Wilson - A Different Kind of Evil

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Fiction

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2018 by Andrew Wilson

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Washington Square Press /Atria Paperback edition March 2018

Originally published in Great Britain in 2018 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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Interior design by Bryden Spevak

Cover design by Albert Tang

Cover photograph Mark Smith/Salzman International

Author photograph Johnny Ring

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

ISBN 978-1-5011-4509-4

ISBN 978-1-5011-4510-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-5011-4511-7 (ebook)

To my parents

As I felt the ship tilt and roll, I looked out the porthole to see a hidden horizon, the skyline obscured by the dirty smudge of a black storm cloud. I sat up and took a sip of water, trying to swallow down the feelings of nausea as well as wash away unpleasant memories of bad times at sea.

Perhaps a little fresh air would do me good, I thought as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I checked myself in the looking glass, tidied my hair, quickly threw on some clothes, and as I knew it would be cold outside on deck, picked up the paisley shawl that my friend Flora Kurs had given me and draped it across my shoulders.

I listened at the connecting door that led through to the cabin where Rosalind and Carlo were sleeping. All was quiet and I decided not to disturb them. I knew from previous experience that if we were in for a rough crossing, it would be best if my daughter and my secretary were able to sleep through it.

I made my way down the corridor, placing a hand on the wall to steady myself. Oh, please let this not be another Madeira . On that journey, the outward leg of the Empire Tour, the trip around the world that I had taken with Archie, I had suffered such terrible seasickness that at one point I thought I would die. In fact, a fellow passenger, a lady who had caught a brief glimpse of me through the open door, had asked the stewardess whether I had actually passed away.

Although that made me smile now, at the time I had not found the observation amusing. I had had to be confined to the cabin for four days and, like a sick dog, had brought back up anything I had swallowed. I had tried everything, but nothing did any good. In the end, the doctor had given me what he said was liquid chloroform, and after twenty-four hours without food, Archie fed me with essence of beef directly from the jar. How fine that had tasted! I knew my husband hated illness of any kind, and the sight of him offering me a spoon of the dark, viscous substance had made me love him all the more.

That love had gone for good now, at least on his part. The crisis at the end of the last year had finally squeezed the life out of our marriage. Archie had gone back to live at Styles, with a view to selling the house, while the new woman in his life, Nancy Neele, had left the country. Her parents had not wanted her to be caught up in the scandal I had caused with my disappearance and had ordered her into temporary exile. I had heard, however, that upon her return from her travels, she and Archie planned to marry. The word divorce sounded so brutal, so ugly, and although I did not like the idea of itwith all the stigma and shame that accompanied itI knew that it was something I would have to endure.

It is as inevitable as the force of the sea, I thought as I stepped onto the deck. The wind was beginning to whip up the water, sending its surface into a fury of white. A fine spray of sea mist left its moist trail on my face, and as I ran my tongue over my lips, I tasted salt. After leaving Southampton, we had sailed through the English Channel, headed for Portugal. Although I had been prepared for a spot of mal de mer as we sailed into the Bay of Biscay, the sea had actually been as calm as a duck pond. It was only after leaving Lisbon and traveling south that we encountered the bad weather.

I held on to the rail as I walked along the deck, straining my eyes towards the distance. Somewhere out there was my destination: Tenerife, one of the Canary Islands. John Davison, a man I had met at the end of last year, had finally persuaded me to help him investigate the murder of one of his agents, a youngish chap called Douglas Greene. I had tried to resist his pleas to work with the Secret Intelligence Servicein fact, I remember to begin with I thought the whole thing had been nothing more than a silly jokebut after the deaths of Flora Kurs and Davisons friend Una Crowe I felt duty bound to help. Neither woman would have died had it not been for me. How could I say no?

And there was something very queer about the circumstances surrounding the murder of Greene: Davison had told me that the agents partly mummified body had been found in a cave on the island. At first sight, it appeared as though Greenes corpse had been covered in blood, but on further examination, it was determined that the glossy red sheen that covered his flesh was in fact the sap from a dragon tree, native to Tenerife. Bizarrely, all of his own blood had been drained from his system, but there was no trace of it on the dry earth in the cave or nearby.