Читать книгу Manchineel - John Ballem - Страница 7

The narrow band of cloud just above the horizon meant there would be no green flash that night. Doves came in to the pool on whistling wings for a final drink, then a black swift flew past at an incredible rate of knots. Skye didn’t bother to check his watch—it was always 6:10 when the first swift appeared. At 6:20 the sun dropped below the horizon with dramatic suddenness and the swift tropical night descended. A whistling frog, hidden in a croton bush by the garden shed, began its harsh bleeping. Skye leaned back in the chaise lounge and smiled to himself as another frog answered. The tiny tree frogs were very territorial; unlike other frogs, they never joined together in a chorus, just individual bleeps that ceased abruptly if one ventured too close. The insistent, piping call was the most familiar sound of soft tropical nights, and it expressed the quintessence of everything that was Caribbean. When he and Jocelyn heard them on the first night they spent in their newly purchased villa, they knew they had found its name.

It was time to get ready. Louella’s invitation had said “sevenish” but, with Princess Helen attending, that meant not later than 7:20. The Princess made a practice of arriving thirty minutes after the appointed time and protocol required that all the guests be present when she appeared. Worse still, protocol also demanded that no one leave until she did. The Princess was a confirmed nighthawk with an awesome capacity for alcohol, and many parties turned into endurance contests as exhausted and bleary-eyed guests tried to stay awake while the chainsmoking royal downed one gin after another, growing more voluble and animated with each drink. She was invariably sullen and morose the following day and wasn’t fit to look upon until she had her “elevenses”—a mid-morning gin and tonic.

The lights of the jeeps crawled over the dark hills like glowworms on parade as the party-goers headed for Casuarina Bay. Skye glanced up at the star-filled night and decided he could safely lower the jeep’s canvas top. The procession of identical white vehicles inched their way over the rocky outcrop that led down to the beach and parked side-by-side under the feathery branches of the casuarinas, whispering in the breeze. When Skye switched off the engine, he could hear the pounding roar of the surf. Alighting from his Land Rover, he suddenly felt naked. This was the first party he’d attended on Manchineel since Jocelyn’s death. As Skye paused to collect his thoughts before heading towards the throng, he looked down the path and smiled ruefully as he saw the familiar faded red flag that warned of dangerous swimming conditions. The red flag seemed never to come down, regardless of the size of the waves. Eventually visitors concluded that the Company simply couldn’t be bothered checking out the beach every day and the more daring ones made their own decisions as to whether or not it was safe to swim. Last year a teenager had been caught in the undertow and swept out to sea. His distraught parents threatened to sue, but the Company complacently pointed out that their son had ignored the warning flag and had gone swimming at his own risk.

As Skye made his way towards his hostess, an overpowering miasma of sweet and cloying perfume announced the presence of Nick, the island’s black entrepreneur, with his blonde of the year. He was wearing an embroidered white guyabera and a small fortune in gold chains. Nick was the proprietor of a bar that bore his name—Nick’s—and he would be catering the party. He catered all the parties on the island. Skye and Nick shook hands perfunctorily and with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. Skye found Louella standing by the bonfire, her plump softness enveloped in a flowing muumuu. She greeted Skye warmly. He was a favourite of hers ever since he had helped her overcome her fear of flying by explaining exactly how airplanes managed to stay in the air. She had listened intently as he described how when air is bent around the top of the wing it pulls the air above it down. The pulling down of the air causes the pressure above the wing to become lower which creates lift that keeps the plane in the air. She thought about it for a moment then nodded acceptance. The cure was complete on one unforgettable afternoon when he let her take the controls of the forgiving 180.

“You look wonderful, Louella,” said Skye, kissing her on both cheeks. They were warm and powdery. She did look immeasurably better than when he had last seen her, two years ago at Jocelyn’s memorial service. Louella’s colour was good, and her eyes, once dull and cloudy, were clear and shining. “You must have had the operation,” he said.

She nodded happily. “It’s like a miracle. Not to be chained to that machine and to be free to go where I want. I feel alive again.”

“Where did you have it done? Detroit?”

“Heavens, no. It would be another two years before I got to the top of the list for a kidney transplant. I had it done at a very posh private clinic in Florida. It’s almost like a spa.”

Louella turned away to greet another guest as a waiter appeared at Skye’s elbow and handed him a vodka tonic without being asked. Skye smiled his thanks. There was something comforting about a place where your every whim was known and catered to. Lord Fraser, resplendent in a kilt, mess jacket and sporran, came up to greet him, hand extended and a delighted smile on his rather craggy face. The Scottish nobleman was Skye’s closest friend on the island. Skye sometimes thought of him as a living oxymoron. Robert Lovat Fraser had inherited a title that had been conferred on his family by the English crown in the early 1800s and spoke in the tones of the classically educated Englishman, yet he was Scottish to the core. Skye would never forget the first time he was introduced to him. On hearing Skye’s name, Fraser had given a great shout of delight, uncharacteristically clapped him on the back and immediately launched into a long dissertation on the MacLeods of Skye. Skye knew the basic elements of the story from his father—also called Skye, as had been his grandfather. An ancestor had fought in a Highland regiment on the side of the British during the American Revolution and somehow, probably by deserting, had contrived to stay on in the new country when the war ended.

All this Skye knew, but Fraser was able to fill in the details, and describe the places that still resonated in Skye’s tribal memory. He spoke of Dunvegan, a castle on a rocky cliff overlooking the sea that was the seat of the clan chief on the Isle of Skye. One night, while taken grandly with wine, Lord Fraser tried unsuccessfully to convince Skye and Jocelyn to change the name of their villa to Dunvegan. Jocelyn’s face had been a study of horror and amused incredulity. Fraser’s own villa, one of the largest on the island, built on a rocky promontory on the windswept Atlantic side, was called Beaufort after a castle near the river Beauly. When at home in Scotland, the Frasers lived in another ancient castle called Airdwold, on a small island in the same Beauly River. Fraser often complained that the cost of its upkeep was slowly bankrupting him. “And we don’t have any Rembrandts or Gainsboroughs to sell off, either,” he had added, “Celtic chieftains weren’t much into culture back in those days. They were too busy feuding with each other.” But he was scandalized when Skye had once innocently asked him why, if that was the case, he didn’t simply shut the place down.

“Simon Fraser built Airdwold in 1746,” His Lordship had spluttered, “and Frasers have lived in it ever since. Besides, the villagers depend on the estate for their livelihoods and I can’t abandon them. Noblesse oblige, and all that.”

Soon after building Beaufort, Fraser had brought over a piper, a member of the famous MacCrimmon clan of hereditary pipers, to instruct the villa’s black butler in the art of playing the bagpipes so that His Lordship could awaken each day to the skirl of pipes. Fiona, Lord Fraser’s serenely patrician wife, came over to greet Skye. “It’s wonderful to have you back, Skye. We’ve missed you terribly. Especially Robert. Now you two can go back to having your learned discussions about everything under the sun.”

“I already have some topics in mind,” Skye grinned, pleasantly aware of how much he enjoyed the company of these two.

Over in the parking area, Nick cleared his throat noisily. A cavalcade of three jeeps was advancing slowly down the rocky trail. It was time for the “entrance.” Inspector Foxcroft was riding in the passenger seat of the first jeep while one of his men drove. There were two other Scotland Yard detectives in the third vehicle. Except for the royal standard flying from the left fender, or “wing” as the English called it, the second jeep was identical to all the others. Curious to see who the royal companion was this year, Skye stared at the man climbing out from behind the wheel. With a faint sense of shock, he realized that he recognized him. Although his involvement with the horse show world had waned considerably in recent years, Skye still subscribed to the International Journal of the Horse, and the exploits of Harry Downing-Harris had been featured in recent editions. Downing-Harris was the youngest member of a revitalized English equestrian team that had recently won a World Cup in Dublin. The lanky horseman was at least a foot taller and more than twenty years younger than Princess Helen, but that was the way she increasingly seemed to like them.

Princess Helen occasionally went horseback riding with Skye and had always been fond of him, and she made her way directly to him, ignoring her hostess. He inclined his head in a modest bow and murmured, “Your Royal Highness.” After one “Your Royal Highness,” it was permissible to address her as “Ma’am.” She hadn’t attended the memorial service but she had written a thoughtful letter of condolence. The chances were that it had been written by one of her ladies-in-waiting, but at least she had signed it. Now she held out her hand to be kissed, and Skye kissed the air just above it in the prescribed manner. “We were so sorry about Jocelyn. She was such a lovely person.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And thank you for your letter.”

Turning to Downing-Harris, she introduced Skye as a fellow horseman. The young Guards officer greeted this news with bored indifference. Skye had intended to congratulate Downing-Harris on his brilliant wins in the show ring, but the words died unspoken in his throat. Was it possible the guy was jealous? It seemed inconceivable that the dowdy, thick-waisted Princess could inspire such feelings, but being her acknowledged companion could have many advantages in the Byzantine social world they inhabited. As Downing-Harris turned to follow Princess Helen over to greet the Frasers, Skye was amused to see he had a badly receding chin.

Lady Fraser swept low in a practised curtsy and her husband bowed from the waist. Finally, Princess Helen deigned to greet her hostess. Louella Harper almost stumbled as she attempted a curtsy, then uttered a flustered “Oh, dear,” as another jeep pulled into the parking lot.

“Trust the Rastoks to make a gaffe like that,” muttered Lord Fraser. The Rastoks were a wealthy couple from La Jolla who rented Banyan every February and March. The jeep jerked to a halt and a slender figure sprang lithely over the tailgate.

In the flickering light of a torch, Skye saw with a sudden lurch of his heart that it was Erin Kelly, the ex-wife of the man who had killed Jocelyn. There was no mistaking the face that had been splashed on the front page of every newspaper in America since the day she married Patrick Sullivan Kelly, the handsome, dissolute scion of a powerful political family. The drunken brute who, his belly full of Scotch, had raced out of control down a ski trail and smashed into Jocelyn, leaving her unconscious and broken. Without stopping or even looking back over his shoulder, he sped on, hoping to lose himself in the anonymity of the crowded ski hill. He would have got away with it too, except for a young skier who chased after him and followed him into the ski lodge. The same young man who later changed his story and refused to identify Kelly so that the charge of criminal negligence, which would have netted him a substantial jail term if convicted, was dropped. The same ambitious young man who subsequently found the means to enroll at a very expensive and prestigious university.

“Why didn’t somebody warn me?” Skye demanded.

“Because nobody knew she was on the island,” answered Lord Fraser, who, while no reader of the tabloids, had also recognized her immediately. “She must have just arrived today.”

“I’m out of here!” Skye hissed.

“You can’t do that. You have to deal with it now. You’re bound to meet her sooner or later. Let’s take a stroll on the beach while you come to terms with it.” Fraser laid a fatherly hand on Skye’s arm as they walked along a sandy path, bordered by sea grapes, to the beach. “She wasn’t the one who killed Jocelyn, you know. She wasn’t there. In fact, she probably hates that drunken boor as much as you do.”

Skye realized that his older friend was probably right. Erin had no reason to love the Kellys. Skye, who had made it his business to look into the Kelly dynasty, knew how poisonous the relationship between the Kellys and their erstwhile daughter-in-law really was. Because of all the publicity, the whole western world knew it too. At first, the union between the beautiful blond socialite and the man who one day might be president had captured the imagination of the American public. In a way, the golden young couple became a substitute for the royalty the country never had, but subconsciously craved.

The honeymoon, both with themselves and with the press, was soon over as Patrick Kelly continued his philandering ways and his young wife, shaken by his blatant infidelity and intimidated by his domineering family, took refuge in the bottle and fell into alcoholism. While the honeymoon with the press might have ended, the troubled couple still made wonderful copy, and the media reported with glee that Erin had been charged with driving while intoxicated and that she had twice checked herself into a detoxification centre. Glossy magazines delighted in running photos of Patrick, his good looks fast deteriorating with his dissipated lifestyle, living it up in nightclubs with one interchangeable blonde after another. Erin bore his philandering with stoic silence until Truth ran a colour photograph of her naked husband making love to an equally naked woman on the deck of an anchored yacht in the Mediterranean. The day after the photo appeared, she filed for divorce. Some said it wasn’t his adultery that bothered her, it was when she saw the photo and realized just how gross and bloated he had become.

The divorce quickly turned into one of those messy domestic sagas that hit the front pages and stay there. The marriage had produced a son, also named Patrick Sullivan Kelly, who was three years old at the time of the divorce and was already being groomed by the family as the heir who would continue the dynasty. The Kellys were determined to keep control of the child so that he could be brought up with a proper sense of his destiny. They also sincerely believed that Erin, whom they held in contempt for her drinking and her failure to stand up for herself, would be the worst possible influence on the boy. They were determined not only to maintain custody of young Patrick but, if they weren’t able to eliminate Erin’s visitation rights entirely, to restrict them to the barest possible minimum. The way to do that was to prove that Erin was an unfit mother, due to her alcoholism and depression. Her lawyers countered by attacking her husband’s character. Thanks to his lurid lifestyle they didn’t lack for ammunition. They also attacked the Kelly family itself, claiming that its oppressive, domineering atmosphere would smother the child’s individuality.

When it was over, Patrick was to live with his father and Erin was to have visiting rights that would increase if she stayed sober. To the dismay of the family, she announced that she intended to give up alcohol, and then when enough time had passed, she would reapply for custody under the “changed status” rule. All that would have been nearly three years ago.

As Skye and Lord Fraser rejoined the other guests, it was apparent that a rapport had sprung up between Princess Helen and Erin Kelly. They probably felt a sense of kinship because of the way the world press treated them. Someone must have told Erin about Skye because her expression became guarded as she saw him approaching.

“I guess we both know something about each other,” she said. In person, she was much different from what Skye had expected. From her photographs he expected her to be tall, statuesque and rather withdrawn. She was fairly tall all right, but she was slender rather than statuesque, and the expression on her attractive face had been open and friendly when she was conversing with the Princess.

“I’m afraid so.” Skye hadn’t intended to be so curt, but the words just popped out as the bitter memories came flooding back.

Erin, who had been about to extend her hand, dropped it as if she had been burned. The green eyes frosted over, and she smiled gratefully as Lord Fraser intervened and introduced himself. Then she turned away to continue her conversation with the Princess.

“I know what you’re thinking, Robert. But when I think of...”

“I understand, old boy.” Fraser accepted a glass of whisky with a splash of water and no ice from a white-jacketed waiter. It was Glenlivet but Fraser bridled when anyone used the term “Scotch” instead of just “whisky.” Whisky distilled in the highlands of Scotland was the only true whisky, and to describe it as “Scotch” was to confer an unwarranted recognition on the lesser liquors.

The four security officers were standing off by themselves at the edge of the lighted area. Still unsettled by his encounter with Erin, Skye went over to shake hands with Foxcroft. The detectives from Scotland Yard didn’t mingle with the guests on the island, but Alan Foxcroft was a competent horseman and he was the one who accompanied the Princess when she went riding with Skye. In that way the two men had come to know and like each other. Once Skye had caught the inspector gazing at the Princess with a quizzical expression, as if pondering the workings of an inscrutable fate that had led to his playing nursemaid to this spoiled and willful creature. But Foxcroft’s normal demeanour was one of cool professionalism. He introduced his fellow officers; Skye recognized one of them, whose name was Goodwin, as having been there in the past, but the other two were new. After exchanging a few cordial words with the inspector, Skye rejoined the party, now in full swing.

Down on the beach someone pointed out to the dark sea. The lights of three small boats were drawing steadily closer. Skye smiled in anticipation. The purring sound of throttled-back outboard motors drifted in with the onshore breeze, then a steel band burst into a highly stylized version of a Chopin polonaise, the music rolling in from the sea and crashing against the shore in a solid wall of sound. The steel band from neighbouring Union Island was making its entrance in its usual inimitable style. Next to the call of the whistling frog, the lively music of a steel band spelled Caribbean for Skye. At home in Bridgeport, Connecticut, he had every steel band CD the record store could locate, and on raw winter nights he and Jocelyn used to light a fire and play them one after another, letting their imaginations drift languorously down to their favourite islands. Joining the crowd streaming onto the beach, Skye could almost feel Jocelyn walking beside him, lips parted in excitement as the spine-tingling music grew louder and louder, until it seemed to fill the sky. But no one stood beside him as the members of the band, still playing their drums, leapt nimbly out of the pirogues.

The barbecue was buffet style, with the guests helping themselves and then sitting down at long trestle tables. There was no seating arrangement, but Detective Goodwin had come over to inform Skye that Princess Helen would like him to sit at her table. Erin must have received a similar command for she brought her plate over to the same table. Princess Helen, who was not above using her position for her own mischievous entertainment, had seated Erin next to her at the head of the table, directly across from Skye. Erin glanced at Skye as he sat down, then studiously looked away. She was explaining to the Princess that she and Mary Rastok, nee Godfrey, had been classmates at Smith and had remained close friends. Skye liked Mary Rastok but had little use for her husband. It was Mary’s family that had the money, and Gordon Godfrey was her trophy husband. Handsome, a superb tennis player and scratch golfer, Gordon devoted his days to his two favourite sports. He would have liked to have expanded his interests to include the pursuit of attractive women, but his wife kept him on too tight a rein. Gordon had lusted after Jocelyn, but from a distance. Jocelyn had dismissed him as a lightweight. The Rastoks hadn’t been invited to join the Princess’s table, but had tagged along after Erin.

A string of low-wattage bulbs shed their light on the scene and Skye saw that Erin’s hair wasn’t pure blond; it was softened and warmed with strands that had a brownish tinge. It was straight and bobbed chin-length to frame her small and exquisite features. Her complexion glowed and her eyes flashed green in the light of the torches. Princess Helen swallowed the last of her gin and tonic, nodded at a waiter to fill her wine glass and raised it in a toast to Skye. “It’s good to have you back on the island, Skye.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” murmured Skye, genuinely touched by this unexpected gesture.

“Skye MacLeod,” the Princess went on in a musing tone. “Such a perfect name for someone who flies airplanes.”

“Strictly amateur,” said Skye with a deprecating smile.

“Damn sight better than some commercial pilots I know,” Lord Fraser, who was sitting beside Skye, muttered darkly. “Did you hear that we nearly bought the farm this afternoon?”

“The wind conditions were pretty tricky,” Skye replied soothingly. “I think Andy just wanted to make sure he had things under control before he committed himself to a landing.”

“You think so, do you? Well, I think the man was frightened out of his skin. The sweat was positively streaming off him by the time we finally managed to land.”

The subject of the shark attack was brought up, but quickly derailed when Lord Fraser announced, “As Chairman of the Manchineel Corporation, I hereby forbid further discussion of shark attacks. I have stockholders to think of.”

After Princess Helen added, “As one of those shareholders, I second that motion,” the subject of the shark attack was dropped.

“What’s the latest on the Prime Minister?” The Princess looked anxiously at Lord Fraser.

“Not good, I’m afraid,” he replied gravely. “And getting worse by the day.”

“Surely they’re not going to let the poor man die? He must be entitled to some kind of priority.”

“Apparently not. One gathers that to do so would be undemocratic and un-American. But that’s not the real problem. The real problem is finding a match for his heart. Sir George tells me that in the case of a heart transplant, it’s absolutely essential to have a perfect match. To make matters worse, the PM’s blood type is not all that common. It’s B-negative which, while not the rarest type, is still quite rare.” Lord Fraser looked across the trestle table at Skye. “Do you know what we’re talking about?”

“Only what I’ve read in the papers stateside. And that’s not very much. All I know is that the Prime Minister is hospitalized somewhere in the States waiting for a new heart.” Over the years, Skye had met Marcellus Thomas, the popular Prime Minister of St. Vincent and the Grenadines, including Manchineel, on a number of occasions. The pragmatic Thomas who easily won every election was well-disposed towards Manchineel because of the revenue it brought in, and followed a strictly hands-off policy.

“He’s in a New York hospital waiting to be flown to wherever and whenever a match shows up on the computer. If it ever does.” Lord Fraser rubbed the side of his long, aristocratic nose. “Sir George also tells me that the chances of success in a heart transplant are much greater if there is a blood relationship between the donor and the recipient.”

“That does tend to narrow the field a bit,” Skye remarked. “It’s one thing to donate a kidney to your sibling, but donating your heart is something else again.”

“Precisely,” said Lord Fraser with an amused smile.

“We can’t afford to lose him, Robert,” the Princess fretted. “He’s such a pleasant man. So co-operative. If he dies, that odious little man, Gilbert Humphreys, will likely succeed him. I’m afraid Mr. Humphreys doesn’t approve of our playful little ways. Humphreys is no friend of this island, Robert.”

“I’m only too well aware of that, ma’am. We must all pray that a match is found before it’s too late.”

The deep, hypnotic beat of voodoo drums interrupted the Princess’s sarcastic rejoinder to that pious platitude. The guests fell silent, looking at each other. Erin was the only one to glance in the direction of the sound. The others all knew it was coming from the native village, Sterling Hall, high up on the hill overlooking Maggins Bay. The Manchineel Company had recruited many of the labourers and household staff from the impoverished island of Caroun where the inhabitants were mostly descended from members of the Fon tribe imported as slaves from Benin in the late 1700s. With them, the slaves had brought their African religion and, over the years, elements of Christian rituals had been incorporated into their ceremonies. Many of the voodoo worshippers were also devout Christians, belting out fundamentalist hymns with great fervour, or attending mass, in the little white church on the hill that served both the Baptist and Roman Catholic congregations. This commendable ecumenancy was brought about not by brotherly and sisterly love between the two faiths, but rather because the Company would allow only one church to be built on the island. Despite the sinister aura that surrounds the practice of voodoo, the homeowners had learned that the worst to expect was to have some members of their staff carrying out their duties on the following day in an exhausted, half-dazed state.

Skye felt the skin on the back of his neck grow warm. He turned around on the bench to find Edwina staring at him. Tall and elegant, her extraordinarily long fingers, café au lait skin, and slender neck showed her Amharic ancestry. It had been Skye who had told her that she must be a descendant of that aristocratic Ethiopian tribe. Edwina Stewart was the nurse who, for all practical purposes, ran the Manchineel medical clinic. Skye looked away. Princess Helen had drained her glass, which was immediately filled by a hovering waiter. Other guests were also downing their drinks. While the residents of Manchineel had come to realize voodoo did not pose any danger to them, the incessant, atavistic beat of the drums did unsettling things to their nerves. Nick quickly rounded up the members of the steel band and the stirring strains of The White Cockade, which they had learned to please Lord Fraser, soon overrode the distant drums. But the voodoo drums could still be heard pulsing beneath the surface.

Skye finished his coffee, bowed to the Princess and walked over to where Edwina was standing at the far edge of the firelight, the light reflected redly in her huge brown eyes. She had removed her sandals, and barefoot in the sand, was almost as tall as he was.

“I thought you were in Grenada.”

“I came back on the last flight.”

“You missed the excitement,”

“I know. Sir George said you were very helpful.

“Is that what this is all about?” Skye turned to look in the direction of the village, three valleys away.

“No. It is because of what you brought on the island.”

“What are you saying?”

“It is not good, Skye. They know you brought your wife’s ashes with you.”

“How do they...? Oh, Jason, of course.”

“Yes. He tell everybody.” Edwina paused. Out here on the beach the sound of the voodoo drums was clearly audible. “The loa they are summoning tonight is a dangerous one.”

“Baron Samedi.” Before Skye could say more than the name of the loa, they were interrupted by Sir George Glessop, who was lurching across the sand toward them, glass of port in hand. Sir George Glessop, FRCS (Lon.), had once been chief of surgery at St. Michael’s Hospital in London. Skye and Jocelyn had long ago decided that if they ever suffered from anything more serious than the common cold they would fly back to the mainland for treatment, rather than entrust themselves to the care of the once-eminent doctor. Alcohol had finally gotten to Sir George, to the extent that the medical profession, notoriously tolerant and protective of its members, had reluctantly decided that he should be eased out of the practice of medicine. It was rumoured that some sort of a scandal had finally forced the medical governing body to act, although no one, except Lord Fraser, of course, seemed to know what it was. Through the good offices of Lord Fraser, Sir George had landed an appointment in Manchineel where his responsibilities were undemanding and where Edwina Stewart did virtually all the work. That didn’t prevent the Company from making much of the fact that the distinguished former chief of surgery at St. Michael’s was on hand to look after whatever medical problems might arise.

Swaying on his feet, Sir George repeated his thanks for Skye’s help that afternoon. Skye scarcely heard him, his thoughts were on the implications of what Edwina had said. He had to get back to the Whistling Frog. Turning on his heel, he strode across the sand to thank his hostess and make his excuses to the Princess. To everyone’s relief, she decided to leave as well. “That damn drumming is really too barbaric.”

Downing-Harris hastily finished his drink and draped a fur wrap around her bare shoulders as she stood up.