Murder on the Caronia (15 page)

“She was, Mr. Dillman.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I spoke to her. I told Winifred that I was going for a long walk.” He rubbed his beard. “What I didn’t say, of course, was that I wasn’t coming back. I’d packed my things a day earlier and left them at Carrie’s flat.”

“How did you feel when you walked out of the house?”

“Relieved.”

“And vengeful?”

“Oh, yes,” confessed the other. “I was getting my revenge.”

“Your wife died in agony that same day, Mr. Heritage. Are you sure your revenge didn’t take a more deadly turn?”

“Quite sure.”

“Then why did you take home that poison from the pharmacy?”

Heritage lowered his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he mumbled.

“But it does,” insisted Dillman. “It’s a crucial factor. You had motive, means, and opportunity to kill your wife. What puzzles me is why you recorded the purchase of that poison in the record book at the pharmacy. Surely you could have taken it without anyone ever knowing.” There was a strained silence. “Well?”

“I
wanted
her to know,” said Heritage.

“Miss Peterson?”

“No, my wife.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The poison was not for Winifred at all.”

Dillman was shocked. “You intended to commit suicide?”

“It seemed like the only way out at the time,” Heritage said gloomily. “In view of what’s happened since, I’m beginning to wish I’d had the courage to go through with it.”

When she found the store where the flowers were kept, a steward in a blue apron was arranging displays in a series of small vases. He gave a polite smile.

“Can I help you, madam?”

“I hope so,” said Genevieve. “Earlier on, I received a bouquet of flowers. They could only have come from here. I’d like to know who sent them.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” said the man.

“Why not?”

“Because I gave my word to the customer.”

“Was it a lady called Mrs. Robart, by any chance?”

“The customer didn’t give me a name.”

“Just tell me if it was a man or a woman,” said Genevieve. “That’s all I ask.”

The steward wavered. “Well…”

“
Please
—this is important to me.”

“It was a gentleman,” he admitted, “but that’s all I’m prepared to say.”

Genevieve thanked him and left him to get on with his work. She was relieved to be able to eliminate Cecilia Robart from consideration but would clearly have to wait before the true identity of the sender was revealed. As she walked away, she chided herself for taking time off to do some private detection. A murder had been committed and there was a strong suspicion that drugs were being smuggled across the Atlantic on the
Caronia
. With such serious crimes to address, she felt slightly ashamed of herself. Her main task was to help in the search for the man who killed Sergeant Mulcaster and dumped his body into the sea.

Before she was able to do that, however, she was accosted
on the staircase by Wes Odell. He was not in the mood for pleasantries.

“I need to speak to you, Miss Masefield,” he announced.

“Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t.”

“I’m frightfully busy at the moment.”

“Been looking for you all afternoon. I’m not going to let go of you now.”

“If you insist,” she said with a shrug. “What seems to be the problem?”

“You are, Miss Masefield.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“You’re distracting Theo.”

“Not intentionally, I can promise you.”

“That makes no difference,” said Odell. “Since he met you, his mind is not as completely on his cycling as it should be. Theo claims that it is, but I know him too well. So let’s get one thing straight, shall we?” he affirmed. “His career comes first.”

“I wouldn’t try to contradict that.”

“Then play along with me.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Odell?”

“Keep out of Theo’s way. Give the kid the cold shoulder.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Genevieve, offended by the notion. “I’m free to speak to anyone I choose and I certainly won’t have you exerting any control over my private life.”

His eyes flashed. “Don’t cross me, Miss Masefield.”

“It appears I’ve already done that without even realizing it.”

“There’s too much at stake here.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to make demands of me.”

“Do you know how long it takes to train a champion?”

“Mr. Odell—”

“Do you know how much I’ve invested in Theo Wright?” he asked, jabbing a finger at her. “Years of time and tons of money. That kid was a raw novice when I took him on. He didn’t even have enough dough to look after himself properly. But he had terrific promise. I backed that promise.”

“I’m pleased for both of you.”

“Then don’t stand in our way.”

“That’s not what I’m doing, Mr. Odell.”

“I want a return on my investment,” he asserted. “I’ve been building him up steadily for this race in France. It’s the most important test of his career. Theo has got the talent to win—but only if he commits himself heart and soul to the race.”

“I can’t imagine him doing anything else. He’s very single-minded.”

“He was until you came on the scene, Miss Masefield.”

“I’m just one passenger among over two thousand.”

“You’re the only one that matters to him.”

“I can’t believe that,” said Genevieve, anxious to detach herself. “However, I refuse to discuss this any further. Theo and I are friends, but that’s as far as it goes and as far as it ever could go. Does that satisfy you?”

“No,” he said stubbornly.

“Well, it’s all that you’re going to get, Mr. Odell.”

“I want more than that.”

“Excuse me,” she said, trying to walk past him.

He blocked her path. “You’re going nowhere till we’ve got this sorted out.”

“It
is
sorted out.”

“I want your word that you’ll lie low for a while.”

“Lie low?” echoed Genevieve, insulted by the suggestion. “Who on earth do you think you are, Mr. Odell? You can’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re a threat to Theo.”

“That’s a matter between you and him.”

“No, it’s between the two of us, Miss Masefield. I’ve spoken to Theo. He won’t even talk about the subject. That shows how bad it is.”

“It’s not my fault.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” he said resentfully. “You gave the guy plenty of encouragement over a meal yesterday.”

Genevieve was roused. “I did nothing of the kind, I assure
you. If you interpret polite conversation as encouragement, Mr. Odell, then you need to have some lessons in social behavior. Now, please get out of my way.”

“One last warning.”

“No,” she replied with dignity. “I won’t hear another word.”

She glared at him. He moved reluctantly out of her way and she swept past him.

“Just wait,” he called after her. “You’ll be sorry you didn’t play ball.”

The talk with John Heritage had been enlightening. Dillman learned that the case was far more complex than he had imagined when he studied the dossier loaned to him by Inspector Redfern. Circumstantial evidence was still heavily weighted against the suspect, and Dillman was by no means persuaded of his innocence, yet he felt he had seen a side of Heritage that had been invisible to the detectives who had arrested him. After admitting that he had contemplated suicide, the man had broken down and cried. It was a touching scene. Sitting in silence, Dillman gave him plenty of time to recover. What he could not decide was whether the tears were genuine or a display of emotion calculated to win his sympathy. Heritage dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “Do forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I’ve been under such terrible pressure these last few days.”

“I know, Mr. Heritage.”

“Have you ever had the police chasing you?”

“No,” said Dillman. “I’ve usually done the chasing. It’s very stressful for the suspect. I’ve seen more than one collapse with a heart attack when cornered.”

“I’m surprised I didn’t do the same,” Heritage said ruefully. “We thought we were safe when we got to Ireland. When we managed to get a passage to America, we were absolutely certain that we were. You can guess how we felt when we they arrested us on board ship.”

“Was Sergeant Mulcaster carrying a shotgun at the time?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman. I still have the bruise on my chest where he prodded me with it. But it was the way he grabbed Carrie that really upset me. There was no need for it at all. It was gratuitous violence.”

“Go back to what you were telling me.”

“About the poison?”

“Does Inspector Redfern know why you bought it?”

Redfern shook his head. “No. I kept that from him.”

“Why?”

“For two reasons,” said the other man. “First, I don’t think he’d have believed me. Second—and more to the point—I was too ashamed to talk about it. Except to Carrie. It was before we had decided to run away together. My wife had refused to give me a divorce and the situation seemed utterly hopeless.”

“Killing yourself would have solved nothing.”

“I realize that now.”

“You’d have had two women grieving over you.”

“One,” Heritage said bluntly. “Carrie Peterson. It was because of her that I drew back.” Hatred came into his voice. “Winifred never would have mourned me. She’d have been glad, Mr. Dillman. It would have meant that she’d won.”

“Won what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.”

But Heritage was not prepared to say anything more about his marriage. After a few more questions, Dillman elected to bring the interview to an end. He needed to assimilate what he had already gathered.

“Perhaps we can talk again sometime,” he suggested.

Heritage was guarded. “If you wish—but don’t expect a confession.”

“I’ve already had one. Of a kind.”

He got up from his chair and the prisoner followed suit. As they moved to the door, Heritage remembered something. He looked Dillman in the eye.

“What happened to Inspector Redfern’s head?” he asked.

“He had an accident.”

“Is that the truth?”

“As far as I know, Mr. Heritage.”

“What about Sergeant Mulcaster? Why hasn’t he come today?”

“Would you rather be questioned by him?”

“Not at all,” said Heritage. “I won’t pretend that I enjoyed this chat with you but it was far more pleasurable than a grilling by Sergeant Mulcaster. He’s a vicious bully. I was lucky that he didn’t beat me to a pulp. He was more than capable of it. The sergeant used to boast about what he’d done to other people he caught.”

“Indeed?”

“He was trying to scare me, Mr. Dillman. Thank heaven that Inspector Redfern kept him under control or I might have finished up like Nicholls.”

“Who?”

“Sidney Nicholls,” explained Heritage. “The sergeant claims he resisted arrest and that gave him the license to tear the man apart. He boasted to me that he put Nicholls in hospital for a fortnight.”

“What was the man’s crime?”

“Drug trafficking.”

TEN

F
rank Openshaw liked to collect people around him so that he could hold court. There was more to it than the simple desire to impress them with the story of his life. Though many of the guests would be invited purely on a social basis, there would always be a smattering of those whom he hoped to involve in one of his many business ventures. Hospitable by nature, he also expected a return on his money. When he and his wife returned to their cabin that afternoon, they went through the guest list for their next gathering. Those who had come on the previous evening were discounted. Twenty new people had been invited to join them for drinks before dinner. The list was not entirely made up of his choices. Kitty Openshaw had contributed a couple of names herself.

“These are mine,” she said, handing him a slip of paper.

He glanced at the names. “Who is Iris Cooney?”

“A lovely American lady, who visits her son in London every two years. She uses a walking stick but she refuses to let arthritis hold her back. Mrs. Cooney sat next to me in the hairdressing salon.”

“Is she traveling alone?”

“Her husband passed away ten years ago.”

“Does she have any brass?”

“Frank!” scolded his wife.

“Some of these American widows have more money than they know what to do with,” he said airily. “Look at that woman we met on the
Mauretania
when we sailed to New York. She was worth millions.”

“Well, I didn’t ask Mrs. Cooney about her money. It’s not the polite thing to do.”

“But you must have got some idea, Kitty. That’s the wonderful thing about brass. You can
smell
it on people. You can see it in the way they dress and the manner in which they talk to other people. That’s why I invited Stanley Chase.”

“Oh, I liked him.”

“So did I.”

“Such nice manners.”

“And such a thick wallet,” he said with a chuckle. “I sensed that as soon as he sat down opposite us. There’s big money in antiques. Look at his card,” he went on, taking it from his waistcoat pocket. “He has a business in the King’s Road, Chelsea, and a house in Knightsbridge. Property is not cheap in either of those places, I can tell you. He also has a cottage in the south of France. Chase must be making a small fortune.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I just thought he was a gentleman.”

“Who’s this other person you’ve invited?”

“Pamela Clyne.”

“Another rich American widow?”

“Far from it,” said Kitty. “She’s English. Miss Clyne is a friend of Iris Cooney’s. I had tea with them this afternoon. It was one of those awkward situations, Frank. I couldn’t invite the one without the other.”

“All the more, the merrier.”

“The truth is that I felt sorry for Pamela Clyne. Apart from Mrs. Cooney, she doesn’t seem to know anyone else on board. She’s one of those very shy women from down south.”

“Wouldn’t last two minutes in Yorkshire, then,” he said briskly. “If you don’t speak up for yourself there, you’re nowt. Pamela Clyne, eh? What’s her story?”

“I’m not sure that she has one.”

“Every woman has a story.”

She clicked her tongue. “You always say that.”

“It’s true, Kitty.”

“Not in Miss Clyne’s case,” said his wife. “She doesn’t seem to have done anything or been anywhere. The trip to America was obviously the biggest thing in her life and she’s still a bit overwhelmed. Just like me after my first trip.”

“You’ve made a few since then.”

“Thanks to you, Frank.”

“Stick with me and I’ll show you the world. That’s what I said.”

“You’ve been as good as your word.”

“I always am.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Right, then. All we have to do is to add your names to my list and we’re done.”

“Who have you invited?”

“All kinds of interesting people.”

“Such as?”

“A bank manager from London, and his wife.”

She smiled indulgently. “Trust you!”

“He could come in useful. You never know.”

“Who else?”

“The finest professional cyclist in America.”

“I didn’t know there were such things.”

“Well, there are and he makes a very decent living out of it. According to his coach, Mr. Odell, the lad is more or less certain to win a famous race in France and pick up a large check for his pains. Odell will make a tidy packet as well.”

“Will he? How?”

“Betting, Kitty. He’s going to back his lad heavily and make a killing.”

“I’ve never seen the point of riding a bicycle round and round
a track,” she said. “It’s a bit like those white mice you see turning a wheel.”

“Theo Wright is a road racer,” he explained. “He’s going to cycle from Bordeaux to Paris. Take him the best part of a day, that will. Bound to be saddlesore after that.”

She was taken aback. “Can anyone cycle for that long?”

“The lad has won six day-races before now, love.”

“Well, I never!”

“Anyway, I invited him and his coach this evening—but I told them to leave the bicycle behind. Theo had one stipulation, though.”

“What was that?”

“He took me aside to whisper it,” said Openshaw, lowering his voice. “Wanted me to invite a certain young lass as well.”

“Why?”

He nudged her softly. “Why do you think, Kitty?”

“Is he sweet on her?”

“As sweet as I was on you at his age.”

“And have you invited her?”

“That was the funny thing,” he said with a ripe chuckle. “I’d already penciled her name in. Met the lass in question earlier on. Stanley Chase introduced me to her. I can see why Theo Wright is so keen to chat with her over a glass of champagne.”

“Oh?”

“She’s right gorgeous, Kitty.”

“What’s her name?”

“Miss Masefield,” he said. “Miss Genevieve Masefield.”

Genevieve arrived at the purser’s office to find both Dillman and Paul Taggart there. The moment she saw Dillman, she knew he had not sent the bouquet to her. He was too preoccupied. His expression was solemn, his mind focused wholly on his work. Involved in a murder investigation, he would have had neither time nor inclination to pick out the flowers. Though he had a strong romantic streak in his nature, she had to accept that it had been subordinated to other things. Hiding her disappointment,
she crossed his name off her mental list.

“I got your note, George,” she said. “What’s happened?”

“Quite a lot. We’ve got a job for you.”

“Well?”

“I’d like you to speak to Carrie Peterson.”

“But Inspector Redfern was against the idea.”

“That was before he lost Sergeant Mulcaster,” said the purser. “The blow the inspector took to the head has left him with a concussion. The doctor insisted on rest. Inspector Redfern is sleeping in his cabin right now.”

“Before he nodded off,” added Dillman, “he gave us his blessing.”

She was pleased. “We can interview the prisoners?”

“Yes, Genevieve. I’ve already spoken to John Heritage.”

“How did he seem?”

“Grateful to talk to someone who didn’t hassle him.”

“Sergeant Mulcaster didn’t believe in the kid-glove approach,” observed Taggart.

“What did you find out, George?” she asked.

Dillman told them the salient facts about his visit to John Heritage but admitted he was no nearer deciding if the man was guilty or innocent of the crime with which he was charged. He picked out one significant piece of information.

“Sergeant Mulcaster boasted about his rough treatment of suspects,” he said. “I’d like you to find out what Carrie Peterson has to say about him. Apparently he was less than courteous when they arrested her.”

“Did you tell Mr. Heritage what has happened to the sergeant?” asked Genevieve.

“No. The inspector wants that information suppressed.”

“I’m all in favor of that,” Taggart said seriously. “If the rest of the passengers knew that a Scotland Yard detective was thrown overboard last night, there’d be general hysteria. That kind of thing gives them the shakes.”

“Inspector Redfern had another reason for keeping it from the prisoners,” said Dillman “and I agree with him. Tread carefully,
Genevieve. You’re not there to trick a confession out of her. Just listen to what she has to say, especially about the sergeant.”

“When can I see her?” she asked.

“As soon as you like.”

“I’ll go there at once.”

“Not before you’ve read this,” said Dillman, handing her a dossier.

“What is it, George?”

“The inspector kindly loaned this to me. It will explain why he’s so adamant that he has two cold-blooded murderers in custody. It’s also got some background material about Carrie Peterson that you need to know.”

“Thanks.”

Dillman looked at her properly for the first time and smiled.

“What have you been up to since we last met, Genevieve?” he asked.

“Routine patrol, for the most part.”

“Has anything come to light?”

“Not as yet. I’m slowly widening my field of contacts. They include a man whose name you’ve already mentioned to me, George.”

“Oh, who’s that?”

“Frank Openshaw.”

“ ‘Frank by name, and frank by nature,’ ” he recalled.

“That’s the one.”

“I know Mr. Openshaw,” said Taggart. “He and his wife have sailed on the
Caronia
before. He’s a wealthy financier. Very popular with the stewards because he gives such handsome tips.”

“He’s certainly a generous host,” said Genevieve. “When I slipped back to my cabin, I found an invitation to join them for drinks before dinner this evening. And I know for a fact that the Openshaws had a similar party yesterday.”

“They’ll have one every evening. They have in the past, anyway.”

Dillman nodded. “Frank Openshaw is a man who likes an audience.”

“Well, I’ll be part of it this evening,” said Genevieve. “It’s the sort of occasion when you can pick up useful information. Anyway,” she went on, holding up the dossier, “I’ll study this before going to see Carrie Peterson. How do you think she’ll react?”

“Positively, I hope,” said Dillman. “If she asks about the bandaging around the inspector’s head, tell her he had an accident but that you don’t know the details.”

“She’s bound to wonder about Mr. Heritage.”

“Assure her that he’s fine.”

“Right.”

“Do all you can to win her confidence.”

“I will, George. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get on with it.”

After an exchange of farewells, she slipped out of the office.

“What do you expect to get out of Carrie Peterson?” asked Taggart.

“I don’t know,” replied Dillman. “From what the inspector told me, she’s a rather strange young lady. That’s why I think Genevieve ought to handle her.”

“Any special reason why you want her to ask about Sergeant Mulcaster?”

“Yes, Mr. Taggart. Something that John Heritage told me rang a tiny bell at the back of my mind. The late Sergeant Mulcaster had many virtues but patience was not one of them. You could see the aggression bubbling away below the surface.”

“I noticed that.”

“Unhappily, it was not always held in check. According to Mr. Heritage, one of the men the sergeant arrested took a dreadful beating and finished up in hospital. That sort of thing gets a detective a bad name.”

“It could have been an isolated incident.”

“I doubt it somehow.”

“And if it wasn’t?”

“Then it might provide us with a motive for his murder,”
said Dillman. “The sergeant clearly enjoyed the reputation he’d gained for robust policing. People on the other side of the law might not be so impressed.”

“Only if they’d come across him.”

“Oh, I suspect that Sergeant Mulcaster’s name was known far and wide. He’s like Frank Openshaw in that respect. He likes to draw attention to himself.” He pursed his lips for a moment. “It’s only a theory, of course, but the more we know about the sergeant, the closer we’ll get to understanding why he was killed.”

“Sounds sensible.”

“It’s a starting point, Mr. Taggart.”

“I agree.” Taggart remembered something. “What about our pickpocket?”

“I’ve had too much to do to give him my full attention,” confessed Dillman, “but I haven’t forgotten him. He’s obviously a pro and that means he doesn’t rush things. He’s targeted two men and relieved them of their wallets so skillfully that they didn’t feel a thing. My guess is that he’ll wait to see the response before he dips his hand in someone’s pocket again. Guys like that have a sixth sense about ship’s detectives.”

“How do you hope to catch him?”

“You’ll see.” He moved to the door. “I’ll get out of your way, Mr. Taggart.”

“No, hold on a minute,” said the purser, sorting through some papers on his desk. “I’ve been doing a little detective work on my own account.”

“Good for you!”

“I could be barking up the wrong tree, of course.”

“We all do that from time to time. What have you found?”

“Well,” said Taggart, “I was checking through the manifest. The obvious way to smuggle drugs is to conceal them inside freight. That’s why it’s examined so carefully before it’s allowed on board. The vast bulk of it is patently legitimate. You only have to look at the names of the people involved. But one or two items in the cargo hold did catch my eye.”

“For instance?”

“This one here,” Taggart pointed a finger at the manifest. “It’s such an unusual item for us to carry. Empty, that is. We’ve had a few occupied ones aboard before now. Someone being returned to his own country and so on.”

“What exactly are you talking about?”

“A funeral casket.”

“Now I’m with you.”

“I got to thinking how easy it’d be to hide drugs in that.”

“Very easy.”

“The guy who brought it on board is English, so I guess he’d call it a coffin.”

Dillman felt a shock of recognition. “I think I know who he is.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Ramsey Leach.”

“How did you guess?”

Wes Odell’s search led him eventually onto the promenade deck. Theodore Wright was leaning against the rail, chatting with a short, swarthy man of middle years with a neat mustache. Odell was glad that he had found the cyclist at last.