Free Tour de Force by Christianna Brand

with her dark hair, still wet from the bathe, spread all about her head, she looked like some modern Ophelia afloat on a lake of blood. But the four tall posts, the looped back white curtains, made of the bed a catafalque; and upon the catafalque, she had been ceremonially laid out, pale face composed, pale feet placed neatly together, pale hands loosely clasped upon her heart: wrapped in a long white garment like a shroud, laid out ceremonially upon a crimson shawl, with something that looked like crimson rose petals scattered upon her breast. For a moment you might think it some monstrous joke, might suppose it simply a girl asleep on a curtained, four-poster bed: until you caught sight of the dagger handle between the lax fingers – and saw that the crimson rose petals were not rose petals at all.

Chapter Five
    C OMMUNICATIONS on the island of San Juan el Pirata are inclined to be slow; but there is as a last resort the telefono and by this extravagant means a message was finally conveyed to El Gerente de Politio just as he was about to board his ship with the rest of the smuggling fleet. The Gerente, torn between regret and excitement, collected his men from their various vessels and despatched them off home to change back into uniform. All except Jose: Jose had better stay behind and prepare Number 1 cell for reception of an inmate – the bales of illicit tobacco could go into the corridor, the hashish had better be put in the safe if it could be crammed in and the coffee must stay where it was – it wouldn’t leave much room but criminals couldn’t be choosers. The goats must certainly be accommodated elsewhere. If the she-goat had kidded, Jose must use his discretion as to what had best be done with mother and child, but they couldn’t go into the office, it didn’t look well.… Puffed up with these triumphs of organization, he hurried off home to change too.
    Meanwhile, at the hotel, aghast and bewildered, the handful of tourists who – however slight the acquaintance – had best known the dead girl, huddled together in the chill shade of her murder. Horrible, terrifying, shocking, incredible – but true! At half-past four on that sun-baked afternoon, she had left them, walking off, splendid and vital in her blue-black bathing suit, up the narrow path to her hotel room. Less than three hours later, they had found her there – dead. ‘And it was I who made her go,’ sobbed Miss Trapp, sick with the shock and distress of it. ‘If I hadn’t made her go …’
    â€˜Don’t upset yourself, Miss Trapp, think rather of me who must arrange all these matters. The Company – the Company will want investigations,’ stammered Mr Fernando, grey to the gills.
    â€˜So incongruous,’ said Mr Cecil, wretchedly. ‘Lying there dead, with all that sunshine outside!’
    â€˜And the dagger still – still …’
    â€˜A dagger like the ones we bought in the town.’
    Louvaine sat white and silent in her wooden armchair, out on the flower-gay terrace, not a stone’s throw from where the girl lay dead – dead and murdered, laid out ceremonially on a four-poster bed. ‘I suppose I was the last person who ever spoke to her.’
    â€˜Except for the murderer,’ said Leo quickly.
    â€˜Except for the murderer. But otherwise – I was the last.’
    â€˜I don’t know that I’d insist upon it, ducky; considering the nature of the conversation. I mean,’ said Mr Cecil, looking round with rising excitement, ‘I suppose we’re all suspects now, my dears, aren’t we?’
    â€˜Together with some fifty other souls,’ said Leo Rodd. He looked for confirmation to Inspector Cockrill. ‘I should think the local talent will find itself a trifle daunted when it does arrive.’
    The Gerente, marching in some time later at the head of a straggle of men, was inclined to agree with him.