“Well, at least my one true love isn’t dead,” I said, using a napkin to wipe the blood from my face. “It’s tragic, really. Guy admits he was willing to commit murder for you, but you never really loved him. Isn’t that right?” The time had come for me to reveal a secret Helen had kept from Guy. “You only ever loved one man—Edmund Ffosse.”
At these words Guy opened his eyes wide. “Ffosse? But he’s a cripple. Or I should say, was.”
“Well, he is much more of a man dead than you will ever be alive,” said Helen, looking at Guy.
“What are you saying?” asked Guy. “Helen? You can’t mean that it’s true? I was prepared to die for you. What about our plans?”
The question was met by a cruel laugh. “Plans! What, to live happily ever after together? With you! It was just a pantomime. A farce from the very beginning.”
“But—” The realization hit Guy harder than the bullet in his body, draining whatever color he had left in his face.
“There’s little point in covering up anything, now that—” She looked down at Edmund’s lifeless body in his wheeled chair. “Yes, of course I would have married you, as agreed,” she said, addressing Guy. “But then, after a year or so, once everything had settled down, we planned to do away with you, just like we had done away with those others, so we would then be free to marry.”
“Th-the others?” The words seemed to choke him. “What others?”
“Howard Winniatt and Mrs. Brendel.”
“Edith?” The name stuck in his throat. “My God. You killed Edith? How could you? And Howard?”
“Yes!” she said triumphantly. “And there’s no point in trying to make me feel guilty, you hypocrite. You knew it would have to be done.”
“But you said that you would get some thug from the port to do that.”
“I did think about it,” said Helen to Guy. “But I realized that after we killed Gina back in London and then the business with that girl on the ship . . . well, I suppose I got quite a thrill out of it all. And Edmund was a very good teacher.”
Guy looked at Helen now not with adoration, but with disgust and horror. “You make me sick,” he said. “So all along you just wanted Gina’s fortune. All of—of this just for money?” He tried to pull himself up—no doubt to try and finish Helen off—but the pain shot through his body again and left him in a crumpled heap.
“What do you mean, Edmund was a good teacher?” I asked. “Of what?” I knew what she was going to say.
“Murder, of course,” Helen replied. She said the words as if this sentiment was the most natural thing in the whole world. In the corner stood Núñez, with a horrified expression, taking everything down in a notebook. “It was Edmund’s idea, all of it. From the very beginning. He planned everything, thought of every little detail. He had a brilliant mind. He even starved himself so as to appear as though he was dying. But he had plenty of other appetites. He was a fabulous lover. Oh, yes, that too, as you can see from The Joy of Congress, a sculpture that poor Guy always believed honored his lovemaking abilities.”
“But . . . I thought that . . . how—it can’t be—no—” Violet suddenly spoke. But she was so utterly confused and paralyzed by shock that she could express herself only in fragments.
“You poor girl,” said Helen, turning to her. “Did you really think that Edmund loved you? The reality was that he pitied you. You proved useful, I’ll say that. What was it he called you? The decoy? Yes, that was it.”
Violet’s eyes filled with tears. Finally a sentence came fully formed from her lips. “I don’t understand . . . you were going to marry? You and Edmund?”
“Yes, how many more times do I need to tell you?” snapped Helen. “We would do away with Guy and I would have his fortune. Then Edmund and I would run away. We thought a little island in the Caribbean, perhaps, or one of those exotic-sounding places like Zanzibar or Tanganyika. Far from here, anyway.”
“Did you really think you would be able to get away with it?” I asked.
Her blue eyes flashed at me, a look full of strange contradictions. She stood before us with the countenance of a headstrong young girl accused of some minor misdemeanor of which she was secretly quite proud.
“Don’t think you’re anything special,” she said to me petulantly. “I’m not going to give you any credit for uncovering the truth. In fact, I feel sorry for you. Having your head stuck in a book. Always living your life through other people. It must feel like a secondhand life, not really yours.”
“That’s out of order,” said Davison, coming to my defense.
“No, let her have her say,” I said.
“I thought one of the chief skills one needed to be a writer was to be observant,” she continued. “If that’s the case, you must surely count yourself a failure.”
“Yes, you’re right,” I said, clearing my throat. I found it a little easier to talk now. “There were some clues that I failed to pick up on.” I repeated the line from The Duchess of Malfi. “To begin with, I too was dazzled. You staged that scene on the ship like a play. It took me a long while to understand that it was not Gina Trevelyan who jumped off the Gelria.”
All eyes were on me now and a hush descended on the room. “Something went wrong with your original plan to murder Gina, didn’t it? You wanted Gina’s death to look like a suicide, but she had fought back. Guy is right to describe it as ‘messy’—you knew that if the police found her body, then he would be suspected of the murder. And you needed him—or rather, the fortune that would come to him from his wife—to make your plan work. You had to dispose of Gina’s body, but of course without a corpse, then there would be no money—at least not for some time. And so you came up with this idea—oh, yes, a very clever idea—of finding someone to play the part of Gina.” I thought of the silly argument I had witnessed between Rosalind and Raymond, the two children squabbling over their teddies that looked so alike. It had been that scene—and the subsequent distressing dream I had about it afterwards—that had helped me piece all of this together. “So you then recruited poor Susan Saunders to stand in for Gina on the ship. Of course the advantage of this plan was that you didn’t need a body—you knew that her corpse would most likely never be recovered from the sea. And I presume it was atropine you gave the girl? It made her believe that she could fly.”
“Aren’t you the clever one?” said Helen sharply. “Yes, Edmund had given me the drug, told me how it worked and what I might be able to do with it. I gave some to that girl—whatever she was called, Susan, did you say?—that morning. The fat little thing had been cooped up, bound and gagged, in that trunk with nothing to eat since leaving England, and I suppose the drug must have got to work pretty quickly. I led her out of the hold and up onto the deck and whispered into her ear that she was a prima ballerina, that she was going to dance her way across the stage in the company of the Royal Ballet, that all the great and the good had come to see her. It was pathetic, but she really did believe me, I think.”
“And that’s when you screamed and I came running to try and help,” I said. “Although you didn’t need a body. What you did need was an independent witness to her death.”
“A part played so wonderfully by you, Mrs. Christie,” said Helen with a note of sarcasm in her voice.
“But I don’t understand—how is Douglas Greene connected with all of this?” asked Núñez, looking up from scribbling in his notebook.
“Do you want to try and explain, Mrs. Christie?” enquired Helen, with the kind of nonchalance a person might adopt if asking an acquaintance to outline the rules of bridge. “You seem to know the story better than I do.”
“I’m not yet sure about the details,” I said, “but my guess is that Douglas Greene discovered the truth about Edmund Ffosse.” I had the attention of the whole room now, a feeling that made me distinctly uncomfortable.
“And what was the truth, Mrs. Christie?” asked Núñez.
I hesitated, wishing that I could have broken the news to Vi
olet in private. But I had no choice but to continue.
“That although he had once contracted a mild form of tuberculosis, his case was far from fatal.”
“But he was under the care of Dr. Trenkel,” whispered Violet. “He said that there was little hope. Edmund told me so himself.”
“I’m afraid there’s been another deception there, hasn’t there, Doctor?” I asked him to step forward to explain his actions.
“I’m afraid it’s true,” said Trenkel. “Edmund was not going to die, at least not anytime soon.”
“But, I don’t understand . . .” Violet was becoming quite agitated now. “It was a matter of months, weeks even. So we could have married after all?”
“Let the doctor speak, dear,” said Grenville, trying to calm his daughter.
“I didn’t think any harm would come of it,” said the doctor. “I got myself in a bit of a fix, I’m afraid. Mr. Ffosse had a hold over me. He had a certain piece of information that meant he could blackmail me. When he asked me to provide him with a more serious diagnosis in exchange for keeping something away from the owners of the Taoro, I thought it a good idea to agree with him. He wasn’t asking for money or a cut, simply a diagnosis of a fatal case of tuberculosis. He said it was to put someone off the scent, a woman who was pursuing him. He wanted to let her down gently. How could I argue with that?”
“And that certain piece of information?” asked Núñez. “You may as well admit it now, Doctor.”
“Very well—Edmund knew that I was responsible for the theft of some jewels from the Taoro.”
“Including Mrs. Winniatt’s pearls?” the inspector persisted.
“Yes, and an emerald brooch and a diamond-and-sapphire bracelet,” said the doctor. “You see, I had overstretched myself, certain gambling debts that mounted up over the years, and—”
“We can come to that in good time, Trenkel,” said the inspector. “So, Mrs. Christie, you were right about Dr. Trenkel and the pearls. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. But how did you know there was a connection between the doctor here and Mr. Ffosse? And how does that fit in with Douglas Greene?”
“I can perfectly understand why you wouldn’t believe me at first, Inspector,” I said. “After all, the doctor was a trusted member of the Taoro staff, responsible as you said for saving many lives. But as I cannot stress enough, appearances should never be taken at face value. One always has to question, to wonder what lies beneath the surface of even the most respectable person. Now, as to Dr. Trenkel and Edmund Ffosse—I knew there was something amiss when I discovered that Mr. Ffosse’s medical record was written in a hand unlike that on the rest of the doctor’s reports. It was written neatly, so very different from the doctor’s usual, quite messy style. After I checked a book in the library—a book I am certain the doctor must own, too—I saw that he had simply copied out a few lines from this volume. A silly mistake, but an important detail. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
Trenkel nodded his head. “If I had known that the action would have such consequences, I would of course never have got involved. If you can only let me explain—”
Núñez cut him off again. “Later, Trenkel,” he said. “We need to get to the heart of the matter. Mrs. Christie? Please tell us about Douglas Greene.”
“Yes, well, although I haven’t got the proof yet, my assumption is that Douglas Greene probably discovered that Edmund did not have a fatal illness. Greene was working on the island as a secret agent, you see, and it was his job to look into individuals suspected of subversive tendencies. During the course of his investigations, Greene turned up the fact of Ffosse’s pseudo-illness. He no doubt questioned Ffosse about it and, in doing so, sealed his fate. Ffosse murdered him and then took him, most probably at night, to that cave beneath his house, where he made it look as though the death had some kind of ritual or occult element. He started a process of mummification, covered the body in dragon’s blood, and planted a small figure of Tibecena. This was done to cast suspicion on Gerard Grenville.”
“I see now why you acted so strange when you came to see me,” said Grenville, a look of revelation of his face.
I couldn’t look at him. In my eyes he was still a monster, if not responsible for a murder, then for something nearly as bad.
“And of course Ffosse had a use for the blood that he drained from Greene’s body,” I continued. “As someone pretending to suffer from tuberculosis, he needed a ready supply to daub on his handkerchiefs to make it look as though he was coughing up blood. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that when that supply ran out, he started to cut himself, blood that he then transferred to a vial. Before he went out, I assume he simply dipped a handkerchief into the blood. Oh, yes, Ffosse played the part of an innocent very well indeed. After all, who would suspect a man in a wheeled chair?”
“And Howard Winniatt and Edith Brendel?” asked Núñez. “Why did they have to die?”
“Some things seem so insignificant that we hardly notice them, or if we do, we discount them as trivial,” I said. “We let these details—small snippets of conversation, an overheard phrase, something glimpsed from the corner of our eye—pass through our brains like clouds, drifting to the back of our minds. I too was guilty of this, not taking stock of something, not realizing its true import, because I assumed it was nothing more than a minor detail.
“That sounds like I’m going off on a tangent, but I promise you I’m not. You see, this is how it was with Howard Winniatt. In his quest to document all that was around him, he observed that when Guy Trevelyan’s trunk was loaded on the ship in England, it was so heavy it caused the faces of the porters who carried it on board to turn beetroot red. Mr. Trevelyan, a geologist, told everyone that he was carrying specimens of rocks, and of course there was no reason to doubt him. But you see, when the same trunk was lifted off the ship at the port in Las Palmas, we know it was empty. Something—or I should say someone—was in that luggage loaded in England: poor Susan Saunders, who had been sedated to keep her quiet. That first night at dinner at the Taoro, Mr. Winniatt must have said something to Mr. Trevelyan about the difference in the two weights of the trunk. I noticed Guy’s change of demeanor at the table, but I put it down to Mr. Winniatt’s insensitivity, a comment he must have made about the woman everyone thought to be Gina and her suicide on the ship. Edith Brendel, although she did not realize its significance, also sealed her fate when, at the picnic under the Dragon Tree, she made a comment about Mr. Trevelyan’s luggage. She, too, would have to be got rid of. Isn’t that right, Miss Hart?”
Helen Hart’s composure had not changed since the first accusation had been leveled at her. She remained cool and unperturbed, her complexion flawless. “She was nothing but an interfering old gossip,” she said. “And going on and on about her jewels and the Titanic and the gilded life before the war.”
“But to drown her like that?” I asked. “In her own bath?”
“I knew she was scared of water,” she said. “I thought it would serve her right.”
My God, Helen Hart was an utter sadist. I had no pity for her.
“And what about Mr. Winniatt?” asked Núñez. “How did he die?”
Helen Hart looked at me and raised an eyebrow, as if she expected me to explain the details.
“Well, if you’re not going to tell, I suppose I’d better,” she sighed. “I still had some of the atropine left over that Edmund had given me for Susan. That morning, I met Winniatt while he was out walking. He looked hot and thirsty, so I offered him a sip of my flask. Soon after drinking the wine, he started to hallucinate. I told him that I would lead him to safety. I walked with him arm in arm to the bridge, where he stopped and climbed onto the wall. ‘I can fly,’ he said. And then he threw himself off into the rambla below. So you see, strictly speaking, Howard killed himself.”
“And the bird-of-paradise flower skewered through the eye?” I asked.
“Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “Just a little joke. The trouble with Howa
rd was that he was always spying on other people, always looking and watching and scribbling things down. Like you, Mrs. Christie. But at least you have a modicum of talent, more than can be said for Howard. I stuck the flower into his eye as a punishment for all that snooping and spying.”
“And what were your plans for me?” I asked.
Helen was about to say something more when a deep moan that came from Edmund. All eyes turned towards him.
“Look! Oh, Father! His eyes are opening! Edmund, dear Edmund,” said Violet. After all she had heard, it seemed as though she still loved the man. “He’s not dead.”
“Don’t go too close to him now, Violet,” warned Grenville as Violet bent down to stroke his cheek.
“Helen . . .” Edmund mumbled.
Helen’s hand went up to her mouth. For the first time since I had met her, she seemed uncertain about what to say or do.
“Of course he’s still alive,” I said. “It wasn’t really morphine that I injected, just a sedative, something to put him out for a while. I wasn’t going to let him off that easily. He needs to stand trial for his crimes, as do you, Mr. Trevelyan, and of course you, too, Miss Hart.”
Inspector Núñez moved in closer. Helen Hart had panic in her eyes now, the horrified panic of a hunted animal finally cornered. She looked around for anything she could use as a weapon, casting her eye over the chisel that lay on the floor, one of her marble sculptures—a bird with its wings spread wide set on a pedestal in an alcove—the gun still in Davison’s hand, even the knives and forks on the table. Perhaps she contemplated making a run for it. But as the front door was guarded by Núñez’s men, there was only one way out: through the back of the house to the studio and over the cliff, a drop down to the sharp rocks and sea below. Helen was too vain and too proud a woman for that kind of death.
A Different Kind of Evil Page 28
