Death in the Andamans Read Free Page A

of disturbing green eyes were set charmingly atilt, and these assets, combined with an inexhaustible supply of good humour, had worked havoc with the susceptibilities of the male population of Port Blair.
    Her present house-guest, Miss Randal — Caroline Olivia Phoebe Elizabeth by baptism but invariably known, from an obvious combination of initials, as ‘Copper’ — had been her best friend since their early schooldays, and at about the time that Valerie was setting sail for the Andamans, Copper had been reluctantly embarking upon the infinitely more prosaic venture of earning her living as a shorthand typist in the city of London.
    For two drab years she had drawn a weekly pay cheque from Messrs Hudnut and Addison Limited, Glass and China Merchants, whose gaunt and grimy premises were situated in that unlovely section of London known as the Elephant and Castle. The weekly pay cheque had been incredibly meagre, and at times it had needed all Copper’s ingenuity, coupled with incorrigible optimism, to make both ends meet and life seem at all worth supporting. ‘But someday,’ said Copper, reassuring herself, ‘something exciting is bound to happen!’
    Pending that day she continued to hammer out an endless succession of letters beginning ‘Dear Sir — In reply to yours of the 15th ult.’, to eat her meals off clammy, marble-topped tables in A.B.C. teashops, and to keep a weather-eye fixed on the horizon in ever-hopeful anticipation of the sails of Adventure. And then, three months previously, that sail had lifted over the skyline in the form of a small and totally unexpected legacy left her by a black-sheep uncle long lost sight of in the wilds of the Belgian Congo.
    A slightly dazed Copper had handed in her resignation to Messrs Hudnut and Addison Limited, cabled her acceptance of a long-standing invitation of Valerie’s to visit the Islands, and having indulged in an orgy of shopping, booked a passage to Calcutta, where she had boarded the S.S. Maharaja — the little steamer which is virtually the only link between the Andamans and the outside world. Four days later she had leaned over the deck rail, awed and enchanted, as the ship sailed past emerald hills and palm-fringed beaches, to drop anchor in the green, island-strewn harbour of Port Blair.
    That had been nearly three weeks ago. Three weeks of glitteringly blue days and incredibly lovely star-splashed nights. She had bathed in the clear jade breakers of Forster Bay and Corbyn’s Cove, fished in translucent waters above branching sprays of coral from the decks of the little steam launch Jarawa, and picnicked under palm trees that rustled to the song of the Trade Winds.
    It was all so different from that other world of fog and rain, strap-hanging, shorthand and crowded rush-hour buses, that she sometimes felt that she must have dreamed it all. Or that this was the dream, and presently she would awake to find herself back once more in the cheerless, gas-lit lodgings off the Fulham Road. But no: this was real. This wonderful, colourful world. Copper drew a deep breath of utter contentment and leant her head against the window-frame.
    Beside her, Valerie who had also fallen silent, was leaning out of the window, her head cocked a little on one side as though she were listening to something. There was a curious intentness about her that communicated itself to Copper, so that presently she too found herself listening: straining her ears to catch some untoward sound from the quiet garden below. But she could hear nothing but the hush of the glassy sea against the rocks, and after a minute or two she said uneasily: ‘What is it, Val?’
    â€˜The birds. I’ve only just noticed it. Listen ____ ’
    â€˜What birds? I can’t hear any.’
    â€˜That’s just it. They always make a terrific racket at this hour of the morning. I wonder what’s come over them today?’
    Copper leant out