A string of low-wattage bulbs shed their light on the scene and Skye saw that Erin’s hair wasn’t pure blond; it was softened and warmed with strands that had a brownish tinge. It was straight and bobbed chin-length to frame her small and exquisite features. Her complexion glowed and her eyes flashed green in the light of the torches. Princess Helen swallowed the last of her gin and tonic, nodded at a waiter to fill her wine glass and raised it in a toast to Skye. “It’s good to have you back on the island, Skye.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” murmured Skye, genuinely touched by this unexpected gesture.
“Skye MacLeod,” the Princess went on in a musing tone. “Such a perfect name for someone who flies airplanes.”
“Strictly amateur,” said Skye with a deprecating smile.
“Damn sight better than some commercial pilots I know,” Lord Fraser, who was sitting beside Skye, muttered darkly. “Did you hear that we nearly bought the farm this afternoon?”
“The wind conditions were pretty tricky,” Skye replied soothingly. “I think Andy just wanted to make sure he had things under control before he committed himself to a landing.”
“You think so, do you? Well, I think the man was frightened out of his skin. The sweat was positively streaming off him by the time we finally managed to land.”
The subject of the shark attack was brought up, but quickly derailed when Lord Fraser announced, “As Chairman of the Manchineel Corporation, I hereby forbid further discussion of shark attacks. I have stockholders to think of.”
After Princess Helen added, “As one of those shareholders, I second that motion,” the subject of the shark attack was dropped.
“What’s the latest on the Prime Minister?” The Princess looked anxiously at Lord Fraser.
“Not good, I’m afraid,” he replied gravely. “And getting worse by the day.”
“Surely they’re not going to let the poor man die? He must be entitled to some kind of priority.”
“Apparently not. One gathers that to do so would be undemocratic and un-American. But that’s not the real problem. The real problem is finding a match for his heart. Sir George tells me that in the case of a heart transplant, it’s absolutely essential to have a perfect match. To make matters worse, the PM’s blood type is not all that common. It’s B-negative which, while not the rarest type, is still quite rare.” Lord Fraser looked across the trestle table at Skye. “Do you know what we’re talking about?”
“Only what I’ve read in the papers stateside. And that’s not very much. All I know is that the Prime Minister is hospitalized somewhere in the States waiting for a new heart.” Over the years, Skye had met Marcellus Thomas, the popular Prime Minister of St. Vincent and the Grenadines, including Manchineel, on a number of occasions. The pragmatic Thomas who easily won every election was well-disposed towards Manchineel because of the revenue it brought in, and followed a strictly hands-off policy.
“He’s in a New York hospital waiting to be flown to wherever and whenever a match shows up on the computer. If it ever does.” Lord Fraser rubbed the side of his long, aristocratic nose. “Sir George also tells me that the chances of success in a heart transplant are much greater if there is a blood relationship between the donor and the recipient.”
“That does tend to narrow the field a bit,” Skye remarked. “It’s one thing to donate a kidney to your sibling, but donating your heart is something else again.”
“Precisely,” said Lord Fraser with an amused smile.
“We can’t afford to lose him, Robert,” the Princess fretted. “He’s such a pleasant man. So co-operative. If he dies, that odious little man, Gilbert Humphreys, will likely succeed him. I’m afraid Mr. Humphreys doesn’t approve of our playful little ways. Humphreys is no friend of this island, Robert.”
“I’m only too well aware of that, ma’am. We must all pray that a match is found before it’s too late.”
The deep, hypnotic beat of voodoo drums interrupted the Princess’s sarcastic rejoinder to that pious platitude. The guests fell silent, looking at each other. Erin was the only one to glance in the direction of the sound. The others all knew it was coming from the native village, Sterling Hall, high up on the hill overlooking Maggins Bay. The Manchineel Company had recruited many of the labourers and household staff from the impoverished island of Caroun where the inhabitants were mostly descended from members of the Fon tribe imported as slaves from Benin in the late 1700s. With them, the slaves had brought their African religion and, over the years, elements of Christian rituals had been incorporated into their ceremonies. Many of the voodoo worshippers were also devout Christians, belting out fundamentalist hymns with great fervour, or attending mass, in the little white church on the hill that served both the Baptist and Roman Catholic congregations. This commendable ecumenancy was brought about not by brotherly and sisterly love between the two faiths, but rather because the Company would allow only one church to be built on the island. Despite the sinister aura that surrounds the practice of voodoo, the homeowners had learned that the worst to expect was to have some members of their staff carrying out their duties on the following day in an exhausted, half-dazed state.
Skye felt the skin on the back of his neck grow warm. He turned around on the bench to find Edwina staring at him. Tall and elegant, her extraordinarily long fingers, café au lait skin, and slender neck showed her Amharic ancestry. It had been Skye who had told her that she must be a descendant of that aristocratic Ethiopian tribe. Edwina Stewart was the nurse who, for all practical purposes, ran the Manchineel medical clinic. Skye looked away. Princess Helen had drained her glass, which was immediately filled by a hovering waiter. Other guests were also downing their drinks. While the residents of Manchineel had come to realize voodoo did not pose any danger to them, the incessant, atavistic beat of the drums did unsettling things to their nerves. Nick quickly rounded up the members of the steel band and the stirring strains of The White Cockade, which they had learned to please Lord Fraser, soon overrode the distant drums. But the voodoo drums could still be heard pulsing beneath the surface.
Skye finished his coffee, bowed to the Princess and walked over to where Edwina was standing at the far edge of the firelight, the light reflected redly in her huge brown eyes. She had removed her sandals, and barefoot in the sand, was almost as tall as he was.
“I thought you were in Grenada.”
“I came back on the last flight.”
“You missed the excitement,”
“I know. Sir George said you were very helpful.
“Is that what this is all about?” Skye turned to look in the direction of the village, three valleys away.
“No. It is because of what you brought on the island.”
“What are you saying?”
“It is not good, Skye. They know you brought your wife’s ashes with you.”
“How do they...? Oh, Jason, of course.”
“Yes. He tell everybody.” Edwina paused. Out here on the beach the sound of the voodoo drums was clearly audible. “The loa they are summoning tonight is a dangerous one.”
“Baron Samedi.” Before Skye could say more than the name of the loa, they were interrupted by Sir George Glessop, who was lurching across the sand toward them, glass of port in hand. Sir George Glessop, FRCS (Lon.), had once been chief of surgery at St. Michael’s Hospital in London. Skye and Jocelyn had long