What if his muddled account of the murder was, after all, the truth? Julian Knight had called Roman a ‘psychopath’. That Antonia could well believe. She glanced down at what she had written about Roman in her diary. Yes. Roman could have killed his English girlfriend all right . . .
Julian Knight had been frightened but also extremely upset. Antonia had had the distinct impression he had been grieving for the girl. Curious, that. Had he known Marigold Leighton better than he made out? Could he have been in love with her? These things did happen. What was it he had been holding in his clenched hand? Was it something he had picked up at the scene of the crime? Something that proved Roman Songhera’s guilt beyond any reasonable doubt? Some small object, it had to be. Why hadn’t he given it to her? Too preoccupied, so he had forgotten all about it? Julian Knight must have entered the bedroom moments after Roman left. So he didn’t tell her the whole story –
Antonia bit her lip. There I go again, she thought.
On the plane Mrs Depleche had told Antonia, ‘I haven’t read any of your detective stories, but I bet you are the kind of woman who lets her imagination run riot.’ Mrs Depleche had had three neat scotches and had been holding forth in a voice more suited to chiding clumsy beaters on the grouse moor. ‘If I ever decided to commit a crime, my dear, I’d use you in some way. I’d take advantage of your imagination .’
There had been a hush in their part of the plane. Everybody seemed to have been listening – including the two air hostesses! Antonia had seen a man take his earphones out and crane his neck in their direction, so that he could hear better! Earlier on Mrs Depleche had talked about Coconut Grove and what a jolly good time they had in store of them . . .
Well, Mrs Depleche was right – Antonia’s imagination was as much a curse as it was a blessing. On at least one memorable occasion it had caused her to make a complete ass of herself . . .
The song being played on the loudspeakers was ‘Out of Nowhere’. Appropriate, in a funny kind of way. In the song it was love – all the songs today were about love – but it was murder she had on her mind. Murder had come out of nowhere and hit her on the nose. In this garden that looked like a miracle out of the Arabian Nights, with its hedges of flowering cacti and dazzling banks of azaleas – a stone’s throw from the emerald-green sea – under the golden globe of the sun . . . On the very first day of their holiday she was getting involved in murder . . . yet again!
No conclusions, she reminded herself.
The air round her shimmered. She felt drowsy and a little confused. Well, they had exchanged a world that was recognizable and rational for one that seemed surreal and unknowable. At the moment England seemed as distant as the moon. They were at Roman Songhera’s mercy. Julian Knight wanted to speak to somebody at the British High Commission. Would the British High Commission be able to help him? Antonia had no idea how these things worked. Well, the British could bring the affair to the attention of the Indian government, she supposed – if that indeed was what happened in such cases – but first they would have to accept Julian Knight’s story as bona fide. Which they probably wouldn’t. Julian Knight wouldn’t be considered a trustworthy witness.
Antonia looked at her watch. Ten minutes. She watched the hand move. Eleven minutes. Eleven minutes and ten seconds . . . So slow . . . Julian Knight’s watch wouldn’t be much good to him since it was five hours behind. How hot it was. Antonia yawned. Her eyes shut, then opened again. She didn’t feel like thinking about anything important. She felt rather odd, actually, in a muzzy state . . . She wasn’t used to the heat . . . Once more she glanced across at the empty cocktail glass Julian Knight had left behind, then at the crumpled tissue on the
Julian Knight had been frightened but also extremely upset. Antonia had had the distinct impression he had been grieving for the girl. Curious, that. Had he known Marigold Leighton better than he made out? Could he have been in love with her? These things did happen. What was it he had been holding in his clenched hand? Was it something he had picked up at the scene of the crime? Something that proved Roman Songhera’s guilt beyond any reasonable doubt? Some small object, it had to be. Why hadn’t he given it to her? Too preoccupied, so he had forgotten all about it? Julian Knight must have entered the bedroom moments after Roman left. So he didn’t tell her the whole story –
Antonia bit her lip. There I go again, she thought.
On the plane Mrs Depleche had told Antonia, ‘I haven’t read any of your detective stories, but I bet you are the kind of woman who lets her imagination run riot.’ Mrs Depleche had had three neat scotches and had been holding forth in a voice more suited to chiding clumsy beaters on the grouse moor. ‘If I ever decided to commit a crime, my dear, I’d use you in some way. I’d take advantage of your imagination .’
There had been a hush in their part of the plane. Everybody seemed to have been listening – including the two air hostesses! Antonia had seen a man take his earphones out and crane his neck in their direction, so that he could hear better! Earlier on Mrs Depleche had talked about Coconut Grove and what a jolly good time they had in store of them . . .
Well, Mrs Depleche was right – Antonia’s imagination was as much a curse as it was a blessing. On at least one memorable occasion it had caused her to make a complete ass of herself . . .
The song being played on the loudspeakers was ‘Out of Nowhere’. Appropriate, in a funny kind of way. In the song it was love – all the songs today were about love – but it was murder she had on her mind. Murder had come out of nowhere and hit her on the nose. In this garden that looked like a miracle out of the Arabian Nights, with its hedges of flowering cacti and dazzling banks of azaleas – a stone’s throw from the emerald-green sea – under the golden globe of the sun . . . On the very first day of their holiday she was getting involved in murder . . . yet again!
No conclusions, she reminded herself.
The air round her shimmered. She felt drowsy and a little confused. Well, they had exchanged a world that was recognizable and rational for one that seemed surreal and unknowable. At the moment England seemed as distant as the moon. They were at Roman Songhera’s mercy. Julian Knight wanted to speak to somebody at the British High Commission. Would the British High Commission be able to help him? Antonia had no idea how these things worked. Well, the British could bring the affair to the attention of the Indian government, she supposed – if that indeed was what happened in such cases – but first they would have to accept Julian Knight’s story as bona fide. Which they probably wouldn’t. Julian Knight wouldn’t be considered a trustworthy witness.
Antonia looked at her watch. Ten minutes. She watched the hand move. Eleven minutes. Eleven minutes and ten seconds . . . So slow . . . Julian Knight’s watch wouldn’t be much good to him since it was five hours behind. How hot it was. Antonia yawned. Her eyes shut, then opened again. She didn’t feel like thinking about anything important. She felt rather odd, actually, in a muzzy state . . . She wasn’t used to the heat . . . Once more she glanced across at the empty cocktail glass Julian Knight had left behind, then at the crumpled tissue on the
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