Sarah Caudwell - The Sirens Sang of Murder

“I don’t think I’d exactly call that odd,” said Selena. “I can imagine that Stingham’s wouldn’t want it generally known that one of their senior partners was in the habit of drinking vodka before breakfast. But it would explain how he came to have an accident.”

“Except,” said Julia, “that he’d given up alcohol on health grounds several years before. He was a strict teetotaler.”

The candlelit shadows of the Corkscrew seemed for a moment less companionable than usual, and I felt for the first time the curious sensation of coldness which I was afterwards to associate with the Daffodil affair.

“But so far as I know,” continued Julia, “no one thought there was anything sinister about it. The obvious explanation was that someone else on the terrace had ordered a large vodka and orange juice — one does find people in the Cayman Islands who might think that a suitable breakfast beverage — and the waiter had confused the orders.”

“But surely,” said Ragwort, “there must have been some kind of investigation to establish whether that had happened?”

“Well no. As Selena has suggested, the chief concern of Stingham’s was to see, if at all possible, that there was no reference in the newspapers to the fact that Oliver Grynne had been drinking — you can imagine what the Scuttle would have made of it, for example. Well, Patrick had one or two quite influential friends in Georgetown, and he thought he could probably arrange for that aspect of the accident to be kept quiet. But that depended on the authorities assuming that it was quite normal for Grynne to have been drinking vodka. If they’d known that it wasn’t they’d have been bound to investigate, and it would have become public knowledge. So they all decided simply to say nothing about his being a teetotaller. Darkside, I need hardly say, was not involved in these discussions, but there didn’t seem much risk that he would think of volunteering that particular item of information to the authorities.”

Selena divided the remainder of the wine equitably among our glasses.

“It does occur to me,” she said absentmindedly, “that if one were going to attack someone while they were swimming, it might be rather sensible to ensure that they had consumed a large quantity of alcohol, especially if they weren’t used to it. No doubt I’m being fanciful.”

“Extremely fanciful,” said Ragwort. “But… how convenient for Gideon Darkside that Oliver Grynne should have died.”

EXTRACT FROM THE GUIDE TO COMFORTABLE TAX PUNNING

Sark: Smallest of the Channel Islands, lying between Guernsey and Jersey. Closer geographically to the former, and comprised in the same Bailiwick, but originally colonised (in 1585) by 40 Jerseymen under the patronage of Helier de Carteret, Seigneur of St. Ouen. Area: 1,348 acres. Population: 500. Capital: None to speak of — social and commercial activity centres on the Avenue, an unmade-up road running between the Bel Air tavern and the Post Office and containing several souvenir and jewellery shops. Tractors are the only permitted form of motor transport; bicycles and horse-drawn carriages can be hired. Principal industries: Tourism and financial services. More company directorships per head than anywhere else in the world. Access: Regular boat service from Guernsey; for boat and hydrofoil services to Jersey and St. Malo, enquire locally.

Note 1: Avoid if prone to seasickness.

A slender, fair-haired girl stood hesitating in the doorway of the Corkscrew, as if in surroundings unfamiliar to her, looking from one to another of the groups of lawyers gossiping at candlelit tables. Upon seeing us, she approached our table, and I saw that it was Lilian.

She accepted with some demur the offer of a glass of wine. The purpose of her coming, it seemed, was to deliver to Julia a telex message received a few minutes earlier in 63 New Square. A colleague of Julia’s, knowing something of her ways, had looked for her next door in 62; Lilian, knowing something more, had volunteered to look for her in the Corkscrew.

“It’s extremely kind of you,” said Julia, “to take so much trouble. Does it seem to be urgent?”

“It’s not actually marked ‘Urgent,’ “said Lilian, blushing slightly. “But — I couldn’t help reading the first couple of lines, and I thought you ought to see it right away. Because Mr. Cantrip’s supposed to be in West London County Court tomorrow, and — and Henry’s going to be terribly cross.”

“Oh dear,” said Selena.

TELEX M. CANTRIP TO J, LARWOOD TRANSMITTED SARK 6:15 P.M. MONDAY 30TH APRIL

Yoo-hoo there, Larwood, guess who? Me again, unforeseenly Sark-stuck. Tell Henry hard cheese on West London County Court, they’ll have to make do with Ragwort.

If Henry thinks I did it on purpose, you might point out that Sark isn’t exactly a major centre of exciting and sophisticated entertainment — just a flat-topped lump of rock in the middle of nowhere, with not much to do unless you’ve got a big thing about sea gulls. Gabrielle says it’s like the Garden of Eden, but there wasn’t much to do there either, was there? Except for eating apples.

Anyway, the way I see it, it’s all Darkside’s fault. The plane to Guernsey made him feel sick and the boat to Sark made him feel sicker and the horse and carriage made him feel sickest of the lot. If Henry thinks it can’t take long to get anywhere on an island three miles by one, tell him to try doing it in a horse-drawn carriage sitting next to a chartered accountant who looks like a corpse with liver trouble and groans every time the horse starts to trot a bit.

We had to amble along at about one mph, getting plenty of time to look at the butterflies and wild-flowers and wave graciously at the passing peasantry. Passing, in view of our speed, was something the peasantry did pretty easily, including an old biddy wrapped up in black shawls just like the one in the Grand Hotel the other evening — don’t suppose it was the same one, though.

What with the sun shining and the birds singing and so on, I wouldn’t actually have minded much about going slowly, except I was worried about Gabrielle being on her own somewhere with chaps from the Revenue lurking in the undergrowth.

Philip Alexandre hangs out on the part of the island called Little Sark — almost a separate island, just joined up to the rest by a long thin bit called the Coupee, like a kind of bridge about a hundred yards long, with a three-hundred-foot drop on both sides and railings to stop you falling over. It’s just about wide enough for a carriage, though not with much room to spare, but they’re not allowed to take passengers across it, so we had to get out and walk.

Even that took quite a lot longer than it might have done, because the chap driving the carriage thought this was the right time to fill us in on the local spookery and witchcraft statistics. He’s a boozy-looking character called Albert, who works for Philip Alexandre as a sort of general handyman, and he seems to think he’s got a patriotic duty to tell everyone there are more ghosts and witches per square foot on Little Sark than anywhere else in the Channel Islands, and more at the Hotel Alexandra than at the Sablonnerie down the road.

On Halloween and nights like that, he says, the Devil used to ride across the Coupee in a big black coffin, and the witches used to fly over from Guernsey on their broomsticks and dance on the beach with no clothes on. He’s not sure if they still do it, but he thinks if they don’t, it’s because of television.

Edward Malvoisin and Clemmie started ragging each other about it, with him saying that witches were all rot and her saying they weren’t and her betting him he wouldn’t dare walk across the Coupee at midnight and him betting her he would.