Island in the Sun

by Alec Waugh

  Threatened but not destroyed, he told himself. He had only to keep his head. Thank heaven, he was here and not in Jamestown, where the news would have been sprung on him without warning: where he would be listening to talk of it at every moment of the day; it would have been so easy for him there to have given himself away. He was much safer here.

  It was half-past ten when he returned to the bungalow. The news must have reached the village. He would let Sylvia break the news to him. She was lying in a long chair on the veranda. A book lay on the table, her knitting by it. There was not a single cigarette stub in the ashtray. She raised her eyes to him and smiled.

  “No book, no knitting, no cigarette?”

  She shook her head. “I was feeling idle.”

  There was a brooding, tranquil expression on her face. For the first time since her marriage, she seemed completely happy. At last he had made her happy. And because she was happy, she could make him happy. A new life was starting. If only this cloud could lift.

  “No one been by?”

  “No one that I’ve noticed. I’ve sat here brooding.”

  Brooding. And all the time cars had passed along the road, the bus from Jamestown had brought out its gossip. Everyone in the village knew, while he, the one person who needed to know, did not.

  What was happening in Jamestown? The temptation to drive in was acute, but he must resist it. He knew that. It would be the worst thing for him to do. There was no excuse for him to go. And today was Friday: pay day. His absence would cause comment. The telephone. Wasn’t there someone whom he could call, someone who in the course of a talk about something else would interrupt with a “I suppose you’ve heard the news?”

  Whom could he call? His home: he shook his head. His father would be out. What had he to say to Jocelyn? His mother would not understand. He never rang her up to gossip. No one did in Santa Marta, with such an appalling exchange and everyone in the country on a party line. Who was there he could call? The office? It would surprise his father. That was the one thing that he must not do. He thought back over yesterday: the evening at the club. Whom had he talked to? Bradshaw? Wasn’t that the answer? He had promised to ask Bradshaw out to hear his election speech. He could ring up to confirm the date for it.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he told Sylvia. “I’ve got to telephone.”

  As always there was a long delay. He fidgeted beside the box. What a backward place this was. At last an answer came. A very West Indian voice, one of the hotel servants almost certainly. He had to repeat Bradshaw’s name twice and his own three times. “O.K. sir, I go look.”

  There was another long delay. These people were infuriatingly inefficient. No wonder it was so hard to get a number. Every call took three times the time it should. Numbers were invariably engaged. At last Bradshaw’s voice, fluted, high-pitched, came over. “Yes, yes?”

  “It’s about my new election speech. We talked about it last night if you remember?”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  “I’d very much like to give it when you could come. Tomorrow’s Saturday. That’s really the best day. Would that suit you, in the afternoon?”

  “It would suit me very well.”

  “Lunch then at half-past twelve.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Maxwell pictured Bradshaw at the other end of the line, in the coffee room at the Continental. Ten yards away from him on the porch would be a group discussing the morning’s news. If only he could hear what they were saying. If only the wire of the telephone could be stretched ten yards. There was a half-second’s pause. Bradshaw was going to ring off. Panic seized Maxwell. He must keep Bradshaw on the line, must keep him talking long enough for Bradshaw to tell him about Carson, so that he would have the information, would be in a position to go down to the post office and say, “What is this about Colonel Carson?” He must keep Bradshaw talking.

  “If you could get out by twelve …”

  A clink came in his ear, a buzz, silence, then a confusion of voices. He’d been cut off. This infernal exchange, this maddening party line. He shook the receiver, swung the handle, then thought better of it. He would only wake suspicion. He had said all he had to say. He hung the receiver back. It was no good. He would have to wait till the news reached him in the normal course of events. Surely soon, someone would drive along the road.

  At the other end of the line Bradshaw shook the receiver, held it to his ear, listened to a buzz of voices. This telephone, he thought, and hung it back. He rejoined the group upon the porch and picked up the thread of talk where he had left it.

  “Is there no doubt at all about its being murder?” he inquired.

  “There’s not the slightest. The marks at the throat, then all those bruises on the back of his head. He must have had his head banged a dozen times. I’ve just seen Whittingham.”

  “Who could it have been.”

  “It might have been anyone.”

  “What does Whittingham think?”

  “He was noncommittal.”

  “Were there any clues?”

  “He wouldn’t have told me if there were.”

  “Who could it have been?”

  There were half a dozen of them. Each had his own theory, but they were all agreed that the chances were a hundred to one on its having been some casual thief, who had been surprised and got into a fight with Carson. The chances were high against finding such a person. “Unless he does something silly,” Bradshaw said. “Wears something that he’s stolen, or starts spending money that he can’t account for.”

  “He might very well do that. You know what these fellows are. They can’t resist showing off.”

  “And they’re so dumb too. If they aren’t caught within three weeks, they think they’re safe.”

  Norman was one of the group. He was worried about the repercussions that this would have outside the island. He had taken Bradshaw’s advice and had started to publicize Santa Marta as a summer resort. He had had a poster printed. He had issued a folder to the tourist agencies. He had invited a party of American journalists, friends of Bradshaw’s, to come down for a week as guests.

  “It’ll all be wasted if the idea gets around that this is a place where visitors get killed and robbed.”

  He looked thoughtfully at Bradshaw.

  “I suppose it’s no good asking you not to mention it in your articles.”

  “What a thing to ask a journalist.”

  “I know, I know. But all the same can’t you play it down …”

  “You needn’t be afraid. The way I write it up is more likely to bring tourists down here than to scare them off.”

  An idea for a highly dramatic article had come to him. He remembered Carson’s story about the Obeah man: it might be the Obeah man’s revenge? Americans were interested in Obeah. Carson’s Obeah story was a good piece of copy. He had kept it up his sleeve. That had been wise. He’d go out to Carson’s place this afternoon and make inquiries. He would get the background of the Obeah man.

  2

  At Government House Templeton was discussing the funeral with his Chief of Police and Dr. Leisching, who had performed the post-mortem. Leisching stated that Carson had been killed early on the previous evening. He was insisting that the corpse be buried that day.

  “The regulations say that in the tropics a body must be interred within twenty-four hours.”

  The Governor was anxious to have the funeral postponed. Carson must be buried with full military honors. The notables must be warned. It was very short notice.

  “The climate here might surely be described as subtropical. More like Cannes than Cairo. It’s not the hot season. Wouldn’t it be possible to delay it till tomorrow morning?”

  Leisching shook his head.

  “The regulations, sir, define the tropics as the area between Capricorn and Cancer.”

  “Don’t you think you might make an exception in this case. It’s only half a day. Do you genuinely consider that there would be any d
anger?”

  “That is not for me to decide, sir. The regulations definitely state twenty-four hours in the tropics.”

  Templeton controlled a twinge of irritation. This everlasting Teutonic reverence for regulations. But he could scarcely criticize a member of his staff for too strict a regard for them.

  “Very well then, doctor, we’ll have the funeral this afternoon.”

  As the doctor left the room, he exchanged a glance with Whittingham.

  “He seems in a confounded hurry to get this fellow underground.”

  “That’s what I thought, sir.”

  “I’ve never seen these regulations that he talks about, but I take it he’s right.”

  “I haven’t seen them either. They are probably in some medical handbook, but there is a general agreement in the islands that burials should take place within twenty-four hours. We tell the peasants that, and if we keep the rules ourselves, it’s a good example.”

  “And Leisching has no doubt that he was killed last night.”

  “Leisching may not be an expert, sir, but there is a great deal of evidence to support that time. According to Leisching Carson had had no food for several hours. The supper on his table was untouched. Carson had had a great deal to drink, but there was no glass in the room. The whisky decanter was full. I wasn’t in the club myself last night. I don’t know exactly when he left, but from what Leisching tells me it was before seven and after half-past six. I’ll check up and see if he went anywhere after the club—the St. James or the Continental. But if he had had a great deal to drink before he left, he was likely to have gone straight home.”

  “Would you say so? I’ve found that home is usually the last place a man goes to when he is in that condition. A soldier certainly goes somewhere else, as long as he is capable of movement.”

  “That’s very true, sir.”

  “He may not have gone to the hotels or to the St. James but a man like Carson might have his special hideouts. Was there a woman anywhere?”

  “Not that I know of, sir. I’m making inquiries.”

  “That might be the answer, mightn’t it?”

  “It might, sir, very well.”

  “Was he a friend of yours?”

  The policeman hesitated. “We were on friendly terms, sir. Shall I put it that way?”

  “I suppose that’s how everyone else would put it, isn’t it?”

  “I rather think so.”

  “It’s very sad, you know, when one thinks of what his life must have been fifteen years ago, with a wife, in a regiment, part of a community. I was inquisitive about him. I made inquiries. Everyone spoke very highly of him. And now he dies out here, like this. And there’s not a single person in England to whom we have to send a cable. There isn’t, is there?”

  “Not that I can find, sir. I suppose we should send a notice to the Times”

  “Yes, we should do that. Archer, that’s your pigeon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And he left the club some time before seven, you say. He left here at half-past five. He was walking back. It’s curious but you know I felt worried on his account when I watched him go. He was limping. That wound of his, I supposed. But it may have been whisky. Yet he made the club. How did he behave there?”

  “Well, sir, from what I’ve heard …”

  The policeman again hesitated.

  “Was there a scene with Leisching?”

  “A kind of a scene, from what they tell me.”

  “But Leisching stayed behind in the club?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve checked on that. He and his wife dined with the Normans; they were together the whole evening.”

  “But if Carson didn’t go straight home?”

  “That’s something I must check on.”

  “I mustn’t interfere. But you know what an old soldier is; he likes to meddle. And we are accepting Leisching’s time from his own post-mortem. But I must leave that to you. I know you’ll see the point. You’ll keep me informed won’t you. In the meantime this funeral. Shall we say four? You’ll arrange the parade, Whittingham. Let me know the details later. About the announcing of it, Archer, I’ll leave that to you; I’ll ring up the Archdeacon personally. I’d suggest that you send notices round to all the hotels, to the three clubs; then you’d better ring up the local notables; the members of the Leg. Co. for example; as many as you have time for anyhow. Send me in one of those typists. I want to dictate a draft.”

  Archer and Whittingham went out.

  Templeton and his son were left alone. “This is pretty tough for you, Dad.”

  “All in the day’s work.”

  The Governor was not displeased at his son having an opportunity of seeing how he coped with a situation; but it could not have happened at a more inconvenient time. When he had read Bradshaw’s article he had welcomed the opportunity it would provide Euan and himself getting to understand each other. So far they had been on surface terms with one another. They would have to have a real talk now. But last night their guests had stayed on late. They had both been tired after the journey from B.G. They had barely skirted the subject. They had postponed a full discussion of it till after breakfast. Now this business had arisen. It had been like this all his life. He had never had a chance of being a good father. He had always been under the pressure of official duty. When Euan’s mother had died, and Euan had really needed him, he had been chained to the Middle East. He had to say something now, but he had only time to brush the subject.

  “Have you talked to Jocelyn yet?” he asked.

  “I’d meant to take her for a swim this morning, but it might be better to postpone it.”

  “I think it would. We’ll all feel a little different once the funeral’s over.”

  There was a tap on the door. It was his secretary with her writing pad.

  “Right, Dad. I’ll get on with that. See you at lunch.”

  Euan crossed over to the office buildings. His father would be wanting the G.H. private line. He found the A.D.C. dictating to the new and rather pretty typist.

  “Do you mind if I telephone from here. My old man’s using ours.”

  “You can use the one in my own office.”

  He had some difficulty in getting through. Everyone in the island must be trying to telephone this morning. At last he heard Jocelyn’s voice. It had a tired sound.

  “About our date,” he said.

  “What date?”

  “To swim this morning.”

  “Did we make a date?”

  “I left a message with Maxwell.”

  “I never got it.”

  “Never got it?”

  “No.”

  “What must you have thought?”

  “Thought about what?”

  “My not ringing you up the moment I got back.”

  “I supposed you were busy about something.”

  Her voice was listless. He was filled with guilt; that yesterday of all days, he had failed to get in touch with her at once. How could he have been so careless as to rely on a brother delivering a message? What can she have thought? But there was no point in going into all that now. He could smooth that later. He’d best be flippant about it all.

  “You’d better warn that brother of yours to keep out of my way for a little time,” he said. “But actually I was ringing up to suggest that we postpone our date.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve heard I suppose about Colonel Carson. The funeral service is this afternoon at four. The old man’s going. He’ll expect me to go with him. Perhaps you’ll be coming too?”

  “I suppose I shall. I didn’t know about it.”

  “It’s only just been decided. I was going to have called your father later.”

  “You needn’t bother. He’ll be in to lunch. I’ll tell him.”

  “In view of all this, don’t you think it would be better if we met after the service, rather than this morning.”

  “I dare say it would.”

  “I coul
d meet you outside the church and we could take a drive.”

  “We’ll be in formal clothes.”

  “I’ll put my bathing things in the car. We could collect your things on the way.”

  “All right.”

  “And you’ll tell your father?”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Till this afternoon then.”

  “Till this afternoon.”

  The receiver at her end clicked back. We might have been strangers, he told himself. But perhaps it was only because they were so very close that they could talk as strangers did.

  He returned to the office. Archer was still dictating.

  “It’s all yours now.”

  “It had better be. I’ve got a lot to do.”

  Archer looked at Margot in mock despair as the door closed behind Euan Templeton.

  “This ruins our chance of a siesta in the chalet.”

  “I’m afraid it does.”

  “Do you know that’ll make three whole days.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “It’s much too long.”

  “Two days too long.”

  “I don’t know how I could exist without you.”

  “Why try?”

  There was an air of authority in her voice that he found attractive. Now and again he felt that he was being managed. He rather liked the feeling.

  “You’d better start that telephoning while I type out the notices for the hotels and clubs,” she told him.

  Jocelyn put the receiver back and walked into the drawing room. Her mother was reading a novel.