Murder on the Caronia (17 page)

“Go ahead, Mr. Dillman.”

Redfern sat down to listen. He was impressed by Dillman’s lucid account of the meeting with the prisoner and interested to hear the new facts that had come to light. On one point, however, he remained skeptical.

“I refuse to believe that John Heritage bought that poison because he was contemplating suicide.”

“That’s how he thought you’d feel,” said Dillman.

“To begin with, I don’t think he’s the type.”

“Why not?”

“Look at the fellow, Mr. Dillman. He was locked into an unhappy marriage for all those years. His partner, Stephen Duckham, seems to have taken advantage of him at every stage. Heritage became resigned to it all,” said Redfern. “You don’t put up with that kind of misery for all those years then decide one day that you can’t stand it. He
could
stand it. That’s obvious.”

“You’re forgetting the crucial factor.”

“Am I?”

“Carrie Peterson. When she came into his life,” said Dillman, “everything was transformed. He suddenly had a vision of a better life with her. He just couldn’t go on as he was. The low point came when his wife refused to give him a divorce. My guess is that that was when he had these suicidal thoughts.”

“Thoughts, maybe. But would he have the courage to act on them?”

“You need desperation rather than courage, Inspector. He certainly had that.”

“What about Miss Peterson? He claims to love her.”

“I don’t think we can doubt that.”

“Would any man commit suicide in that situation? He’d be leaving her in the most appalling predicament. Heritage would never have done that to Carrie Peterson.”

“Probably not.”

“There’s another point, Mr. Dillman. According to the pathology report, the poisons he bought were used to make a lethal compound. Winifred Heritage died in agony. Her husband
was a pharmacist,” said Redfern. “If he was planning to kill himself, surely he’d have chosen a less painful method.”

Dillman nodded. “What puzzled me is the record book, Inspector.”

“Why?”

“When he bought the poison, Heritage noted it down with care. When you found his wife dead, all you had to do was to look in the record book at the pharmacy, and there was your proof.” Dillman shrugged. “Mr. Heritage is an intelligent man. He would have diverted suspicion away from himself, not paint a large red arrow for the police to follow. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It does when you really get to know him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve played chess with him, remember? His true character began to emerge then. He was toying with me, laughing into his beard every time I made a mistake. I think he
wanted
us to know that he’d murdered his wife,” said Redfern, “because he never thought we’d track him to Ireland. Don’t you see, Mr. Dillman? He was taunting us.”

“There’s a big difference between a game of chess and a murder.”

“Both involve cunning and forethought.”

“True.”

“Be frank with me. You’ve met the man. Do you think he’s capable of murder?”

“Yes,” decided Dillman. “He’s
capable
of it, but that doesn’t mean he actually committed it.” He put his notebook away. “Does the name of Sidney Nicholls mean anything to you?”

Redfern’s face hardened. “Why do you ask?”

“Because he was mentioned by Sergeant Mulcaster on more than one occasion, it seems. When he questioned Mr. Heritage, the sergeant used to boast about some of the arrests he’d made. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead,” said Dillman, “but your colleague does seem to have exceeded the bounds of reasonable force at times.”

“Ronnie Mulcaster was a good detective.”

“I’m sure that he was.”

“I don’t need to tell you how aggressive some criminals can get.”

“Was this Sidney Nicholls one of them?”

“According to Sergeant Mulcaster,” said Redfern. “He was working with someone else in those days. Nicholls was the worst kind of villain. He was completely unscrupulous. We’d been after him for years.”

“He was involved in drug trafficking, I believe.”

“And prostitution. Sidney Nicholls was scum, Mr. Dillman. When Ronnie finally caught up with him, Nicholls gave him a lot of verbal abuse. Ronnie saw red and gave him the hiding that he deserved.”

“In other words, he lost his temper.”

“He was provoked,” Redfern said defensively.

“What did his superiors do?”

“They gave him a reprimand.”

“Is that all? It sounds to me as if Sergeant Mulcaster went too far.”

“Nicholls was asking for it, Mr. Dillman.”

“Would
you
have responded like that, Inspector?”

“No,” Redfern admitted. “I’d have exercised restraint.”

“What happened when Sergeant Mulcaster was reprimanded?”

“I spoke up for him, Mr. Dillman. I asked for him to be transferred to me.”

“When was this?”

“A few years ago.”

“Did the sergeant do anything like that again?”

“Nothing as bad as that.”

“But there were other occasions when he became over-zealous?”

“Look, why are we talking about him like this?” Redfern said angrily. “Ronnie Mulcaster had an excellent record as a detective. He got results and that’s what matters. You ought to be
searching for his killer, not running the man down. Why dredge up the name of a villain like Sidney Nicholls?”

“Because I think he may be relevant here.”

“How?”

“Indirectly,” said Dillman. “He may be part of the reason that you were spared and Sergeant Mulcaster was murdered. What you’ve just told me has made me even more convinced of it. We have a clear motive, Inspector.”

“Do we?”

“Revenge.”

Locked in his cell again, John Heritage had plenty of time to brood. He wondered what sort of an impression he had made on Dillman. The detective was not an official part of the investigation but he was a means by which Inspector Redfern could be influenced. Heritage had reservations about his visitor. Dillman had been polite, efficient, and highly plausible but his reason for being there was never exactly clear. Heritage had been on guard throughout, sensing that the American was there to use a friendly chat as a subtle means of cross-examination. It was a more pleasant way of being questioned than either of the Scotland Yard detectives could devise, and it got him, albeit briefly, out of the narrow confines of his cell. For that alone, he was grateful to Dillman. Whether or not he could count on him as a possible ally was uncertain. Heritage reminded himself that, in essence, his visitor was a policeman. None of them could be trusted.

While his chief concern was the fate of Carrie Peterson, he also speculated on the whereabouts of Sergeant Mulcaster. It was late afternoon and still he had seen no sign of the man. That was highly unusual. Mulcaster was the sort of person who would be sure to call on him, if only to gloat through the bars in the window. Heritage suspected it was on the sergeant’s advice that he had been moved from his cabin. By depriving him of any comforts, they were hoping to weaken his resistance.
That seemed to be their strategy. Ignoring him throughout the day might also be deliberate. It left him vulnerable to the more relaxed interrogation by Dillman and allowed the two detectives to concentrate instead on Carrie Peterson. It was impossible to know how she would cope under the strain. Unable to help her or even to make contact with her, Heritage felt sad and frustrated. The blame lay firmly on him and he was beset by recriminations.

It was the commotion that interrupted his brooding. An old man’s voice, slurred and angry, echoed along the corridor. There were distinct sounds of a scuffle.

“Take your hands off me!” yelled the old man.

“Come along, sir,” said a younger voice. “You need to sober up.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, you bastard!”

“You got drunk and started a fight, sir. We can’t allow that.”

“Those Yanks tried to take my whiskey off me,” protested the old man.

“You’d had too much of it already.”

Heritage put his face to the grille in time to see the adjoining cell being unlocked by a member of the crew. Two other crew members were holding a wizened old man who was swearing volubly as he tried to get free. Heritage was about to acquire a neighbor.

“You can’t touch me,” cried Daniel Webb. “I’ll report you to the purser!”

“You’re the one on report, sir,” said the younger man. “In you go.”

The prisoner was thrown unceremoniously into the cell and the door was locked behind him. With his wild imprecations still ringing in their ears, the three men walked off. Heritage had not enjoyed solitude but it was preferable to being forced to listen to the curses of an inebriated old man. He waited until Webb’s protests began to fade.

“Hello,” he called through the grille. “Can you hear me?”

“Who are you?” growled Webb.

“I’m in the next cell, my friend. I’m a victim of false arrest.”

“So am I, so am I. They ought to be grateful to me. Wait till the purser hears about this—and that Mr. Dillman. He was the one who
gave
me the bottle.”

Heritage was alert. “George Dillman? The ship’s detective?”

“That’s the bloke.”

“Why did he give you a bottle of whisky?”

“I helped them, see?” Webb said belligerently. “I’m their only witness. And this is the way they treat me. Without me, they wouldn’t even know he was dead.”

“Who?” asked Heritage.

“The bloke what was thrown over the side of the ship. I was there. I saw it.”

“Are you saying that someone was
killed
?”

“Yes,” said Webb. “Last night. Right in front of my eyes. This man was clubbed to the deck then pushed over the rail. I watched it all. What do you think of that?”

Heritage sat down on his bunk, his mind racing madly.

ELEVEN

G
enevieve Masefield had spent almost a half an hour alone with the prisoner, but progress was extremely slow. At no point did she feel she had won the other woman’s confidence. Carrie Peterson told her a great deal about the circumstances that had led her to flee from England with her lover but Genevieve sensed she was holding something back. Time was running out. It was now early evening and Genevieve needed to change for dinner. She brought the interview to an end.

“Thank you, Miss Peterson,” she said. “What you told me was very revealing.”

“It was such a relief to talk to a woman for a change.”

“That’s why Inspector Redfern sent me.”

“I’m grateful.” Carrie searched her face. “Have you reached a verdict yet?”

“Verdict?”

“Isn’t that what you were supposed to do?” she pressed. “Ask me questions then report back to the inspector? What will you tell him?”

“Exactly what you’ve said to me.”

“But you must have made a decision about us. Do you think we’re guilty?”

“It’s not for me to say.”

“You must have an opinion.”

“No, Miss Peterson.”

“Supposing you were a member of the jury.”

“I’d need to study all the evidence before I even thought about reaching a conclusion,” said Genevieve, moving to the door. “All that I’ve heard so far is your side of the story.”

“John will confirm all the details.”

“I’m sure that he will.”

Carrie crossed over to her. “We’re not killers, Miss Masefield,” she said with sudden passion. “We were just trying to start a new life. It was our last chance.” A note of envy sounded. “It’s so different for you. You’re beautiful and intelligent and all the things that I’m not. Wherever you go, men will be attracted to you. I had nobody until John came along. You may think it’s wrong that he’s so much older than me, but the truth is”—she went on, biting her lip—“he’s all I’ve got. Don’t you understand? John was the only man who ever took a real interest in me. Do you think I’d jeopardize my one chance of happiness by committing a dreadful crime?”

“Probably not.”

“Tell that to the inspector. He doesn’t seem to appreciate the point.”

“Good-bye, Miss Peterson,” said Genevieve, opening the door. “And I
don’t
think it’s wrong that there’s an age gap between you and Mr. Heritage. To be honest, I find it rather touching. There’s no reason at all why people of different ages shouldn’t fall in love.” She saw tears come into the other woman’s eyes. “However, that’s not the point at issue, is it? I must go now. Excuse me.”

Letting herself out, Genevieve locked the door behind her then walked along to the adjoining cabin. Uncertain whether Inspector Redfern was up yet, she gave a tentative knock. He
opened the door almost immediately and invited her in.

“How are you, Inspector?” she asked.

“Fine, fine,” he replied. “I gather that you’ve spoken with Carrie Peterson.”

“I listened rather than spoke.”

“What did you make of her?”

“She’s an interesting woman. There’s more to her than appears on the surface.”

“I think she’s devious and calculating.”

“That’s not the impression I got.”

“Oh?”

“Miss Peterson is still bewildered by the turn of events,” said Genevieve. “Only true love could have made her change her life so radically. She staked everything on it. Suddenly, it blows up in their faces. She’s bound to be confused.”

Redfern was cynical. “I hope you’re not asking me to feel sorry for her.”

“Not at all, Inspector. I just want you to understand her position.”

“In my view, her position is alongside John Heritage as his accomplice. He is certainly guilty,” the inspector asserted. “No shadow of a doubt about that. Since they were so close, my guess is that she was an accessory to the murder of Winifred Heritage.”

“They were close,” agreed Genevieve, “yet she claims she knew nothing about the money that was taken from the pharmacy account. He kept that from her.”

“Perhaps, Miss Masefield; though I’m not entirely convinced of that. What he couldn’t disguise was the fact that he’d bought the poison that helped to kill his wife. Carrie Peterson had access to the record book at the pharmacy. She must have seen his name there.”

“I didn’t raise that with her.”

“I did. Her answer was evasive. However,” he said, indicating a chair, “I’d like to know how you got on.”

Genevieve sat down.

“With luck, she may have confided things to you that she concealed from Sergeant Mulcaster and me.”

“Judge for yourself, Inspector.”

Genevieve gave him a succinct account of her meeting with Carrie Peterson, taking care to present the information without making any personal comment. The inspector was pleasantly surprised at the number of new details Genevieve had elicited from the woman. As he listened, he gained fresh insights into the relationship between the two suspects. Nothing he heard caused him to revise his opinion about their guilt but he was glad to have the additional facts at his disposal.

“Thank you, Miss Masefield,” he said. “You’ve done a valuable job. I had grave doubts about the wisdom of letting you interview her, but I can see now that it’s been a profitable exercise.”

“I’ll be happy to talk to her again.”

“How would Miss Peterson respond to that?”

“Warmly, I imagine. She was so pleased to have female company.”

“Let me think it over.”

“Her overriding concern is for Mr. Heritage,” said Genevieve, getting up from her chair. “She’s upset that you’ve moved him out of his cabin. Even though they can’t make contact, she felt reassured to know that he was relatively close to her.”

He thought it over. “I’ll probably have him moved back,” he decided. “But not to appease his mistress,” he stressed. “It will be more for my own convenience. I don’t want to spend any more time in that cell with him. It stinks. I only put him in there as a temporary measure when I lost the services of Sergeant Mulcaster.”

“Miss Peterson kept asking where the sergeant was.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That he was busy elsewhere.”

“Good,” he said. “I don’t want either of them to know what happened. In fact, the fewer people who are aware of the situation, the better. It would only spread panic and that could hinder the investigation.”

“Have you any idea what the motive was?”

“I don’t, Miss Masefield, but your colleague believes that he does.”

“George?”

“An astute man,” conceded Redfern. “You don’t suppose he’d be interested in a job at Scotland Yard, do you?”

“Not unless it involved sailing across an ocean,” she said.

Redfern grimaced. “He’s got more appetite for that kind of thing than me,” he said grimly. “This voyage has turned into a nightmare. Quite frankly, Miss Masefield, I don’t care if I never see another ocean liner again.”

Nobody would have guessed that Paul Taggart was under any strain. When he strolled into the first-class lounge early that evening, he looked poised and assured. His smart uniform helped him to make a pleasing impact on all the passengers who were gathering there before dinner. It was not long before he was ambushed. Wearing a ruby-red gown that reached down to her ankles, Mrs. Anstruther confronted him. Her perfume billowed towards him in a wave.

“Why haven’t you locked him up?” she demanded.

“Who?”

“That weird man, Mr. Taggart. The one I reported to you.”

“Mrs. Anstruther—”

“He was
looking
at me, in the most upsetting way. Lord knows what disgusting thoughts were going through his warped mind!” she said with a shudder. “I shan’t feel safe in my bed until he’s under lock and key.”

“There’s no danger, I promise you.”

“I think that there is.”

“The gentleman has been spoken to,” said Taggart.

“He was no gentleman, believe me!”

“Try to forget him, Mrs. Anstruther.”

“How can I, when that dreadful creature is at liberty? You should have seen those mad eyes of his, Mr. Taggart. They were twins pools of evil.”

“That’s not true at all,” he said smoothly. “I’m reliably informed that Mr. Morris suffers from a medical condition that makes his eyes protrude like that. He couldn’t
help
the way he looked at you—or anyone else, for that matter. Instead of reporting the man for being a nuisance, you ought to take pity on him.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “Are we talking about the same passenger?”

“Mr. Morris. Mostyn Morris.”

“That’s the man. One hears so many things about the Welsh, you know.”

“Well, I should pay no attention to them, Mrs. Anstruther. They only lead to silly misunderstandings. Since you found his company unsettling, Mr. Morris has given a firm undertaking to sit well away from you.”

“I see.”

“There’s no call for any more anxiety.”

“But I still dream about the way he stared at me.”

“I can’t do anything about that,” he said. “And now, if you’ll excuse me …”

“Wait,” she ordered, grabbing his arm. “I have another complaint.”

Taggart took a deep breath. “Not about Mr. Morris again, I trust?”

“No, it’s about the lady in the single cabin next to me.”

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“I hardly like to put it into words, Mr. Taggart.” She looked around to make sure they were not overheard. “Illicit behavior is taking place.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“She’s been entertaining a man in there.”

“There’s no rule against that, Mrs. Anstruther.”

“There should be,” she argued. “Immorality is the first sign of a nation’s decay. Look at Rome. Look at Babylon.” She spoke in a whisper. “Look in the cabin next door to me. It’s scandalous.”

“What is?”

“The way she conducts herself. I was appalled. When I first met her, I thought she was a nice, quiet, respectable Christian lady. Last night, I saw her in her true colors.”

“As what?”

“A scarlet woman!”

“I think you may be exaggerating.”

“Am I?” rejoined Mrs. Anstruther. “You should have peeped out of my cabin at midnight, as I did. Do you know what I saw? A man was tapping on her door in what seemed to be a private code. The next moment, the door opened and in he went. I am talking about a spinster here, Mr. Taggart, an unmarried woman who was receiving a visitor at that hour.”

“There may be an innocent explanation.”

“Only one explanation comes to my mind.”

“People are entitled to the benefit of the doubt.”

“Oh, there was no doubt about this,” she assured him. “When I put my ear to the wall of my cabin, I heard suggestive noises. Need I say more?”

“No, Mrs. Anstruther.”

“She was actually
giggling
. At her age!”

“That’s hardly a crime.”

She pointed a finger. “What action do you intend to take?”

“None, at this stage.”

“None!”

“I’m a purser,” he said patiently, “not an archbishop. It’s not for me to issue any moral guidelines. What people do in private is entirely their own affair.”

“Even if they’re not
married
?”

“Even then.”

“But this happened only feet away from where I lay,” she told him. “I couldn’t sleep a wink all night.”

“I thought you said that you dreamt about Mr. Morris’s eyes.”

“Did I? Well, that was later, when I dozed off out of sheer fatigue.”

“If it bothers you that much, Mrs. Anstruther, I’ll see if we
can move you to another cabin—yet again. Leave it with me and I’ll speak to the chief steward.”

“Can’t you move
her
to another cabin—and him?”

“Presumably he already has a cabin of his own. Who knows?” he asked, unable to resist the temptation to outrage her further. “Perhaps the lady will visit his cabin tonight. They make take it in turns to use each other’s beds.”

“What a grotesque idea!”

“They’re breaking no law.”

“They are, in my opinion.”

“Passengers are allowed to invite visitors into their cabins.”

“Not for
that
reason, Mr. Taggart.”

“For any reason they choose,” he said, keen to bring the conversation to an end. “The Cunard Line has no jurisdiction over people’s private lives.”

“It should have. Standards of decency must be set by someone.”

“Not by us. It would be an intrusion.”

“The captain will hear about this.”

“You’d be wasting your time,” he said. “I don’t wish to upset you, Mrs. Anstruther, but the lady next to you is probably not the only single person aboard who spends the night with someone else. The likelihood is that it happens all over the vessel. Shipboard romances will always occur. We make it our business not to interfere with them. Good-bye. Enjoy your dinner.”

He left her goggling with indignation, and strode briskly away.

When he was asked for his help, Dillman was happy to oblige. It showed that Inspector Redfern trusted him. Since he had an appointment with the captain, Redfern was unable to do the task himself so he asked the American to transfer the prisoner back to his cabin from the cell he had occupied all day. Dillman was pleased to be the bearer of good news. In the course of moving John Heritage back to the second-class area of the ship,
Dillman would have the opportunity to talk to him again. After reporting to the master-at-arms, he was given the key to the cell. Dillman also received a shock.

“Mr. Heritage will be grateful to move,” said the master-at-arms. “That drunken old fool was getting on his nerves.”

“ ‘Drunken old fool’?”

“A passenger in steerage. He swallowed half a bottle of whisky and thought he was the world heavyweight boxing champion. It took three men to restrain him.”

Dillman was alarmed. “What’s his name?”

“Daniel Webb.”

“Oh dear!”

“You know him, Mr. Dillman?”

“I’m afraid so,” the detective said guiltily. “I gave him the whisky.”

“He shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near strong drink. It’s like giving a box of matches to a fire-raiser.”

“Is he still locked up?”

“Yes,” said the other man. “Asleep at last, snoring up to high heaven.”