Jebe, now,” Roy said, listening. “Jebe or Riordan.” He went to the door.
It was Jebe, his dark face frightened, full of questions. And as he came up the steps another car came rapidly along the driveway, its headlights shining. “That’s Riordan!” Seabury exclaimed.
“You’d better go along now, dear,” Roy said. “The doctor …” Again she realized that he wished to protect her from the ugly tasks that followed in the train of murder. “I’ll take her to the car,” Jim said quickly. “Come along, Jebe.”
She put down her cup and went with Jim, his hand warm and steady under her arm, along the wide, cluttered hall. The rain had gone but everything glittered wetly in the lights of the cars in the driveway below. She had a glimpse of Doctor Riordan getting hurriedly out of the shabby coupe that everyone on the island knew. The violence of the storm had cleansed the veranda completely; certainly if there had been such things as clues, footprints, any sort of material evidence, they had been washed away.
“I’ll be home later,” Roy told her. “Don’t wait for me. But tell Aurelia. Take care of her, Jebe.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Roy!” Jebe stared at the doctor, stared back at the house, but trudged along beside her toward the station wagon. So there was no chance to say even a word to Jim without Jebe hearing it. There was only the crunch of their footsteps on the shell driveway; the heavy wet fragrance of the tropical night. Jim opened the door of the station wagon. She slid under the wheel, pulling her long white skirt straight. The white dress she’d worn because Jim had remembered it.
Jebe was crawling into the seat beside her. Jim’s fingers moved from her arm; she leaned over the wheel which felt cold and damp to her hands. Jim’s face in the faint reflected glow of the headlights looked white and strained, his eyes very dark. “It’ll be all right, Nonie. Believe me. Be careful driving; don’t stop for anything. See you tomorrow.”
The engine started with the sputter of backfiring which seemed loud against the exhausted hush the storm had left in its passage. Jim stood back, his solid figure outlined against the lights. The car moved slowly along under her guiding hands, turned around the curve, its lights shining back from dripping wet curtains of foliage, and sending ghostly fingers ahead along the white shell driveway.
She turned from the driveway into the public road again. It was a narrow road, white in the lights of the car, that wound along the coast, joining the village, the string of plantations, the strips of overgrown woods and lush, massed wastelands, like a small ribbon of civilization. She passed the curve around the huge forked oak, which looked poised and animated in the swift glancing of the car lights.
Thick shadows of banana trees on either side of the road almost met as the road turned and twisted. She skirted a spiky growth of palmettoes. Spanish bayonets struck out of the shadows as she turned again, and at last the outline of the coral rock wall that marked the beginning of Beadon Gates showed dimly white at the edge of the road. She passed the narrow wheel-rutted road that led into the sugar house and the cluster of outbuildings. She passed a group of shacks; as she turned in at the big, white gate that led directly to the house, Jebe stirred. He said: “Miss Hermy was a hard woman. Some folks won’t be sorry she’s dead. Take this curve easy, Miss Nonie. Might be slippery.”
She edged the car around a dumb of twisted palm trees. Lights struck a corner of the big house ahead tracing a fine network of shadows upon it from a great clump of bamboos. “Some folks?” she repeated.
“Oh—some folks.”
Some folks. Nonie thought sharply, jolted into logic: somebody on the island killed her.
Somebody living on that small, extremely limited island, somebody within that little, intensely circumscribed world. That meant literally either one of the small group
It was Jebe, his dark face frightened, full of questions. And as he came up the steps another car came rapidly along the driveway, its headlights shining. “That’s Riordan!” Seabury exclaimed.
“You’d better go along now, dear,” Roy said. “The doctor …” Again she realized that he wished to protect her from the ugly tasks that followed in the train of murder. “I’ll take her to the car,” Jim said quickly. “Come along, Jebe.”
She put down her cup and went with Jim, his hand warm and steady under her arm, along the wide, cluttered hall. The rain had gone but everything glittered wetly in the lights of the cars in the driveway below. She had a glimpse of Doctor Riordan getting hurriedly out of the shabby coupe that everyone on the island knew. The violence of the storm had cleansed the veranda completely; certainly if there had been such things as clues, footprints, any sort of material evidence, they had been washed away.
“I’ll be home later,” Roy told her. “Don’t wait for me. But tell Aurelia. Take care of her, Jebe.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Roy!” Jebe stared at the doctor, stared back at the house, but trudged along beside her toward the station wagon. So there was no chance to say even a word to Jim without Jebe hearing it. There was only the crunch of their footsteps on the shell driveway; the heavy wet fragrance of the tropical night. Jim opened the door of the station wagon. She slid under the wheel, pulling her long white skirt straight. The white dress she’d worn because Jim had remembered it.
Jebe was crawling into the seat beside her. Jim’s fingers moved from her arm; she leaned over the wheel which felt cold and damp to her hands. Jim’s face in the faint reflected glow of the headlights looked white and strained, his eyes very dark. “It’ll be all right, Nonie. Believe me. Be careful driving; don’t stop for anything. See you tomorrow.”
The engine started with the sputter of backfiring which seemed loud against the exhausted hush the storm had left in its passage. Jim stood back, his solid figure outlined against the lights. The car moved slowly along under her guiding hands, turned around the curve, its lights shining back from dripping wet curtains of foliage, and sending ghostly fingers ahead along the white shell driveway.
She turned from the driveway into the public road again. It was a narrow road, white in the lights of the car, that wound along the coast, joining the village, the string of plantations, the strips of overgrown woods and lush, massed wastelands, like a small ribbon of civilization. She passed the curve around the huge forked oak, which looked poised and animated in the swift glancing of the car lights.
Thick shadows of banana trees on either side of the road almost met as the road turned and twisted. She skirted a spiky growth of palmettoes. Spanish bayonets struck out of the shadows as she turned again, and at last the outline of the coral rock wall that marked the beginning of Beadon Gates showed dimly white at the edge of the road. She passed the narrow wheel-rutted road that led into the sugar house and the cluster of outbuildings. She passed a group of shacks; as she turned in at the big, white gate that led directly to the house, Jebe stirred. He said: “Miss Hermy was a hard woman. Some folks won’t be sorry she’s dead. Take this curve easy, Miss Nonie. Might be slippery.”
She edged the car around a dumb of twisted palm trees. Lights struck a corner of the big house ahead tracing a fine network of shadows upon it from a great clump of bamboos. “Some folks?” she repeated.
“Oh—some folks.”
Some folks. Nonie thought sharply, jolted into logic: somebody on the island killed her.
Somebody living on that small, extremely limited island, somebody within that little, intensely circumscribed world. That meant literally either one of the small group
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