Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  “Another tragic yachting accident, I’m afraid, Dr. Vanduren.” Henry paused. “Did your daughter know the Rosses?”

  “She and Cheryl were friends at school, but after Neil died and Cheryl went to work in D.C., we kind of lost touch. They invited us all to the wedding, but only Celia was able to go.” He frowned and said again, “What does it mean?”

  Henry said, “I wish I knew. It appears to mean that, since Betsy was very positive about her identification, either your daughter was impersonating Cheryl Ross six months after her presumed death by drowning—or else Cheryl Ross was for some reason impersonating Janet in January.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “It’s extremely puzzling, I agree,” said Henry. “It’s perfectly possible that after six years Miss Sprague might not have recognized Janet, and might just have assumed that the girl on the Isabella must be her. But six months is a different matter, and she was quite certain that the two girls were identical.” Henry paused. “Dr. Vanduren, have you a photograph of Janet that you can give me to send to the police in the Seawards?”

  Vanduren pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

  “No,” he said.

  Emmy said, “We could get it copied and sent back to you at once—”

  “I said no,” said the doctor, “for the very good reason that I don’t have one.”

  “None at all?”

  “Not a one. It was Celia. She had this…this breakdown, and she insisted on destroying every picture of Jan that we had in the house—negatives and all. Her psychiatrist said it was best to let her have her way. I didn’t feel good about it…but…” He shrugged his big shoulders.

  “Are you sure you didn’t keep even one?” Henry asked.

  “If I did, it wasn’t deliberate, Mr. Tibbett.”

  Henry said, “If we took a look through your desk, or wherever you keep photographs… ”

  The doctor grinned sardonically. “You’re carrying on like you’re suspicious about something,” he said. “I don’t appreciate it.”

  Henry said, “Dr. Vanduren, there’s just a chance that your daughter might be alive and suffering from amnesia. Surely you want to help the police check it out?”

  “All right, if you insist. But I tell you, every picture was destroyed.”

  He shambled across the dining room and out into the hall, followed by Henry and Emmy. They all went into a small and untidy study at the back of the house, where Vanduren began pulling open the drawers of an old-fashioned desk. In one of them there was a bundle of assorted snapshots—mostly of Vanduren with a middle-aged, fair-haired woman. None at all of a young, blonde girl. They were about to give up when Emmy spotted a wedding photograph. It showed a bride and groom—both dark and good-looking—laughing over the traditional cutting of a huge wedding cake. The picture was inscribed in a bold, round hand—”Sorry you couldn’t make it. Next time this’ll be you and Ed! Love, Cheryl and Martin.”

  “The Rosses!” Emmy exclaimed.

  Vanduren glanced at the photograph. “That’s right. Cheryl sent it to Jan.”

  “May I take it?” Henry asked. “It could help.”

  “Take it?” echoed Dr. Vanduren. “What can you do with it? You’re on your way back to England, aren’t you?”

  Henry said, “I’d like the police in St. Mark’s to see this. If you’d care to send it to—”

  “I’m damned if I’m going to get mixed up in—”

  “Then please let me have it,” said Henry.

  After a tiny pause, the doctor said, “Oh, very well. Take it if you want to.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry. He looked at his watch. “Well, we must be off back to the airport to get our flight. Forgive us for disturbing you, Dr. Vanduren. We felt that you ought to know—”

  “Yes, yes. Very civil, I’m sure.”

  Dr. Vanduren saw the Tibbetts to the door with considerably more courtesy and enthusiasm than he had displayed when greeting them. On one point he remained adamant.

  “You’re going back to England,” he said, “and Celia is there. I absolutely forbid you to try to contact her. She must be told nothing of this. Absolutely nothing. She’s only just recovering, and a goddamn silly false hope like this might set her right back. Understand?”

  At the door, Henry said, “Was Janet ever on drugs, Doctor? Hard drugs?”

  Vanduren became very angry, forgetting courtesy. “Get out of my house, sir! Damn your impertinence! Get out!”

  Henry and Emmy went back to the airport and caught the afternoon plane to Puerto Rico. They stayed overnight in the rather impersonal comfort of the airport hotel and caught the commuter flight to St. Mark’s at eight o’clock in the morning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BY HALF-PAST NINE, Henry and Emmy were back at St. Mark’s marina. As they passed the Harbour Master’s office, Anderson looked up, saw them, and motioned them to come in.

  He said, “John Colville has been trying to get hold of you, Mr. Tibbett. He’d like you to call back as soon as possible. Why don’t you use my phone?”

  “Henry?” John’s voice came over the line, strong and sounding bewildered. “Where on earth were you yesterday? They told me—”

  Anderson was busy rearranging the little flags on the map of the marina. Henry decided to take no chances at all. He said, “Oh, we just went to Puerto Rico for the day.”

  “Well,” said John, “the most extraordinary thing has happened.”

  “What?”

  “By yesterday’s post from St. Mark’s. Two postcards from Betsy, one for you and one for us, posted on Saturday.”

  Carefully keeping any surprise out of his voice, Henry said, “What do they say?”

  “Just a moment while I get them.”

  “What does John want, Henry?” Emmy asked.

  Putting his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, Henry said, “He has some mail for us, that’s all. A couple of postcards.”

  “Oh.” Emmy turned away, disappointed.

  “Ah, hello, John. Well?”

  “Our card,” John said, “is a view of Mango Bay Beach—which we see every day, of course—and it simply says, ‘Just to thank you both for a wonderful holiday. Love, Betsy.’ Yours is of the marina at St. Mark’s, and it’s a bit longer and more complicated. It says, ‘I was wrong about Janet—it’s a couple called Ross. They’ve asked me on board their boat for lunch. Hope I catch my plane. If I don’t, please let Celia know. Betsy.’ ” John paused. “What do you make of it? How could she have posted them on St. Mark’s on Saturday, two days after—”

  Henry said, “Can you get those cards over to me here?”

  “Sure. I’ll give them to Morley—he’s going over on the Pride tomorrow.”

  Henry said, “John—would it be possible for you to bring them over yourself, today?”

  “Today?” John sounded taken aback. “Well…yes, I suppose so. I was going to do some painting on the new units, but if it’s so important… ”

  “I’d like to have a talk with you,” Henry said. “We’ll be on board Windflower in the marina.”

  John said, “I was surprised when Anderson told me you hadn’t sailed. What on earth made you go to Puerto Rico?”

  “I’ll tell you over lunch,” Henry said.

  While Emmy went back to Windflower, Henry began looking for Bob Harrison. It had occurred to him that if Betsy Sprague wanted to leave postcards with somebody to post for her, she would be likely to choose this solid, foursquare Englishman. It turned out that Bob was not at the marina tending his charter fleet, but at the small shipyard nearby where he did repairs and fitting-out. There Henry found him, tinkering with the motor of his own launch, named Mark One. Bob seemed glad of an excuse to straighten up and have a talk.

  Henry started off by asking whether he might charter Windflower for at least a second week, as he found he did not have to return to England for the moment. Bob appeared delighted.

  “Quiet time of year, sir,” he said, �
�and the owner isn’t coming down before Thanksgiving, that I know for a fact. I’ll let him know, of course, and get his O.K.—but he’ll be pleased, no doubt about it. Not good for a boat to sit in her berth months on end.”

  “Good,” said Henry. “Now, there’s another thing. A friend of ours—a little old English lady—was here in the marina last Thursday and gave some postcards to somebody to mail for her. Did you happen to—?”

  “The old lady? Postcards? Ay, it was me she asked. I was coming up the jetty to go’ome for my dinner, and she was going down it with a young couple. She was a bit behind them, and as she passed me she pushed the cards into my hand and said, ‘Post these for me, please. They’re stamped.’ A bit…I dunno…almost furtive, I thought. Expect she didn’t want to delay the young people. Next thing I saw, the boat had sailed. And now I hear tell she’s gone missing.” Bob shook his gray head. “Bad business. Hope the old lady wasn’t aboard.”

  “I’m afraid she probably was,” Henry said. “So you posted the cards?”

  Bob looked sheepish. “Well, yes, but I must admit I forgot’em until Saturday. I’d stuck’em up on the kitchen shelf when I went for dinner and never noticed them again till Saturday morning. Still, postcards aren’t generally that important, are they?”

  Henry said, “How do you know which boat the old lady was going to?”

  “Well, I’d’ad a word with Mr. Ross earlier on. He came up to me—I was working on a boat, like—and told me they’d put in for a small repair to the engine, and could I recommend a yard to do it. I told him I’d do it myself if he brought the boat round to the yard here, and he thanked me. Funny thing,” Bob added, “he never did bring the boat round. Just upped and went. Ah, well.”

  Henry unzipped his small overnight bag and pulled out the wedding photograph. He handed it to Bob and said, “Do you recognize that couple?” Bob studied the picture and then said, “No. Who are they, then?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ross.”

  “Ah, well now.” Bob grinned. “I never did see the lady, and Mr. Ross had a beard when he was here.” He squinted at the photograph again. “Could be him without his beard. I can’t tell, rightly. I only saw him the once, and just for a moment.” He smiled cheerfully. “You don’t want to get too upset about the boat goin’ missing, sir. It’ll turn up, you’ll see. Probably the radio broke, and they may be having trouble with that engine.” He hesitated. “You and the wife planning on taking Windflower out soon, sir?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Henry reassuringly. “I had to go to Puerto Rico yesterday, so we’ve had to postpone our cruise. But tomorrow—”

  “Ah, well, that’s good. Good sailing, sir.”

  On Windflower, Emmy was making a cup of coffee. Henry went aboard and told her John’s news about the cards from Betsy.

  “From Betsy?” Emmy was overjoyed. “So she’s all right! Where is she?”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t mean she’s all right. The cards were posted from here on Saturday.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Yes, it is. Betsy gave the cards to Bob Harrison as she was going down the jetty to Chermar with the so-called Ross couple. Asked him to post them for her. He forgot to do so until Saturday.”

  “So the cards don’t mean anything,” Emmy said flatly.

  “The card to the Colvilles was just a bread-and-butter thank-you,” Henry said, “but the one to us was something else.”

  “What did it say?” Henry told her. “So Betsy did make a mistake after all.” Emmy sounded downcast.

  “I don’t think so. Anyhow, John is coming over on the Pride and bringing the cards with him. Meanwhile, I must get in touch with Ingham, and I’ve a job for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes. I want you to go back to Caribbean Treasure Trove and see if Betsy said anything to the girl there about why she was buying postcards.”

  “I’ll try,” Emmy said.

  “See you back here in an hour or so,” said Henry. He climbed ashore and headed for the Harbour Master’s office and its telephone.

  “Chief Inspector Ingham? Henry Tibbett. Look, I have to talk to you. And I want to make a phone call to—” Henry paused as a young man with red hair and a Texas accent pushed open the door, inquiring loudly about where to obtain ice. He showed no sign of leaving, following up his quest for ice with demands for information on good restaurants ashore.

  Henry said, “It would be good to see you again, old man. Could I come up to your place, perhaps?”

  Ingham, on the other end of the line, said, “Lack of privacy?”

  “Just that. So if it’s convenient—”

  “The station has a back entrance on West Street. Unmarked, next to Annie’s Supermarket. When will you get here?”

  His eye on the young American, who seemed to be spinning out his business with the Harbour Master to unnecessary lengths, Henry said, “Oh, within the next few days. I’ll look forward to it. Good-bye, old man.”

  He hung up and said to Anderson, “Thanks for the use of your phone. How much do I owe you?”

  “Just ten cents, sir.” Anderson was straight-faced. He took the small coin from Henry and returned to his other client. “Well, sir, as I was saying, the Green Turtle specializes in seafood… ”

  Henry went out of the office, hailed a taxi, and asked to be driven to Annie’s Supermarket on West Street. Ten minutes later he was sitting in Inspector Ingham’s office.

  Ingham seemed amused. “Who was the sinister character listening in on our conversation, Mr. Tibbett?”

  Henry grinned. “A young red-haired American who probably really did want to know where to buy ice and get a meal ashore,” he said, “but that office is too damned public. Now, listen to this.”

  Quickly and concisely, Henry went over his interview with the Governor, his trip to Florida, and finally his telephone call from John Colville and his talk with Bob Harrison. He also advanced a theory that had been formulating in his mind.

  Ingham listened in absorbed silence. Then he said, “I think you’re right, sir. I think they may well come back here.”

  “If they do,” Henry said, “how will they arrive?”

  “How? By boat, by air…the way all tourists arrive.”

  “Surely not,” Henry said. “An arriving tourist fills in a form, which is kept by Immigration. The stub is torn off and given to the visitor, who must hand it in when he leaves.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But,” Henry went on, “these people don’t intend to leave—at least, not with the identities they came in with.”

  Ingham said, “They’ll leave on a private yacht with their intended victims. The murder and identity switch will take place on the high seas.”

  “Exactly,” Henry said. “So, as I see it, the smuggler-murderers must get into these islands illegally—that is, without going through Immigration. Is that possible?”

  “Of course it is,” said Ingham, with a trace of irritation. “They can get themselves put off a boat in a dinghy and rowed ashore to a deserted beach, probably early in the morning. D’you think I can patrol every beach in the Seawards with the number of men I have?”

  Henry said, “O.K., we have them illegally ashore. What then?”

  “How do you mean, what then?”

  “Where do they stay while they’re staking out their victims? They can’t very well register at a hotel, even if they do have false passports.”

  Ingham considered. “I see what you mean,” he said. “The hotel clerk would notice at once if there was no entry stamp and no Immigration stub in the passports.” He considered. “Camp out on the beach? No, we don’t like campers, and it would make them conspicuous.”

  “I should have thought—stay with friends,” Henry said.

  Ingham slapped the desk with his hand. “Of course! I knew they would have to have local accomplices. But who? Well, the first thing is to find out if anyone here had foreign visitors staying with them at the time that the Chermar
—”

  “No,” Henry said.

  “No? Why not?”

  “Because by the time they got here, they’d already assumed the identity of the Rosses. The switch must have been done at the Chermar’s last port of call—the British Virgin Islands.”

  Ingham said, “So they have accomplices there, too?”

  “Not necessarily. Remember that Cheryl Ross was a personal friend of Janet Vanduren’s. They could have entered illegally and gone straight to the boat. But let’s get back to what they’ll do next time. We’ve got them into the Seawards. How do they leave the islands?”

  “They sail off with their new friends, murder them, and—”

  “Yes, but the boat and its crew have to check out through Immigration,” Henry pointed out.

  Ingham spoke impatiently. “Sure, that’s the correct procedure, but take it from me, sir, there are boats coming and going all the time without proper papers. Why, when we did a spot check on foreign boats anchored off St. Mark’s last Easter weekend—”

  “I know, I know,” Henry said, “but it’s very important to our people that all the papers should be in order. The boat has checked in legally, with a crew of two. It must also check out legally with the same crew.” He frowned. “Ah, I think I have it. A yacht could check in with the Immigration people here, sail over to St. Matthew’s, check out of the Seawards from there, couldn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then that’s how it must be done. The charming newfound friends—actually the hijackers—propose a short cruise around the Seawards. No need to clear Customs and Immigration. The murders are committed in British Seaward waters and the bodies disposed of at sea—and the boat returns to the other Seaward island with just one couple aboard and checks out there. The only thing that’s wrong is that it’s a different couple checking out; but since it’s another island, it’s bound to be a different Immigration Officer, and there’s virtually no chance of the switch being spotted.”

  Ingham said, “That makes sense. Not a very happy thought, sir—people being murdered in our home waters.”