back from Elodie Ashton’s.
“Hello, Hugo. This is Marie Maxwell.”
The tone of voice was the first surprise. Light, almost flirtatious, harpy turned seductress. Very different from the unearthly shrieks and howls, reminiscent of Stoker’s encounters with Mudge, that had greeted his little joke. He sat down at his desk and listened in disbelief.
“I realize you will get this message after your evening with Elodie Ashton, and I apologize for intruding so late, but I just couldn’t leave it until tomorrow morning, because I have put the wheels in motion.”
Wheels in motion? Was he to be expelled from the island? To be burned at the stake at the foot of Fountain or Berthelot Street, like they did in the old days? Disbelief turned into apprehension. What game was this woman playing?
“Elodie, bless her, phoned me earlier this evening and explained, and it all sounds quite thrilling. A part for me!”
Aha. The cooing voice continued.
“As Elodie said, the academic sense of humour is often — esoteric, was her word for it, and I completely misunderstood, didn’t I! So, I have arranged a little get-together at my house for tomorrow evening. I have managed to get hold of most of the Island Players who really matter and I very much look forward to having a first read-through of your play.” The timbre of her voice deepened, vibrating with emotion as Marie Gastineau moved into “actress” mode. “From what Elodie says, you have seen past my façade of society hostess and sensed hidden depths. Evil is certainly within my range, and will make a welcome change from my usual roles.”
Evil? Not at all the reaction envisaged by his neighbour. Or was she the one who had suggested it?
A trill of laughter bubbled up from the answerphone, then the message concluded on a note of command, the familiar, imperious Marie Gastineau firmly back in control. “Call me in the morning to confirm — won’t you?”
“Bloody hell,” said Hugo Shawcross.
He had been regretting his abrupt departure, earlier than he had planned, thanks to that chit of a policewoman. But, it turned out it was just as well. He sat down at his desk and turned on his laptop.
Aloisio Brown sat in Moretti’s office, reading a pamphlet on the desk. He was tanned, dark-haired, probably very much like his Portuguese mother, thought Moretti. He stood up as they came in, turning a pair of large brown eyes in their direction, smiling as he did so. Next to him, Moretti heard Falla’s intake of breath. Moretti extended his hand.
“Aloisio Brown — have I said your name right?”
“Call me Al. Everyone does, except my mother.”
The smile turned into a grin, and the brown eyes turned towards Liz Falla.
“Detective Sergeant Falla, I presume?” It was clear what those brown eyes thought of what they were surveying.
“Call me Falla. Everyone does, except my mother. Well, almost everyone. Hi.”
Moretti could almost hear the violins playing.
“You have just got back from the scene of the suicide, I’m informed. Sergeant Jones let me sit on the interview with the postman. I heard your question to him, sir.”
“What did you make of it?”
“I’m not sure, but I presumed it was unexpected, given the way the deceased was living. That he didn’t smell, I mean.”
“Yes.” Quite the brainiac. “Falla, play the message from Dr. Edwards for — Al.”
Dr. Edwards’s light voice filled the office. When the message was finished, Al Brown looked at Moretti.
“Liquid sunshine,” he said.
“Liquid sunshine?”
“The sound of the pathologist’s voice.” Al Brown smiled at Liz Falla, who smiled back.
“We don’t have a pathologist on the island,” said Moretti. He could hear his own voice sounding somewhat metallic. “Dr. Edwards was the duty doctor.” There was a silence, then Moretti continued. “And doesn’t liquid sunshine mean rain?”
Before anyone could add anything to the absurd dialogue, the phone rang. Moretti picked it up.
“Moretti.”
“Hello, Detective Inspector Moretti. DS Falla told me you were the officer in charge. This is Irene Edwards.”
Moretti put her on speakerphone, and sunshine or rain filled the office, depending on the listener’s point of view.
“I will be at the hospital this afternoon, if you are free.”
“Of course. Three o’clock suit you?”
“Perfect. See you then.”
As he hung up the phone, Moretti said. “I want to take a look at the rope first, and then get something to eat. How about you, Al?”
“Great! I just had time to check in at my digs, and I’m starving. Also, I don’t know where’s good — and cheap — to eat in St. Peter Port.”
He stood up and took his jacket from the back of the chair, put it on. Looks like he works out, thought Moretti.
“How about La Crêperie, Guv? It’s close and we can walk there, come back for the car.” Falla gave Al Brown another smile.
As he walked past him, Moretti realized he was taller than Al Brown, and that the brainiac’s dark curly hair was receding slightly at the temples.
His inner child rejoiced.
The rope lay in front of them on the table in the incident room. It had been cut close to the knot to release the hermit’s body, and the strands revealed were considerably cleaner and lighter than the rest of the rope.
“Tar, or oil. Seaweed or algae stains. He must have found this on the beach.” Moretti touched one of the dark patches with his gloved hand.
“He supplied his own rope, that’s what I thought,” said Falla. “But at the time I saw him, I thought it was straightforward, a suicide.”
“It may be, but looking at the thickness of the rope, I tend to agree with Dr. Edwards — that he had help.”
“Assisted suicide.” Al Brown bent over the rope, then straightened up. “But who helps a hermit? From what the postman said, he didn’t have friends.”
“Exactly. And who in their right mind would drop in out of the blue and casually offer to give a complete stranger a hand in his death? You saw the postman’s reaction right after his discovery of the body, Falla. Do you think he might have had anything to do with this?”
“Not unless he’s a brilliant actor, Guv.”
“But who helps a hermit?” Al Brown asked again. “By definition, a hermit’s someone who avoids human contact?” He looked at Moretti.
“Let’s
