by M. M. Kaye
Hamish said: ‘I’ll go along too, just to see it’s O.K. I suppose you’ll have to make some sort of examination, Dutt, now that Vicarjee is marooned on the mainland?’
Dan Harcourt took a swift step forward as though he would have spoken, but he evidently changed his mind, for he checked and turned away without speaking, and Charles said: ‘See you later then, Hamish; I gather we are both attending a Christmas party up at the house. We’ve certainly had a jolly day for it! Come on, Nick.’
They turned together and made off in the gathering darkness towards the house whose already lighted windows gleamed through the trees above them, and John Shilto, with one last, long stare at the sheeted figure being lifted on to the stretcher, turned on his heel and followed them.
11
If the Christmas Eve party had been a failure, the dinner party on Christmas night could definitely be classed, in the hostess’s phraseology, as a total frost.
Mrs Stock had taken to her bed, but there had been no question of cancelling the party, for with the house full of guests the table was bound to be fairly crowded. And as Valerie said, one or two more were not likely to add or detract from the general gloom, so if she had to give a dinner party at all she might as well have Charles there to hold her hand under the table and help her through it.
Whether Charles fulfilled the first of these conditions was a matter only known to himself and Valerie, and as he happened to be left-handed the matter was in doubt. But in spite of his best efforts at cheerfulness and his fiancée’s valiant support, the conversation at dinner was barely more than spasmodic. Copper looked white and on edge, while Nick was for once strangely taciturn.
Nick had problems of his own to contend with. The sight of Copper’s distress had not only disturbed him but made him explicably angry: a combination of emotions that caused him considerable irritation, since he was not yet sure of his own feelings towards her. She appealed to him in a way that no woman had ever done before — and a good many women had held a temporary appeal for Nick Tarrent. But Copper was something different. There were times when he would have liked to snatch her up in his arms and kiss her so that she could not breathe, and others when he would have liked to pick her up and throw her into the sea — though whether from a sense of irritation with her or himself, or a desire to be free from her disturbing hold on his heart, he did not know. Nor was he at all sure that he wished to find out …
Seated on Nick’s left, John Shilto was eating oysters in a manner which caused the majority of his fellow-guests to wish that he would extend his habitual silence to his consumption of food, and beyond him sat Dan Harcourt, absent-mindedly manufacturing bread pills and gazing thoughtfully into space. Valerie, looking drained and tired, was keeping up a desultory conversation with Leonard Stock and Ronnie Purvis, while beyond them Amabel and George sat side by side in a state of congealed gloom and unconcealed misery.
Silly idiots! thought Copper bleakly: they’ve only got to say two words and they’d be sobbing on each other’s necks inside half a minute. I wonder why it’s so difficult to say ‘I’m sorry?’… I wonder why you can’t ever be really sensible about the people you care for most? I wonder why I should have dreamt that Ferrers had been stabbed? — everything else was the same, but there wasn’t a knife …
Her thoughts, back again in that frightening groove, sheered away from it violently, and she turned feverishly to the silent Hamish. ‘I had no idea that there were oysters in these waters, Hamish. Do you ever find pearls in them, or are the pearl kind different?’
‘Eh?’ said Captain Rattigan, waking abruptly from his sombre meditations. The demon of jealousy was gnawing painfully at Hamish’s vitals, for although his goddess could do no wrong in his infatuated eyes, Ruby’s attentions to Surgeon-Lieutenant Harcourt that afternoon had been more than marked. And almost more than Hamish felt himself able to bear. He had not heard Copper’s question and she repeated it.
‘Oh — er — yes,’ said Hamish, ‘I don’t think so.’
Charles, nobly following this lead, said: ‘I believe there are a lot of oysters around, but the local fishermen are too lazy to go out and dive for them. They prefer hanging over the jetty with a piece of string and a hook and hoping for the best.’
‘Last year, one of them went to sleep and fell in,’ said Amabel, offering her contribution to the conversational gaiety: ‘And he was drowned. Like Ferrers.’
There was a brief silence, during which her fellow-guests regarded young Miss Withers with varying degrees of emotion, and then Sir Lionel said absently, reaching for the salt: ‘That reminds me, I had a letter from Ferrers only a day or two ago asking me if … the red pepper, please, thank you … but I never had time to answer it, and now the poor fellow is dead. Very sad.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Leonard Stock unhappily. ‘I cannot really feel responsible, but Ruby says____’
‘Responsible?’ The Chief Commissioner looked startled. ‘Responsible for what?’
‘Well … er … You see, Ruby thinks — that is … Well, what I mean is, I suppose it was partly our fault; in a way. If only we hadn’t happened to stop off at Ferrers’s bungalow yesterday this would never have occurred. It was most unfortunate. But it was really not my fault. Mrs Dobbie wanted to ask him about bringing some bedding, and I don’t see how I could have … But Ruby says____’
Sir Lionel said impatiently: ‘I cannot see what you are worrying about, Stock. Or why you or your wife should feel in any way responsible for something that was only an unfortunate accident. It might have happened to anyone.’
‘That’s exactly what I said. “But, my dear,” I said, “it might even have been you! Or any of us.” But Ruby seems to think…’
‘That it’s all your fault,’ finished Valerie shortly. Mr Stock flushed and said incoherently: ‘Yes — no. No! I’m sure she … I didn’t mean … You mustn’t think____’ He gestured agitatedly with his oyster fork.
Copper murmured something that sounded suspiciously like ‘apologetic sand-crab’ and Valerie threw her a repressive look and said hurriedly: ‘What was Ferrers writing to you about, Dad?’
‘What’s that?’
‘The letter. You said that Ferrers had written to you.’
‘Did I? Oh yes. Well I do not think we want to go on talking about poor Ferrers this evening. It cannot be pleasant for Mr Shilto.’
John Shilto grinned at him sardonically from across the table, and said: ‘I beg that you won’t let my feelings concern you, Sir Lionel. Naturally my cousin’s death was a great shock to me, but we were hardly on such friendly terms as to make it a mortal blow. And as for this letter, since it is probably the last that Ferrers ever wrote, I am of course____’
But Copper did not allow him to finish, for she too did not wish to speak of Ferrers Shilto; or to be reminded of that pallid face with the astonished eyes. And seized with a sudden and uncontrollable horror of the subject, she said violently: ‘Sir Lionel is right. We don’t want to talk about him. Surely we can talk about something else? — anything else!’
‘Attagirl, Coppy!’ approved Charles, seconding the motion. ‘What shall we try instead? Let’s all decide whom we dislike most and then talk about them. There’s nothing like a bit of mutual loathing to draw people together. “Peace on Earth, Goodwill towards Men!” What about George? We can probably all find something lousy to say about George. Wake up, George! You are about to be thrown to the lions.’
Copper laughed and had the grace to look ashamed of herself, but the dinner party, finding Charles’s guide to conversation a useful one, settled happily down to reviling Europe’s least-liked public character, and Ferrers Shilto was temporarily forgotten. But only temporarily … The girls had barely left the table to return to the far verandah for coffee when a soft-footed servant announced that Dr Dutt was below and wished to speak to the Commissioner.
‘Send him up,’ said Sir Lionel, busy with the port; and two minutes later the slim figure of Dr Vicarjee’s young as
sistant entered the dining-room. There were raindrops on his coat and his shoes left damp patches upon the floorboards. ‘What is it, Dutt?’ inquired Sir Lionel. ‘You look pretty wet. Have some hot coffee?’
‘Thanking you, but no, sir. I am come only to ask leave for burial of corpse. I have myself held inspection and signed certificate of death, in regretted absence of Dr Vicarjee. Climate here is most humid and corpse should be interred tomorrow morning at latest, with your order.’
Dan Harcourt stirred suddenly in his chair and leant forward across the table. ‘Isn’t it usual, sir,’ he inquired of the Chief Commissioner, ‘for two doctors to sign a death certificate?’
Dr Dutt interrupted, bristling slightly: ‘That has already been done. Oah yess — I know all procedures. Matron, Miss Gidney, who is lady doctor, has also signed, so all is in order.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course, that is quite sufficient.’ Sir Lionel did not like being bothered by what he considered unnecessary red tape. ‘He had better be buried as early as possible tomorrow morning. I will see that the padre is notified. By the way, Shilto, your cousin was not an R.C. by any chance? No … I thought not. Then I will notify Mr Dobbie. I will write the order now.’
He rose to leave the table, and Dan Harcourt pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Forgive me butting in, sir, but — er — could I, as a matter of interest, have a look at the body? I’m a doctor myself and I might be able to help Dr Dutt with his examination.’
‘Already the examination has been performed,’ said Dr Dutt stiffly, indignation quivering in every line of his slim figure.
‘But____’
Sir Lionel turned irritably upon this pushing young man. A surgeon-lieutenant, was he? Well, possibly that meant some kind of a doctor on a ship, but not on shore. ‘It seems to me to be quite unnecessary, Mr Harcourt,’ he said coldly. ‘Come, Dutt.’
Dan flushed and stepped back: Sir Lionel was right. It was no business of his and he had invited that snub. All the same … He watched Sir Lionel and young Dutt leave the room, and having finished his drink, went off to play card games in the drawing-room. But the party spirit was lamentably lacking that Christmas night, and it was barely ten-thirty when Valerie stacked the cards and voted for bed. ‘It’s been such a mildewed day that the sooner we finish it the better,’ she said. ‘Charles darling, will you and Hamish see that Amabel gets safely up to the hospital? I suppose she is still parking there with Rosamund?’
‘What about making George see her home?’ suggested Charles. ‘Then they’ll be able to stage a reconciliation on the way, which will ease the present situation a lot. After all, they couldn’t very well do the entire trip in stodgy silence. Or could they?’
‘Could they not!’ sighed Valerie. ‘They managed to sit out an entire meal side by side without uttering a twitter. Besides, you know what a fat-head Amabel is. She’d never bring herself to speak a kind word; not with several buggy-men two feet off her and a police orderly trotting along behind.’
Charles said: ‘No, I suppose not. I’d forgotten it was raining. I had pictured them wandering hospital-wards, hand in hand, and forgiving each other nobly by the reservoir. However, I do not propose to get soaked to the skin because George has had a tiff with his girlfriend. He can darn well take her back himself, reconciliation or no reconciliation. I’m for bed. Come on round behind this useful screen where Leonard can’t see us, and kiss me good-night. I have had a trying day and I need a spot of cherishing.’
Ten minutes later the last of the guests had departed, and those left behind in Government House had turned out the lights and gone to bed. Christmas Day was over; although Christmas night had still an hour to run …
The hall clock struck eleven, and silence flowed in upon the darkened rooms. Outside, a cold sea-mist drifted in from the south to creep across the garden and engulf the quiet house, muffling the guard-lights and blotting out the tall trees, and at the edge of the verandah roof, above the sentry’s box, the rain collected in a little pool which presently overflowed in a thin, steady trickle on to the flags below.
‘Gawd! what an ’ole!’ sighed the sentry bleakly. ‘A Merry Christmas — I don’t think!’
* * *
Dan Harcourt had retired to the bedroom he shared with Nick, but he did not undress.
He stood by the window, his hands deep in his pockets, and looked out into the thickening mist beyond the strip of lawn below him, whistling softly between his teeth and frowning into the night.
Nick, who appeared to be in a singularly unpleasant mood, donned a pair of cerulean pyjamas — previously the property of Mr Charles Corbet-Carr — and having morosely requested him to stop that depressing noise and get to bed, climbed in under his own mosquito net and lay down with his back to the light. But Dan made no move to comply with either of these suggestions. His thoughts were fully occupied, and it is doubtful if he was even aware that Nick had spoken, for he continued his tuneless whistling and it was at least fifteen minutes later that he broke off to say abruptly: ‘Look here, Nick, I’m in a bit of a quandary and I’d like your advice.’
Receiving no answer he turned from the window and came over to Nick’s bed. But Nick had fallen asleep.
For a moment or two Dan debated the wisdom of waking him up, but it seemed an unkindness to do so, and abandoning the idea he switched off the lights and returned to his own bed: but not to sleep. Instead, he lit a cigarette, and getting in under the mosquito net lay down fully clothed and stared up into the darkness where the electric fan blades swished softly in the warm, damp air. It was a pity about Nick. He would have liked to talk the thing over with him. But Nick was obviously dead tired and would probably, if awakened, be more blasphemous than helpful …
Dan shifted uneasily on the sheets. What was he to do? Was it any business of his to interfere? After all, but for an accident he himself would not have been marooned on Ross. And but for a freak of the tides Ferrers Shilto’s body would have been battered to pieces upon the jagged coral reefs, or else carried miles out to sea and far down the coasts before being thrown ashore. In either case, all that was left would, if found, have been buried hurriedly and without question, and taking that into consideration, was it any business of his, Dan Harcourt’s, to meddle with the affair? There was an old and wise adage to the effect that it is always safer to let sleeping dogs lie.
But if it was murder…?
If it was murder there was also another saying, one that was probably equally true in practice, to the effect that a man who kills and gets away with it will live to kill again: and again …
And if it isn’t murder, thought Dan, it’s something so damn peculiar that I shall need a personal demonstration before I believe in it. No, that little man never died by drowning. I’ve seen men who’ve died that way, and I’ll swear he didn’t. But no one is going to believe that unless I can prove it. As for that young snip of an assistant, Dutt, he wouldn’t know the difference between a corpse and a case of concussion! I’ll bet he never even conducted the sketchiest of examinations — he’d consider it a waste of time. On the strength of the fact that a man is reported to have fallen into the sea on Tuesday and his body gets washed ashore on Wednesday, he would cheerfully have signed a dozen documents certifying death by drowning without so much as taking a second look. While as for that woman up at the hospital who wouldn’t even let ’em dump the body there, I’ll bet she signed without laying eyes on it!
Dan turned restlessly in the hot darkness while his cigarette burned out between his fingers. They were burying Ferrers Shilto in the morning — early in the morning, Sir Lionel had said. Therefore if he intended to do anything about it he must do so now, since it would be useless to voice suspicions once Ferrers’s body was six feet underground. He dropped the burned-out stub of his cigarette on to the floor and lit a fresh one; the yellow flare of the match illuminating for a brief moment his brown, boyish face and the frown between his narrowed eyes. It flickered out in the darkness and he lay back and reviewe
d the situation once more …
Nick had said that the boats had been about half-way home when the storm struck them, which meant that they had foundered in the widest part of the bay and in deep water. There were no rocks within a considerable distance of them, and Nick had seen Ferrers clinging to one of the upturned boats some minutes after they had capsized. That did away with any theory that he might have been hit on the head and killed in the process of capsizing by the mast or the boat itself. Or that he had met his death among the rocks. No one, again quoting Nick, could have managed to swim to the shore in that sea, let alone a frail middle-aged man of negligible physique, such as the late Ferrers Shilto.
Then how____?
There’s nothing for it, thought Dan resignedly, but to go down and see for myself. If I don’t, I shall worry about it to the end of my days. And if ever I hear that anyone else from these islands has been drowned or otherwise reported accidentally dead, I shall wonder if it really was an accident — and feel like a murderer myself.
He slid off his bed and tossed his cigarette out of the window where it described a thin glowing arc and disappeared into the mist, and having groped about for an overcoat, remembered with irritation that his own was on board the Sapphire and by this time probably in the Nicobars, and that he had neglected to borrow one. It would mean getting wet, but resigning himself to the inevitable he turned up the collar of his dinner-jacket — one of George’s — and having collected a torch from the dressing-table, paused to remove his shoes. There was no point in awakening the entire household!
The clock in the hall struck the quarter to midnight as he tiptoed across the silent ballroom and descended the stairs to the hall where old Iman Din lay stretched upon his thin mattress, his turban on the floor beside him and a cloth draped across his face, sound asleep. It is to be feared that Iman Din, although a Muslim and therefore, theoretically, a teetotaller, had also been celebrating Christmas, and had fallen from grace to the extent of imbibing toddy in the Ross bazaar. As a result, his slumbers were particularly sound and his rhythmic snores did not cease when Dan Harcourt stepped over his recumbent body, and replacing his own shoes drew the bolts of the front door.
