FOR A FEW SECONDS after the doctor had gone, Emmy sat quite still, marveling at the unnatural silence after the clamor of the hurricane. A dog barked somewhere, and there was the sound of spasmodic hammering; a man’s voice called out to a companion; but there was no background electrical hum, no mechanical music, no aircraft buzz, above all no traffic. Almost like Pompeii, the island had been severed in an instant from outside contacts. Consequently, the sound of a jeep engine on Main Street appeared loud and remarkable, and Emmy went to the door to see who it was.
It was Margaret, at the wheel of a gold-painted Golf Club jeep. She saw Emmy, pulled to an abrupt stop, and jumped out.
“There you are! Where on earth have you been? Nurse Quarles told us she’d dropped you off on the quayside—”
Emmy said, “I…I was hungry. I saw the café open and decided to have a meal.”
“Why on earth didn’t you come back to the Anchorage for lunch?” Margaret was incapable of hiding the fact that she was puzzled, worried, and rather cross.
“Oh…I don’t know… I’m sorry… I’ll just get my jacket… ”
Emmy went back to the table and picked up her oilskin jacket, which she had slung over the back of her chair. Margaret, following her, suddenly blurted out, “So you didn’t lunch alone?”
There was no denying the two dirty plates, the two used glasses. Emmy, aware of being a hopeless liar, said, “No… actually, I…I met a friend, strangely enough.”
“A friend?”
“Oh, just a man we ran into in Washington. An American called Venables. He’s down here on holiday.”
“In Washington?” Margaret echoed. “While you were staying with us? I don’t remember anybody in Washington called Venables.”
“No,” said, Emmy hastily. “You didn’t know him. We met him at the Kennedy Center one evening. Quite a coincidence that he should be on the island.”
Margaret looked at Emmy curiously, but all she said was yes. And then, “Well, now I’ve found you I’ll drive you back to the Anchorage.”
The entrance to the Anchorage was still unusable. John, with a couple of helpers, was busy turning his crash-exit through the fence into a beaten track for vehicles and putting up a rough-and-ready barbed-wire gate to keep out marauding livestock.
As Margaret and Emmy drove through, he barely looked up from his work. “Ah, you found her. Well done. How’s Henry?”
Emmy opened her mouth to reply in some detail, but quickly realized that John was too busy to listen. So long as Henry was alive and under medical care, there were too many other things to worry about. She said, “He’s going to be fine.”
“Good. No, don’t park the jeep, Margaret. I’m going to need more barbed wire. Can you get down Mango Bay Road?”
“I think so.”
“Then go and see if Harry has any. He’s the only person on the island who might be able to help. Tell him I’ll buy any he’s got, up to a whole roll. And on the way back… ”
The Colvilles were deep in discussion. Margaret got into the jeep and drove off again, and John went back to work. Feeling deflated and desolate, Emmy went up to her bedroom. The winds were now no more than Force 5 or 6—less than 30 miles an hour—and the rain had thinned to driving drizzle. Emmy lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. The hair-raising drive down the ravine to the beach, the shock of finding Henry’s limp body in Windflower’s cockpit, the enormous relief of realizing that he was still alive, the hopeless attempts to get the jeep back up the hill, the seemingly endless wait for the helicopter—all this had been at least stimulating, at least shared. Now she felt let down and very much alone.
Grasping at rationality, she tried to sum up the situation. She had a husband, alive but suffering from a concussion, and still—or so it seemed—under the influence of a pernicious drug. Also under arrest, as soon as his medical condition improved, unless she could convince the Governor to change his mind. She had Dr. Vanduren, half-crazy with worry and guilt, at one and the same time promising help and threatening retribution. Hardly a reassuring ally. Thanks to him, she had already had to lie to Margaret, and she was unhappily aware that the latter’s suspicions had been quite properly aroused. Soon she would be telling more lies to Alfred Pendleton and Herbert Ingham. Unless, of course, she ignored Vanduren’s orders and simply told the Governor the truth. But then Henry…she had already seen what could be done to destroy Henry. She could not possibly take the risk.
At a quarter to five, Margaret drove Emmy back to the Golf Club. The ride was silent and unhappy. Emmy longed to tell her friend the truth, but two reasons kept her dumb. Not only Henry’s safety, but also the fact that she did not want to burden the Colvilles with the responsibility of knowing too many facts. If she told anybody, she decided, it should be Sir Alfred himself.
To Emmy’s surprise, the Secretary of the Golf Club was there in person to meet the jeep as it turned into the gateway by the security guard’s hut. He came up with a slightly sheepish smile.
“Mrs. Tibbett? You’ve come to see your husband, I expect.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’ve some good news for you.”
“Good news?” Emmy glanced briefly at Margaret, but got no response. “What do you mean?”
“Just that he’s no longer here.”
“What?”
“He’s in the hospital at St. Mark’s, where he can get all the best treatment.”
Emmy felt stunned. “But how—?”
“Our helicopter pilot decided he could make the journey, now that the weather has moderated,” the Secretary explained. “We couldn’t contact you, since all the phones are down, and it was a question of taking off right away to get back before dark.”
Emmy was shaking. She climbed out of the jeep. “I think it’s monstrous,” she said. “You had no right to move him without consulting me. Why didn’t you send to the Anchorage for me? I could have gone with him.”
The Secretary said unhappily, “I do appreciate your point of view, Mrs. Tibbett, but there wouldn’t have been room in the helicopter. The police officer—” He broke off, going very pink. “We don’t know how long this break in the weather will last, and the Governor was very insistent over the radio—”
Emmy turned to Margaret. “Don’t you wait,” she said. “I know you’re terribly busy. I’ll stay here and talk to the Secretary and find my own way back.”
Margaret hesitated. “If you’re sure… ”
“I’m sure.”
“Well—all right then. Good luck.” With a sudden, warm smile that did Emmy’s heart good, Margaret put the jeep into gear, turned, and made off down the rutted road.
Emmy faced the Secretary. He was new since her last visit to St. Matthew’s—a large, fair-haired Englishman with a small mustache and a diffident manner. She said, “Perhaps we could go to your office and talk?”
“Oh, yes. Certainly. By all means. Just over here—we can walk.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” Emmy said, as they made their way across the damp lawn.
“Whitely. Peter Whitely. I’ve been here just two months. In here, if you please. Now, do sit down. Can I get you a drink?”
“Frankly, I’d love one,” Emmy said. “I need it.”
“Of course. Very understandable.” Peter Whitely opened a cupboard to reveal a well-stocked bar. “Scotch? Rum? Martini?”
“A Scotch and soda would be marvelous,” Emmy said.
Whitely poured two drinks and brought them to the desk. “Your good health, Mrs. Tibbett. Now, what is it that I can explain to you?”
“Everything,” Emmy said. “I don’t know where to begin. First of all, you said something about the Governor. You’ve been in touch with him?”
“Yes, by VHF radio. Our Harbour Master has a set.”
“Of course,” Emmy said. “Well, what did he say?”
Whitely twirled his mustache awkwardly. “The fact is, Mrs. Tibbett, the Governor was anxious to get Mr. Tibbett over to St. Mark’s as soon as possible.”
“I see. And with a police escort. So he wasn’t taken just for medical treatment.”
“Well…er…no. Not entirely. The Governor wants to talk to Mr. Tibbett.”
“That’s mutual,” said Emmy. “My husband wants to talk to the Governor.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Peter Whitely, brightening.
“So,” Emmy went on, “how can I get to St. Mark’s?”
“Well, now, that will depend on the weather. If things still look good tomorrow—”
“What do you mean—if?” Emmy asked. “The hurricane has passed us, for goodness sake. You don’t expect it to turn back, do you?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Why, I thought everybody knew. Haven’t you been listening to your radio?”
“Please,” said Emmy, “just tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Tropical Storm Beatrice,” said Whitely. “A new disturbance getting organized out in the Atlantic. Following the same path as Alfred. She may hit us any time from tomorrow onwards, depending on her speed and direction. That’s why we felt we must take advantage of—”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Emmy protested. “We couldn’t have two hurricanes within—”
“I’m afraid we could, you know. When the weather conditions are just right, they come marching over one after the other, I fear. But I do promise you, Mrs. Tibbett, that if it’s humanly possible, we’ll get you to St. Mark’s by helicopter first thing in the morning. We’re planning to take all our members who are still here—if we can get them out of St. Mark’s by air before Beatrice arrives, so much the better.”
Emmy said, “Can you get a message to the Governor for me?”
“Yes, I think we can manage that. It has to go through the police station on St. Mark’s, of course.”
“Then tell him,” Emmy said, “that I’ll be over in the morning if the helicopter flies, that I’ve important information, and that I must see him. Can you do that?”
“Can do, Mrs. Tibbett. Can do.”
“You’ve been very kind.” Emmy felt sorry for poor Mr. Whitely, the innocent messenger with bad news to deliver. He hadn’t done badly. “Now, can you get me back to the Anchorage?”
“Well, Mrs. Tibbett—if I might make a suggestion—it might be better if you stayed here overnight. If the helicopter does fly in the morning, it’ll be pretty early—”
“What about my things? And letting the Anchorage know?”
“I could send someone down to the Anchorage to pack you a suitcase and bring it back here. No sense in going yourself. As a matter of fact, I’ve reserved Number forty-five for you—we’ve no lack of empty cottages, I fear. I’ll show you down there and send your suitcase along when it arrives. Then we hope you’ll enjoy dinner… ”
So it had all been arranged, Emmy thought cynically. How the Governor imagined that she might disappear from an island virtually cut off by the hurricane, she had no idea, but Sir Alfred was playing it safe. She remembered the paramilitary security posts at the Golf Club gates and the stout fence to keep out intruders. On their last visit to St. Matthew’s, she and Henry had joked about the fact that the Golf Club, one of the most expensive resorts on earth, was very much like a superluxurious maximum-security prison. Now, it seemed to be fulfilling that function in fact. She thanked Mr. Whitely and allowed herself to be conducted to her million-dollar cell.
The next morning, the weather was ominously calm. Miami weather station reported that Beatrice had been upgraded to hurricane status, and that the Seawards, along with other islands, should maintain a hurricane watch. No immediate danger threatened, however. It would be late that night at the soonest before Beatrice struck land.
The Golf Club was eager to disembarrass itself of its few remaining guests—all of whom were far too affluent and important for the Club to risk them suing for material or bodily damage due to negligence during the storm. The airport on St. Mark’s had been hastily cleared of debris and one runway declared open. The helicopter would fly a ferry service to it, so long as the weather held. The exodus was on.
As it turned out, Emmy was not allocated to the first flight, which took members who had to make a connection for Los Angeles in San Juan. The second flight, however, left soon after nine o’clock, bearing Emmy and her suitcase as well as a Senator and his wife en route to Washington, D.C. The ferry service, the pilot explained, was strictly to and from the airport. There was no possibility of taking Emmy into the town of St. Mark’s Harbour, and she wondered how she was going to get there.
She need not have worried. As she climbed out of the helicopter, a trim figure in blue uniform stepped forward. Woman Police Constable Pearletta Terry.
“I have a jeep, Mrs. Tibbett. The Governor would like to see you right away.”
During the drive back to Government House, conversation was kept to a minimum—and neutral topics at that. Pearletta told Emmy that St. Mark’s had been even luckier than St. Matthew’s. Very little damage—only a few roads blocked by flooding and fallen rocks and trees and a handful of broken windows. Electric power had already been restored.
Emmy mentioned Hurricane Beatrice, and Pearletta agreed that they would be extremely fortunate to get off so lightly next time. However, the storm was still out at sea, and nobody could predict her exact course. Emmy asked whether boat traffic between the islands had been resumed, and Pearletta replied that as far as she knew, the Pride would be making her normal run that day.
“Tomorrow—who knows?” she added. After that, the two women rode in silence into St. Mark’s Harbour.
The Governor was waiting for Emmy. One of the drawing-room windows had been blown out and was blocked with a sheet of plywood, making the room dim and gloomy, despite the fact that the electric light was burning. Sir Alfred appeared reasonably dim and gloomy himself. He greeted Emmy briefly and then said, “You must be very relieved that your husband is alive, Mrs. Tibbett.”
“Of course I am. But—”
“You have seen and spoken to him, Mrs. Tibbett. You must be aware that his mental state is—”
Emmy interrupted. “Sir Alfred, please listen to me. I think I know what has been wrong with my husband.”
“A mental breakdown,” said Sir Alfred dryly. “That would be the most convenient, wouldn’t it?”
“No,” said Emmy. She experienced a spurt of anger, which did her good. “You must listen. I’ve been talking to a doctor friend of mine who has wide experience with hallucinatory drugs, and he thinks that Henry has been under the influence of something called PCP. I can’t remember the chemical name—it’s one of those words that goes on forever. Anyhow, this is a very dangerous drug and a personality changer, and the symptoms seem to fit.”
The Governor looked at her—a hard stare which she did not find reassuring. He said, “Who is this doctor friend, Mrs. Tibbett? Somebody on the island?”
Emmy had prepared herself for that one. “No,” she said. “His name is Duncan. He used to be Chief Medical Officer of Tampica. Henry and I met him in Washington on the Ironmonger case.” She hoped that her venerable friend Doc Duncan would forgive her for thus taking his name in vain. She also felt sure that he was not an expert on hallucinatory drugs, but it was the best she could think of on the spur of the moment.
Sir Alfred said slowly, “I’ve heard of Dr. Duncan. He’s well known in this part of the world.” Then, “How did you manage to contact him? The phones have been out of service.”
Emmy said, “I spoke to him just before the hurricane, sir. I was about to mention it to you on the phone when we were cut off.” She found, somewhat to her alarm, that lying became easier with practice.
“Well,” said Sir Alfred, “we’ll have to check this out. I’ll mention it to Dr. Harlow at the hospital. He may be able to do some tests. It would certainly explain—quite a lot. On the other hand, you must admit that it is only a theory. There are other possible explanations for your husband’s extraordinary behavior.”
“I can’t think of any.”
“Can’t you?”
“No, I can’t.”
“I am wondering,” said Sir Alfred, “whether this whole business may not have been in the nature of a diversion.”
“You mean, you still think Henry is in the pay of the Mafia—?”
The Governor looked at Emmy in mild surprise. “The Mafia?” he repeated. “That’s the first time I’ve heard anybody mention the Mafia in connection with this case. Have you any reason for thinking they may be involved?”
Mentally, Emmy cursed Dr. Vanduren. She said, “No special reason, Sir Alfred. Just that when one hears of big sums of money and drugs and murders—well, one assumes that organized crime is in there somewhere.”
“Yes,” said Sir Alfred slowly. “Murders. That was how Chief Superintendent Tibbett came to be involved at all, wasn’t it? Investigating the disappearance and presumed murder of Miss Elizabeth Sprague.”
“And the Rosses and maybe the crew of the Isabella—”
“Those two boats were lost at sea, Mrs. Tibbett. As I recall, nobody mentioned murder until your husband turned up with this story about Miss Sprague.”
Emmy said, “Henry didn’t turn up with any story. Betsy Sprague disappeared. John and Margaret Colville—”
“Yes. The Colvilles.” Sir Alfred sighed gently and took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Mrs. Tibbett, I think the time has come to be quite frank with you. I hope that you’ll return the compliment and be frank with me for a change.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I must tell you that telephone service on both islands was reconnected earlier this morning. One of the first calls I received was from your friend Mr. Colville. He had just had a telegram from England, phoned through from the cable and wireless station. Shall I read it to you?”
“Please do,” said Emmy.
Sir Alfred consulted the paper in his hand. He read: “VERY WORRIED NEWS HURRICANE ALFRED HOPE YOU SAFE AND WELL PLEASE RING OR CABLE REASSURANCE LOVE BETSY.”
“What?” Emmy drew her breath in a sharp gasp.
Sir Alfred continued. “This was handed in at Little Fareham, Hampshire, yesterday afternoon, English time. Your friend Miss Sprague is obviously at home, safe and sound, and has been for some time.”
“I…I simply don’t understand it.”
Ignoring her, Sir Alfred went on. “Had it not been for the hurricane, nothing would have been heard from the lady for several weeks, even if she wrote as soon as she arrived home. You know how long the mails take. I mentioned the word diversion. Perhaps I should have said hoax.” There was a pause. “I don’t appreciate having my leg pulled, Mrs. Tibbett, even by so distinguished a practical joker as your husband.”
“Does Henry know about Betsy?” Emmy demanded.
“Not yet. He is barely coherent. Apparently.”
“You think he’s shamming? Just pretending to be crazy?”
“That’s for the doctors to decide, Mrs. Tibbett. We will check on this mysterious drug of yours. It’s possible that he is or has been under its influence. It would give a certain credibility—to his incredibility.”
“Are you saying he may have taken it deliberately?”
Sir Alfred sighed again. “My dear Mrs. Tibbett, I don’t know. Nor do I know why Miss Sprague did not catch her original flight to Antigua—nor, indeed, by what route she left the island and returned home. We are doing our best to check on things while we still have communication with the outside world. By tomorrow, we are likely to be cut off again, possibly for a longer period.” Impatiently, he added, “I have more important things to worry about. Just admit that this has been an elaborate deception.”
Emmy said, “I can’t admit what I don’t know. I must see Henry. Then I’ll talk to you again, Sir Alfred.”
After a pause, the Governor said, “Very well.”
Emmy said, “Is Henry under arrest?”
“My police force is very small,” said Sir Alfred icily. “In the present emergency they have more pressing duties than guarding a demented prankster in hospital. Your husband is not to leave the island—not that he could do so, for by the time the doctors allow him to leave the hospital, we will certainly be without communications again.” Pendleton cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tibbett. I’m afraid my patience is wearing thin. Very possibly all this has nothing to do with you. Just wait here, please, and I will arrange transport to the hospital for you.”
Alone in the big, dark drawing room, Emmy found her mind racing, trying to adjust to the new realities. Of course, it was wonderful news about Betsy—if Betsy had really sent that telegram. Surely John would have telephoned her by now. Must check with the Anchorage right away. If Betsy was home, how had she arrived there? Would Dr. Vanduren be able to get to St. Mark’s before the second storm arrived? Where were the Carstairs and the Blackstones who had been on Windflower with Henry? So many questions, so few answers.
Emmy walked to an unbroken window and stood looking out over the churning water of the channel—gray and steely now, no longer a deep, translucent blue. She was lost in thought and did not hear the door opening, so Sir Alfred’s voice made her jump.
“Mrs. Tibbett.”
“Yes. I’m ready.”
“Just one moment. I have spoken to Dr. Duncan in Tampica.”
“Oh,” said Emmy.
“He confirms,” said the Governor, “that he met you and the Chief Superintendent in Washington during the Ironmonger case. However, he says that he has not been in touch with you since. He is not an authority on hallucinatory drugs, and he has never discussed them with you. If you did, in fact, get this information, it was not from him. Well, Mrs. Tibbett?”
Emmy said, “All right. It wasn’t Dr. Duncan. That’s the only thing I lied to you about, Sir Alfred. I can’t tell you who it was—not for the moment.”
“I have also spoken again with Mrs. Colville. She tells me that you met and lunched with some strange man in Priest Town yesterday. She says that when she asked you about him, you came up with a palpably false story. She and her husband are both extremely disturbed, Mrs. Tibbett. They regard themselves as your friends, and they trusted you implicitly. This is why they said nothing about your mysterious friend, until I told them about your deception concerning Dr. Duncan.”
Feeling desperate, Emmy said, “I will explain, Sir Alfred. I really will, as soon as I’ve seen Henry. I beg you to believe that this isn’t a hoax. Something very serious is going on.”
The Governor gave her a long look. But all he said was “There is a jeep and driver waiting to take you to the hospital. I shall expect to hear from you.”