Even in the shade of the palm tree, the heat was damn' near
intolerable. Maurice Malmesbury took off his sola topee and mopped at his
brow with a large linen handkerchief. "Rain's on the way," he
muttered, "Be a damn' sight better when the rains break. Not so dashed
clammy. Not so many blithering mosquitoes."
Carefully replacing the topee over his bald pate, Malmesbury sat back in
his wicker armchair, rattled the melting ice cubes in his cocktail glass
and quaffed back the remaining few drops of his gin pahit.
"Momo!" Malmesbury called, "I say! Momo! Boy!"
There was no answer. In fact, there was no sound at all apart from the dripping
of water from the fronds of the palms and the sullen, creaky whirring of
the old fan beneath the mouldering rattan ceiling of the veranda.
"Momo!" he called again, "Where the devil are you? Lazing
about the place somewhere, I'll be bound. Lazing about..."
A large fly buzzed past and Malmesbury flicked at it with a horse-hair fly-swat.
"Don't know what the blasted world is damn' well coming to," he
muttered, "Well, if that blasted boy's lazing about again, I suppose
I'll just have to go and get the damn' gin my ballywell self."
He pushed himself out of the chair, stretched his weary limbs and shuffled
into the sweltering gloom of the house. Passing through the dusty old breakfast
room, he was just about to go into the kitchen when he heard something.
A bell, tinkling. It took him a few moments to consider what it might be.
Then he remembered. The door bell. Of course! It was the ballywell door
bell.
He placed his empty glass in the sink and shuffled off into the breakfast
room, through the library, down the little hallway and out into...
...the sudden sunlight dazzled him, disoriented him. For a moment, he could
hardly see where he was. Ah yes, the greenhouse. Of course, he was in the
greenhouse. The avocados were in fine fruit, he noticed. He'd have a word
with Momo later on, tell the boy to make an avocado salad for supper. Go
well with a few slices of ham and a piece of pawpaw.
By Jove! There was someone there! Behind the avocado tree.
Instinctively, Malmesbury went for his revolver. But, as Fate would have
it, he didn't have the damn' thing on him. "Dashed bad luck!"
he mumbled to himself.
"I beg your pardon?" a voice said.
"What's that, what's that!" exclaimed Malmesbury, "Who's
there, I say? I can see you, you know. Through that foliage! Come out, come
out, whoever you are!"
Some leaves rustled off to the left and a tall, pale figure in a crumpled
white suit emerged from behind a Puerto Rican Hat Palm, "Mr Malmesbury,
I presume?" he said, extending his hand in a gesture of friendship.
"I don't believe we are acquainted, sir," Malmesbury replied,
keeping his arms crossed behind his back in Duke of Edinburgh fashion.
"You have some wonderful plants here," said the stranger, "The
Strelitzias, the Banksias, the Cycads. The Byfield Cycad in the window is
a particularly fine specimen."
"So it is, so it is," agreed Malmesbury.
"This quite reminds me of my parents' old garden," said the stranger,
"What with the heat and humidity in here... well, I must say, it makes
me feel quite homesick."
"Homesick? For..."
"Africa, Mr Malmesbury. For Africa."
"East?"
"West."
"Gambia?"
"No," the stranger smiled, "Not Gambia."
"Ah. I see, I see." - there was something about this chap that
Malmesbury didn't much care for - something about his manner, his tone of
voice, his whole demeanour. No, when all's said and done, he didn't really
care at all for the way the fellow was strolling about as though he damn'
well owned the ballywell place.
"I must say that one gets so tired of the unrelenting bleakness of
England," the man said, as he casually sniffed at the blooms of an
epiphytic orchid, "Stepping into your shop is like stepping into another
time, Mr Malmesbury. Another time and another place. I'm sure you understand
what I mean."
Malmesbury mopped at his brow with his handkerchief. No, he didn't care
one jot for the stranger's attitude. Dash it all! The fellow was addressing
Malmesbury as though he knew him, as though he knew all about him.
"Are you a collector?" Malmesbury said at last, "I mean,
is there something special for which you are searching?"
"Oh yes indeed there is," said the man, "I am looking for
something very special indeed. I do so hope you have one. A palm. I am looking
for a palm."
"I have hundreds," said Malmesbury with barely disguised pride,
"Thousands in fact. Which palm in particular interests you?"
"The Wine Palm," said the stranger with a smile, "I am looking
for a Wine Palm."
A cold chill passed down Malmesbury's spine, "A Wine Palm!" he
gasped, "No! No! Surely not. You can't mean..."
"Oh but I assure you I do, Mr Malmesbury," said the man, "Nothing
else will satisfy me. I really must have a Wine Palm."
"I must say, you make a very decent Pink Gin, Mr Malmesbury,"
said the man in the crumpled white suit, quaffing the contents of a tumbler
in a single movement, "Not quite as flavourful as palm wine, but
a jolly decent second best, all the same."
"You acquired a taste, then?"
"For the wine, you mean? Oh, I should say!"
"Not many do. Most people thought it a filthy brew."
"But I was just a boy, Mr Malmesbury. Too young for any fixed prejudices
on such a matter. And besides, it had the savour of forbidden fruit. The
whole thing was a great adventure. Africa, I mean. For a boy. Of course,
I wasn't out there as long as you were. Father went out with his bank,
you know. Strange that we never met, Mr Malmesbury. Such a small ex-pat
community after all."
"But, as you say, you were just a boy. Our paths were really most
unlikely to cross."
"You must have know the old man though. Snibblett and Mathers Bank."
"Well, I certainly know the bank, but..."
"I'm sure you must have met him. Crimp. Archibald Crimp."
"The name does ring a..."
"Maybe you remember the old girl. My mother, I mean. Mildred. Well
upholstered piece at the time. Blond. Quite popular with the men, I gather."
"Mildred Crimp. Well now..."
"D'you know, I really think I do remember you, Mr Malmesbury! I'm
sure we must have met. At a party maybe?"
"I'm afraid I really don't..."
"Stonker they called me. Name's Peter as a matter of fact. But absolutely
everyone called me Stonker. Nicknames are such an embarrassment I always
think."
Malmesbury said nothing. The name did seem familiar somehow. Stonker Crimp.
Funny sort of a name. He did know a boy called Stonker once. Or had he
been called Stinker? Or possibly Stapleforth? But whatever his name, that
boy had been blond. Well, mousy anyway. Yes, that Stonker, Stinker, Stoker
or Stapleforth had been a thin, shy sort of boy with sandy hair. Nothing
at all like the chap sitting opposite him now. Even allowing for the passage
of time, a thin, shy, sandy-haired boy could not possibly grow into a
stocky, overbearing, brown-haired adult, could he? No, no, of course not.
Out of the question.
"No," said Malmesbury, smiling, "I'm afraid the name means
nothing to me."
"No, of course not," said Crimp, "It really would have
been too much of a coincidence, wouldn't it."
"Perhaps," agreed Malmesbury.
"You know, old chap, I have to say I'm surprised you stuck it there
as long as you did."
"Really?"
"I should say! Amazed you didn't go doolally after the first ten
years."
"Doolally?" said Malmesbury.
"You know, potty, cracked, mad as a March Hare, one banana short
of a bunch."
"I am well aware of the meaning of the word, Doolally," said
Malmesbury huffily, "You may not be aware that I spent several years
in Bombay prior to..."
"Ah really! What a fascinating country, India! What on earth made
you leave?"
"What?"
"Just wondered why on earth you should have upped sticks and left
such a wonderful, vibrant city and moved to such a malarial cesspit as...?"
"I really had no choice in the matter."
"Really?"
Malmesbury didn't at all care for the tone of that 'Really?' There was
something altogether impertinent in the fellow's manner.
"I was a young man in those days, Mr Crimp. I went where my profession
took me."
"Palms?"
"Diamonds."
"Diamonds? Oh, I say!"
"Yes, I was at that time with one of the oldest and most exclusive
diamond houses in London."
"Ah," said Crimp, "That explains a great deal."
"Does it, indeed?" snapped Malmesbury, a pained expression momentarily
flitting across his otherwise implacable face.
"Oh yes. I mean, after all, if there's one thing, other than love,
that drives men to murder, it's diamonds."
Malmesbury's hand trembled and he spilt gin onto his trousers. "Oh
dear, dear," he muttered, "Dear me, it's the heat you know.
Makes a glass quite slippery in one's hands."
"Ah yes, indeed. Indeed."
"You'll just excuse me a moment, won't you?" said Malmesbury
who was now standing, mopping at his wet trousers with his handkerchief,
"I shan't be a moment. Please, do help yourself to another drink,
Mr. Crimp."
Crimp...? Yes, yes, the name did seem familiar. Malmesbury stood in the
cool breeze beneath the kitchen's overhead fan. It was all coming back
to him now. A small, weasel-eyed boy named Stonker. Could he have been
a brown-haired lad? Well, possibly. Maybe the sandy-haired boy had been
called Stinker. Or Blinker? Oh, it was all so long ago, the memories were
all faded and jumbled. It must be twenty years ago. No, no, more like
thirty. Perhaps Stonker had been brown-haired after all. Yes, yes, he
must have been. Then that boy might well have grown up to be the man who
was now sitting in the conservatory drinking Malmesbury's gin. Yes, yes,
that would explain it. That would explain how he knew so much. About Africa.
About murder. About palm wine...
Malmesbury glanced across at the room at his Port Cabinet. He prided himself
in one of the finest collections of vintage Port outside of Lisbon. And
there was one other bottle in that cabinet too. A rather special bottle.
Tucked away, right at the back, just behind the Warres '63. Malmesbury
went across to the cabinet and found it. A dusty, greasy, ill-smelling
bottle it was to be sure. But its contents... ah, it's contents were rather
remarkable. For the wine was imbued with a dark magic conjured with blood,
hatred and revenge. Malmesbury had paid dearly for the wine. But his enemies,
of which there were many, had paid more dearly still. Just one drop in
his visitor's drink would be enough.
"But no, no.. now is not the time," he said, "Not yet,
old fellow. I mean, you might be mistaken. He might not be the same boy
at all. Just a customer. Looking for a...."
"I say! Are you all right, old chap?" - Crimp's voice called
out of a sudden, "Thought you looked a bit peaky just now, as a matter
of.."
Of all the ballywell cheek, the damn' fella was coming into the house.
Malmesbury quickly hid the bottle behind a large potted Kentia Palm.
"No, no, I'm quite all right. I'm just coming back now."
Crimp was standing at the door to the breakfast room. Damn' cheek. He
was treating the place as though he owned it!
Malmesbury took him firmly by the elbow and led him back into the conservatory,
onto the veranda.
"I was hoping you might show me this wine palm of yours," Crimp
said, "See if it fits the bill, if it's what I'm looking for..."
"Well now, that all depends, doesn't it," said Malmesbury, "On
which particular wine palm you have in mind, which species you are searching
for."
"Ah! More than one is there?"
"Ah dear me, yes indeed. There is the Hispaniola Wine Palm, Pseudophoenix
vinifera, the South American Wine Palm, Butia capitata, the
West African Wine Palm, Raphia hookeri, the..."
"Oh, I think you know which one I want," said Crimp, "Don't
you?"
"The Raphia...? Hmmm. Tut, tut. Such a pity. You see, I'm afraid
I have none in stock."
"But isn't that...?" - Crimp pointed to a far corner of the
conservatory, just beyond a pond full of lily pads and strange, exotic
fish.
"Ah, that?" murmured Malmesbury, "That one, yes. It...
it is part of my private collection, I fear. Not for sale. No, no, not
at any price. I'm sorry."
"Come, come, Mr Malmesbury," said Crimp, casually pouring some
more gin into his glass, "Everybody has his price."
Everybody has his price. Somebody else had said that once before. A boy.
Long ago. Malmesbury remembered the snake-eyed, sneaky look in the lad's
face. He had been standing in the shade of a Wine Palm, down by the small,
secret bay where nobody but Malmesbury ever went.
How those words brought back memories of those distant days! Malmesbury
could almost smell the heady air of filth and corruption. He could almost
hear the sound of the surf and the rumbling of the drums at midnight.
Why, he could almost taste the unpleasant, oily fire of the palm wine
in his mouth.
"I do know you," he said at last, "Mr Crimp, sir, I know
you and you know me. State your business, say what you want, and leave
at once."
"Mr Malmesbury? I have already stated my business as clearly as I
am able. I want to buy a palm. A Wine Palm. To remind me of the old days."
"What do you want from me, Mr Crimp? Money? If blackmail is your business,
you might as well say it."
"Blackmail?"
"Or are you playing a more dangerous game, Mr Crimp? Come now, don't
pretend innocence. You wouldn't be the first person who's wanted to see
me dead."
"But Mr Malmesbury, I assure you..."
"You all wanted me dead! I know. That's why I left. There was no
alternative. I never wanted to come back to this country, to the cold
winters, to the snow, the fog, the coughs and colds and dampness of it
all. But I had no choice. And I've been here now, so many, many years.
I thought I had left it all behind me."
"Left it all? All what, Mr Malmesbury?"
"All that.... unpleasantness. I'm an old man, Mr. Crimp. Why couldn't
you just leave me in peace? Why can none of you leave me in peace?"
Crimp swirled the ice cubes in his glass. He looked uneasy. He looked,
indeed, a little nervous. He looked, Malmesbury thought, the way one might
look if one had gone into a shop to buy something, quite innocently, and
had found oneself suddenly confronted by a gibbering maniac.
"Oh dear, oh goodness, I'm afraid I've..." Malmesbury slumped
back into his large wickerwork chair, "I'm afraid I've made the most
awful blunder. The heat, don't you know, the humidity. I'm afraid I've
been most uncharacteristically rude, Mr Crimp."
"Not all, Mr Malmesbury," Crimp said, and his voice still seemed
to quaver slightly, "It really was my fault. I shouldn't have pestered
you so. On the matter of the wine palm."
"One gets so irrational at times, I'm afraid," said Malmesbury,
"Age, you know. And malaria."
"Ah. So you have...?"
"Just a touch. Nothing serious. But all the same, it takes its toll."
"Quite so."
"You must at least let me offer you another drink."
"Oh no, really."
"But I insist!"
"No. Honestly, Mr Malmesbury," Crimp kept glancing at his wrist
watch, "I really must be off. Appointment, don't you know. The pace
of life over here. So much faster than..."
"Over there? Quite so."
"Well, then...."
"There is, perhaps, one other thing I could offer you. By way of
an apology. For my behaviour."
"I'm sorry, but I really must be..."
Crimp was walking away, through the conservatory, back towards the house.
In a moment he would have gone through the breakfast room and the library
and he would soon be back in the little greenhouse that formed the sales
area of the shop. Then he would be out of the shop and be off to - who
knows where? No, no, that would never do.
"The Wine Palm," Malmesbury said, "I could sell you the
Wine Palm."
Crimp stopped. He said nothing for a moment but his eyes narrowed. he
seemed to be considering the matter, deciding whether or not Malmesbury
was being serious.
"Yes," said Malmesbury, "That's the least I could do. Please,
come and take a close look at it. I'm sure you'll appreciate it."
"Well, if you are quite certain."
"Yes, quite. And... yes, yes. Of course. We must have a celebration.
Drink a small toast. To Old Times. I have rather a special bottle tucked
away, Mr Crimp. Yes, yes, a very special bottle indeed..."
Even in the shade of the palm tree, the heat was damn' near intolerable.
At least that little spot of unpleasantness was over and done with. Now
he could just sit back in the wicker armchair and enjoy his gin pahit
in peace.
The Wine Palm looked well from where he was sitting. It appeared to thrive
in the heat and the humidity. Such a pity that death followed it wherever
it went. Even now, the flies were gathering around a disagreeable wet-looking
object partly visible through the undergrowth at the base of its trunk.
Few people really understood the power of a witchdoctor's curse. Malmesbury
had mocked the native magic at first. But later, in his desperation, he
had been forced to embrace it. The witchdoctor hadn't wanted to help him,
of course. Indeed, he had threatened to curse Malmesbury rather than to
provide him with the protection he sought. But everyone has his price.
And that included witchdoctors, as Malmesbury had been relieved to discover.
No, indeed, there are very few people who understand the power of a witchdoctor's
curse. And fewer still who know how to defeat it.
One of those few was Crimp. He had learnt a great deal about the dark
side during his time in Africa. He had consorted with the masters and
had become adept in their secret arts. By comparison with Crimp, the witchdoctor
from whom Malmesbury had acquired the cursed wine was little more than
an amateur.
A large fly buzzed past and Crimp flicked at it with a horse-hair fly-swat.
"I think I shall rather like this life," he mused. Just then
the door bell to the shop rang.
Copyright © Huw Collingbourne 1999
You may not reproduce this story without prior permission.
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