Death in the Andamans (20 page)

Nick did not think it necessary to add that the killer had also taken other precautions to ensure that his victim should suffer no resurrection this side of the grave. He did not like to think of what had been done to Dan.

Charles said savagely: ‘Curse this bloody storm! If only the sea would go down we might be able to do something. But as there isn't a decent doctor, or a single police official in the place, it looks very much as if the bastard who killed him is going to get away with it.'

‘Why should you think that?' inquired Copper sharply.

‘My dear girl, it's obvious! Dr Vicarjee would have been able to give us a lot of valuable information — as, for instance, how long Dan has been dead. But since poor Dutt is in such a flat spin that it's no good going by anything he says, we haven't much idea when it happened. Then there are fingerprints and footmarks and — oh, probably a whole cartload of clues lying about that would mean something to the police. But by the time anyone from the mainland can land on this damned island the case will be stale. Wind, weather, damp and decay will have successfully wiped out or disguised a dozen possible clues, and the murderer will have had lots of time to think things over and, if he
has
made any mistakes, to see that they are rectified. No, I imagine it's the first few hours that must count most in a murder case, and the hell of it is that there's no one here who can do anything!'

‘There are four of us,' said Copper shortly.

‘And a hell of a lot of good…' Charles broke off and scowled thoughtfully into space for several minutes, and then said slowly: ‘At least it would give us something better to do than sitting around twiddling our thumbs and cursing.'

Nick walked over to the window, and staring out into the wall of fog that blotted out the world about them but could not silence the thunder of the sullen sea that kept them prisoners, said bitterly: ‘Listen to that! It may not go down for days. So if we've got to wait until it does, and until the jetty is mended, we may just as well fill in the time by playing detectives. If the police were here we should merely be a bloody nuisance to them. But as they aren't, I don't suppose we can do much harm. Or good either, if it comes to that! But it will at least be an improvement on trying to make bright conversation or kicking the furniture. And I only hope,' he added viciously, ‘that if we ever manage to get our hands on the bloody-minded bastard who murdered Dan, that the police will keep off Ross for long enough to make him look upon hanging as a merciful release!'

‘I'll drink to that,' said Charles and tossed off the contents of his tumbler: ‘
Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci — He has carried every vote who has combined the useful with the pleasing.
And as that is about the only Latin tag I remember, it's just as well it's appropriate. We are with you, Inspector Tarrent. Where do we start?'

‘With the sentry, I think. He appears to be the last person, with the exception of the murderer, to see Dan alive.'

‘Right. And after that I suggest we take another and closer look at the Guest House and the grounds. I don't imagine anyone else has done that yet. Val, you'd better see if you can get anything more out of the servants, and Copper can make herself useful by wandering round the house with a magnifying glass. You never know, there might possibly be a stray clue lying around.'

‘I shouldn't recognize one if I saw it,' said Copper bleakly. ‘But at least it will help pass the time. Come on, Val. See you two later.'

She put down her untasted cup, shivered, and walked away down the long, dim verandah.

14

A search of the house failed to produce anything resembling a clue, and after a fruitless half-hour Valerie suggested that they try making notes instead, and arming herself with a writing-block, pencils and a notebook, retired with Copper to a quiet corner of the verandah.

‘If we both write down every single thing that's happened during the last two or three days, we may spot something that will give us a lead. It always seems to work in books.'

‘Only when there is a private detective with a brain like a buzz-saw to spot the clue,' observed Copper sceptically. ‘Where are you going to start? The picnic on Mount Harriet, or the day the
Sapphire
arrived?'

‘Neither,' said Valerie. ‘I've had a better idea. We'll put down the name of anyone who could possibly have had anything to do with it, and then write under each name anything we can remember of what they have said or done in the past few days and nights. What about that?'

‘It sounds a pretty hopeless task,' said Copper doubtfully, ‘but I suppose we'd better start somewhere. Are we going to cancel out the idea of it having been done by one of the natives? Because if not, it means making a list of everyone on the island. And that isn't possible.'

Valerie chewed the end of her pencil, and after an interval of frowning thought, said: ‘I think we can safely wash out the native population. You see, I've lived here long enough to know something of these people and I'm positive, in my own mind, that unless it was the work of a lunatic no islander would have killed a man with whom he had no quarrel. But when Dan was off the ship he was with us, so we know that he can't have had any trouble with the natives, and no lunatic would ever have substituted Dan's body for Ferrers's — or even
thought
of it!'

‘That still leaves the British troops,' said Copper, ‘and there are a good many of them.'

‘Yes, I'd thought of that. We shall have to get Charles and George and Hamish to question them. But there are only about half a dozen of them here on Ross, because all the rest of them were picnicking out at Corbyn's Cove on Christmas Eve and are stuck in Aberdeen by the storm. And in any case, except for the sentry, none of them would have been out of barracks at that time of night, so I think we can fairly safely wash them out too.'

‘But that only leaves
us!
' said Copper, appalled. ‘Our party, I mean. Val, it can't
possibly
be one of us. It's too fantastic.'

‘Fantastic or not, we may as well try and simplify matters by seeing if we can prove that it
wasn't
one of us. That ought to narrow the field a bit, if nothing else.'

‘Oh, all right. Here goes, then. Let's start with Ruby. We've got a lot that we can write under her name.'

‘
RUBY STOCK
,' said Valerie, writing it down in block capitals. ‘I'd better give her a couple of pages. John Shilto next. I can't think up anything against him at the moment except that he gives me the shivers. Who else?'

‘It's no good working on those lines,' said Copper impatiently. ‘We must put everyone down, regardless of whether we've anything against them or not. For all we know, almost anyone may be capable of murder if the provocation is sufficient. And I don't suppose the storm helped!'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Only that we were all a bit on edge before it broke. Don't you remember saying yourself that you felt like an overwound watch-spring? Suppose there was someone else who felt like that, and who reached the breaking-point that you described so graphically? Came sort of morally unstuck
____
?'

‘You mean, went mad?' demanded Valerie.

‘Not exactly; except that anyone who killed Dan
must
have been mad. I'm not quite sure what I do mean.'

‘Oh, all right, let it go. I suggest we put down all the names in alphabetical order, starting with Amabel.'

Despite the horrors of the morning, the vision of Amabel in the role of a murderess reduced the amateur detectives to hysterical mirth. ‘It's awful of us to laugh,' said Copper, dabbing her eyes with the corner of the window curtain, ‘but that's done me more good than six brandies-and-sodas. Odd what a stimulant a good girlish giggle can be. Where were we? We've put down Ruby and John Shilto and Amabel. Then there's Ronnie Purvis and Rosamund — something against both of them by the way! — and Leonard Stock, George Beamish, Hamish Rattigan and Dr Dutt.'

Copper reached for the list, and after a moment's deliberation wrote down five more names: Sir Lionel's, Valerie's, Charles's, Nick Tarrent's, and finally, her own.

‘Two more,' said Valerie, looking over her shoulder. ‘In spite of my recent strictures on locals and troops, I feel that we should add the sentry and Iman Din.'

Copper flung down her pencil. ‘Look, if we are going to include people like that we may as well give up at once! It's hopeless. At this rate we may as well suspect the padre.'

‘That's an idea,' said Valerie calmly. She picked up the pencil and wrote
MRS DOBBIE, MR DOBBIE, TRUDA GIDNEY
, and had the pencil removed from her hand by Copper, who added a neat cross underneath the last name.

‘What's that for?' demanded Valerie.

‘X. “The Unknown Quantity”. That's to allow for its having been done by one of the locals for some senseless reason that we would know nothing about.'

Valerie put her hand to her head. ‘I shall go mad! Let's drop the whole idea, and try working out Einstein's theory of relativity instead.'

‘Cheer up,' comforted Copper. ‘I admit it looks pretty hopeless, but that's only because we haven't got anything to go on yet.'

‘You're telling me! Let's open a few more windows. I feel that a bit of cold air might clear the brain.'

She flung open the window next to her and leant out across the wet sill, breathing in the thick, mist-laden air. The rain had stopped and the wind had fallen, but the surge of the tide about the grey island still rose like the clamour of an angry mob.

‘I wonder why the sea hasn't gone down? It must be the swell from a big storm further south. Sometimes a storm that has missed us by hundreds of miles will send colossal breakers rolling in with hardly a breath of … Copper! Quick — come here!'

Copper dropped notebook and pencil and leant out beside her.

‘Look!' Valerie pointed to her left where, by leaning out of the window, they could see the corner of the house where Leonard Stock's dressing-room on the first floor jutted out into the mist.

There was a shadowy figure standing against one of the pillars of the ground-floor verandah among the pots of palms and ferns that were massed at the verandah edge: a not unusual sight, since guards, orderlies,
chaprassis
and servants were in more or less constant circulation on ordinary days, though they were less in evidence in wet weather. But it was the attitude of the figure that had attracted Valerie's attention, for it stood pressed against the pillar as though hiding from someone or something beyond the turn of the house. And even as they watched, a police orderly came into view and it dodged round to the far side of the pillar; to reappear after a cautious interval when the man had passed.

A breath of wind thinned the mist for a brief moment, and Valerie caught her breath: ‘
Ruby!
Come on, Coppy!'

Copper needed no second invitation, and a minute or so later both girls were creeping down the small wooden staircase outside Copper's bathroom and had reached the garden, where they stopped, momentarily at a loss, for Mrs Stock — if the skulking figure among the palm pots had been Mrs Stock — had vanished.
‘Damn!'
whispered Valerie. ‘What do we
____
No, there she is! By the orchid trees…' The dim figure showed for a brief second beyond the canna beds, making for the shelter of a group of trees upon whose rough bark Valerie had been attempting to grow orchids: ‘We'll have to make a dash for it. Thank God for this fog … we may be able to get clear of the house without being spotted by one of the guards.'

Footsteps crunched the gravel as she spoke, and the two girls shrank back under the scanty cover of the stairway. But the orderly passed without seeing them, and a moment later they were across the lawn and safely swallowed up by the mist, and though they had lost sight of the quarry, her trail was plain upon the wet grass: ‘Lucky she wears such high heels,' said Copper in a whisper.

The small betraying pits in the soaked ground led them across the back of the tennis courts to where the ground fell away steeply on to the road that encircled the island, and below it, to the rocks and the sea. Nothing grew on the slopes below the garden save a few scattered coconut palms, and the sea-mist was not thick enough to blot out a hurrying figure that showed dimly ahead of them: ‘It's Ruby all right,' confirmed Valerie. ‘What on earth is she up to? Do you suppose she's making for the hospital by the beach road?'

‘What about catching up with her and trying a bit of third degree?' suggested Copper, who favoured direct action. But Valerie shook her head regretfully. ‘What's the good? She'd have some story or other: probably that she was taking a walk to calm her nerves. No, we must just stick to her heels and see if we can find out what she's up to.'

Despite the mist, this was not as easy as it sounded, for Mrs Stock was continually stopping to look behind her, and with only the inadequate shelter of a few palm trunks upon the steep slopes, the watchers had a bad time of it. She was obviously making for the narrow roadway that curls round Ross, but when she reached it she did not, as they had confidently expected, turn along it, but crossed it and plunged downwards to the beach. ‘Val, you don't think that she – that she did it herself?' gasped Copper, white-faced. ‘She couldn't be going to do something stupid?'

‘You mean commit suicide? Not Ruby!' said Valerie scornfully. ‘But all the same she's up to something pretty queer. Come on, now's our chance.' She broke into a run, and together they fled down the slope and across the road to where a group of palm trees leant out from its edge, overlooking ground that fell away almost sheer to the rocks and the angry sea.