Black Ship (30 page)

“Let’s see … The Bennetts first; Whitcomb—We still haven’t much to go on in the way of times, but maybe the postmortem report will help—you’d better have a look at it. And see if you can get any news of Lambert. That should keep you busy for a bit.”

“Right, Chief.”

“Ardmore can help you. He won’t need to catch up on his beauty sleep, as he needn’t bother with St. Pancras tonight after all.”

“Right, Chief. Here’s Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Darling! Manchester?”

“’Fraid so. I’m going to have to rush to catch the train, so tell me the absolute minimum. I’ll ring from Manchester tomorrow to get the rest.”

“Right-oh, darling. The Home Sec—”

“Crane’s dealing with him.”

“Thank heaven! Did he tell you Castellano’s passport was stolen and faked?”

“No, he didn’t go into detail. That would explain the ink.”

“That’s exactly what I said, at which point Mr. Crane exploded. Did you get the telegram from Rosenblatt in New York?”

“Rosenblatt? The district attorney?”

“That’s the man. He says Castellano was an ‘enforcer’ for a crime gang.”

“Great Scott!”

“Rosenblatt’s pleased as punch to hear he’s dead. I think that’s all the essentials, darling. I hope you get something decent to eat on the train.”

“‘Bye, love. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Toodle-oo.”

Alec hung up. Too pressed for time to consider the implications of what Tom and Daisy had told him, he strode to the
door of the office where he had taken the call. Opening it, he found himself looking at DC Ross’s back. Beyond this solid and effective barrier, Mr. Jessup confronted him, with Patrick at his shoulder. Both looked more distressed than belligerent.

Hearing the click of the latch opening, Ross spoke without turning. “Mr. Jessup wants a word with you, sir.”

“Thank you, Ross, that’s all right now. I’m finished on the telephone.” As Ross moved aside, Alec said, “I can spare you two minutes, Mr. Jessup.” Not “sir,” not yet. There was still a possibility, though it seemed more and more remote, that one day they would once again be amicable neighbours.

“Patrick says Aidan is in hospital in Manchester. Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

“It appears to be the aftereffects of a severe concussion.”

Aidan’s father and brother looked worried but not surprised, Alec noted.

“I’m sending Patrick up there to make sure he gets the best possible care.” Jessup sounded determined not to take an expected no for an answer.

But nothing could have suited Alec better. “He can travel with me. I have to stop in at the Yard on the way to the station. Ross will drive you both back to Hampstead and then bring Patrick to St. Pancras to meet me. Pack lightly,” he told Patrick, “and quickly. We’ll catch the express your brother took last night”

“I’ll go to Scotland Yard with you,” Patrick said eagerly, apparently regarding a visit to the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police as a thrill, not a possible prelude to arrest. “I don’t need any bags. I was travelling pretty rough for weeks, remember?”

“Nonsense,” said his father. “If you’re to organise Aidan’s care, you’ll need to look your best. Come along. You’ll make sure the place is locked when you leave, won’t you, Fletcher?”

“Of course.”

As Ross and the Jessups hurried down the stairs, Ernie
Piper came out of the next office, switching off the electric light. “I’m done here, Chief. Could’ve told you Manchester. There’s a note to their secretary to send a cable booking him into the London Road Station Hotel.”

“So the trip really was planned in advance, as they claim,” Alec said in a low voice, following the others down, Piper at his heels.

“For tonight.”

“He intended to travel today! Anything else of interest?”

“Not a thing. You talked to Mr. Tring? Did he find the gun?”

“No.”

“Aidan probably took it and threw it out of the window of the train.”

“Why? Why the devil should he do anything so stupid? The gun must have been Castellano’s.” Alec checked that the inner shop door had latched securely behind him. The lock was one of Chubb’s best, set in a door that had the heft of steel. The outer glass door had no lock. “If he, or they, hadn’t moved the body and had left the gun beside it, they’d have had a good chance of getting off with self-defence.”

“If it was just a bash over the head.” Piper waved down a taxi. “Not if Dr. Ridgeway’s right about the way he was killed.”

“No.” Alec sighed. “That’s the sticking point.”

The taxi whirled them to Scotland Yard. Alec found the autopsy report on his desk. Amid a great deal of obscure medical verbiage, the plain fact stood out: Castellano had first been knocked out by the impact of an unidentifiable blunt instrument on the skull. Subsequently, he had been murdered by compression of the carotid arteries. It would have taken no more than a couple of minutes.

Alec sent Piper home and took a taxi to St. Pancras Station. Ross and Patrick were waiting for him, anxiously scanning the arriving cabs. Not until he saw them did Alec realise he had been metaphorically holding his breath, worrying that Patrick might give Ross the slip and run for cover.

Though nothing like it was during rush hour, the station was still busy. Passengers and porters streamed in and out of the brick archways. Alec had cut it fine, so he was relieved when Patrick said, “I’ve got your ticket. Platform seven. We’d better hurry.”

“Thanks. Ross, you’ll be giving DS Tring a hand tomorrow.”

He and Patrick joined the swarms beneath the cavernous iron-vaulted glass roof. The cries of boys hawking food baskets augmented the voices of anxious travellers, the rumble of luggage trolleys, and the din of steam engines.

“I’m ravenous,” said Patrick as they made haste towards Platform 7, dodging old ladies with umbrellas and lapdogs and young ladies wielding careless cigarette holders. “I don’t know whether the dining car will serve supper this late, so I bought us a couple of baskets. Rather infra dig in first class, but it can’t be helped. A porter’s taken them and my bag to nab seats for us.”

First class! Alec had intended to travel third, as was appropriate to a lowly policeman who had to explain his expenses to a clerk intent on saving the taxpayers money. However, the scion of a wealthy wine merchant would be accustomed to better things. Thanks to his great-uncle Walsall, Alec could reimburse him without wincing.

“Over here, guv!” A porter waved vigorously from an open door. “Gotcha two window seats.” His waiting hand was appropriately filled by Patrick. He took Alec’s bag, led them a little way down the corridor, and ushered them into a compartment. Chucking the bag up onto the rack, he wished them “Bong voyidge,” and departed.

Both the corner seats by the corridor were occupied. Dismayed, Alec recognised the gentleman facing forward as a distinguished King’s Counsel with whom he had more than once clashed in court.

The KC frowned at Alec, as if he felt he ought to know him but couldn’t quite place him. One thing was certain: He would
not have chosen to travel in this compartment if he could have found an empty one. He was not going to approve of his unwanted companions’ impromptu meal.

Alec had hoped for privacy on the journey in order to continue his interview with Patrick in light of what he had learnt. It was not to be.

With the usual whistle, clanging and clashing, and the hiss of escaping steam, the train pulled out of the station.

Daisy dined
alone, an occurrence too frequent to be bothersome. It allowed her to read while she ate, though, naturally, she’d rather have been talking to Alec. After a delicious apple snow, light and frothy and sweetened just enough, she took her demitasse of coffee up to the nursery.

Miranda was fast asleep in her crib, but Oliver was teething yet again and inclined to be fretful. Daisy rocked him in her arms, crooning a lullaby, while Nurse Gilpin and Bertha went down to the kitchen to have supper with Mrs. Dobson and Elsie.

Oliver soon settled down, sucking his thumb. Mrs. Gilpin would have strongly disapproved. Daisy let him suck. Pulling it out of his mouth would only get him upset again. She debated whether to lay him down in his crib, but she was very comfortable in the rocking chair by the fire, and it was difficult to get out of it holding a large baby, so she stayed put. It was a cosy comfort, not at all conducive to thoughts of murder, yet she couldn’t help her mind turning that way.

Aidan was in hospital in Manchester, suffering from the effects of a concussion. Perhaps he had fallen getting in or out of
the train. Perhaps something had fallen on his head from the overhead rack.

Unfortunately, it seemed more likely that he was feeling the delayed aftermath of a fight with Castellano. Had he attacked because Castellano had threatened him or Patrick? What had become of the mysterious vanishing gun, or had Castellano not carried one? And why—the question always recurred—
why
was Alec convinced Castellano’s death was cold-blooded murder? Not knowing made it very difficult to see either Aidan or Patrick as a cold-blooded murderer. And she must not forget Lambert, though he seemed still more unlikely.

Elsie came in. “Oh madam,” she said in a hushed voice, “Enid just brought a note from them next door.”

“Whatever can they want now?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, madam. It’s sealed. Not that me or Enid would stoop to reading someone else’s letter!” She came over, holding out a blue envelope. “Ooh, who’s a sweetie pie, then!”

“Do you think you could take him and lay him down in his crib without waking him?”

“Sure enough, madam. I’ve got little brothers and sisters, I have.” She picked up Oliver and bore him away.

The envelope was addressed to “Mrs. A. Fletcher” in a hand she didn’t recognise. Opening it, she glanced first at the signature—”Maurice Jessup.” What on earth …?

He apologised for troubling her. Moira was greatly distressed by the latest development in this horrible business and begged for Mrs. Fletcher’s advice. Would she be so very kind as to call at her earliest convenience, tonight if possible?

“Little lamb,” cooed Elsie, leaning over Oliver’s crib. She turned to the other crib. “And I haven’t forgot you, Miss Miranda. Such a good quiet mite.” She tucked a blanket in more securely.

Daisy hardly noticed. Her advice? About what? Did Mrs. Jessup still, after Daisy’s denials, believe she knew everything in Alec’s mind and would be willing to share it?

Alec would undoubtedly say she shouldn’t go. Luckily, he wasn’t here to say it. She knew she’d never sleep tonight with curiosity gnawing at her. If she could satisfy it while bringing some comfort to Mrs. Jessup …

“Elsie, I’m going to pop next door for a few minutes. Did you finish your supper?”

“All but the pudding, madam. Mrs. Dobson will save me some if you want me to stay with the babies.”

“Would you, please, until Nurse comes back? I’d hate her to find Oliver crying and no one here. I shan’t be long.”

Daisy dispensed with hat and gloves, but she did don a coat for the brief venture out into the frosty air, down the steps and up the steps. Enid opened the Jessups’ front door promptly.

“I’m ever so glad you’ve come, madam,” she said. “We’re all that worried about poor Mr. Aidan in the hospital.”

Hospitals were still regarded by many as a place where you were taken to die. “It’s the best place for him,” said Daisy. “He’ll get proper care there.”

“I’m sure I hope so. If you’ll please to come this way, madam.” She showed Daisy into the drawing room.

Mrs. Jessup, as immaculate as ever, came to meet her and took both her hands. “How kind you are!”

“I don’t know if I can help.” Daisy’s voice was full of doubt.

“Come and sit down and let us explain our quandary.”

Daisy had expected to see Mr. Jessup, but somewhat to her surprise, Mr. Irwin was still there, as well. As Aidan’s father-in-law, she wondered, or as a lawyer, or a bit of each? He had freely given Alec the address of Audrey’s sister. Daisy wouldn’t give much for his legal advice in a criminal matter.

He was the first of the two men to speak. “Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher. We are approaching you as a friend of my daughter, the only friend we feel able to bring into this shocking affair, as you are already conversant with its details.”

“Yes?” Daisy said cautiously.

“Audrey
must
be told that Aidan is in hospital,” said Mrs. Jessup. “I simply can’t countenance keeping it from her.”

“She ought to know,” Daisy agreed, reflexively accepting a tiny liqueur glass Mr. Jessup pressed into her hand. She tasted—Drambuie.

“The trouble is, Vivien isn’t on the telephone. Jonathan—Mr. Irwin—was going to send a telegram, but I can’t help thinking how I’d hate to get such news in a wire, not knowing what to do or—”

“I’ve
said
I’ll go to her.” Irwin sounded goaded.

“And take her to Manchester.”

“
And
take her to Manchester, if that’s what she wants. I’ll hire a motor, leave at once, and drive through the night. But it’s my opinion that the police will consider our arrival unwarranted interference. I repeat,” he added doggedly, “I am not conversant with criminal law.”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Mrs. Jessup appealed to her, “do you think your husband would consider it—what’s the phrase?—‘obstructing the police in the execution of their duties’ if Jonathan took Audrey to Manchester? Heaven knows, Aidan and Patrick seem to be in trouble enough already. The last thing they need is any further complications.”

Daisy’s sympathies were entirely with Audrey. How much comfort her father would be to her was uncertain, but he was indubitably better than a telegram announcing her husband’s having been rushed into hospital. On the other hand, Alec might reasonably be annoyed if Mr. Irwin reached Audrey and whisked her away before Mackinnon had spoken to her.

“I can’t see that Alec can possibly object to a wife hurrying to her husband’s sickbed,” she said, thinking fast. “And I don’t believe he’s allowed to object to the presence of a lawyer, at least in certain circumstances. Couldn’t you go with them, Mrs. Jessup? A worried mother as well as a worried wife would be awfully hard to take exception to.”