A Different Kind of Evil

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  To my parents

  1

  As I felt the ship tilt and roll, I looked out the porthole to see a hidden horizon, the skyline obscured by the dirty smudge of a black storm cloud. I sat up and took a sip of water, trying to swallow down the feelings of nausea as well as wash away unpleasant memories of bad times at sea.

  Perhaps a little fresh air would do me good, I thought as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I checked myself in the looking glass, tidied my hair, quickly threw on some clothes, and as I knew it would be cold outside on deck, picked up the paisley shawl that my friend Flora Kurs had given me and draped it across my shoulders.

  I listened at the connecting door that led through to the cabin where Rosalind and Carlo were sleeping. All was quiet and I decided not to disturb them. I knew from previous experience that if we were in for a rough crossing, it would be best if my daughter and my secretary were able to sleep through it.

  I made my way down the corridor, placing a hand on the wall to steady myself. Oh, please let this not be another Madeira. On that journey, the outward leg of the Empire Tour, the trip around the world that I had taken with Archie, I had suffered such terrible seasickness that at one point I thought I would die. In fact, a fellow passenger, a lady who had caught a brief glimpse of me through the open door, had asked the stewardess whether I had actually passed away.

  Although that made me smile now, at the time I had not found the observation amusing. I had had to be confined to the cabin for four days and, like a sick dog, had brought back up anything I had swallowed. I had tried everything, but nothing did any good. In the end, the doctor had given me what he said was liquid chloroform, and after twenty-four hours without food, Archie fed me with essence of beef directly from the jar. How fine that had tasted! I knew my husband hated illness of any kind, and the sight of him offering me a spoon of the dark, viscous substance had made me love him all the more.

  That love had gone for good now, at least on his part. The crisis at the end of the last year had finally squeezed the life out of our marriage. Archie had gone back to live at Styles, with a view to selling the house, while the new woman in his life, Nancy Neele, had left the country. Her parents had not wanted her to be caught up in the scandal I had caused with my disappearance and had ordered her into temporary exile. I had heard, however, that upon her return from her travels, she and Archie planned to marry. The word divorce sounded so brutal, so ugly, and although I did not like the idea of it—with all the stigma and shame that accompanied it—I knew that it was something I would have to endure.

  It is as inevitable as the force of the sea, I thought as I stepped onto the deck. The wind was beginning to whip up the water, sending its surface into a fury of white. A fine spray of sea mist left its moist trail on my face, and as I ran my tongue over my lips, I tasted salt. After leaving Southampton, we had sailed through the English Channel, headed for Portugal. Although I had been prepared for a spot of mal de mer as we sailed into the Bay of Biscay, the sea had actually been as calm as a duck pond. It was only after leaving Lisbon and traveling south that we encountered the bad weather.

  I held on to the rail as I walked along the deck, straining my eyes towards the distance. Somewhere out there was my destination: Tenerife, one of the Canary Islands. John Davison, a man I had met at the end of last year, had finally persuaded me to help him investigate the murder of one of his agents, a youngish chap called Douglas Greene. I had tried to resist his pleas to work with the Secret Intelligence Service—in fact, I remember to begin with I thought the whole thing had been nothing more than a silly joke—but after the deaths of Flora Kurs and Davison’s friend Una Crowe I felt duty bound to help. Neither woman would have died had it not been for me. How could I say no?

  And there was something very queer about the circumstances surrounding the murder of Greene: Davison had told me that the agent’s partly mummified body had been found in a cave on the island. At first sight, it appeared as though Greene’s corpse had been covered in blood, but on further examination, it was determined that the glossy red sheen that covered his flesh was in fact the sap from a dragon tree, native to Tenerife. Bizarrely, all of his own blood had been drained from his system, but there was no trace of it on the dry earth in the cave or nearby.

  When Davison related this to me, I could hardly believe it. But I knew, perhaps better than most people, that evil really did exist in this world. The way some people talked about crime astonished me—as if a sadistic murder or violent sexual attack could be blamed on a dreadfully unhappy childhood or a certain background. No, I was certain that some people were born, not made, evil. Those that disagreed with me, I am afraid, were nothing more than blinkered idealists who could not face up to the brutal realities of human nature. I had stared wickedness in the face, in the form of Dr. Kurs, and I would never forget it; one could literally smell the stench of evil emanating from him. His scheme to manipulate me into committing a murder, which necessitated that I disappear from the view of family, friends, and the world, had driven me to a point of utter distraction and despair. I doubted I would ever be the same again. Certainly my dreams were still haunted by the horrors of those eleven days in December of the previous year. When I closed my eyes I saw the faces of Una Crowe, that poor young girl who had been determined to follow my trail, and Flora Kurs, the ill-fated wife of my tormentor who had sacrificed herself for me.

  I looked out to sea once more and watched the sky blacken in the distance. As a child living in Devon, I would spend hours watching the shifting waters of Torbay, the changing color of the sea and sky, the reflection of the clouds upon the waves. I would imagine what lay over the horizon, the far-flung countries with their exotic climates and strange people, and try to picture my future. I don’t think I ever dreamt that I would be a writer, much less get involved with working for a government agency. It all seemed so fantastical somehow, and yet it was true.

  Davison had told me—what was it?—that I had a first-rate brain, or some such nonsense. I surmised that it had more to do with the fact that the division he worked for was extremely short on women. And surely no one would ever suspect a slightly socially inept, middle-aged lady of anything? I could move about in an almost invisible state, asking questions, listening to confidences. I could simply serve as an extra pair of eyes and ears. Before embarking on the journey, Davison had stressed the importance of never placing myself in a dangerous situation. The murder of his friend Una still weighed heavily on him. He was taking no chances this time, and he had insisted on accompanying me on the journey to Tenerife. However, while on the SS Gelria—the ship that would take us from Southampton to Las Palmas before it continued on its journey—and also in Tenerife, Davison would travel under an assumed name: that of Alexander Blake. It would be simpler and more straightforward, he said, if we pretended to meet for the first time on the ship.

  I had intended to leave my daughter, Rosalind, behind, under the care of my sister at Abney Hall, on the outskirts of Manchester, but when I mentioned to her that I might have to go away again, she became terribly distressed. At seven and a half, she was old enough to understand something of the miseries of the adult world, and no doubt the thought of my absence brought back the horrors of the previous year: the sight of uniformed police; the strained atmosphere in the house; the worried looks on the servants’ faces; the anxiety that she might see the front page of a newspaper or hear a newsboy’s ghoulish call. Also, I don’t think she had ever quite forgiven me for abandoning her for almost a year on my world tour in 1922. And so I had reluctantly accepted that my daughter would have to accompany me to the Canaries. She would be looked after by Carlo and I would make sure she did not come to any harm. It had taken me some time to persuade the family, and those fussing doctors, that a holiday would be beneficial—they worried about the difficulties of travel, the water, the foreign food—but finally they relented. A few weeks in a balmy climate would soothe my nerves and restore my spirits.

  Just then a blast of icy wind forced me to hug the shawl tighter across my shoulders. The fresh air had done me good, but the cold was getting to be too much. Just as I went to return to my cabin, I heard what I first thought was the high-pitched cry of a gull. I stopped and gripped the rail. The sound split the air again, the unmistakable scream of a woman that seemed to be coming from the back of the ship. I ran from the front of the boat along the empty deck towards the stern. I looked around to enlist help, but there was no one to be seen. I heard my breathing—fast, shallow and full of panic—as I ran, but by the time I got to the stern, the screams seemed to have stopped. Instead, I saw a heavyset dark-haired woman standing on the very back of the ship, staring into the sea. A few feet away from her stood another woman, a thin blonde, who on seeing me took a tentative step towards her companion.

  “No, Gina, don’t,” said the blond-haired woman, stretching out a hand. “I know you hate me, you hate us both probably, but really, it’s not worth it, we’re not worth it.”

  In response
to this, the brunette climbed over the railings onto a narrow ledge, holding on to the wooden balustrade with both arms.

  “Please, no,” I shouted into the wind, unsure whether the woman could hear my words. “What’s your name?”

  I turned to her friend, the beautiful blonde whose face was wet with tears. “Gina, did you say? Is that what’s she’s called?”

  “Yes, it’s Gina all right,” she said. “She somehow stowed away on the boat. She’s been missing in England, no one knew she was here. She discovered, well, that her husband, Guy—”

  I didn’t hear the rest because at that moment a terrific gust of wind blasted in from the sea, forcing me to take a step back. Big fat drops of rain began to lash down from the ever-darkening sky.

  “Have you tried to get help?” I shouted. “Sorry, who are you?”

  “Miss Hart. No, I got up early to have a walk around the deck. I just chanced upon her and there was no one around. That’s when I started to scream. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Are you close to her?”

  “We were—once. But I’m sure she must hate me now. You see, Guy—that’s Mr. Trevelyan—and I, well—”

  I began to understand the sorry state of affairs. Guy had obviously been carrying on with Miss Hart behind his wife’s back. Just like Archie had deceived me with Miss Neele.

  I turned away from Miss Hart as I tried to mask my contempt.

  “Gina, listen to me,” I said, slowly moving towards her. “Tomorrow everything will seem very different, I can assure you. I found myself in just the same situation, and at one point I even thought of doing—well, something stupid. But it is extraordinary what time and a little perspective can do. Of course, you feel like everything is worthless, but it is not the case. You must have a great deal left to live for. I’m sure you have friends, family, a favorite aunt or grandmother, a pet who adores you.” I thought of the feel of my dear dog Peter’s soft head and the deliciously awful stench of his breath. “Your life is precious. You may not think so now, but it is, especially to those close to you.”

  Gina seemed to be on the point of turning around and looking at me and perhaps even climbing back over the railings. But then from behind me I heard Miss Hart scream once more. This time, the noise was low and guttural, primitive almost.

  “Gina! No! Please don’t!” she shouted, launching herself forwards. “Not now. Not after everything!”

  “Miss Hart, no!” I hissed. “Please stand back.”

  I tried to stop Gina, attempted to calm her, but it was all so quick. She raised her arms and stood very still for a moment, before she started to sway ever so slightly as if she had given her body over to the force of the wind. And then like an overweight ballerina, she moved as if she were about to fly, lifting her arms high above her head and then letting them drop to her side. Just as Miss Hart, in a panic, shunted forwards, a desperation in her eyes reminding me of the look of an animal in the slaughterhouse, Gina raised her arms in the air once more, and with a graceful movement she jumped off the ship. As I ran towards her, I knew there was little point, it was too late. But there was something inside of me—something which I was sure lives inside all people who count themselves decent and good—which propelled me to try and grab her. Instinctively, I thrust my hands out, but there was nothing to hold on to, only mist and rain and wind, the spray from an angry sea, and a darkening sky. I craned my neck to look over the railings, but there was no sign of Gina. She must have been dragged under in the wake of the ship.

  “We need to see if we can rescue her,” I shouted, but to no response. I turned to see Miss Hart standing there, the life sucked out of her. “Miss Hart, quick, go and get help. Find an officer.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right,” she said, gradually coming back to her senses. “Yes, it’s worth a shot.”

  As she turned and ran along the deck, I kept hoping to catch a glimpse of Gina in the water behind us. I called her name, even though I knew that the fierce roar of the wind and the sea would drown out my feeble voice. I was completely soaked through to my skin and my eyes were full of water, a mix of raindrops and tears. I imagined the poor girl in the water, gasping for air as her lungs filled up with salt water.

  A memory came back to me from years ago when I had been swimming in the ladies’ bathing cove in Torquay with my nephew Jack. I had set off with the little boy on my back—he was not yet old enough to swim for very long by himself—towards the raft that lay anchored in the bay. As I swam, I noticed that the sea had been possessed of a strange sort of swell, and with the weight of Jack on my shoulders, I started to take in quite a bit of water. I felt myself going under and told Jack to swim to the raft. As I drifted out of consciousness I didn’t have a life-flashing-before-one’s-eyes experience. Neither did I hear the strains of stringed instruments or soothing classical music. There was simply a feeling of terrible emptiness, of utter blackness. The next thing I knew I was being tossed into a boat—which also rescued little Jack—and on the shore, a man laid me out on the beach and started to work the water out of me.

  Gina would not be so lucky, I was sure. But we had to try. Where was that woman? Why hadn’t she managed to find help? Just then I saw Miss Hart come running with a man dressed in a smart blue uniform, who introduced himself as first officer William McMaster.

  “Please, over here,” I said. “A woman just fell off the ship. Can you stop it?”

  The officer leant over the stern and cast his expert eye over the surface of the water. As he turned to us, the grim expression on his face said it all.

  “Yes, we certainly will,” said McMaster. “I’ll go and tell the captain now, but I’m afraid there is little hope. She would have been dragged down deep into the ocean. Even an Olympic-class swimmer wouldn’t be able to survive, I’m afraid.”

  “I see,” I said, bristling at his pessimistic attitude. “But we must do everything we can to make sure.”

  “Of course. And if you could please go back inside. We’re expecting some rather rough weather in the next few hours, so we will be locking the doors that lead to the decks.”

  “And if the poor girl did not survive,” I said, “what are the chances of recovering her body? It seems only right we should give her a decent funeral.”

  Miss Hart let out a quiet cry and dropped her head forwards as she tried to stifle a sob.

  “We’ll do everything in our power to find her. But I am afraid that the weather and the sea are our enemies. We mustn’t delay any longer. Please follow me inside.”

  We trailed after McMaster like two mourners after a burial on a wet afternoon, our heads and spirits low.

  “Before I go and see the captain, could you give me your names?” said the officer, taking a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Mrs. Agatha . . . Christie,” I said, slightly hesitantly, fingering my wedding ring and wondering whether I would carry Archie’s name for the rest of my life.

  The officer raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he had read one of my books—or more likely he had seen something in the newspapers relating to the scandal surrounding my disappearance the year before. Would I ever be free of that? After noting my name, he looked towards the beautiful blonde standing next to me.

  “I’m Miss Helen Hart.”

  The name sounded familiar.

  “Thank you. I’m sure the captain will want to talk to you later. And I’ll let you know if we spot anything, anything at all.”

  “Thank you, Officer,” I said.

  “How awful,” I said. “What a dreadful thing to witness. You must be terribly shaken. Had your friend been standing there long?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Miss Hart, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. “I’m absolutely soaking, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, looking down to see the water puddling on the carpet beneath our feet. “Why don’t we change into fresh clothes and perhaps we can have a talk in the library. I doubt there will be anybody there at this time of day.”

  After we had agreed to meet in half an hour, I returned to my cabin. Carlo and Rosalind were still sleeping. I ran a basin full of hot water and proceeded to wash. I dried my hair with a towel and brushed it, but it still looked a fright; it would have to be covered up with a hat. Just as I was dressing, Rosalind ran in from the adjoining cabin, intent on telling me about a dream she had had.