Murder on the Caronia (4 page)

“What was the food like on the
Lusitania
?” asked Maria Singleton.

“Almost as delicious as this,” said Genevieve, before addressing herself to her rib of beef. “I couldn’t fault it, Mrs. Singleton.”

Carrie Peterson had a different opinion of the cuisine on board. The meal that had been specially prepared for her stood untouched on the tray. All she consented to do was to drink the
glass of water that accompanied it. Inspector Redfern was concerned.

“You have to eat, Miss Peterson,” he said gently.

“I’m not hungry,” she murmured.

“It’s good food. We had exactly the same ourselves.”

“Very tasty,” said Sergeant Mulcaster, licking his lips. “Try it.”

“No, thank you,” she whispered.

“It’s for your own good,” coaxed Redfern. “When did you last eat?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does, Miss Peterson. We have to look after you.”

“There’s such a thing as forcible feeding,” warned Mulcaster.

Redfern shot him a look of reproof. “It won’t come to that, Sergeant.”

“We can’t have her playing games with us, Inspector.”

“This is not a game.”

Carrie Peterson’s face had been drained so completely of color that it had lost all its prettiness and definition. She looked utterly dejected. She was too frightened even to look at Mulcaster. His manner was threatening. She hoped that she would never be left alone with him in her cabin. When Mulcaster glared at her through his angry brown eyes, she felt as if his rough hands were molesting her. Arms wrapped protectively around her body, she sat on a chair while the men stood on either side of her. Redfern gave an unseen signal and his companion let himself out of the cabin. A wave of relief passed over her. The inspector lowered himself onto the other chair.

“Have you thought over what we told you?” he asked.

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Well?”

“I’ve nothing more to say.”

“Then you’re being very stubborn. Stubborn and foolish. Help us now and it will stand you in good stead when you go to court.”

She gave a shudder. “We didn’t do it,” she said.

“I’m prepared to believe that you didn’t actually administer the poison,” he conceded. “How could you, when you were banned from even entering Mr. Heritage’s house? And I think it highly unlikely that you helped to mix the concoction since he is the pharmacist and you were merely his assistant.”

“Nobody mixed any concoction, Inspector.”

“The Home Office pathologist disagrees.”

“Our only crime was to want to be together.”

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Heritage stood in your way, didn’t she?” He leaned in closer. “That’s why her husband devised his plan. I’m sure you would never have thought of it, Miss Peterson, and I suspect that you raised a lot of objections at first. But it seemed like the only means by which you and Mr. Heritage could be with each other. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Not really.”

“At most, you’re an unwilling accomplice. The judge will take that into account.”

“We don’t belong in court at all.”

“I’m afraid you do, Miss Peterson.”

She looked bewildered. “What will happen to us?”

“That depends on what you tell us.”

“We’re innocent. I’ve said that a dozen times.”

“Then why did you and Mr. Heritage run away from the scene of the crime? That’s what guilty people tend to do. If you had nothing to hide, why did the pair of you take the ferry to Ireland?”

“To start a new life together.”

“Leaving the dead body of that poor woman behind you.”

“No!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears. “No, no, no!”

Redfern took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She dabbed away at her eyes. Carrie Peterson did not look like the kind of woman who might drive a man to kill his wife out of love for his mistress, but that did not matter. The inspector had met criminals before who were practiced in the art of dissembling. They could even summon up real tears, as
she was doing now. It was only when they were convicted that the mask was ripped away from them. She looked up at him, her voice trembling as she spoke.

“Will they hang us?”

“That depends on the verdict.”

“But they could—if the evidence was against us?”

“Premeditated murder does carry the death sentence,” he told her, “but you have an excellent chance to cheat the hangman, Miss Peterson. Help us build our case against Mr. Heritage, and your sentence will be much lighter.”

She shook her head. “We did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong at all.”

“The jury may take a different view.”

“How can they?”

“The facts speak for themselves.”

“
Your
facts, Inspector. Not ours.”

“Tell me what
really
happened,” he counseled.

“No,” she retorted with sudden defiance. “I’m not saying a word. And I’m certainly not going to help you to send John to the gallows. You can question me until you’re blue in the face but it will be a waste of time.” She met his gaze. “You believe we killed her, don’t you?”

“I’m convinced of it.”

“Very well,” she said crisply. “Prove it!”

It was late when Dillman tapped on the door of her cabin but Genevieve was expecting him. She admitted him to the room then checked the corridor to make sure that nobody had seen him enter. Closing the door, she accepted a welcoming kiss on the cheek.

“You’re as punctual as ever, George,” she said.

“One of my many virtues.”

“I’ve lost count of the others.”

“Don’t flatter me,” he said with a grin. “Interesting day?”

“Very interesting. I’ve met some people from Boston who
want their daughter to marry into the British aristocracy, and I shook hands with the next winner of the annual Bordeaux-to-Paris race.”

“A cyclist?”

“Well done, George! I didn’t even know that it was a cycle race.”

“And I bet you’d never heard of Theo Wright, either.”

“How did you know that is his name?”

“Two reasons, Genevieve,” he explained. “Firstly, Theo Wright is the only American cyclist who’d stand a chance of winning that particular race.”

“And secondly?”

“I saw his name when I skimmed through the passenger list.”

“That’s cheating,” she said, giving him a playful push.

“What was he like?”

“As fit as a fiddle. He’d jogged the length of the ship a couple of times and he was hardly out of breath. I’d have been on my knees. I liked him. Theo Wright is a lively character. He’ll be a change from all the stuffed shirts aboard this ship.”

She gave him a more detailed account of her chance meeting with the cyclist, then told him about the way Isadora Singleton was trying to adopt her as an alternative mother. What made his ears prick up was her mention of the conversation she had overheard about the two prisoners.

“That guy, Harvey, may have thought they looked guilty,” he remarked, “but so would anyone jammed in between two cops and a loaded shotgun. But they were no brazen villains. To be honest, I thought the woman was about to faint.”

“Harvey—whoever he was—made her sound like Lizzie Borden.”

Dillman sighed. “Rumors are bound to spread,” he said, “and that leads to heated speculation. By the end of the voyage, people will think we have two mass murderers chained up in the cells. I blame Sergeant Mulcaster for that. He didn’t need to brandish that shotgun. And they certainly didn’t need the police escort.”

“Why didn’t they just bring the prisoners quietly aboard?”

“Because they wanted to display their trophies, Genevieve.”

“Do you think the pair of them are guilty of the crime?”

“Without the full evidence,” he said, “I’m in no position to judge. Though I must admit I wasn’t entirely convinced by what Inspector Redfern told us. I was just sorry that Sergeant Mulcaster came in when he did. I fancy we’d have learned a lot more about the case if he hadn’t butted in.”

“I keep thinking about Carrie Peterson,” she confessed.

“Why?”

“Well, guilty or not, she must be suffering terribly. They were pursued across the Atlantic, arrested on board ship, marched onto the
Caronia
under armed guard, then kept rigidly apart. Inspector Redfern may be a gentleman when it comes to questioning a suspect but Sergeant Mulcaster looks as if he were trained by the Spanish Inquisition.” She shook her head sadly. “He’d make it his business to give her a rough time.”

“I was puzzled by the fact that neither had made a confession.”

“So was I.”

“You expect habitual criminals to deny everything but that’s not what we have here. They worked in a pharmacy,” he reminded her. “They’re intelligent, responsible people. If they did kill the victim, it probably would have been their one and only criminal act. I don’t think they’d have been able to lie about it so easily.”

“Neither do I.”

“We don’t know that’s what happened, of course.”

“True.”

“Besides, it’s not our case.”

“That doesn’t stop me from thinking about it, George,” she said, “or from wondering if I might be of some assistance.”

“In what way?”

“Carrie Peterson may be able to keep two male detectives at bay but she might react differently to a woman. If I could win her confidence, who knows what I could draw out of her?” She
smiled quietly. “I might even discover that she’s not a second Lizzie Borden after all.”

“In some ways, that may be a pity.”

“A pity? Why?”

“Because you’ve forgotten something,” he said. “Lizzie Borden was acquitted.”

FOUR

G
eorge Porter Dillman took the opportunity to familiarize himself with the
Caronia
while most of its passengers were either in bed or lingering in the public rooms over a drink or a game of cards. When he left Genevieve Masefield’s cabin, he began his perambulation by stepping onto the boat deck. It was a clear night with stars winking in the sky, but there was a chilly breeze that discouraged any but the most ardent lovers from coming out to stare at the moon as they stood at the rail. As he walked along the deck, Dillman saw only one couple locked in an embrace, braving the cold air, and they hurried into the shadows when they became aware of his approach. He lengthened his stride so that he could pass them swiftly and restore their privacy. At such a time in their relationship, there was no place for a third person.

Since coming aboard, he had liked everything he had seen of the
Caronia
. Apart from an incident three years earlier when she had run aground off Sandy Hook, the ship had an excellent record. Indeed, the
Caronia
and the
Carmania
had been among the most popular vessels in the Cunard fleet from the moment they entered service in 1905. New standards may have been set
by the
Lusitania
and the
Mauretania
since then, but “the pretty sisters” were still regarded as favorites by many passengers. Dillman could see why. The
Caronia
was a fine ship, well designed and well run. Captain and crew took a justifiable pride in her. Dillman could understand why the purser was so keen to root out any drugs that might have been smuggled aboard. They defiled the carefully protected image of the
Caronia
.

After completing a circuit, Dillman was about to go down the steps to the promenade deck when he heard a swishing sound behind him. He turned to see a sight that was startling in its novelty. Crouched low over his machine, a young man, wearing a sweater and knee-length shorts, was cycling toward him at speed. So intent was he on maintaining his pace that he did not even spare Dillman a glance. Realizing it must be Theodore Wright in training, Dillman looked after him with curiosity. He admired the cyclist’s commitment but he feared the couple enjoying a romantic interlude would be chased off the deck by the whirring wheels. He was still standing there when a short, thickset figure ambled up to him, holding a stopwatch in his hand. The accent seemed to come from somewhere in the Midwest.

“You’d best keep out of the way, mister,” he advised.

“I can see that.”

“We didn’t think anyone else would be out here.”

“No,” said Dillman. “I’m sure you didn’t. And when the other passengers know that a phantom cyclist rules the boat deck at midnight, they won’t come near the place.” He offered his hand. “George Dillman,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, that was Theo Wright who shot past me just now.”

“It was,” confirmed the other, shaking his hand. “I’m his coach.”

“Then you must be Wes Odell.”

The newcomer was astonished. “I didn’t take you for a cycling fan, Mr. Dillman.”

“I can’t claim to be that,” Dillman admitted, “but I’m an avid reader of the sports pages in the newspapers. Theo Wright has
taken professional cycling to a new level and most articles give you much of the credit.”

“So they should.”

“What’s the secret of good coaching?”

“Being ruthless.”

Odell said it with such emphasis that Dillman knew he was not joking. He peered at the coach in the half-light. Odell was a solid character in his forties with the weathered look of a man who had spent most of his time outdoors. He had a broken nose, bushy eyebrows that all but concealed the deeply set eyes, and a bald head that was slightly misshapen. Even though he wore only a shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, Odell was untroubled by the cold wind. He looked down at his stopwatch.

“Wouldn’t there have been more room on the main deck?” asked Dillman.

“We tried that. Too many people about.”

“This late?”

“Some of them looked as if they were going to sleep there.”

“Ah, yes,” sighed Dillman. “Steerage accommodations can be pretty spartan. There are usually some people who prefer to sleep under the stars rather than put up with a rock-hard bunk in a tiny cabin that sleeps six.”

“They can sleep where they like,” said Odell, “but I don’t want them getting in Theo’s way. When he cycled past, half of them jumped up to complain. That only distracted him. Theo needs a clear run.”

“Here he comes again,” noted Dillman.

They watched as the cyclist sped past. Odell checked the time again then gave a grunt of approval. Keeping up a steady rhythm, Wright pedaled on as if he were in the middle of an open road.

“There’s obviously money in the sport,” said Dillman.

“We survive.”

“If the pair of you can afford to travel first-class, you’re clearly not paupers.”

Odell was brusque. “We’re not in it for the money, Mr. Dillman.”

“You lust after glory, do you?”

“All I want to do is to make Theo the best.”

“He is the best. In America, at least.”

“He has to be tested in France,” said Odell. “That’s where it really counts. They understand cycling there. The French close whole towns and villages when a big race is on. Can you imagine that happening anywhere else?”

“Probably not.”

Dillman was not enjoying the conversation and Odell was making it clear he would rather be on his own to study the progress of his young charge. The coach was an unprepossessing fellow. He might have driven Theodore Wright to the pinnacle of his sport but, Dillman mused, he could never teach him the most basic social skills.

“I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Odell,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Good night.”

But the coach was not even listening. Tapping his foot impatiently on the deck, he was waiting for the cyclist to flash past once more. Dillman took his leave, making his way down through the different levels of the ship. The promenade deck was deserted, as was the shelter deck, but there were a few people walking along the upper deck. Dillman did a circuit there before going down to the main deck. Over a dozen passengers were standing at the rail, delaying the moment when they had to return to their pokey cabins in third class or steerage. Others had elected to spend the whole night in the open air and were huddled together in the stern. Their memories of the crossing would be far less rosy than those of the more privileged passengers on the
Caronia
. Dillman was still gazing at the sleeping figures when someone came up quietly behind him.

“What are you doing down here, Mr. Dillman?” he whispered.

Dillman was taken by surprise. “Oh, I didn’t see you there,
Sergeant,” he said, turning around to recognize the burly figure.

“I was enjoying a smoke.” Mulcaster pulled on his cigarette then exhaled a cloud of smoke. He scrutinized Dillman through narrowed lids. “Are you on patrol?”

“In a way.”

“I’d have thought you’d be in bed by now.”

“I could say the same of you.”

“Like to stretch my legs before I turn in,” said Mulcaster. “But I can guess why you’re still up,” he added with a hint of mockery. “You were a Pinkerton man, weren’t you? I remember their motto: ‘We Never Sleep.’ ”

“It served its purpose.”

“And what was that?”

“To deter criminals,” said Dillman. “To let them know that someone, somewhere, would be on their trail twenty-four hours a day if they stepped out of line.”

“I don’t rate the Pinkerton Agency all that highly, I’m afraid.”

“That’s because you don’t know enough about it, Sergeant.”

“I know all I want to know,” returned Mulcaster, dropping his cigarette to the floor before grinding it under his sole. “Allan Pinkerton had a great reputation but he couldn’t save President Lincoln from being assassinated.”

“That’s true,” agreed Dillman. “It was a source of profound regret to him that he wasn’t at the theater that night to protect his friend. But it’s unfair to judge the agency on the strength of one isolated event. You obviously haven’t come across Mr. Pinkerton’s autobiography.”

“I’m not a reading man, Mr. Dillman.”

“You should acquire the habit. It might teach you something.”

“There’s not much I don’t know about this game,” Mulcaster boasted.

“I think you’d find there is, if you read
Thirty Years a Detective
. It was a revelation to me. I know that Mr. Pinkerton’s book deals with the past but most of his observations are still relevant today.”

“Such as?”

“Well, he does stress the value of going undercover,” Dillman said pointedly. “His operatives were trained to pass themselves off in various guises in order to get inside the criminal fraternity. That’s how the Molly Maguires were brought down. If a Pinkerton man hadn’t infiltrated them, their reign of terror would have gone on.”

“We have our own methods. As you’ve seen, they work.”

“All I saw were two frightened people being herded onto the ship like lambs to the slaughter. I’m surprised you didn’t have them in chains as well.”

Mulcaster was roused. “If it were left to me, I’d have handcuffed them.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“Killers deserve no quarter.”

“Their guilt has yet to be proved in a court of law.”

“What would you do, Mr. Dillman?” sneered Mulcaster. “Put them together in a first-class cabin so they could gloat over the way they murdered that woman?”

“No, Sergeant, but I would treat them as human beings.”

Mulcaster snorted. “You’d treat Jack the Ripper as a human being!”

“I would,” Dillman said easily. “A very bad example of the breed, but one of us nevertheless. And the next time you pour scorn on Allan Pinkerton for failing to save President Lincoln, you might recall your own record with regard to the gentleman we just mentioned. The assassin and his accomplices were all caught and punished. But with all its resources, Scotland Yard seems quite unable to find any credible evidence as to the identity of Jack the Ripper.” Dillman gave him a farewell smile. “As you say, Sergeant Mulcaster, you have your own methods.”

He walked away and left his companion fuming in silence. It had not been the happiest of strolls. In the course of his tour, Dillman had spoken to only two people but both had been disagreeable. The bluntness of Wes Odell was complemented by the gruff disdain of Sergeant Mulcaster. Neither man would
qualify for a post that entailed tact and diplomacy. Dillman still hoped to spend more time with the amenable Inspector Redfern, but he promised himself that he would dodge Mulcaster whenever he could. After a look around the empty lower deck, he made his way back up through the ship, wondering if Theodore Wright was still cycling away above him. It seemed a strange way to enjoy a trip on a Cunard liner.

It was only when he reached his cabin that Dillman became conscious of how tired he was. Suppressing a yawn, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Before he could close the door behind him, however, he heard a noise farther down the corridor and paused. It was now well past midnight, an unlikely time for anyone to be about. Applying his eye to the crack between the door and the frame, he saw a man emerging furtively from a cabin with a small case in his hand. After glancing up and down, the man scurried along the corridor. Dillman saw the smile of elation on his face as he passed. Dillman was astounded. Earlier that evening, the same person had sat beside him throughout dinner with the lugubrious expression proper to his trade.

It was Ramsey Leach, the undertaker.

News of the first crime reached Genevieve Masefield as she was finishing her breakfast in the restaurant. A steward delivered a note from Paul Taggart. As soon as she had read it, she got up from the table. She met Isadora Singleton at the door.

“Oh,” said Isadora with disappointment, “are you going?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I was hoping to have breakfast with you. Mother and Father are having theirs in the cabin but I was sure that you’d be here. Must you leave?”

“I have an appointment with someone,” said Genevieve.

“That means I’ll miss you for
two
meals.”

“Two?”

“Yes, Genevieve. My parents are having lunch served in their cabin as well. They’ve invited some friends of theirs, the Van
Wessels from New Haven—such dreary people! I begged them to include you in the party,” said Isadora, “but they told me that I wasn’t to bother you too much. I’m not bothering you, am I?”

Genevieve gave her a kind smile. “No, Isadora,” she said, “of course not. But I’d be out of place in a gathering of friends like that.”

“They’re not friends of mine,” the girl said mutinously. “I hate Nick Van Wessel. He’s sixteen years old and thinks that it entitles him to take liberties. He tried to kiss me at a party last month.” She pulled a face. “He’s disgusting. His breath smells.”

“I’m sure you’ll meet much nicer younger men aboard.”

“But I enjoy being with you.”

Grateful that she had escaped lunch with the Singletons, Genevieve assured Isadora they would meet again soon, then detached herself. The purser’s note had told her of a theft reported first thing that morning. Few details were given. Genevieve headed for the cabin of the victim. When she knocked on the door, it opened at once to reveal an attractive woman in her early thirties whose face was pitted with anxiety.

“Mrs. Robart?” asked Genevieve.

“Yes.”

“The purser asked me to call. My name is Genevieve Masefield and I work for Cunard. I understand that you had something stolen?”

“Yes, I did,” said the woman. “Please come in.”

When she stepped into the cabin, Genevieve saw that it was almost identical to her own. Cecilia Robart was its only occupant. Evidently she was untidy by nature. A dress lay over the back of one chair, a coat over another. The table was littered with items of all kinds. A case stood open on the floor.

“Excuse the mess,” Mrs. Robart apologized, “I haven’t settled in properly.”

“It takes time.”

“I didn’t realize there was a female detective aboard.”