Murder on the Caronia (5 page)

“Few people do, Mrs. Robart. I’d like to keep it that way, for obvious reasons.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Miss Masefield. I understand. I won’t tell a soul.” She moved the dress off the back of one chair. “Do sit down. I’m not usually as chaotic as this.”

Lowering herself onto the seat, Genevieve took a pencil and pad from her purse so that she could make notes. Cecilia Robart tossed the coat onto the open case before taking the other seat. She gave a nervous smile. Genevieve noticed she was wearing too much powder on her face and surmised that she had put it on to hide the fact that she had been crying.

“I understand some earrings were taken,” said Genevieve.

“Gold earrings, Miss Masefield.”

“Could you give me a description of them, please?”

“I can do better than that,” said Mrs. Robart, searching among the items on the table. She found a slip of paper and handed it over. “Here’s a drawing of them. I’m not much of an artist but this will give you some idea of their size and shape.”

Genevieve glanced at the sketch. “Thank you, Mrs. Robart,” she said approvingly. “This will be very helpful.”

“I simply must have them back.”

“Can you tell me how much they cost?”

“It’s not the cost,” said the other woman, “it’s the sentimental value. They were a birthday present from my late husband. Apart from my wedding ring and my engagement ring, there’s nothing I treasure more. I was distraught when I saw they were gone,” she went on with a sob. “David—my husband—bought the earrings in Bond Street.”

“How did you discover that they were missing?”

Cecilia Robart composed herself before speaking. Her account was drawn out by some more needless digressions about the importance of the jewelry to her. Genevieve made sure only the salient facts went into her pad. She was interested in the faint West Country burr in the woman’s voice. When she’d taken down all the details, she checked them for accuracy then looked up.

“Do you come from Gloucester, by any chance?” she wondered.

“Not far away,” replied the other. “I was brought up in Stroud. Is it that obvious?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Robart. I had relatives in Gloucester, that’s all. They had strong local accents. There were moments when I thought I heard the same telltale sounds.”

“Oh dear! I’ve tried so hard to shake off that accent.”

“You’ve succeeded admirably. Nobody else would notice.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes, Mrs. Robart,” said Genevieve, responding to the woman’s obvious need for reassurance. She rose to her feet. “Thank you for giving me your time. I’ll need to make inquiries elsewhere before I can start the hunt for the earrings. As long as you’re quite sure that you haven’t mislaid them….”

“I don’t think so—though that’s not impossible.” She looked around the cabin with dismay. “I know I had them last night because I was going to wear them to dinner but I just couldn’t find them at all this morning. Someone must have come in here.”

“Only a stewardess. I’ll start with her.”

“Good. Her name is Edith.” She got up to usher her visitor to the door then halted as a thought struck her. “Is it true we have two killers aboard?”

“Who told you that?”

“Someone was talking about it over dinner last night. He said that two detectives had boarded the ship at the last moment with a pair of desperate criminals. Apparently they’re being taken back to England.”

“That’s only partially correct, Mrs. Robart.”

“Is it?”

“The man and the woman in custody are only suspects. We’ve no means of knowing at this stage whether or not they’re guilty of their alleged crime.”

“But it was murder?”

“According to Inspector Redfern.”

“Is he from Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, Mrs. Robart. And so is Sergeant Mulcaster.”

“I wish they’d chosen another ship.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like the notion of traveling with a pair of murderers.”

“Murder
suspects
,” corrected Genevieve.

“It amounts to the same thing,” said Cecilia Robart, wringing her hands. “I hope they’re safely under lock and key. I know they have proper cells aboard. I’d hate the thought that they were being kept in the cabin next to me.”

“They’re not in the cells, as it happens, but there’s no danger. Inspector Redfern has them locked away in separate cabins in second class. He and Sergeant Mulcaster are in the cabin between them.” She raised a finger. “I must stress that this is confidential information.”

“I won’t breathe a word, I promise.”

“There are enough rumors flying around as it is. If people get to know where they are, some of the more ghoulish passengers will start hanging around outside their cabins in the hope of catching a glimpse of them.” Genevieve opened the door. “That’s the last thing we need.”

“I appreciate that, Miss Masefield.” Her eyebrows rose hopefully. “Is there any chance you’ll be able to find my earrings?”

“Most stolen property is usually recovered by the end of the voyage.”

“That’s a comfort. This experience has shaken me,” confided Mrs. Robart. “I’ve never had anything taken before. It’s so unsettling. I mean, it makes you wonder who you’re traveling with, doesn’t it?”

It was Ernest Redfern’s idea to borrow the chess set. During his visit to the scene of the crime, he had noticed that a board was set out with large ivory chess pieces. John Heritage was a man with a hobby. Unable to get any satisfactory answers out of his prisoner by intensive questioning, he opted for another method,
believing that a game of chess would help Heritage to relax. The pair of them sat on either side of the table in the cabin where the prisoner was kept. Heritage had slept badly. There were dark circles under his eyes and deeper lines in his brow. As he pored over the chessboard, he knew exactly the game the inspector was playing and he went along with it.

“Did you enjoy your breakfast, Mr. Heritage?” Redfern asked.

“I ate it. I can’t say that I enjoyed it.”

“If you were on remand, you’d get nothing but bread and water.”

“Would I be able to play chess with a warder?”

“Not a chance!”

“Then I’d better make the most of it, hadn’t I?”

Heritage looked up with a glint in his eye. He was much more resilient than Carrie Peterson. The shock of their arrest had sent him into a brooding silence but he had now come out of that to reveal a sardonic humor. It was almost as if he was dueling with his captor. After a few moments, he decided on his next move.

“Are you a good Christian, Inspector?”

“I like to think so.”

“You believe in defending the faith?”

“Naturally,” said Redfern.

“Then you should protect your bishops more carefully,” said Heritage, using his queen to sweep a white bishop from the board. “Your move.”

Redfern pondered. “How often did you play this game?” he asked at length.

“Every evening.”

“With your wife?”

“No,” said the other. “Winifred never had the patience for chess. I had friends who came in on certain evenings.”

“Miss Peterson was one of them, I presume.”

“You presume wrongly.”

“Did the two of you never play chess together?”

“A word of warning, Inspector. Don’t expose your knight.”

“I asked you a question.”

“I gave you some free advice,” said Heritage, looking up with an enigmatic smile. “The truth is that some evenings, I had no partner. So I challenged myself.”

Redfern was skeptical. “You played chess with
yourself
?”

“It’s an excellent way to sharpen your wits. I did it properly, you see, moving from one chair to another as I took charge of the destinies of white and black. I set myself some teasing problems,” he continued softly. “The beauty of playing against yourself, of course, is that you always win.”

“You always lose as well, surely?”

“I learned to cope with defeat a long time ago.”

Redfern moved a knight to capture a black pawn. Heritage clicked his tongue.

“I did warn you, Inspector,” he said, using his rook to knock the inspector’s other knight out of the game. “You have to look over your shoulder all the time. Check.”

“You distracted me.”

“I thought that’s what you were trying to do to me.”

“I hoped this would be a slightly more pleasant way of passing the time than simply firing questions at you for the next five days.” He shifted his king to safety. “If you’d prefer to play with Sergeant Mulcaster, of course, I can ask him to step in here instead, but it won’t be chess. He’s essentially a draughts man.”

Heritage was waspish. “I’m surprised that he has the intelligence to play that.”

“The sergeant is a good policeman,” Redfern said defensively.

“Since when has that required intelligence?”

“You’re starting to annoy me, Mr. Heritage.”

“I wasn’t being personal, Inspector,” said the other, striking a more conciliatory note. “You’ve treated us as decently as you can in the circumstances. The same can’t be said for that brute of a sergeant you brought along with you. I’ll never forgive him for the way he manhandled Miss Peterson.”

“He was only doing his duty.”

“He grabbed her with excessive force,” protested Heritage. “I
daresay that she’s still got the bruises on her arms. It’s not as if either of us resisted arrest.”

“We weren’t to know that you were unarmed.”

Heritage laughed. “I’m a pharmacist, Inspector, not a professional criminal. What did you think I’d do—attack the two of you with a box of laxatives?”

“It’s no joking matter.”

“You don’t need to tell us that.” He lifted his head. “How is she?”

“Miss Peterson is as well as can be expected.”

“Has she eaten any food?”

“Not as yet.”

“The poor woman is still in a state of shock. Let me see her.”

“No, Mr. Heritage.”

“Let me talk to her for a few minutes, that’s all I ask.”

“It’s out of the question, I’m afraid.”

“You can be present throughout.”

“The two of you will never meet again until we reach England.”

“If anything happens to her …”

“Mr. Heritage,” Redfern said with growing exasperation, “it may have escaped your notice that you are in custody. It’s my job to determine the nature of that custody and I’ve already been far too lenient. If you make any more futile threats, I’ll ask the master-at-arms to lock you up in one of the cells. There’ll be no games of chess in there.”

“Pity,” said Heritage, moving his queen again.

“Why?”

“See for yourself, Inspector. Checkmate.”

Redfern looked down and saw that he had lost his third game in a row. Heritage turned the board around and began to set out the pieces for another game. Redfern stood up to signal that the session was at an end. He moved to the door.

“Can I at least write her a little note?” pleaded Heritage.

“Only if it’s a signed confession.”

______

Though the pangs of hunger were getting sharper, Carrie Peterson was not tempted by breakfast. The steward who had brought it took it away untouched. She sat alone in her cabin and wondered what was happening to her lover. When she heard a key in the lock, she was lifted to her feet by the distant hope they might be bringing John Heritage to her. Instead, it was the smirking face of Sergeant Mulcaster that came around the door.

“Time to visit the bathroom,” he announced. “And don’t be long in there, Miss Peterson, will you? Or I’ll have to come in and find you. I’d enjoy that.”

Gritting her teeth, she offered up a silent prayer then followed him out.

FIVE

I
n the space of only twenty-four hours, the atmosphere in the first-class restaurant had undergone a radical transformation. Lunch on the day of departure had been served to passengers who were, in the main, excited by the novelty of oceanic travel, yet were also very tentative in their surroundings. Not knowing quite what to expect, they were at first reserved and watchful. By the time they sat down for their second lunch aboard, however, everything had changed. They were relaxed and confident. Friendships had already developed, smiles of acknowledgment were distributed freely on all sides, and there was a pervading familiarity that showed itself most clearly in a greater volume of noise and a substantial increase in laughter. Genevieve Masefield had observed the process on previous voyages but it always amused her. When she came into the restaurant for lunch, she collected nods of welcome from people who would have been too shy even to look at her properly on the previous day.

Liberated from the company of the Singleton family, she sat instead directly opposite Theodore Wright. The cyclist looked rather incongruous in a smart suit. His hair was still unkempt and his face glowed with health. Beside Genevieve was a tall,
fleshy man in his thirties with a permanent smile on his face. Stanley Chase had a cultured voice and an engaging manner. She admired the way Chase tried to converse with Wes Odell, who sat opposite him, even though the coach was curt and offhand. When the first course was served, Chase noticed Wright’s meal was different from everyone else’s, and that his portions were much smaller.

“Do you have a special diet?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Wright replied with a mock groan.

“Who chooses what you eat?”

“I do,” said Odell.

“Why?”

“I’m his coach.”

“Does he have no say in the matter?”

“None.”

“But you’re not his mother,” said Chase with a chuckle. “Surely Theo is old enough to decide what he wants for lunch.”

“I have to get him fit.”

“Yes,” Wright said jocularly, “by starving me to death.”

“Whatever food you’re getting,” said Genevieve, “you look very well on it.”

“I agree,” said Chase. “You’re obviously in prime condition. And in your game, I suppose it’s important to keep your weight down.”

Odell was blunt. “Very important.”

“It’s like training a greyhound, isn’t it?”

“No, Mr. Chase.”

After delivering his firm rebuff, Odell started to eat his food. There were no special dietary requirements for him, and Genevieve noted the relish with which he consumed each mouthful. Coach and cyclist seemed an ill-matched pair at first sight. While the one was terse and unsociable, the other was effervescent and friendly. Theodore Wright was obviously glad to be sitting with Genevieve and kept up a stream of lighthearted comments. She found both him and Stanley Chase extremely pleasant company. It was Wes Odell who was the specter at the
feast. At one point, when she paid Wright a compliment, his coach shot her a glance of stern disapproval. Genevieve could not understand what she had said to deserve it.

When the main course was served, Wright turned his attention to Chase.

“Have you spent much time in the States?” he asked.

“I’ve made a number of visits,” said Chase, “but they’ve always been in pursuit of business. I never stay long enough to see the place properly.”

“You’d need a lifetime to do that.”

“Several lifetimes.”

“What kind of business are you in, Mr. Chase?”

“Antiques.”

Wright grinned. “How much will you offer me for Wes?”

“Oh, I’m afraid he wouldn’t qualify,” said Chase. “I specialize in antique furniture. Sheraton, Hepplewhite, Chippendale, and people of that ilk. Your coach would need to be at least a hundred years older before I took an interest in him. I ship my merchandise to New York, sell it there, then take special orders from certain clients. It’s a good living. I know you’ve been having severe financial difficulties in America recently but there are still people with plenty of dollars to spread around.”

“Where do you get your antiques?” asked Genevieve.

“From all over the country—house sales and auctions, for the most part.”

“It must be fascinating.”

“It is, Miss Masefield,” Chase said affably. “I get to meet the most extraordinary characters along the way.”

Wright sat up. “But not as extraordinary as me, surely?”

“No, Theo. You are well and truly unique.”

“Who else would cycle all the way across the Atlantic?” noted Genevieve.

By the time they reached dessert, Odell was more forthcoming. He actually initiated a discussion. The coach had only one subject of conversation but there was no denying his expertise.

“Since I took charge of Theo,” he asserted, “he hasn’t lost a race.”

“I wouldn’t dare to, Wes,” said Wright. “Not with you breathing down my neck.”

“Is that how you coach, Mr. Odell?” asked Chase. “With naked fear?”

“No, Mr. Chase. I prepare him thoroughly in body and in mind.”

“ ‘Mind’?”

“Having the right attitude is as vital as being in peak condition. It’s not enough to simply to have a desire to win,” emphasized Odell. “You must have the conviction that you can’t lose. That’s what will drive you on through the really grueling phases of a race.”

“What about this one in France?”

“It’s the blue riband of cycling, Mr. Chase.”

“Is that why you’re going all this way to take part?”

“Yes. We have to prove that Theo can beat Vannier.”

“Vannier?”

“Gaston Vannier,” explained Wright. “He’s the French champion and he’s won the Bordeaux-to-Paris race for the last two years. My job is to stop him making it a hat trick. And to get my revenge.”

“Vannier has been making some disgusting remarks about Theo in the French press,” Odell said bitterly. “He’s been scornful about the times we’ve recorded in certain races and doesn’t think that Theo will even reach the finishing line in Paris. The cuttings were mailed to us and I had them translated. Vannier has been very cruel about Theo.”

Wright set his jaw. “Wait till you see what I do to him!”

“He’s only trying to put you off, surely?” said Chase.

“Well, it hasn’t worked. Vannier can watch out. I’ll rub his nose in the dust.”

“Deep down,” said Odell, “this French guy is scared of Theo. He knows the reputation we’ve built up. His nasty comments are meant to spook us.”

Genevieve was interested. “How long is the race, Theo?”

“Five hundred sixty kilometers, as the crow flies.”

“How much is that in miles?” she said.

“Around three hundred fifty, we reckon,” said Wright, “though it will be farther than that because of the way the road loops so much. Then there are the hills to climb and there are plenty of those, apparently. They’ll make it seem even longer.”

“Three hundred and fifty miles?” Chase echoed in wonder. “I’d be exhausted if I drove a car that distance. No wonder you keep yourself in trim, Theo.”

“He’s won six day-races before now,” Odell said proudly.

“How long will the Bordeaux-to-Paris run take?”

“The best part of twenty-four hours.”

Genevieve gaped. “You stay continuously in the saddle for
that
long, Theo?”

“Yes,” he replied cheerily. “Give or take a few stops to answer to the calls of nature. They’re something even Wes can’t control.”

“What about food and drink?”

“I grab what I can along the way. No time to sit down for a three-course meal in a pavement café, I’m afraid. I guzzle what I can when I have a short break.”

“Water’s the main thing he needs,” added Odell. “It can get very warm at this time of year. Theo must have regular fluid, so I carry plenty of it with me.”

“What about Gaston Vannier?” asked Chase. “Does he prefer wine?”

Wright was determined. “Whatever he drinks, he won’t catch me.”

“I think it’s amazing,” said Genevieve. “To cycle for twenty-four hours nonstop. What will you be like at the end of it?”

“Holding the winner’s check, Genevieve.”

“But what sort of state will you be in?”

“Better than you think, Miss Masefield,” said Odell. “Wes is fully prepared for it. When he does take a break during the race, I massage his legs to keep them supple.”

“You’ve thought of everything, Mr. Odell,” observed Chase. “You’re a lucky man, Theo. A good trainer makes all the difference. I saw a boxing match in New York once and one of the fighters was out on his feet at the end of the fifth round. But his trainer really worked on him in the corner. He sponged his face, gave him a drink from a bottle, and talked nonstop into his ear. I don’t know what he said but his man came out like a demon for the next round and knocked his opponent all round the ring.” He laughed at the memory. “It was only afterwards I discovered that the trainer had given him a drink of brandy from that bottle.
That
was the secret ingredient.”

Genevieve was puzzled. “Brandy? Is that legal?”

“Anything is legal in boxing—if you can get away with it.”

“Would you like a swig of brandy during a race, Theo?”

“Not me, Genevieve. I’d never be able to cycle in a straight line.” Wright held up his glass of water. “I’ll stick to this—until we celebrate afterwards, that is. It will be the best champagne then.” His eyes twinkled. “A pity you won’t be there to share it with me.”

Genevieve smiled at him and earned another glare from Wes Odell. When the meal was over, she made a polite excuse then rose to leave. Wright gazed after her with candid admiration. Stanley Chase leaned across to him.

“If Miss Masefield were waiting for me behind the finishing line,” he whispered, “I think that
I’d
be prepared to take part in the Bordeaux-to-Paris race as well.”

“No chance,” said Wright, with feeling. “I saw her first.”

George Porter Dillman hoped to catch the purser alone in the lull immediately after lunch but he had to wait until Paul Taggart had finished calming down an irate passenger. When the door finally opened, a large, stone-faced, middle-aged American woman in a tweed suit and a feathered hat came bursting out and waddled off down the corridor. Dillman went into the cabin.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Mrs. Anstruther,” sighed Taggart. “She’s only been on board the
Caronia
for a day and she’s already notched up five complaints. If she keeps up that rate, I’ll need the patience of Job to survive this voyage.”

“Were the complaints serious?”

“They were to her, Mr. Dillman, and that’s all she’s concerned about. First of all, she wanted to be moved to another cabin because she didn’t like the color of her carpet. Then she took against her stewardess. Last night, she had a toothache and blamed it on the chef. This morning,” he continued in a tone of disbelief, “she ordered me to speak to the captain because the ship was rolling too much. What does she
expect
when we’re in the Atlantic?” he wailed. “It has waves. But the latest complaint was the best yet.”

“Did she want you to turn the vessel around and take her back to New York?”

“If only I could! No, she’d just come steaming out of the restaurant because, she claims, the man sitting opposite was looking at her.”

“He didn’t have much choice,” said Dillman.

“According to her, he was staring in a meaningful way. As if he had designs on her. Can you believe it?” said Taggart. “Look at the woman. She’s a positive Gorgon.”

“Is there a
Mr
. Anstruther?”

“There was, it seems. ‘If my dear Wilbur were still here …’ she kept saying, as if he’d have waved a magic wand and solved all her problems. My guess is that Wilbur took to his heels and ran away years ago.”

“What action did you promise to take over this latest complaint?”

“I said that I’d look into it,” Taggart said wearily. “Which means, I fear, that I’ll have to ask you to have a discreet word with a Mostyn Morris. His cabin number will be on that list I gave you. Mrs. Anstruther described him as having all the attributes of a Welsh mountain goat.”

“You won’t see many of those traveling first-class on the
Caronia
.’ ”

“We won’t see any, Mr. Dillman. She’s simply having fantasies.”

“I’ll advise the gentleman to sit elsewhere next time.”

Paul Taggart had more work for him. A passenger in second class had had his wallet taken in the lounge and a woman had reported hearing strange noises from inside a locked storeroom. The purser also told him about the case he had assigned to Genevieve Masefield at the start of the day.

“Why didn’t the lady put all her jewelry in your safe?” asked Dillman.

“That’s exactly what I said to her. Mrs. Robart struck me as being a trifle scatterbrained. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she put those earrings down somewhere and simply can’t find them.”

“It seems unlikely that anyone got into her cabin to steal them. No thief would make off with a pair of gold earrings when there must have been other valuables he could take as well.”

“That thought crossed my mind,” admitted Taggart.

There was a sharp knock on the door and Inspector Redfern let himself in. When he saw Dillman, he backed out again.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were busy.”

“Come in, Inspector,” urged Dillman. “I was just leaving.”

Redfern paused in the doorway. “In that case …”

“Any progress?”

“I think so, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “I can’t claim they’ve owned up to the crime in so many words, but their manner has convinced me beyond any doubt that they are guilty of the crime.”

“ ‘Their manner’?” repeated Dillman.

“Yes. When we arrested them, they protested their innocence then refused to say a word. It was almost as if they had a pact of silence. But that’s gone now,” said Redfern. “Heritage came
very close to taunting me this morning. And yesterday, Miss Peterson actually challenged me to
prove
their guilt. She’d lost that simpering look completely. Her eyes were blazing.”

“That could have been anger at wrongful arrest.”