some days.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Morrell is dead, Ella. So is Sir Harry. Why don’t you leave it to the police? That’s my advice to you. Don’t get involved.’
‘Like Dodie Wyatt has done, you mean? No, Hector, it’s too late for that.’ Ella started to walk up the slope of the beach. ‘Let’s go back. I’ve seen enough.’
But she hadn’t gone more than a few paces when Hector said with deliberate emphasis, ‘When Miss Wyatt found Morrell dying, she claims he didn’t have any gold with him. Not even the ivory box it came in.’
Ella’s foot halted. Her breath stopped. All she could hear was the silence as she turned back to face Hector. He was smiling sadly at her.
‘What ivory box, Hector? I’ve not mentioned any kind of box.’
‘Come out to my boat, Ella. It’s a good day for a sail, there’s a stiff breeze out there.’
Hector’s words sounded ridiculously calm and reasonable. But her heart was thundering in her chest. Could she be mistaken? Surely a man who was her friend, whose wife was her closest friend, could not be saying what she thought he was saying, could not mean what she thought he was meaning.
‘You know I’m a rotten sailor, Hector,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Let’s head on home now. It’s too hot out —’
‘Ella!’
That one word told her what she didn’t want to know.
She turned to face Hector. He was pointing a gun at her.
Hector Latcham.
He had smiled at her.
He had promised her help.
He had called her
my
dear young lady
.
And all the time he was laughing. Because he’d burnt down her house. Had her beaten to a pulp.
Hector Latcham.
The name was branded on her skin in bruises. What kind of man was he? One who destroyed people at will. One who hid behind a wall of smiles, passing unnoticed among his colonial herd.
She ran on to Bay Street. With its friendly pastel face. Its canopied walkways. Its elegant shops. Her heart was pounding as she sped over the pavement, aware that above her, above the shops, above the street, above the law, rose the offices. Where lies were told. Deals were struck. Fates were sealed.
Hector Latcham. The name gleamed innocently on the brass plaque on the door. She rang the bell to his office.
Be there, Ella. Please. Be there
.
‘So where is she?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Wyatt.’
‘Where did he take her?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Wyatt.’
‘You must know something.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t help.’
‘When did they leave?’
‘Well over an hour ago, I think. But Mr Latcham didn’t mention where they were going.’
‘Did he say when he’d be back?’
‘No, he didn’t. Look, Miss Wyatt, is it really so urgent that you can’t wait until —’
‘Yes. It’s urgent. Yes. It’s very very urgent. Please, think. Did either of them mention Portman Cay?’
‘No, not that I heard. But —’
‘What?’
‘Well, just as they were walking out of the office, I heard Mrs Sanford laugh and say she wasn’t wearing shoes that were right for the beach.’
‘Thank you. Thank you.’
‘I warned you, Ella, not to get involved.’
He approached her over the sand. Even a bad shot couldn’t miss from there. Ella forced herself to look away from the blunt business-end of the gun and to look at the face of the man who intended to kill her.
‘Hector, have you gone crazy?’
But it wasn’t Hector’s eyes that looked back at her. They were the cold eyes of someone she didn’t know. His pupils were dark pinpoints of anger and his mouth was twisted in a grimace.
‘Why did you force me into this, Ella? You fool, there was no need for it. If you’d kept out of everything and let me deal with your interfering friend, Miss Wyatt, and her Yankee troublemaker, there’d have been none of this.’
He nudged the gun towards her and she backed off a pace. The trees were close but not close enough. If she made a run for it he’d put a bullet in her back, she didn’t doubt it for a
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Morrell is dead, Ella. So is Sir Harry. Why don’t you leave it to the police? That’s my advice to you. Don’t get involved.’
‘Like Dodie Wyatt has done, you mean? No, Hector, it’s too late for that.’ Ella started to walk up the slope of the beach. ‘Let’s go back. I’ve seen enough.’
But she hadn’t gone more than a few paces when Hector said with deliberate emphasis, ‘When Miss Wyatt found Morrell dying, she claims he didn’t have any gold with him. Not even the ivory box it came in.’
Ella’s foot halted. Her breath stopped. All she could hear was the silence as she turned back to face Hector. He was smiling sadly at her.
‘What ivory box, Hector? I’ve not mentioned any kind of box.’
‘Come out to my boat, Ella. It’s a good day for a sail, there’s a stiff breeze out there.’
Hector’s words sounded ridiculously calm and reasonable. But her heart was thundering in her chest. Could she be mistaken? Surely a man who was her friend, whose wife was her closest friend, could not be saying what she thought he was saying, could not mean what she thought he was meaning.
‘You know I’m a rotten sailor, Hector,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Let’s head on home now. It’s too hot out —’
‘Ella!’
That one word told her what she didn’t want to know.
She turned to face Hector. He was pointing a gun at her.
Hector Latcham.
He had smiled at her.
He had promised her help.
He had called her
my
dear young lady
.
And all the time he was laughing. Because he’d burnt down her house. Had her beaten to a pulp.
Hector Latcham.
The name was branded on her skin in bruises. What kind of man was he? One who destroyed people at will. One who hid behind a wall of smiles, passing unnoticed among his colonial herd.
She ran on to Bay Street. With its friendly pastel face. Its canopied walkways. Its elegant shops. Her heart was pounding as she sped over the pavement, aware that above her, above the shops, above the street, above the law, rose the offices. Where lies were told. Deals were struck. Fates were sealed.
Hector Latcham. The name gleamed innocently on the brass plaque on the door. She rang the bell to his office.
Be there, Ella. Please. Be there
.
‘So where is she?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Wyatt.’
‘Where did he take her?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Wyatt.’
‘You must know something.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t help.’
‘When did they leave?’
‘Well over an hour ago, I think. But Mr Latcham didn’t mention where they were going.’
‘Did he say when he’d be back?’
‘No, he didn’t. Look, Miss Wyatt, is it really so urgent that you can’t wait until —’
‘Yes. It’s urgent. Yes. It’s very very urgent. Please, think. Did either of them mention Portman Cay?’
‘No, not that I heard. But —’
‘What?’
‘Well, just as they were walking out of the office, I heard Mrs Sanford laugh and say she wasn’t wearing shoes that were right for the beach.’
‘Thank you. Thank you.’
‘I warned you, Ella, not to get involved.’
He approached her over the sand. Even a bad shot couldn’t miss from there. Ella forced herself to look away from the blunt business-end of the gun and to look at the face of the man who intended to kill her.
‘Hector, have you gone crazy?’
But it wasn’t Hector’s eyes that looked back at her. They were the cold eyes of someone she didn’t know. His pupils were dark pinpoints of anger and his mouth was twisted in a grimace.
‘Why did you force me into this, Ella? You fool, there was no need for it. If you’d kept out of everything and let me deal with your interfering friend, Miss Wyatt, and her Yankee troublemaker, there’d have been none of this.’
He nudged the gun towards her and she backed off a pace. The trees were close but not close enough. If she made a run for it he’d put a bullet in her back, she didn’t doubt it for a
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