Black Ship (31 page)

Mrs. Jessup shuddered. “There’s nothing I’d like better, but I simply can’t travel by motor-car. I’d be no use to either Aidan or Audrey if they had to tuck me up in the bed next to his.”

“
Mal de voiture
,” said Daisy understandingly, “or it ought to
be. I don’t know if the French have a word for it. You ought to learn to drive, you know. A friend of mine gets frightfully sick when she’s driven, but she’s perfectly all right driving herself.”

“Oh, I’m much too old to learn.”

“Rubbish! But that’s beside the point. The more I think about it, the more I think Audrey needs a woman to go with her to hold her hand. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh yes!”

“We can’t bring anyone else into this,” Jessup said grimly.

All three looked at Daisy.

“Well …”

“My dear Mrs. Fletcher,” said Irwin, “I’d be exceedingly grateful if you could see your way to coming with me. I’m certain your support would mean a great deal to my daughter. Women are so much better on such occasions—‘When pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel thou!’ ”

The solicitor’s lapse into poetry startled Daisy. She didn’t mind that couplet, but she took serious isssue with the first part of the verse. “Uncertain, coy, and hard to please” was not a description any modern young woman would put up with. Not that she couldn’t think of a few to whom it applied neatly, but in her opinion, not a one of them would ever turn into a ministering angel under any foreseeable circs.

“It’s a lot to ask,” said Jessup, refilling Daisy’s glass.

His wife just projected hopefulness that would have easily reached the balcony in a theatre.

“I think it’s quite a good idea, actually,” said Daisy. “If Alec’s furious, it’ll be with me, not with you, and I’m used to it. However, I can’t possibly be ready to leave before the morning. Reasonably early in the morning, but not tonight.”

Mrs. Jessup agreed that the support Daisy could offer her daughter-in-law was more important than speed in announcing the bad news. Mr. Irwin agreed to have his hired car pick her up at eight o’clock the next morning.

Returning home, Daisy breathed a sigh of relief. They might think they had persuaded her into going, but it was just
what she wanted. By the time she and Irwin arrived at the farm, Mackinnon would have had his talk with Audrey. When she explained that to Alec, he’d have to agree she’d acted for the best. On top of that, she would not only be a comfort to Audrey; she’d be back in the thick of things, instead of languishing in London while the action was in Manchester.

As she entered the house, the telephone bell was ringing. She reached the instrument just as Elsie pushed through the baize door. “You get it,” she requested, stepping back. “I’m not sure I can cope with any more excitement this evening.”

“It’s that Mr. Mackinnon,” Elsie announced a moment later. “The Scotch detective. It’s a trunk call.”

“Oh dear! Right-oh, I’ll talk to him.” Daisy took the receiver and put her hand over the transmitter. “Elsie, I have to go out of town for a couple of days. Would you get started on packing? I’ll wear country clothes tomorrow—the heather tweed costume and a motoring coat—and then—Whatever do you suppose one wears in Manchester?”

“A dirty place, by what I’ve heard, madam. You’ll want something dark.”

“Right-oh. I’ll be up in a minute.” She uncovered the transmitter. “Hello, Mr. Mackinnon, this is Mrs. Fletcher. What can I do for you?”

The line was terrible, with a crackling noise interrupted by periodic pops.

“Mrs. Fletcher?” Mackinnon shouted.

“Yes!” Daisy shouted back.

“I’m in Lincolnshire, at the Boston police station. The Chief told me to ring up to find out whit’s going on, but they told me at the Yard he’s on his way to Manchester, and Mr. Tring’s gone hame.” He always sounded more Scottish than ever when harassed. “Can ye no gie me an inkling whit’s happened sin’ I left?”

Using initials for those involved, in case the exchange girl was listening in—country operators usually having more time to spare than those in town—Daisy passed on all she knew.
Her exposition was punctuated at regular intervals by the operator’s “Your time is up, caller. Would you like another three minutes?” The really irritating thing was that the line always cleared miraculously for these announcements, then reverted to hissing and spitting like an angry cat for Mackinnon’s reply.

“So you don’t have to try to find out from Mrs. A.J. where her husband is. And that’s about the lot,” Daisy said at last, “or at least all I can remember. Alec doesn’t tell me everything, of course. But if I may venture a suggestion, I wouldn’t mention Mr. A.J. being in hospital, if I were you. It’d only upset Mrs. A.J. and make it more difficult for you to get answers out of her. She’ll find out soon enough.”

“Yon’s no the Chief’s notion, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“No, just my opinion.”

“I s’ll have to consider—”

“Your time is up, caller. Would you like another three minutes?”

“No, thank you, operator. Thank you, Mrs. Fletch—”

The line went silent.

Oh well, Daisy thought, she had done her best for Audrey. She could only hope Mackinnon would see the sense in her suggestion. She went upstairs to pack.

Alec and
Patrick arrived in Manchester in the small hours of the morning. It was raining. Patrick wanted to go at once to the Royal Infirmary. Alec, not entirely disingenuously, persuaded him that his brother would be sleeping and ought not to be disturbed. Indeed, the hospital would certainly not allow a visit to the ward, and moving Aidan to a private room—let alone to a nursing home—in the middle of the night was not a good idea, was, in fact, a rotten idea. Rest and peace were what a concussion victim needed most.

He felt only slightly guilty. The truth of his words was not altered by his own intention of disturbing the patient at the earliest feasible hour of the morning. He was not about to permit the brothers to meet before he had taken Aidan’s statement.

They went to the London Road Station Hotel. Patrick went straight to his room. Alec’s day was by no means yet ended.

First, he rang up the Manchester police headquarters. True to his word, Superintendent Crane had paved the way. The duty sergeant promised him a car and a detective constable to pick him up at the hotel at quarter past six. Hospitals were notorious
for starting their day ridiculously early. Alec reckoned that by the time he had worked his way through the bureaucracy and spoken to the almoner and the doctor, Aidan Jessup should be washed, shaved, fed, and as ready for interrogation as he was likely to be. Assuming he was not inconveniently still unconscious.

This arranged, Alec returned to the reception desk. No one was there, but a sleepy-eyed porter limped over from his post by the door and advised him to ring the bell.

“Thank you, in a minute. Were you on duty last night?”

“Oh aye, that I were.”

“You saw the man who was taken away to hospital?”

“Oh aye. Coom in here lookin’ like death, he did, ’bout this time last night. Cou’n’t stand up straight and wobbling abaht like a one-legged parrot. I thought he were drunk as an oyster, but he were dressed like a gent, an’ ‘e gave the porter what brought his bags from the station an ‘alf crown. Gave me another when I lent him a hand. He’d wired ahead to book a room, so Mr. Greaves didn’t—”

“What I did or didn’t do cannot possibly interest this gentleman, Wetherby.” The voice of authority emanated from a very small man, not much more than a midget, slim and dapper, with only crow’s-feet and greying temples to distinguish him from a boy. He had appeared through the door behind the reception counter, which hid all but his head until he stepped up onto a stool.

“But it
does
interest me,” said Alec, producing his warrant card. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard. You’re the night manager, I take it, Mr. Greaves? May I have a word with you?”

Greaves raised his eyebrows. “A police matter, is it? You’d better come back into the office.”

“Thanks, Mr. Wetherby,” Alec said to the porter, and followed the manager through the door.

An electric fire, occupying a stingy Victorian grate, made the office considerably cosier than the lobby outside. There
was a utilitarian desk, a safe, and a filing cabinet, but two armchairs flanked the fireplace and the fragrance of coffee filled the air. A pot steamed gently over a spirit lamp on a small table.

“Take a seat. Coffee?”

“That would be very welcome. It’s been a long day.”

As he poured, Greaves said, “The man who was taken ill was a Jessup. The man who arrived with you was a Jessup. I hope the family hasn’t called in Scotland Yard because of any suspicion of skulduggery in this hotel having caused Mr. Jessup’s collapse.”

“Scotland Yard is not so easily called in, I assure you. Does your recollection of his arrival agree with the porter’s?”

“I didn’t hear everything he said, but I’d be surprised if it differed by much. As you can imagine, there’s been a good deal of talk among the staff.”

“Well, then, tell me how you saw it.”

Greaves shrugged. “I’m always at the desk at that time, as when you arrived, because of the express from London. Mostly businessmen take that train. It’s not unknown for one or two to arrive slightly squiffy, and I can tell you, it’s a delicate balancing act whether to give them a room or not. We’ve the reputation of the hotel to consider, both the reputation for hospitality and as being a quiet, respectable place. If they’re not at a noisy stage of inebriation, and if they’ve booked in advance, we let ’em stay, especially if we know them.”

“You know Aidan Jessup?”

“He’s stayed here for a few days every autumn since I’ve worked here. Nice gentleman, sober and steady as they come, I’d’ve said, but …”

“But last night?”

“Last night, he couldn’t walk or talk straight, seemed sort of dazed, looked alarmingly as if he might be sick at any moment. You know that greenish look? He complained of a splitting headache. I did ask if he was ill, but he denied it. Said he just needed a few hours in bed. He had a hired car and driver organised
for nine the next—that’s
this
morning. That’s as far as my personal knowledge goes.”

“Thank you. You’ll be asked to sign a statement later. Now, off the record, will you tell me what you were told about subsequent events when you came to work this evening? As far as we’re concerned, this is hearsay, which cannot be used in evidence, but it may help me decide whom else I need to interview.”

“Can’t you tell me what this is all about? If the hotel is going to be mentioned in the papers in the context of a police enquiry, I’ll probably be blamed for letting him stay, and jobs are few and far between. Forewarned is forearmed.”

Alec wondered if the poor devil, intelligent and well-spoken as he was, had trouble finding jobs because of his diminutive stature. “It’s highly unlikely the hotel will play much of a part, if any,” he assured him. “It’s a London affair I’m investigating. I can’t tell you more, I’m afraid. Go on, please.”

“There’s not much to tell. I gather the motor-car and chauffeur turned up as expected. Mr. Jessup had got himself down to the lobby somehow and was sitting huddled up in a chair in his coat and hat, still looking deathly ill. The driver took one look at him and said he wouldn’t be responsible. He was afraid he’d find himself out in the country somewhere with a corpse in the backseat. And the poor gentleman wasn’t even well enough to sit up straight and argue. So Mr. Hatcher, the day manager, called a doctor and Mr. Jessup was whisked off to hospital, a hotel being no place to care for a sick man.”

“You didn’t hear what the doctor said was wrong with him?”

“No. Oh, I believe he had a bandaged head. A sticking plaster or some such. No one had seen him without his hat before the doctor examined him.”

Though Alec was no medical man, he’d dealt with the aftermath of enough assault and batteries and grievous bodily harms to know that the worst effects of a blow to the head are often delayed. The symptoms sounded appropriate. But what on
earth had happened the previous afternoon in Constable Circle? Castellano and Aidan Jessup had hit each other over the head with one or more blunt instruments? It sounded ridiculous.

Had Aidan, at the time, remained sufficiently compos mentis to murder his assailant? Or had he been knocked out, leaving vengeance to his brother?

There was still the remote possibility that Aidan had been injured after leaving home, or, even less likely, after reaching Manchester. Tracing him among the hordes at St. Pancras was a long shot, but Manchester’s London Road Station after midnight was a brighter prospect. Aidan’s railway porter must be found and questioned, Alec decided. Sipping his coffee, he wished it could be postponed till the morning, but the night staff would go off duty and memories would fade.

He swallowed the last drop of coffee, regretfully declined another cup, thanked Greaves, and went to see if the hotel porter happened to know the name of the railway porter.

“Fred Banks,” said Wetherby promptly. “We was in the Manchester Regiment together.”

Alec trudged back into the station. Knowing the name, finding the porter was easy, and he was as willing to talk as his regimental mate.

“Course I remember the gent,” he said, his Manchester accent thick as the industrial city’s soot-laden air. “When the train pulled in, I seen him standing at a door. Waved me over and pointed out his luggage.”

“Was he talking normally?”

“Yes, sir, normal as any Londoner do. Didn’t seem nowt the matter with him, barring he looked tired, which all the passengers do comin’ orf that train. He stepped down to the platform as I went over to him, and he missed his footing seemingly. He didn’t fall acos I caught him, but he landed on his feet with a bit of a jar. He were a mite shook-up, like, that’s all. It’s only a few inches. Then when I come down with his bags, he were leaning against my barrow, looking sick as a dog.”

“Did you suspect he might be drunk?”

“No, sir, acos he were all right before. I did wonder was it shell shock. It takes some people funny, and a jar like that might bring it on. Any road, I arst was he all right, and he said, sort of slurred, like, yes, he just wanted to get on to the hotel. So I took him, and I can tell you, I didn’t think he’d make it, for all it’s hardly a step. But I got him there and turned him over to Jim Wetherby, as is porter at the hotel. He give me half a crown. A nice gent, and I’m sure I hope he’ll be all right. It’s a funny thing, shell shock.”