Death in the Andamans by M. M. Kaye

her.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Nick grimly, ‘but I had no desire to act as referee at a cat-fight. You are too quick on the uptake for one so young. It shocks me. It also appeared to shock poor Ruby considerably. Shall I mix you a gin sling, or would you rather have shandy?’
    â€˜Shandy, please. The box with all the gingerbeer and the rest of the soft drinks is still in the car, I think.’
    â€˜Here it is,’ said Leonard Stock, appearing beside them with a bottle-filled packing-case. ‘Where shall I put it? Good-morning, Miss Randal.’
    â€˜Dump it somewhere in the shade,’ advised Nick. ‘Here, let me help you.’
    â€˜Don’t bother, I can manage.’ Mr Stock deposited his burden in the shadow of a group of flame trees and hunted through the bottles for one containing gingerbeer: ‘Shandy, I think you said. We might make a large jug of it. I could do with some myself. It really has been a very trying morning. Quite exceptionally airless. I had hoped that there would be a breeze up here; one can usually count on it. But there does not seem to be a breath of wind anywhere today.’ He fumbled in his pockets for a handkerchief, and having wiped the palms of his hands, dabbed ineffectually at the sweat that trickled down his face and neck.
    â€˜Hullo, Leonard,’ said Valerie, joining them. ‘You’re looking very hot and bothered. And so you should be! — what’s all this we hear about you bringing Ferrers Shilto along to join the glad throng?’
    Mr Stock threw a hunted look over his shoulder and said in an agitated undertone: ‘Yes, I – I’m afraid we did. But how were we to know? You see, the padre and Mrs Dobbie brought us in their car, and as they wanted to ask Ferrers about bringing some bedding — he’s staying with them for Christmas you know — we stopped at his bungalow, and … Well, it seemed only neighbourly to ask him to come on with us to the picnic, for of course we had no notion that John would be here. None! It really is most awkward.’
    â€˜You’re telling us!’ said Charles, accepting a glass of Mr Stock’s shandy. ‘In fact, here we go now. Stand by for fireworks! The cousins Shilto, Copper. Grand reunion scene in three sharp explosions. That’s Ferrers in the beachcomber get-up: the skinny little shrimp with his back to us and seething fury in every line of it.’
    The phrase was descriptive, for there was a tense and quivering animosity about the wizened figure in the stained and crumpled suit of drill who faced John Shilto’s confident advance, and a sudden silence descended upon the company as the older man came to a stop before his cousin and held out a large, fleshy hand. Perhaps because of it, his voice when he spoke sounded unnaturally loud and forced: ‘Well, well! This is a surprise!’ said Mr Shilto with spurious heartiness. ‘I must admit that I didn’t bargain on running into you here, old man. But as we have met, what about taking this opportunity to call bygones bygones? Eh?’
    His laugh rang as loud and forced as his voice, but it appeared that Ferrers Shilto was either short-sighted or else that he did not intend to take his cousin’s proffered hand, for he did not move. The silence deepened and drew out until it seemed to acquire a solid entity of its own, and once again John Shilto’s heavy features became mottled by a dark, ugly tide of colour. He dropped his hand but managed, with a palpable effort, to retain the semblance of a smile: ‘Oh, come on, old man, be a sport! After all, it’s Christmas, you know. “Peace and Goodwill”. ’
    Ferrers Shilto laughed — a shrill, cackling, almost hysterical sound — and said, astonishingly: ‘So you’ve found out, have you? I wonder how you managed it? Well a hell of a lot of good may it do you!’
    The words, meaningless as they