspector, looking very worried.

  “It won’t stop here, I’m afraid.”

  “It won’t?” The inspector’s hand had started to shake slightly, the ice in his glass clinking against the side of the crystal. “And who will be the next victim?”

  I tidied an unruly strand of hair that had fallen over my face. “Oh, there’s no doubt about it. The next person to be murdered will be me.”

  40

  After a great deal of persuasion, Inspector Núñez finally agreed to free Davison and Mme Giroux. He had been proved wrong too many times, he said, and admitted that his career would be over if he failed to prevent another murder. However, he made me promise that the couple would not leave Puerto Orotava and told me that he was giving me forty-eight hours to solve the case. In return, he would do everything in his power to protect me. It seemed like a reasonable exchange, and so later that day, at five in the afternoon, I took a taxi down to the harbor to wait for the release of my two friends—for how else could I describe these two dear souls who had been prepared to go to prison for my sake? Both of them emerged looking tired and a little dirty, but that did not stop me from embracing both of them.

  “My God, the conditions in there,” said Davison. “I can’t believe you had to endure a night in that stinking cell.”

  “I know, simply awful,” I said. “But let’s not dwell on that now. Mme Giroux, how can I ever thank you enough?”

  “I knew you had not stolen those pearls,” said Mme Giroux, holding both my hands. “From the very first moment I could tell you were a good and honest lady, one who had—like me—been treated badly by a man whom she had loved. So when your friend Mr. Blake came with the proposal to admit to the theft—in order to give you the time you needed to solve the murders—I was more than willing to help.”

  “But you risked your reputation, your job . . .” I felt words beginning to fail me.

  “It was the right thing to do,” she said. “I’m sure everyone will understand when they know the truth.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Unfortunately I was too late to prevent the murder of Mrs. Brendel. I was so stupid not to pick up the clues earlier. They were there all right, but I was too blind to see them.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about that now, so let’s get back to the Taoro,” said Davison, opening the door to the taxi for Mme Giroux and me. He tipped his hat to the two policemen in the car next to ours, men assigned by Núñez to protect me.

  “The inspector said that we’ve got only two days to solve the case, but it’s not going to be easy,” I said, clearing my throat. “In fact, it may well prove to be extremely dangerous.” I had to pull myself together. I had to try and pretend to myself, and to those around me, that I was strong. When I thought about it all, what I was risking—not only my life,
but the prospect of never seeing Rosalind grow up, never holding my grandchildren—I felt like hiding away in my room or taking the first boat back to England. But that was not an option anymore. “First, I’d like to check something before we return to the hotel. Please drop me at the English Library.”

  Davison looked concerned. “We can’t take any risks, not after Mrs. Brendel,” he said, lowering his voice. “The inspector told me all about it. You know the danger you are in. And I’m not going to let you out of my sight for a moment. Not after—”

  “You’re right,” I said. I knew he was thinking of Una. “Even though the inspector said that he would have two of his men follow me, I’d rather know that you were watching over me.”

  “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” said Davison, smiling. “What is it you want to check at the library?” Before I could answer, his face darkened. “Aren’t you forgetting something? It’s a Sunday—the building will be closed.”

  “Yes, but I thought that perhaps we could ask Núñez’s men to open it for me—surely they can find a key?”

  Davison explained in Spanish our difficulty to the inspector’s assistants, and the request was met by a series of encouraging nods and fast-flowing talk.

  “What are they saying?” I asked.

  “They say they know where to get the key—a spare is held by the caretaker—and that it should not be a problem,” Davison replied.

  After calling by the caretaker’s home, a modest building set within the Taoro grounds, the car dropped Davison and me at the English Library before it carried Mme Giroux back to the hotel. The two junior policemen walked behind us like our shadows as we made our way down a path flanked by palm trees to the simple, single-story building. As we stepped inside we were met by the sight of hundreds of books all neatly displayed on shelves ranged around a series of rooms.

  What a delight for the English community who lived in Orotava, having a little bit of their own culture to draw on. To think of the many different worlds captured within the pages of these books! For a few minutes, as I wandered into the large and airy central room, I forgot about the distressing events of the last few weeks. How many times, in moments of difficulty, had I escaped into the pages of a novel? I thought of the books I had read as a girl. How I had devoured The Prisoner of Zenda. How I had adored the works of Jules Verne, which I had read in French. And I had been addicted to L. T. Meade’s books for girls, as well as the romances of Stanley Weyman and the historical adventures of G. A. Henty. Yes, they might have been silly, but they offered a chance to see the world from another point of view. And through empathy came understanding. If I had been able to be more articulate about it, I would have been able to explain some of this to Howard Winniatt. Instead, I had become all flustered and tongue-tied, and now he was dead. I doubted very much that history would look kindly on the work of Mr. Winniatt. Yet he had not deserved to be murdered. I wondered about the character of the person who could kill in such cold blood. Douglas Greene, Howard Winniatt, Mrs. Brendel, their lives taken without conscience. Surely a person who could murder like this was not the kind who could settle down and enjoy a novel?