A Maze of Murders (21 page)

‘Never mind that. Have a drink to celebrate your return.'

‘And another to celebrate your arrival,' suggested Jaime.

She swung round. ‘Can you talk nothing but stupidities?'

‘Here, why d'you keep going on and on at me?'

‘Because you should realize that Enrique is too exhausted to have to listen to nonsense.'

‘Exhausted, is he? Been enjoying himself too much in gay Paree!'

She made a sound of sharp annoyance, crossed to the inner doorway, then came to a stop. ‘Before I forget, there was a phone call from Palma. You're to ring back as soon as possible.'

Life, Alvarez thought, enjoyed trampling with hobnail boots on a man who was already done. ‘How did the superior chief sound – even worse than usual?'

‘It wasn't him, but someone called Amengual from the Institute of Forensic Anatomy. You can ring now; it'll be some time before supper's on the table.'

He stared at the telephone as they left. Why bother to ring Palma and learn what he already knew – that he had been an utter fool? Nevertheless, he dialled the Institute's number and asked to be connected with Amengual.

‘We've heard from England regarding the dentist's chart you arranged to have sent to them. They managed to identify Señora Clough's dentist who provided a chart of her teeth for comparison. There's no match.'

He couldn't make sense of that. ‘There has to be.'

‘They say not.'

‘Then they've made a mistake.'

‘The report's too definite for that.'

If the dead woman was not Vera Clough, then she was an unknown victim which meant that his whole reconstruction of events on the island and in Pellapuig crumbled into dust. Señora Clough was alive and well and living in Son Preda. Phoebe had not been paid to fool him into believing lies. And when she had murmured ‘Not yet', he had read the truth in her words. The room was suddenly filled with sunshine even though it faced north.

He laughed as he replaced the receiver. The joys of being wrong; the pleasures of being proved incompetent!… Because he had believed Phoebe a bitch, he had bought her nothing in Paris. Now he could be certain she was not, it became imperative to give her a present. (Guiltily, he accepted that in part this was to salve his own conscience.) Then she should have the one intended for Dolores and somehow he'd make it up to Dolores …

He whistled as he went through to the dining-room.

‘What's up with you?' Jaime asked.

He poured himself a drink, raised his glass. ‘Tonight, I drink with the gods.'

‘If you ask me, you've been doing that all the way back from France.'

Alvarez laughed, whistled a few bars from ‘Viva España', drank.

*   *   *

Alvarez left his car, crossed to the front door of Son Preda and struck the knocker a resounding blow. In his right trouser pocket was a gift-wrapped miniature model of the Eiffel Tower in silver. It certainly was not what he would have chosen for Phoebe, but he could be certain that she would treasure it because he had given it to her. The door was opened by the older maid.

‘I've come to see Señorita Owen,' he said.

‘She's not here.'

The evening was becoming late so she'd soon be back. ‘I'll wait.' He stepped inside.

‘I'll tell the señor.'

As he waited, he pictured Phoebe's return. First, the rising sound of the approaching car, the slam of a door, the crunch of her feet on the gravel surface. Then, surprised, she'd come face to face with him …

Clough entered the hall. ‘I understand you want to see Phoebe?' His manner was cold.

‘That's right, señor. The maid said she wasn't here, but I imagine she'll be back before long.'

‘She's in England.'

His disappointment was immediate and bitter. ‘When did she leave?'

‘At the weekend.'

‘Where's she gone?'

‘As I've just said, England.'

‘Yes, of course, but I meant where in England? Perhaps you'd be kind enough to give me her telephone number?'

‘When she left, she had no idea where she'd be staying.'

‘Then how can I get in touch with her?'

‘I've no idea.'

Bewildered, Alvarez said: ‘Did she leave a message for me?'

‘No.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Of course.'

Vera looked out from one of the rooms. ‘Larry, she did leave the inspector a note.'

He swung round.

‘She asked me to give it to him when he returned from Paris.'

‘I told her…' He stopped abruptly.

‘I'll get it for you, Inspector,' she said. She disappeared into the room. Clough, his expression furious, followed her.

Alvarez heard a murmur of voices too low for him to understand what was being said, but the tone in which the words were spoken made it clear they were arguing bitterly. After a while, Vera, her face flushed, returned alone to the hall. She held out an envelope.

‘I hope…' She shook her head, did not finish.

He thanked her, said goodbye, left. He drove down the dirt track until the headlights picked out the tarmac road, came to a stop. He switched on the interior light, opened the envelope, pulled out the single sheet of paper, read.

‘I'm desperately sorry it's got to end like this because I know you'll be hurt and you've told me how much life has hurt you in the past. Try to remember all the fun times we've had, not the way it's ended. P.'

No address. No suggestion of a future. All too clearly, a final goodbye. She'd been so right. He felt as if the hurt were fatal …

He drove on to the road and headed for home. Seven minutes later, he braked the car to a halt as confusing thoughts suddenly began to race through his mind. Her note was affectionate. There could be no doubting that. If she had affection for him, why hadn't she waited for his return so that she could explain things in person? If circumstances had suddenly arisen which made this impossible, why hadn't she explained in the note what these were? It was as if she'd written it in a tearing hurry. Could this have been because there was someone who had ordered her to leave silently and quickly and she'd had so little chance to defy the order?… Clough's manner back at the house had made it obvious that he'd not known about the note; the muffled, angry argument between him and his wife suggested he'd been trying very hard to prevent her handing it over – she, intensely determined when she needed to be, had insisted …

A false character could be assumed with considerable success, but the true, inner character was very difficult to hide. What had he learned about the true characters of the two sisters? Fenella – selfish, resentful, bitterly jealous; Vera – warm-hearted, loyal, generous. The maid in the villa at Pellapuig had found a twenty-thousand-peseta tip in Vera's room. Would anyone set out a tip until just before leaving? It was perhaps conceivable that someone with a very faulty memory might do so in order not to forget, but there was no evidence that Vera had a poor memory … In Paris, Fenella had given the chambermaid what had obviously been a considerable gift because she'd been touched by learning about her father's illness …

He now knew he'd been right … until he'd been wrong.

Clough – ever more bitter and frustrated because his wife had made it obvious, when she'd briefly reneged on her agreement to stand surety for him, that if she ever had proof he was being unfaithful to her, she would cut him out of her life of luxury – had decided to murder her and so gain her fortune. The plan had been straightforward. Vera was to be thrown to her death, Fenella would take her place. But Clough had not known about, and therefore could not warn Fenella against, the possible side effects of the modified chloral hydrate. When it had seemed Vera was unconscious, Fenella had started to drag her towards the edge of the patio. At which point, Vera had gone berserk and, by chance, not intention, forced Fenella over the edge to her death before collapsing into unconsciousness. Lewis had collected the body, never realizing it was the wrong one …

When Vera had recovered consciousness sufficiently to realize what had happened, she'd panicked and in desperation telephoned her husband for help. Shocked to hear she was still alive, initially he must have been terrified she was going to accuse him of trying to murder her, but then he'd realized that she suspected nothing and was consumed by fear and guilt; ironically, the failure of his plan could lead to the fulfilment of his ambitions. Fenella had played to perfection the part of a sister welcoming reconciliation, so he could remain the ever-loving husband determined to save his wife. He'd told Vera that she'd obviously suffered some kind of brainstorm and therefore was without the guilt of intention, but in a foreign country it could be almost impossible to persuade the law of her innocence. However, since Fenella's body had fallen into the sea, it was very unlikely ever to be found; even if it were, identification would not be made because no one would know Fenella was missing (thanks, as he naturally did not explain, to the arrangements made for Vera's murder) …

Terrified, tortured by conscience and remorse, needing his constant reassurance that she had no reason to blame herself for her sister's death, convinced that she must do exactly as he said because he was trying to save her, Vera had been putty in his hands. She had allowed herself to question nothing; whatever he said was the truth. It was just possible that in a masochistic way she had been grateful for the chance to stifle her common sense … And when told to travel to Paris to further the lie, she had seen this as nothing other than self-preservation …

As the investigation had dragged on, Clough had begun nervously to wonder if it were just possible that the bumbling Mallorquin detective might stumble on something incriminating. (Would he have been so worried if he had learned how long it had taken to appreciate the significance of the lack of any forensic traces on the bottles and glasses from the
Aventura?
) So he'd paid Phoebe to come to the island to bolster his evidence in a subtle way, guaranteed not to arouse suspicion, and he'd forced Vera to impersonate Fenella in Paris so that no matter what happened, Fenella's death in June would not be suspected. These would have been master strokes had not Fenella's body been discovered by scuba divers. Even then he, Alvarez, had believed that the woman who had stayed in the Paris hotel had been Fenella – until Clough had made the mistake of ordering Phoebe to leave (worried that perhaps she was becoming too emotionally sympathetic?) so abruptly that she had written a note to try to belie the curt insensitivity of her silent departure. Finally, had Vera's nature not been so sentimental that she had refused her husband's demands to tear up the note …

Alvarez engaged first gear and drove off. He had cause for pride. Because he had finally uncovered the truth, he could free Vera from the mental torture to which she had been subjected. He could also ensure that Clough did not have the chance once again to plan her murder, thereby finally getting his hands on her fortune. But all this at what pain to himself?

*   *   *

He entered the house and carried on through to the dining-room where he brought a bottle of brandy and a glass out of the sideboard. He poured himself a drink, went through to the kitchen for ice. When he returned, Dolores, wearing a dressing-gown over a lace-edged nightdress, stood in the far doorway. ‘Do you have to swill down still more drink?' she demanded angrily.

‘Yes,' he replied simply.

Her expression changed to one of concern. ‘I thought when you left here…' She stopped.

‘So did I.'

She sat on the nearest chair. ‘It was so wonderful to see you smile and hear you whistle and sing … I need a drink.'

He went back into the kitchen for water, brought a glass out of the sideboard, poured into it a generous brandy, added water and ice, passed it to her. He drained his glass, refilled it. Slowly, a little of the pain lifted. By writing him that note in sharp defiance of Clough's orders, Phoebe was telling him that while initially her affection had been bought, soon it had become a willing gift …

There was a shout from the stairs. ‘Where are you? What's going on?'

Jaime appeared in the doorway, tousle-haired and wearing only pyjama trousers. ‘Well, bury me tomorrow if you're not both boozing! Happy days!' He hurried forward to the sideboard.

About the Author

Roderic Jeffries
was born in London in 1926 and was educated at Southampton's School of Navigation. In 1943 he went to sea with the New Zealand Shipping Company and returned to England in 1949 where he was subsequently called to the Bar. He practiced law for a brief period before starting to write full time. His books have been published in many different countries and have been adapted for film, television, and radio. He and his wife live in Mallorca, and have two children. You can sign up for email update
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