“By the way, did Hartford send you the information you were looking for—about girls who had gone missing back in Britain?” asked Davison, interrupting my reverie.
“Yes, and it proved extremely helpful,” I said. Even though the building was empty, we talked in whispers.
“I still don’t understand how that could have anything to do with what’s been going on out here.”
“I know it seems odd,” I said, “but one missing girl—she’s called Susan Saunders, by the way—is a crucial part of this chain of murders. I think there are quite a few things that if seen individually make no sense. It’s only when you put the pieces together and stand back that you can see the larger picture.”
“I’m still none the wiser,” said Davison. “And to think that I once thought of myself as your mentor. L’élève a dépassé le maître.”
The expression about how I had become his teacher made me smile. Indeed, I had come a long way since the time Davison had first met me on that cold December morning near my club on Hyde Park Corner, when I had been on the point of nervous collapse.
“I sincerely doubt it,” I said. “I’ll fill you in later on what happened while you were away in Icod. I wonder if they have any medical books here?”
“Why? What are you looking for?”
“It’s something I saw in Dr. Trenkel’s office. Something that doesn’t make sense.”
“How is it connected to what’s happened?”
I did not answer his question. “I’m looking for a book that contains information on the diagnosis and treatment of tuberculosis.”
“I would have thought that this would be quite a popular subject—look here,” said Davison, pointing out a selection of books in the reference section.
I ran my fingers ran along the shelves and pulled out a number of titles, including Orotava as a Health Resort by George Victor Pérez, The Canaries for Consumptives by E. Paget Thurstan, and A Handbook of Climatic Treatment by William R. Huggard. I read about the health-giving properties of sunbaths and the invigorating benefits of the trade winds. I learnt how medics believed that in areas between 5,000 and 7,000 feet above sea level, the population was free of consumption. This area in Tenerife was special because it had no excessive heat in summer and no cold in winter. There were no heavy dews, no frosts, no siroccos, and no chill at sunset. Palms grew to a height of 120 feet, with one commentator proclaiming, “Plants are witnesses that cannot lie.” Unfortunately, I thought to myself, one could not say the same about their human counterparts. Some men and women would do almost anything to further themselves in the world, men and women such as . . .
“What about this one?” asked Davison, proffering a book entitled A Clinical System of Tuberculosis: Describing All Forms of the Disease by Dr. B. Bandelier and Dr. O. Roepke. “Dry as hell, but it might help you. If you’d only tell me what it is exactly you were looking for, then I might actually—”
“Yes, this book might prove very helpful indeed. I’m sorry, Davison, I promise I’ll tell you when we get back to the Taoro. It’s just that when—”
As I turned the pages of the medical textbook, which was written in language that only doctors or specialist practitioners could properly understand, I fell silent. Something on one of the pages, a section that dealt with symptoms relating to the circulatory organs, had caught my eye. My training as a nurse during the war came in useful as I read the following paragraphs:
Emaciation, fever and deficient blood circulation tend, in the later stages of phthisis, to atrophy and fatty degeneration of the heart muscle. A soft, blowing, functional murmur over the arterial apertures is often a sign that the heart is exhausted and beginning to fail.
In the chronic fibroid form of phthisis, in which the area of the pulmonary circulation is progressively diminished, hypertrophy of the right ventricle succeeded by dilation may be detected . . .
The pronounced condition is easy to recognise by the accentuation of the second pulmonary sound, the increase of cardiac dullness to the right, by epigastric pulsation, and by a systolic murmur over the tricuspid area. Under increased demands compensation fails, so that congestion of the liver, kidneys or extremities, and later phlebitis and venous thrombosis appear. There may be cyanosis of the visible mucous membranes, or asthmatical attacks on account of the respiratory deficiency.
I pulled out a couple of sheets of paper from my handbag. Phrases jumped out at me like bullets: later stages of phthisis, atrophy and fatty degeneration of the heart muscle, congestion of the liver and kidneys, and cyanosis of the visible mucous membranes.
The words matched exactly what I had just read. The doctor had simply copied out the words from a book. Perhaps that was why Dr. Trenkel’s handwriting appeared so neat on this report in contrast to the rest of his patients’ records.
At that point, I could have handed over everything I had discovered to Inspector Núñez and hoped that the police would be able to make a case. I could have left it in the hands of the authorities and, after giving my statement, retired back to England, where I might have read about the brutal murders in Orotava in a paragraph or two in The Times or the Daily Mail. But to do so would have deprived me—and others whose lives had been destroyed—of seeing justice done. There was also a possibility that the person—a murderer who was clever, calculating, and manipulative—would twist the evidence and try to shift the blame and, in doing so, escape punishment. I wasn’t ready to step aside from this just yet. Davison had brought me here to this lush paradise to help solve this crime, and solve it I would.
It was time to draw the killer out of the shadows.
41
As I had expected, Helen Hart decided to go ahead with her party, but with some last-minute changes. She sent word around that she had decided to turn it into an event to celebrate some of Mrs. Brendel’s achievements. The Spanish, she added, did not subscribe to the English custom of the wake, and she believed that a little get-together of Mrs. Brendel’s friends in advance of the funeral would be more appropriate. “It was what Edith would have wanted,” she added.
Davison and I had spent the day on a plan we hoped would work. But, as I had reiterated to him, this was not like the denouement in a detective novel—in which the author would tie up all the loose ends—but messy and dangerous real life in which anything might happen. I made an effort to look the part, choosing an emerald-green silk dress, which Davison complimented me on when I joined him in the bar of the Taoro.
“Una would have called it a dress to die for,” he said, taking a sip of his dry martini.
“Or a dress to die in,” I said, smiling.
“Agatha, please don’t joke about such things,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but you know I’ve no intention of letting anyone kill me.”
“I hope not,” he said, looking at me with concern. “But are you absolutely sure you want to go ahead with this? It’s not too late to change your mind. We have almost enough for Núñez to make an arrest as it is.”
“Almost is never good enough,” I said.
“And you won’t have a drink? Not even to steady your nerves?”
“No. And I think we should be going—it’s nearly half past seven.”
Davison drained the contents of his glass and offered me his arm. We walked out of the bar to the front of the hotel, where a taxi was waiting for us. On the journey out of town and past La Paz we talked trivialities—vague travel plans, what we missed about dear old England, the overuse of garlic in Spanish food—until we arrived at Helen Hart’s cliff-top house. Torches and candles lit the entrance, casting surreal shadows into the garden. As we passed a line of tall date palms, breathing in the night air thick with the sickly sweet smell of exotic blooms, I could make out the shape of sculptures positioned around the garden. A Spanish maid greeted us at the door and showed us towards a large drawing room, which was alive with the sound of conversation.
“Mrs. Christie, I’m so pleased you could make it,” said Helen when she
saw me. She was dressed in an elegant pale blue dress and a matching jacket with big pockets. “And you’ve brought your enigmatic friend along, too. Forgive me, what was the name again?”
“Blake—Mr. Alexander Blake,” said Davison, removing his hat.
“What can I get you—a cocktail? Guy—cocktails over here.”
I let Guy Trevelyan hand me a glass of clear-looking liquid that I had no intention of drinking. Davison took one too, and pretended to take a sip from it.
“I think you know everyone here,” Miss Hart said, her blue eyes flashing brightly. She was obviously in her element.
“Yes, I think so,” I said. I looked around the room. Dr. Trenkel was in the corner talking to Professor Wilbor; with them were Rupert Mabey and a pale-looking Edmund Ffosse in his wheeled chair.
“Gerard and Violet Grenville are expected at any moment,” said Helen Hart. “I know Edith was not a great fan of Grenville, but I’d already invited them before she died, and it seemed churlish to banish them from the party, as I know Violet was looking forward to seeing Edmund. Also, I’m afraid Mrs. Winniatt said she was still too upset to venture out. Talking of Mrs. Winniatt, and taking advantage of her absence, you must tell us all about what happened, Mrs. Christie. I couldn’t believe it when the inspector turned up at the picnic like that and took you away.”
“Oh, it was nothing but a silly misunderstanding,” I said.
“A misunderstanding?” exclaimed Helen, sipping her cocktail. “If I had been locked in a cell overnight, I think I would call it more than that. What do you say, Guy?”
“Well, yes, indeed,” he said, blinking bloodshot eyes. “And, Mr. Blake, I hear that you were taken in by the police, too?”
“Just to help the inspector with his inquiries, that’s all,” said Davison.
“Of course, we never suspected you were guilty for a moment—did we, Guy?” said Miss Hart. “But I wonder who was responsible for the theft of those pearls? Obviously that pales into insignificance when compared to the murder of poor Howard. And now Edith. It must have been awful to find her like that—in the bath.”
“Yes, it was a terrible shock,” I said.
“She was a great friend, and I know that Guy has taken her death particularly badly. You’ve been quite shaken up, haven’t you, darling?”
Guy didn’t respond, but turned from Helen towards the cocktail trolley and began to mix some more drinks.
“As I said in my note, I thought we should mark her passing in some way, even if it is just raising a glass in her honor. Or, after dinner, if anyone here wanted to say anything—any memories they wanted to share. I know I’ve got a few light stories I could start with if everyone thought that was a good idea. But first, as promised, a tour of the studio and my latest work.”
The plan was met with solemn nods and murmurings of approval.
“I still can’t believe that Mrs. Brendel is dead,” said Professor Wilbor. “Of course, I only met her when she arrived in Orotava, but she seemed a kind and decent lady.”
“Yes, why would anyone would want to kill her is beyond me,” said Dr. Trenkel.
“Did you examine the body, doctor?” asked the professor.
“Yes, there were signs of asphyxiation, but it was death by drowning, I’m afraid,” he replied. “The inspector thinks that whoever did it might have been trying to steal Mrs. Brendel’s jewelry. The signs of injury indicated that the killer wrenched the pearls from her neck in the struggle. Nothing was taken, so Núñez thinks the murderer might have fled the scene because he was interrupted and didn’t have time to pick up the scattered pearls from the floor.”
“How awful,” said the professor. “I’m sure the inspector will get his man.”
After Guy Trevelyan had topped up everyone’s drinks, Helen Hart led the way out of the drawing room, down a corridor and towards the back of the house that overlooked the sea. The studio was an impressive structure, featuring enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out towards utter darkness. Outside, you could hear the crash of the waves on the rocks below.
“Obviously, this is very different during the day,” said Miss Hart. “It’s filled with light. It can be quite dazzling at times.”
As she said this, I remembered the line from The Duchess of Malfi: “Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: she died young.” I now realized why I had first thought of those words and how they applied to Gina Trevelyan. I had been blinded and deceived from the very beginning.
“Here are a few of my most recent pieces,” said Helen, taking up a small chisel that was lying on one of the benches. “This is a toad carved from green onyx and a snake I sculpted from a single piece of marble.”
There was no denying Helen Hart’s talents as a sculptress. She invested her sculptures—some of which were abstract—with a raw, elemental power.
“As you can see, I’m trying to capture the essence of a thing, not the surface reality,” she said, pointing the chisel at a portrayal of a seated boy made from anhydrite stone. “It can be quite difficult for some people to grasp at first. But the emotional reaction is really what is important. I want people to feel things very strongly when they see my work. For instance, Mrs. Christie, what do you feel—not think about—when you see this?” she asked, directing her chisel towards a squat, flat-faced figure fashioned from African blackwood. “It’s also one my new pieces of work—something I’m rather proud of, in fact.”
It took me a moment to gather my thoughts. Although I was nowhere near as skilled as Helen Hart, I had, at least, had some training in sculpture. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but is it a representation of a kind of primitive woman?”
The interpretation seemed to take Helen Hart rather aback. “Well yes, that’s very good. I wonder how you knew? She’s my version of Eve—well, a savage Eve.”
I could have said more, but held back. There was time for that later.
“But what do you feel about it?” she persisted.
“Well . . . I suppose a sense of power. Yes, a great deal of energy. It seems more than a little frightening.”
“And Mr. Blake, you strike me as an unusually sensitive man. What do you make of this? I’ve just finished it and thought it would be appropriate to show it on Valentine’s Day.” She pointed her chisel towards a plinth that contained a large sculpture, in alabaster, of a pair of intertwined figures.
“I’m afraid the world of the arts is quite beyond me,” said Davison, keeping in character as the insurance salesman from Southampton. “I simply do not have the vocabulary to express myself adequately. Perhaps it would be better to ask someone else.”
Helen Hart looked around the group and settled on Edmund Ffosse, who gazed up from his wheeled chair in astonishment.
“Well, I . . .” said Ffosse, blushing.
“Don’t be shy, Mr. Ffosse. It’s the sexual union. I call it The Joy of Congress.”
“Now, Helen, darling, there’s no need to embarrass Mr. Ffosse,” said Guy, placing a hand on her arm.
Helen’s eyes flashed with something—passion, anger, hatred—and she looked as though she was about to say something cruel or even lash out with the chisel, but instead she placed the instrument in a pocket of her jacket and smiled in an artificial manner.
“Perhaps you can tell our friends here something of your inspiration,” said Guy, trying to smooth over the situation.
“I don’t know if anyone has heard of Ursula Edgcumbe or Elsie Henderson?” Helen asked.
The question was met by blank faces all round. “Henry Moore and Jacob Epstein?”
“Oh, yes, we know them,” came the general reply.
“It’s interesting, isn’t it, how the names of male sculptors are household names. But there are many women who are just as talented, just as skilled.”
I was reminded of the Kipling poem that Guy Trevelyan had quoted on the Gelria. A cobra. An Himalayan she-bear. A squaw from the Huron or Choctaws.
“What about Barbara Hepworth?” asked Rupert Mabe
y.
“At last—one name people know,” she said. “I could tell you a few things about that lady, in fact—”
At that moment, the maid appeared at the door of the studio to announce that Grenville and his daughter had arrived.
“Very well, let’s go and greet them,” said Helen, leading the group out of the studio. “What I want to say is that I’m trying to invest my work with an exciting feminine energy that I believe is missing from a great deal of sculpture. Anyway, I can tell I’ve bored all of you quite enough.”
“Not at all,” said the professor. “I find it all fascinating. As you know, Guanche sculpture often celebrates the feminine form.”
The professor and Helen Hart led the group out of the studio and back into the house. Davison and I deliberately held back so we could talk in private.
“Did you see the way she was brandishing that chisel around?” whispered Davison. “And the expression in her eyes?”
A Different Kind of Evil Page 26
