FROM THE OUTSIDE, St. Mark’s General Hospital was an attractive Victorian building standing in several acres of coconut-palm groves a mile outside the town of St. Mark’s Harbour. It had been painted white so that its turrets and curlicues and other follies made a pleasantly frivolous pattern against the blue of the tropical sky.
Inside, however, two things were immediately obvious. The first was that Florence Nightingale’s enlightened ideas on hospital building had had as little effect here as in the gloomy confines of Netley Military Hospital in England. In vain had Miss Nightingale fought to have Netley built as a series of small pavilions, with plenty of fresh air and privacy for the patients. The Establishment had won that battle, constructing huge, infection-prone wards that were mistakenly thought to be easier to administer. Here, in this far-flung outpost of Empire, similar bureaucratic characters had done their best to emulate British stupidity: fortunately, the smallness of the whole complex had perforce steered them away from hundred-bed wards, but they had done what they could to make the place uncomfortable.
The second obvious fact was the lack of funds available to the hospital. It was clean—but that was about all. The inevitable green and cream paint was peeling from the walls, a lot of the furniture was broken, wash basins were cracked, and curtains were ragged. Hurricane Alfred had not helped matters by breaking several windows and causing a small flood in the main foyer. With a sinking heart, Emmy approached the dingy cubicle marked RECEPTION, introduced herself, and asked if she might see Henry.
At once, a third and much more promising fact emerged. The premises of St. Mark’s General might not be grand or even efficient, but the staff was exceptional. The lovely young black woman behind the desk gave Emmy a sweet smile and said, “Of course, Mrs. Tibbett.”
“I wasn’t sure about visiting hours—” Emmy began.
“Why, you must be anxious to see your husband. You can come at any time—remember that. We’re always pleased to see you.”
At that moment, a tubby man in a white coat hurried by, and the receptionist hailed him. “Oh, Dr. Harlow—”
“Yes, Sandraleen? What is it?”
“This is Mrs. Tibbett, Doctor. I wondered if—”
“Ah, Mrs. Tibbett.” The little Englishman took off his glasses and beamed at Emmy. “I’m just on my way to your husband’s floor now. I’ll show you up.”
Climbing the worn stone staircase, Emmy said tentatively, “Did Sir Alfred Pendleton—?”
“I’ve just had him on the telephone. He tells me you think your husband might have ingested phencyclidine.”
“It was suggested to me as an idea,” Emmy said. “What do you think?”
“An interesting theory,” said the doctor. “Yes, it would account for a great deal.”
“You’re familiar with it, are you?” Emmy said. “This frightful stuff called PCP.”
The doctor shrugged. “I’m afraid so,” he said shortly. “Had a couple of bad cases recently—young people, of course. And there are more who never come for treatment—frightened we’ll find out about their drug habits. Most of them buy it as a cheap substitute for LSD, you see. They seldom get to a hospital unless they’ve actually gone into a coma, and friends or family get so scared that they bring them in.”
“What I mean,” Emmy said, “is that you can make tests and find out one way or the other.”
The doctor shook his head. “I doubt it, Mrs. Tibbett.”
“But surely—”
“Unless your husband got himself a fresh fix at the Golf Club,” Dr. Harlow remarked, “he can’t have had a dose of phencyclidine since—well, since a considerable time before he was rescued off that boat. That was yesterday morning, I understand.”
“Yes. About half-past eight.”
“Then by now blood and urine tests might well be negative.”
“Oh,” said Emmy. And then, “Well, anyway, that would mean that he’s completely over the effects.”
The doctor stopped walking and took Emmy’s arm. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Tibbett. There’s a recorded case of a patient going into a coma and finally dying five days after the last ingestion. The postmortem showed no trace of the drug. However, in that case, the patient was already in hospital being treated for a phencyclidine overdose, which was diagnosed when he was admitted. Otherwise, the cause of death would have been a complete mystery. In fact, it’s believed that far more deaths occur from PCP overdose than anybody realizes. The use—or rather abuse—of the drug has been going up significantly.”
Emmy said, “We’re lucky to have an expert on such an abstruse subject, Dr. Harlow.”
The doctor looked at her with sharp suspicion for a moment. But all he said was yes. He put his hand to a door handle. “Here we are.”
“How is he?” Emmy felt guilty that she had not asked this question much sooner.
“When I saw him last, he was asleep.” Harlow’s voice was quite without expression. “Before that, he appeared drowsy and incoherent, as I would expect after a concussion and sedation.” A little pause. “It certainly wouldn’t have occurred to me to test him for a drug overdose. Now, of course, we’ll do what we can. But don’t be disappointed if the results don’t prove anything, one way or the other. Well… ” The doctor turned the handle and pushed the door open. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Tibbett.” He hurried off down the drab corridor.
Henry had been put into one of the smaller wards of the General Hospital. There were no such things as private rooms, but while the principal medical and surgical wards held thirty beds apiece, this smaller unit catered to a mere eight patients.
Three of the cots contained children—small, bandaged figures, all apparently asleep, with just a dusky hand or a few black curls visible against the grayish white of the much-laundered sheets. Emmy wondered if they were casualties of Hurricane Alfred. Of the other beds, two showed humped forms of adult men, also hidden by sheets and apparently unconscious. In another bed, a young black man sat propped up by pillows, reading a comic magazine, while on his nightstand a transistor radio thrummed out a reggae beat. This did not seem to disturb the other patients in the least. The seventh bed was not strictly speaking occupied—that is to say, a very old black man with grizzled white hair and minimal teeth was sitting on the edge of it. He wore blue-and-white-striped pajamas, leaned on a stick, and was conducting a rambling conversation with some invisible companion. The eighth bed was surrounded by rickety chintz screens, and Emmy made her way between them.
Henry was lying on his left side, as he always did when sleeping. Apart from the green silk pajamas (which actually belonged to Peter Whitely of the Golf Club), he looked absolutely normal—precisely, in fact, as he looked every morning in his old Chelsea bedroom when Emmy came to wake him with his early cup of tea; and, as every morning, he woke at her entry. He stirred, opened his eyes, smiled at her, and said, “Hello, darling. Morning already?”
Emmy smiled back. “Lunchtime, actually,” she said. There was a wooden chair with a broken back standing by the wall. Emmy pulled it up to the bedside and sat down. “How do you feel?”
“Feel?” Henry blinked. “I feel fine. I… ” He put up his hand to rub his eyes and caught sight of the green silk pajama sleeve. For a moment he looked at it in disbelief, then from it to the bed, the screens, and finally Emmy. He said, “Where the hell am I? What’s happened?”
“You’re in hospital, Henry. You had an accident.”
“An accident?”
“On a boat. You remember Windflower?”
“Of course. We were cruising…down island… ” He passed a hand over his forehead. “Something about…something about bad weather from the east…what happened, for God’s sake?”
Gently, Emmy said, “There was a bad storm, darling. The boat was wrecked and washed ashore. Luckily, John and I found you.” Henry had struggled into a sitting position. He said, “What do you mean, you found me? You must have been on board.”
“No, Henry, I wasn’t with you.”
“You weren’t? Why not?”
“Well…you decided to go off cruising with your friends, so I went back to the Anchorage…don’t you remember?”
“Wait a minute.” Henry lay down again and closed his eyes. He seemed to be concentrating fiercely. At last he said, “Have I had a concussion or something?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s what the doctor said.”
“Well, you must think me an almighty idiot, but really I can’t remember much. You say I went off without you? I must have been crazy.”
“No,” Emmy said, with a vehemence that surprised even her. “No, not crazy, Henry.” She took his hand, and he grasped it as if it had been a life belt. “Now, you’re just to relax and not worry, but as and when you do remember anything, you must tell me. It’s…it’s quite important.”
“What am I expected to remember, for heaven’s sake? At least give me a clue.”
Emmy hesitated. “Well…your young friends. The Carstairs and the Blackstones. Do you remember anything about them?”
Henry looked surprised. “Of course,” he said. “The Blackstones came on board in the marina. Jill and…what was his name?…oh, yes, Harvey. What about them?”
“I think they were sailing with you,” Emmy said.
“Sounds possible,” Henry said. “They were very keen on the boat, remember? What was the other name you said?”
“Carstairs. You…we met them in the Buccaneer disco. Friends of the Blackstones. You said they might be sailing with you, too.”
Henry shook his head, as if trying to free it from a swarm of bees. He said, “Somebody else. There was somebody else. Can’t remember… ”
“Never mind,” said Emmy quickly. “You’ve done very well with the Blackstones.”
“I’m trying my best,” Henry said. “Anything else?”
“Well…what about the Henry Tibbett Private Investigation Bureau Ltd.?”
“Oh, that. That was just a fantasy… I mean, I’ll have to retire one day, and I thought it would be a fun way of making a living. It was never more than… ” A cloud passed over his face. “I remember now…you had some bloody silly objection to it…you wouldn’t help me…you’re so damned unenterprising and discouraging and… ” Henry buried his face in his hands. Then he looked up, straight at Emmy, and said, “I think I am a little crazy, Emmy.”
“No, you’re not.” Emmy was very firm. “You’ve had a bad experience, and you need to rest and not worry.” Tentatively, she added, “The bureau is a splendid idea for the future, but you’re not retired yet…are you?”
“Retired? Of course not. What a fool idea. I’ve got another…oh, about ten years to go… ”
Emmy smiled, bent forward, and kissed her husband. “That’s just wonderful,” she said.
“Can’t see what’s so wonderful about it,” Henry said. “After all, it’s nothing new. Nothing’s changed.”
“I know,” said Emmy, “that’s what’s wonderful.”
At that moment a trim black nurse in a crackling, very short-skirted white uniform put her head around the screen. “Excuse me, Mrs. Tibbett,” she said with a dazzling smile. “I have to ask you to leave for a little while. The doctor wants to see Mr. Tibbett now.”
“Of course. I’ll go and get some lunch. I’ll be back, darling,” Emmy added quickly to Henry, who was holding her hand in a vise-like grip.
He relaxed and smiled. “O.K. See you soon.”
Emmy said, “There’s no… ? I mean, you don’t have any message—”
“Mrs. Tibbett, please… ” The nurse was as charming as ever, but a trace more authoritative.
“—for the Governor or anybody?” said Emmy.
Henry looked bewildered. “The Governor? Why on earth should I have a message for… ?”
“Mrs. Tibbett, I really must ask you—”
“All right, all right. I’ve gone.” Emmy disappeared around the screens and bumped straight into Dr. Harlow. “Hello, Doctor. I’m just off.”
The doctor beamed. “How do you find the patient, Mrs. Tibbett?”
“Fine, Doctor. Doing splendidly.”
The old man was still conducting his dribbly monologue, the transistor still blared, and the children still slept as Emmy escaped from the antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital and into the sunshine of the street.
Emmy took a taxi to the marina and was delighted to find that at least one of the public telephones produced a dial tone. Within seconds she heard Margaret’s voice.
“Anchorage Inn. Can I help you?”
“Margaret, it’s Emmy. I’m in St. Mark’s. Henry’s here, in hospital.”
“Oh…hello, Emmy.” Margaret sounded embarrassed and quite unlike her usual self.
Emmy said cheerfully, “All right, Margaret, I’ll explain my mysterious lunch guest in due course. For the moment, I can’t, so please don’t ask me. Now—did you manage to contact Betsy?”
There was a little pause, and then, in a rush and a return to her normal voice, Margaret said, “Oh, Emmy, we’ve been so worried. Did the Governor—?”
“Yes, he did, and of course you’ve been worried, and so have I. Now, we may not have much time, so tell me, and fast. Did you speak to Betsy?”
“John did. She’s safely home.”
“Thank God. But what happened?”
“That’s the strange part. Apparently—nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Except that Betsy simply…lost a couple of days.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, John says that at first she simply said she was glad to hear we were safe. Then he asked her about her late arrival home, and she said she didn’t know what he was talking about. You know Betsy—she’d never admit that she’s getting a bit senile and might have been confused. In the end—about a hundred and fifty dollars later, John thinks—she admitted that she’d had what she called a ‘funny spell.’ ”
“What did she mean by that?”
“It took a frightfully long time to get it out of her, but as far as John could make out, she remembered nothing from the moment she arrived on St. Mark’s on the Pride—that was on Thursday, of course—until she woke up in a bedroom in the Puerto Rico Airport Hotel. Her baggage was there, and her passport and airline ticket were laid neatly beside her bed. Her reservation had been changed to take her to London via New York on Sunday. By discreet inquiries at the desk, she discovered that it was Saturday morning, and that she had arrived the previous evening.”
“Saturday! So she lost two whole days!”
“Apparently,” said Margaret. “But she must have been functioning during those days because everything was in order. She’d changed her bookings to fly to New York on Saturday, stay overnight at one of the airport hotels, and travel on to England on Sunday.”
“What about Miss Pelling and the cats?”
“Betsy admitted that Miss Pelling had been somewhat put out and had taken the cats to a boarding cattery. But—well, you know Betsy. She didn’t intend to make a fool of herself. She imagined she had changed her plans and then for some reason forgotten about it—had a spell of amnesia. She pretended to Miss Pelling and everybody else that she had simply decided to come home on a later date by a different route, and the whole thing was forgotten in no time. If it hadn’t been for the hurricane… ”
“So,” said Emmy, “we’ve all been made to look like fools, or worse. Especially Henry.”
“How is Henry?”
“Better, thanks,” said Emmy briefly. “What’s the latest weather bulletin?”
“Beatrice is headed this way, I’m afraid. Should pass us tonight. Where are you staying, Emmy?”
“I…I don’t know yet. Yes, I do. I’ll get a room at the Harbour Prospect until my cash runs out.”
“Now look, John and I can always help—”
“Yes, and you may have to,” said Emmy. “I’ll keep in touch if I can. If I can’t, it’ll be because of the hurricane, and nobody will be presenting bills or cashing checks. Now, Margaret, will you do something for me before the telephone goes off again, as it’s bound to.”
“Of course. What?”
“Call Scotland Yard. Talk to Inspector Reynolds—you remember Derek? Tell him to get hold of Betsy and put her through a wringer to get anything she can remember—with the aid of a good doctor. Tell him you suspect Betsy may have been drugged with PCP. That’s right. P like Peter, C like Charlie, P like… ” Emmy glanced up and over her shoulder. She had a sudden and irrational feeling that her conversation was being overheard, but there was nobody in sight except Anderson, the Harbour Master, chatting to an obviously worried young American about the coming hurricane. Emmy went on. “Tell Derek that Henry is going to be fine. Tell him that Betsy may be in danger if anybody suspects that she’s…oh, damn. Tell him not to trust anybody. I mean anybody. This is serious, Margaret. O.K.?”
“O.K.,” said Margaret, a little dubiously. “But Emmy—” There was a click and Margaret realized that she was talking to herself. Emmy had hung up.
Emmy stepped out of the phone booth and almost into the arms of Inspector Ingham. She smiled brightly. “Hello, Inspector Ingham. Lovely afternoon. Calm between two storms, I suppose.”
“Mrs. Tibbett… I was looking for you…”
“I’m just going over to the restaurant for lunch,” said Emmy. “Will you join me?”
“No…that is, no, thank you. I’ve already eaten. Mrs. Tibbett, the Governor would like—”
Striding briskly toward the restaurant, Emmy said, “I’ve already seen the Governor, Inspector Ingham.”
“Yes, but…there’s been some further development…”
“Just for one, please,” said Emmy brightly to the waitress who stepped up to greet her. “One for lunch, that is. My friend may take a drink. Yes, this will do nicely. Bring me a glass of white wine as an aperitif, please. Do sit down, Inspector. Wine for you, or beer?”
“Beer,” muttered Ingham, sinking into the chair opposite Emmy’s. “Now, Mrs. Tibbett—”
“Henry is much better, I’m delighted to say.” Emmy went on relentlessly, wondering how long she could keep it up. “And I’m sure you’ve heard that Miss Sprague is home safe and sound after all. Mr. Colville has spoken to her, and it was all a silly misunderstanding, so—”
Forcefully, Ingham said, “What happened right here, in this restaurant, last Sunday was not a misunderstanding, Mrs. Tibbett. I’m glad that your husband is feeling better, but it doesn’t change the fact—”
“He quite often gets these little attacks,” said Emmy blandly. “Nothing to worry about.”
“That,” said Ingham, “remains to be seen. Meanwhile, the Governor wants you to know that we’ve got a line on your husband’s confederates.”
“Oh.” Emmy was jolted out of her playacting. “Really? What?”
“You seem interested.”
“Of course I am.”
“Well…the couple called Carstairs have been in touch with us. They are in St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands, and they propose to lodge a complaint.”
“A complaint? Against whom?”
“Against your husband and the people known as Blackstone, who were also aboard Windflower. According to the Carstairs, Mr. Tibbett and the Blackstones virtually kidnapped them.”
“What an extraordinary story,” said Emmy. And then, to the waitress who arrived with drinks, “Thank you. I’ll have a rare steak, chips, and salad, please. And a glass of red wine with it. Another beer, Inspector? No?” The waitress departed, and Emmy went on. “Extraordinary. You checked up on these Carstairs people, of course?”
“Of course,” replied Ingham stiffly. He took a drink of beer. “Katherine and Lewis Carstairs from Virginia. They arrived in their boat, the Katie-Lou, from St. Thomas a week ago. Checked in through Customs and Immigration, everything perfectly in order. Then they took the boat to a local yard for some small repairs and booked themselves a room here at the marina for a couple of days until their boat should be ready. Apparently that was when they met the Blackstones, and later your husband. It was proposed that the five of them should take a short cruise on the Windflower. That was when the fun began.”
“The fun?”
‘“I was speaking figuratively. Far from fun, in fact. To condense matters, they accuse both Mr. Tibbett and the Blackstones of being under the influence of drugs or alcohol or both during the entire cruise. The incident here on Sunday was the last straw. The Carstairs demanded to leave the Windflower, but they say that the others manhandled them back on board. Later, after the dinghy race episode, things got so bad that nobody was speaking to anybody else. The next morning, they woke up to find themselves off the coast of St. Thomas. The Blackstones, they say, ordered them to pack their things, then simply put them into the dinghy and told them to row ashore. Windflower then set sail and disappeared, heading east. It was that afternoon, you may remember, that we intercepted the Anemone to Starfish message.”
Emmy said, “And that evening the hurricane hit. So the Carstairs have only just been able to get through here. They telephoned the Governor, did they?”
“No, Mrs. Tibbett. They telephoned me with a formal complaint.”
“Well,” said Emmy, “I really can’t see what they have to go to the law about—especially as I presume the Blackstones have disappeared.”
“Right.”
“Have you made inquiries about them?”
Inspector Ingham looked exasperated. “How can we? They landed illegally in the Seawards. We have nothing on them—no passport numbers, addresses—nothing.”
“I can tell you a bit about them,” Emmy said. She wrinkled her brow, remembering. “Harvey Blackstone is the son of a lawyer, practicing in Baltimore. Jill comes from the same city.”
“How do you know this?” Ingham was suspicious.
“They told us, the first time they came aboard, before…all the trouble.”
“If they told you, Mrs. Tibbett, then I imagine the information will not be of much value. As far as I am concerned, they are a couple of hippies, if not worse.”
“You could check it out, all the same,” said Emmy. “And you might ask Mr. Anderson.”
“Anderson?”
“Yes, the Harbour Master. They told us that they had come here intending to camp, but that young Sebastian Anderson had invited them to stay at his home.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before, Mrs. Tibbett?”
“I…you didn’t ask. I didn’t think the Blackstones were important.”
Ingham drained his beer and stood up. “I will check,” he said, “if I get the chance, with this new hurricane developing. But I think it will be useless. We may indeed trace some Blackstones in Baltimore, but you can be sure they will not be the same people as the two young criminals on board Windflower. As for Anderson, I will ask him, of course, but his son is not…well, never mind. I will ask him. Meanwhile, Mrs. Tibbett, you are staying on the island?”
“Of course. I’m taking a room at the Harbour Prospect.”
“Good. It would be better if you did not leave the Seawards just now.”
“I understand that I am not allowed to leave the Seawards, Inspector. “
“Well…I suppose that’s one way of putting it… ”
“It’s the only way of putting it, Inspector Ingham,” said Emmy. “Don’t let me keep you. I see my lunch is arriving.”