Death in Cyprus Read online

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ demanded Amanda, startled.

  Steve turned about and grinned up at her. ‘I have eyes in the back of my head. Or perhaps I’m like that chap in Maud whose “heart would hear her and beat, were it never so airy a tread”.’

  Amanda flushed and turned away. Mr Howard spoke one quick sentence in Greek and instantly Amanda found her way barred by half a dozen laughing children, while three more laid hold of her arms and the belt of her grey linen frock. Amanda’s sense of humour got the better of her and she laughed.

  ‘Is this a hold-up?’

  ‘It is. Now come off your high horse, Amarantha, and sit down and relax. I want to talk to you. You can sit on this____’

  He ripped off a sheet of cartridge paper from the drawing block and laid it on the edge of the harbour wall. Amanda, surrendering to curiosity and force majeur, sat down beside him, and looking downwards at the clear harbour water beneath her dangling feet, saw her own reflection and that of the group of children behind her.

  ‘So much for the eyes in the back of your head. You saw my reflection.’

  ‘I did,’ admitted Steve.

  Amanda turned to look at him and her gaze fell on the drawing block in his hands. The page was covered, surprisingly enough, with quick, vivid sketches of elephants, tigers, a sailor in bell-bottomed trousers, a witch on a broomstick, a horrific dragon, a sea serpent and a pirate brandishing a cutlass.

  Mr Howard had the grace to look abashed. ‘Not what you would call a hard morning’s work,’ he remarked, ‘but popular with my public.’

  Amanda said in a voice of blank amazement: ‘So you can draw!’

  ‘Why this unflattering incredulity? Or do I look like a painter of Spiritual Aromas, like my brother-of-the-brush, that dashing home-breaker, Mr Potter?’

  Amanda flushed and bit her lip. ‘I thought____’ she began, and stopped.

  ‘You thought it was merely an act,’ concluded Steve. ‘But no one should put on an act unless they can also put it across.’

  He turned over to a fresh page and idly sketched in the outline of a girl’s face and figure that turned suddenly into Amanda as she had looked in the cabin of the Orantares. Amanda in a nightdress with her long hair falling below her waist and her eyes wide and frightened.

  There was a murmur of admiring recognition from the audience of children, and Amanda reached out, and snatching the pencil from his hand, said abruptly: ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

  Steve turned his head and spoke briefly to his youthful audience, and received what appeared to be a chorus of assent.

  Amanda said: ‘What did you say to them? And how is it that you speak this language so well?’

  ‘There is no end to my accomplishments,’ said Mr Howard airily. ‘And if you really want to know, I told them that I wished to declare my love to this so beautiful lady, and should any of the English approach I relied on them to give me due warning. The gang are with me to a man, so we can now relax and talk without fear of being overheard.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Amanda in a small voice.

  Steve laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I only make love by moonlight. At the moment I merely propose to discuss crime.’

  He retrieved the pencil and turning over another page began to sketch the houses on the far side of the harbour, but he was no longer smiling and his voice when he spoke again was terse and low pitched.

  ‘The results of the post-mortem show that Mrs Blaine took poison. And I was right about that glass in your cabin. There are only two sets of finger-prints on it: yours and Mrs Blaine’s. The bottle has only one set—yours. Which means that it was polished very carefully before it was put there, and probably handled with gloves. And the tablets in it were the same stuff that was in the glass: pilocarpine nitrate.’

  ‘But–but you can’t be sure that there was anything more than just lemon juice and water in that glass,’ said Amanda, forcing the words past an uncomfortable constriction in her throat. ‘I filled it again with water from the tap—to throw over her.’

  ‘I know. But the remains of the original stuff had spilt and soaked into the carpet. I mopped it up with a handkerchief. There wasn’t much of it, but with that bit of peel it was enough. The analysis shows that it contained a solution of pilocarpine nitrate which was probably sufficient to kill a dozen people. A single mouthful would have been enough to kill Mrs Blaine, though it would have taken a good bit longer.’

  Amanda said: ‘But the bottle! No, it can’t be true, because don’t you see, if Julia hadn’t changed cabins with me, there wouldn’t have been any finger-prints on the bottle and someone would have noticed it.’

  ‘I wonder. How did you find it?’

  ‘I felt it when I lay down. It made a hard lump.’

  ‘So that you found it almost as soon as your head touched the pillow. The chances are that Mrs Blaine would have done the same, and would have touched it, as you did, and probably thought that some previous occupant of the cabin had left it behind by mistake. It only meant something to you because you had seen Mrs Blaine die of poison. Even if she had not found it, it is an even bet that several people would have handled it before it occurred to anyone to see if it had her finger-prints on it. Now let’s have your story again. Right from the beginning this time. Anything that you knew or noticed about these people when you were in Fayid, and why they—and you—are in Cyprus, and as much as you can remember of what they did and said in Fayid and on the way to Port Said and on the boat. In fact the whole works.’

  Amanda turned her head and looked at him, but his entire attention appeared to be concentrated on the drawing that was taking shape under the leisurely, unerring strokes of the conté pencil.

  She said uncertainly: ‘Then you are____’

  Steve Howard threw a brief glance in the direction of the café on the quay where Persis Halliday, the Normans, Major Blaine and Toby Gates were seated about a small table in the shade, and said curtly: ‘Quickly, Amanda!’

  There was not much to tell, and what there was seemed to date back to the evening at the Club in Fayid when her aunt had introduced her to Steven Howard. And yet Amanda had a queer feeling that it went farther back than that, and that Steve himself had been in Fayid for some specific purpose that was entirely unconnected with art, and that his presence at the Officers’ Club that night had not been accidental.

  She told him what she knew, thinking as she did so that it all sounded very trivial and unimportant. But he questioned her exhaustively on a number of points, and seemed interested to hear that Toby had met Persis in the States while visiting a married sister whose husband was attached to the Embassy Staff in Washington. She re-told yet again how she had come to occupy the cabin that had been allotted to Julia, and everything that she could remember of that last hysterical scene.

  Steve said: ‘What time did she go down to her cabin? Was she still on deck when you left?’

  ‘No. She went quite early. About ten I think. Someone put on a gramophone record and people started dancing. Alastair danced with Mrs Norman, and I think Julia must have left about then. She started making rather a fuss about having a headache, and went off to her cabin.’

  ‘When did you go down to yours?’

  ‘Just about eleven. I remember the time, because I wound up my watch when I took it off to wash.’

  ‘And Mrs Blaine came into your cabin around five or ten minutes later. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Steve was silent for a moment or two, and then he said: ‘Did all of you know that she made a habit of drinking unsweetened lemon juice?’

  ‘Yes. She used to make rather a virtue of it. She took it to take down her weight. People always seem to advertise their dieting fads. She’d never touch a sweet drink, yet she’d eat ice creams and sticky puddings and chocolates by the ton.’

  Steve said: ‘Are you quite sure that you’ve told me everything you know?’

  ‘Quite. Oh there is one other thing, but it can�
��t possibly have anything to do with all this.’

  ‘Never mind; let’s have it.’

  ‘Persis says that she went on deck much later that night, because her cabin was hot, and that she saw Mrs Norman and Lumley Potter together on the boat deck.’

  Steve made no comment, but his pencil checked and he sat quite still, staring across the lovely harbour with eyes that did not appear to see the charm of the scene that lay before him.

  After a moment or two he shrugged his shoulders and returned to his work, and presently one of the children called out something in a shrill piping tone, and he looked round.

  ‘I rather think that a search party is about to be sent after you,’ he observed, ‘so let us talk of other things in a bright and audible manner. What are you doing in Kyrenia, for instance?’

  ‘You know quite well why I’m here,’ said Amanda accusingly. ‘You were dining at Mrs Norman’s house last night, and she seems to have broadcast the whole story.’

  ‘Oh yes—of course. You couldn’t stay unchaperoned with the manager of your uncle’s Cyprus venture, so this man Barton has parked you instead chez Moon. His loss is our gain. Did you have an entertaining journey from Limassol?’

  Amanda embarked on an account of her drive, her stop at Nicosia and her arrival at Miss Moon’s, and was still talking when a shadow fell across them and Claire Norman’s soft fluting voice said: ‘Why, Steve! I’d no idea it was you who were monopolizing Amanda. We wondered what was keeping her. Have you been here all morning? You’re supposed to be meeting us at the hotel at one o’clock, you know, and it’s five past now.’

  Steve closed his sketch book, pocketed the pencil and stood up:

  ‘Hullo, Mrs Norman. ’Morning, Gates. Yes, I have been pursuing my vocation in an industrious manner. Miss Derington has been offering advice.’

  He leant down and pulled Amanda to her feet.

  ‘Do let me see,’ begged Claire Norman. ‘If you only knew how I envy people who are really creative! Do show us what you have been doing.’

  Steve held up the sketch book to display the drawing of the harbour and Toby Gates said involuntarily: ‘Why that’s damned good! I suppose you make a packet out of this sort of thing?’

  ‘Alas, no,’ sighed Mr Howard regretfully. ‘I shall never make a fortune from my art. It contains a fatal flaw: anyone can instantly recognize what it is intended to represent. One can only make a packet nowadays if one’s creative efforts are of the type that the purchasing committee can hang upside down without anyone—including the artist—spotting the error.’

  A sudden and unexpected breath of wind ruffled the quiet water of the harbour and lifted the sheet of paper, disclosing the page that lay beneath it. It was only for a brief moment, but quite long enough for both Claire Norman and Toby Gates to see and recognize that quick, brilliant sketch of a girl with unbound hair.

  Toby Gates said in a thunderstruck voice: ‘But that’s Amanda! How on earth____’ He stopped, red-faced and scowling, and Claire Norman laughed her light, tinkling laugh and said: ‘Why, Steve! How secretive you are! I had no idea that you and Amanda knew each other so well.’

  Steve closed the sketch book and tucked it under his arm. He smiled down at Claire with lazy pleasantness, but Amanda was suddenly and vividly aware, without knowing why she should know it, that he was angry.

  ‘I am afraid,’ said Steve gently, ‘that that was merely an example of what is known as artist’s licence. I do not know Miss Derington well. But that, fortunately, is an error that can be remedied. And now what about some food?’

  Claire Norman’s glance went swiftly from Mr Howard’s smiling face to Amanda’s entirely blank one and Captain Gates’ scowling countenance, and she laughed again: a laugh that this time was not quite so sweet and tinkling:

  ‘Yes, let’s!’ she said. ‘I’m famished.’

  She slipped one small hand through Steve Howard’s arm and laid the other on Toby’s sleeve, and they walked away towards the Dome Hotel, four abreast in the bright glittering sunlight, their shadows foreshortened on the hot stones at their feet.

  8

  The dining-room of the Dome Hotel was long, spacious and cool, and a little breeze blew in from the line of windows that opened on to the burning blue of sea and sky.

  Amanda looked about her with interest and decided that most of the guests were tourists, with a sprinkling of permanent residents. The Normans and Alastair Blaine were seated at a small table just beyond the one occupied by Persis, Steve Howard, Toby and herself: Claire Norman having suddenly decided that owing to Alastair’s recent and dramatic bereavement, it might cause comment if he were to appear as one of a large and cheerful luncheon party at the hotel.

  Amanda wondered why, in the circumstances, Claire could not have managed to give him a meal in the privacy of her own home? But Claire was a law unto herself, and Alastair, silent and stunned, was in the mood to do anything he was told without question.

  Amanda’s gaze, wandering farther, stopped at a strapless and backless white sunsuit printed with several huge scarlet roses and apparently remaining in position upon its wearer by faith alone. She was puzzling over the mechanics of this arresting garment when she became suddenly aware of the identity of the owner. The lady in the sunsuit was none other than Mr Glennister Barton’s errant wife, while her companion, temporarily hidden from Amanda’s view by an attentive waiter, was presumably her partner in guilt, the improbable Mr Potter.

  Amanda was both interested and surprised. Somehow she had not expected Anita Barton to flaunt her liaison in such a public spot as the dining-room of the Dome Hotel. The attentive waiter removed himself, giving Amanda an uninterrupted view, and she studied the couple with considerable interest.

  Lumley Potter, she decided, was not enjoying himself. He was looking morose, sulky and more than a little apprehensive, and kept darting anxious glances in the direction of the Normans’ table. Anita Barton, however, appeared to be entirely at ease. She was laughing and talking—perhaps a shade too loudly.

  Mrs Barton was a dark-haired woman of about twenty-five, with an excellent figure and striking good looks that owed much of their impact to a lavish and theatrical use of make-up. Altogether an unexpected wife, thought Amanda, for someone as quiet and fine-drawn as Glenn Barton.

  As though she had felt Amanda’s interested gaze, Anita Barton turned full face towards her. Her dark, over-bright eyes looked Amanda over with cool and deliberate insolence and her wide scarlet mouth curved in a mocking smile. She made some remark to her companion and shrugged one bare, sunburnt shoulder. And then all at once her eyes became fixed and hard and her red mouth tightened into a thin line. But she was no longer looking at Amanda. She was looking at someone immediately behind her, and, involuntarily, Amanda turned.

  Glenn Barton was standing in the doorway, searching the room with anxious eyes. He did not see his wife, but he saw Amanda and came quickly towards her, threading his way between the tables.

  ‘Glenn!’ Claire Norman’s voice arrested him as he was about to pass their table, and he paused beside her. She looked up at him with large, luminous eyes and said reproachfully: ‘Glenn, you’ve been overworking again. You look as if you’ve had no sleep for weeks. You don’t know Major Blaine, do you? I think you were over in the Lebanon on business when they were here last year, weren’t you?’

  ‘No, we haven’t met. But of course I heard about you from____’ Glenn checked suddenly and Claire said: ‘Stay and have something to eat. We’ve only just started.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve a lot to do.’

  ‘Then what about tea? Drop in at the house on your way back.’

  ‘I will if I can,’ said Mr Barton hesitantly.

  ‘We shall expect you,’ said Claire, smiling up at him.

  He nodded absently and made his way across to Amanda. Claire’s smile faded and her wide childlike eyes were suddenly narrowed and speculative.

  Amanda turned in her chair: ‘Hullo, Mr Barto
n. Were you looking for me? Persis, this is Mr Barton. He very kindly collected me at Limassol.’

  ‘Yes. We met,’ said Persis, producing her most dazzling smile. ‘But I’m just delighted to meet you again, Mr Barton. Any friend of Amanda’s is a friend of ours. Say, why not get a chair and join us?’

  Mr Barton blinked and his drawn face relaxed in a smile:

  ‘I–I’d like to very much. But I’m afraid I can’t just now.’

  ‘Some other time then,’ said Persis warmly.

  As one angle of the local triangular scandal, Glenn Barton represented copy; and Persis, whose interest had been aroused by the story, had been determined to make his closer acquaintance; though it is doubtful if her interest would have been so great had he proved to be a less personable man.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Glenn Barton. He turned rather abruptly to Amanda and said: ‘I really came to ask you if you’d be in this afternoon. At the Villa Oleander I mean. Could you spare me half an hour of your time if I came in about three? I____’ he hesitated a moment and glanced at her three openly listening companions. ‘I have had a letter from your uncle. He has some messages that he wishes me to give you.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Amanda. ‘I’ll expect you about three o’clock.’

  ‘I’ll try not to keep you waiting.’

  Persis said: ‘Say, Mr Barton, I hear you run a wine business. Vineyards and vats and pretty girls treading out the grapes and all the rest of it.’

  ‘He does,’ said Amanda. ‘Miss Moon gave me some of his wine yesterday. It was delicious.’

  Glenn Barton laughed. ‘I’m glad you liked it. You were lucky not to get barley water. I thought that was the only thing that she drank.’

  ‘It is. But thank goodness, she doesn’t expect her guests to drink the stuff. It always tastes to me like water in which someone has stewed up half a lemon and three yards of flannel.’

  Persis said: ‘To get back to your vineyards, Mr Barton. I’m just crazy to see the whole works. Would you take pity on a poor foreigner and show me round one day?’