He further warmed towards a foreigner who recognized that there could be merit in simplicity and stupidity in sophistication.’

  ‘I can offer you wine or coñac; which would you like?’

  ‘Coñac, please, with perhaps a little ice?’

  She stood, crossed to the doorway on the far side of the room and went through into the kitchen. Behind him was another doorway and that would give access to a single bedroom. Either off the bedroom or the kitchen would be a bathroom—so small it probably could not hold a bath, only a shower. That was the extent of the caseta. There was another link here with his early life. He had been born in a place no larger than this and he, his brother and his sister, had slept in the same room as their parents. They had learned much at an early age . . .

  She returned and handed him a tumbler which was half filled with brandy in which floated three ice cubes. As soon as she was seated, he said: ‘You were beginning to tell me how your parents had taught you to like books, señorita.’

  She stared into the past; a shaft of sunshine, coming through the single, high-up window, provided a sharp back-cloth to her profile, emphasizing both strength and stubbornness. ‘I was the elder and right from the beginning Mother used to read to me; later, of course, it was to both of us. She said that if one loved books one could be poor but travel the world, be a nobody who met the famous, be alone and yet surrounded by friends. I suppose I didn’t understand the truth of that until Father lost all his money and we were left with little but books.’ She drank. ‘Justin could never gain as much pleasure from them as I did and I’ve always thought that that was because Father was old-fashioned enough to believe that reading should always improve one’s mind and therefore to read solely for pleasure was not only a waste of time, but also rather sinful. So while I was left to read what I wanted, be it Jane Austen or Margery Allingham—I was only a woman, so Father didn’t bother about the state of my education—Justin was instructed in what was permissible and what was not. He loved Henty and Ballantyne, but had to conceal the fact that he even knew the names . . . When he came here to live, he brought out Father’s library, but I’m certain he never opened any of the books. He felt he had to honour his father’s memory by maintaining the library, yet at the same time could now prove his independence by not reading a book from it. Without ever realizing it, parents weave tight nets for their children, and the more certain the parents are that what they’re doing is right, the more dangerous and damaging the nets become.’ She drained her glass. ‘I’ve always been grateful that I’ve never had the impossibly difficult task of bringing up a child.’

  He wondered how truthful she was being? The old were adept at suborning wishes to results. Why hadn’t she married? When young, she must have been good company, even if no beauty. Intelligent men were as attracted by character as by looks. Had there been a romance which had ended in tragedy? As his had, when Juana-Maria had been pinned against the wall by a drunken French driver . . .

  ‘Father was old-fashioned over more than books. He believed that stern discipline put backbone into a boy. Mother tried to make him understand that Justin needed to be treated sympathetically, but he wouldn’t listen. For him, Justin’s habits and ways of thought marked him as “soft” and a “soft” man was a weak one. Of course, all this made Justin very resentful. In fact, when we learned Father had lost his money, Justin was frightened, naturally, but he was also . . . well, just a little glad, despite the bleak future, because it showed that Father was far from the perfect man he seemed—to Justin, at least—to set himself up as . . .’ She stopped, was silent for a moment, then said as she stood: ‘You’ll have another?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He handed her his glass.

  She went through to the kitchen, returned, handed him back his glass, sat. ‘You have to remember that Justin had a very uncertain younger life. If one’s had security and this is suddenly snatched away so that one has to learn how harsh the world can be, one’s bound to be bewildered and resentful.’

  Security had vanished for her as well, he thought, but she had overcome the loss and, rather than being weakened by the experience, had been strengthened by it. ‘Was he ever married?’

  ‘Before my father died, more to get away from home than any other reason. She was a pleasant creature, but with a very limited and conventional mind. Always worrying about what other people thought.’

  Which, surely, the señorita never did. ‘Were they divorced?’

  ‘No. She died after he retired.’

  ‘Looked at broadly, would you say it was a successful marriage?’

  ‘They were too far apart, emotionally and intellectually, for that. She couldn’t take the slightest interest in his job and attacked him because his income was relatively low and wouldn’t begin to understand that to him, far more important than money was the fact that he had a chance to prove himself a man of consequence.’ There was pride in her voice as she continued: ‘He’d always had a very strong interest in the arts and for quite a time he worked in eighteenth-century paintings. Then he made a complete switch—the only time he did anything so revolutionary— to the Greco-Roman periods. When he retired, he was curator of the Greek and Roman department of the Northern Museum and an acknowledged expert on some matters. Sotheby’s sometimes consulted him. He wrote a book on Roman armour that one critic called definitive. Yet all his wife could do was complain that this book didn’t sell tens of thousands of copies like the latest romantic mush did. She wanted to buy new curtains, because their neighbours had just hung new ones and his book didn’t make enough money for that.’

  ‘Did he come to live here soon after she died?’

  ‘It was quite a while later. You see, he was not a man who normally would ever take a risk unless it seemed he had to. After she died, he was obviously lonely and I wrote and suggested he came out here because most people are prepared to be so much more friendly; but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘He didn’t have many friends?’

  ‘The marriage had made certain of that. He liked intelligent people, she didn’t, so while she was alive she made his friends unwelcome and naturally they stopped visiting. After she died, he didn’t want to keep up with her friends and since he was no longer meeting people at work, there was no one left.’

  ‘What changed his mind about coming here?’

  ‘He had a very nasty car crash and was badly injured. I went home to help after he left hospital and when I saw how very depressed he’d become, I bullied him into selling up and moving out.’

  ‘Did he enjoy living here?’

  ‘At first, yes, he did. Because we’re a small expatriate community, differences in backgrounds often don’t seem to matter so much. He saw a lot of people, some of whom were of a similar intellectual background. But then the after-effects of the crash began to trouble him and he withdrew into himself and stopped seeing many of the people . . .’ She sighed. ‘To be honest, he let the problems overwhelm him rather than fight back.’

  ‘What were these after-effects?’

  ‘Mainly headaches of increasing frequency and intensity. A couple of months ago he returned to England and saw the specialist who’d operated on him, but that didn’t help.’

  ‘Señorita, when you so tragically discovered him, did you notice the gun on the floor?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered harshly.

  ‘Did you recognize it?’

  ‘Father had owned it. When he died, Justin kept it and brought it out here. I said that this was ridiculous and to get rid of it, no one needed that kind of thing out here, but he wouldn’t.’

  A revolver, Alvarez thought, often offered a suggestion of strength to a man who knew himself to be weak. ‘From all you’ve told me, señorita, your brother was neither a fit nor a happy man. Sadly, it cannot be too much of a surprise that he chose to kill himself.’

  ‘Justin wasn’t a fighter.’ Her voice was strained. ‘But our family was a religious one and he never lost his faith. He couldn’t have committed suicide. He must have been murdered.’

  CHAPTER 8

  They stood in the dining-room of Ca Na Torrina. The body had gone, but nothing else was missing. Alvarez hoped that she did not realize the significance of the stains on the tiled floor. ‘Señorita, pain can be so severe that it alters a person’s character, especially . . . well, especially if that person is not of a very strong nature. Is it not possible that the headaches the señor had been suffering had become so frequent and so severe that he decided he must find a release from them, despite the abhorrence of suicide that his religious upbringing had instilled in him?’

  ‘No,’ she answered flatly. ‘Perhaps you’re forgetting that it’s a Christian duty to suffer, if called upon to do so.’ Could one ever be quite certain about how another person under extreme pressure would behave? he wondered. ‘There is a suicide note. Perhaps you did not notice it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I . . . When I saw him . . .’

  ‘Señorita, there is absolutely no need to explain.’ He crossed to the typewriter, unwound the sheet of paper, handed it to her. He waited until she’d read it, then said: ‘That makes it clear that he intended to take his own life.’

  ‘It does nothing of the sort. On the contrary, it makes it clear that he did not.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Justin was always very precise with words and never wrote in a mandarin style; if he’d written a suicide note, it would have been precise and immediately understandable. This was written by someone who thought that, being an academic by nature, Justin would have written it in what the writer regarded as an academic style.’

  ‘You don’t think that under such severe mental confusion, he might not have acted as he normally would?’

  ‘This was written by someone else. It doesn’t even make sense.’

  ‘Do you understand the last sentence?’

  She looked down at the paper again. ‘If I remember correctly, it’s the epitaph inscribed on Sir Christopher Wren’s tomb in St Paul’s Cathedral. It means: If you seek his monument, look around you. But in the original, of course, there is no mention of Paris.’

  ‘Did your brother visit Paris very often?’

  ‘Never, as far as I know. His wife would never have allowed him to go to a city of sin. She thought in cliches, most of them completely outdated.’

  ‘Then why should there be this mention of Paris?’

  ‘For the simple reason that it’s nonsense. Traditionally, suicides are not of sound mind. So whoever typed out the bogus note tried to give the impression of a man of learning whose mind was unsound.’

  He took the paper back from her, but instead of placing it on the typewriter, he folded it up and put it in his pocket.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ she demanded.

  ‘Señorita, I am certain that you are saying exactly what you believe to be true. But at such a time of great emotional stress . . .’

  ‘I’ve been terribly shocked, but I’m not a hysterical female who can’t face facts. Justin would never have committed suicide. Even if he had, he would have explained why sensibly, instead of writing nonsense in a ridiculous style. But if you won’t accept what I’ve told you, answer this: Why is there a bottle of whisky on the table?’

  ‘Forgive me, but all you have told me suggests that your brother was not a man of natural courage and perhaps he needed to drink to try to find some.’

  ‘He never drank whisky.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  She answered sharply: ‘Of course I am. He actively disliked it. He drank brandy, gin, and vodka, but never whisky. He only kept it in the house for guests.’

  ‘Perhaps there was no brandy, gin, or vodka available, nevertheless he had to have a drink?’

  She walked over to the far end of the dining-room and to a large Mallorquin sideboard, extensively carved in a traditional pattern. She opened the right-hand door, motioned with her hand.

  He moved forward until he could see inside. He counted three bottles of brandy, one opened, two of gin, one opened, and two of vodka, both unopened. He said, his voice troubled: ‘Perhaps he did not realize, because of the state of his mind, that he had taken out a bottle of whisky rather than coñac . . .’

  ‘Fiddlesticks!’

  ‘Señorita, if one approaches all the questions you’ve raised from a different viewpoint, then . . .’

  ‘Approach them from this one. Who was it who’d been arguing so violently with him in the morning?’

  ‘How do you know someone had?’

  ‘I walked up here to see him and heard the argument going on. The other man was so heated, I was a little scared, but I didn’t do anything because Justin always became so annoyed if he thought I was trying to . . . well, to support him.’

  The weak man, needing assistance but resenting any offer of it because not only did that underline his own weakness, it also identified the other person’s awareness of it. ‘Did you recognize the voice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you any idea what the argument was about?’

  ‘None whatsoever. I didn’t stay in case Justin saw me.’

  ‘At what time was this?’

  ‘Around eleven.’

  He rubbed his chin, which reminded him that he’d forgotten to shave that morning. ‘Did you return and see your brother later on?’

  ‘No. I phoned to make certain he was all right.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘So he said.’

  ‘Did you ask him what had been the trouble?’

  ‘No. Don’t you see, I didn’t want to seem to be prying and he’d have brought up the subject if he’d wanted me to know.’

  ‘Were you able to make any judgement on his state of mind? Was he very depressed?’

  ‘He sounded more cheerful than for a long time.’

  ‘Señorita, what I must do now is to think about what you’ve just told me and then make the further investigations which will be necessary.’

  ‘Remember the most important thing of all. Because of his beliefs, he could not have committed suicide.’

  ‘I will not forget . . . If I discover that you are right, can you suggest what motive there might be for your brother’s murder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was not a rich man?’

  ‘Far from it.’

  ‘Has he recently been very friendly with a lady?’

  ‘No. There really is nothing more I can tell you.’

  ‘Then you will want to leave. It has been very kind of you to help.’

  They left the sitting-room, crossed the entrance and went outside. The late sunshine highlighted the lines of sorrow in her face and he would have liked to comfort her, but found he lacked the words. In any case, he decided, she was of so independent a character that perhaps she would resent, rather than find comfort from, the solace of a foreign stranger.

  When he returned to the dining-room, he stared at the bottle of whisky. How far did he accept her contention that no matter how desperate the turmoil in Burnett’s mind, he would never have drunk whisky? . . . Whisky was such a universally liked drink that nothing would seem more natural to a murderer trying to suggest suicide after a bout of heavy drinking than to put a bottle on the table, little knowing that the dead man was one of the few who disliked it. . . He walked round the table and examined the wall, near the framed photograph of the blindly ugly stone head, where the bullet had struck. Nothing to say whether this had been fired to test that gun and ammunition were in working order, or a shot fired involuntarily during a struggle to gain possession of the revolver . . .

  He shook his head. This had to be suicide and the señorita’s wild assertions were those of a sister who could not, would not, accept that her brother had been as much a weakling at his death as during his life.

  He left the house, locked the front door and pocketed the key. As he walked towards the small wooden gate, he heard a man singing, the song filled with the wailing intonations which dated it back to the time of the Moors. He turned away from the gate and pushed through the overgrown garden to the boundary fence. In the field beyond, Goñi was irrigating several rows of tomatoes.

  He climbed over the fence and walked up between rows of beans and sweet peppers to where Goñi was working. ‘Have you got a moment?’

  Goñi might not have heard. He stared down at the rushing water in the main channel, fed from a large estanque in one corner of the field, mattock held ready; when one side channel was filled, he stopped that off with the plug of earth taken from the next one, which now rapidly began to fill.

  ‘Were you working here yesterday morning?’

  Goñi looked up very briefly, his weatherbeaten face expressing contempt. ‘D’you think I was down in the port, boozing my legs silly?’

  ‘You’ve other fields; you might have been in one of them.’

  ‘Well, I weren’t.’ He diverted the water to a fresh channel.

  ‘Then did you hear anything unusual?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Alvarez accepted that Goñi wasn’t necessarily being bloody-minded; like most peasants, his life was lived in literal terms and therefore he liked things to be spelled out exactly, leaving no room for ambiguity.

  Goñi opened up the last channel which fed tomatoes, hurried back along the main channel to the estanque where he turned off the large gate valve, cutting the rush of water. He stood on a rock to peer into the estanque.

  ‘How’s the water holding out for you?’

  ‘There ain’t enough,’ he answered automatically. The estanque was fed by the aqueduct that came down from a spring in the Festna valley which, despite the growing shortage of water on the island, still flowed freely; but only a fool risked the gods’ jeering wrath by boasting all was well.

  Alvarez brought out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘Giving something away! What are you after?’

  ‘Information about yesterday morning.’

  The sun dropped behind a mountain crest and abruptly they were in shadow; directly overhead, the sky became shaded with the mauve tinge that was seen only in midsummer; small birds began to sing, active once more now that the intense heat was easing. Alvarez struck a match and they lit their cigarettes. As frequently happened, the light breeze of earlier had died right away and the air was so calm that the smoke rose vertically for quite a while before lazily beginning to shred.

 

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