by Evelyn James
“Divide and conquer,” Clara said. “Elias first, I think, from what little I have learned, he seems the quieter of the two. Simon we will save to last.”
“Just ask them politely for a chat?”
“How else can we do it?”
O’Harris nodded at this logic.
“I’ll play my customer card again, if necessary,” he winked.
They wandered over to the brothers. Simon was nearest, and he glanced up as they approached. Clara had thought him no more than a mute statue earlier on with his father present, now, away from him, he seemed to have developed a personality. Clara reflected that it was not a pleasant personality, at least from first appearances. Simon narrowed his eyes at her and his mouth turned into a thin, unhappy line. He radiated indignation and surliness, even if he did continue to lean on the rail of the ship. Clara wondered how she had caused such consternation, but perhaps Simon was merely displeased about having his evening interrupted. Not that it seemed he was enjoying it much anyway.
“I hoped I could have a word,” Clara aimed to speak to them both, but Simon turned his body to face her, which effectively blocked Elias from view. The younger brother seemed to sink down to hide behind Simon’s bulk. “If I could speak to you individually, it would be most helpful.”
Clara had aimed for polite and non-offensive. It failed to work.
“Why? You spoke to our father,” Simon snapped at once.
“Everyone has a different perspective on a person they know, and it is useful to hear it.”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Simon snorted. “I barely knew the man, nor did Elias.”
Clara’s first impressions – that Simon was the dominate brother and Elias would agree with all he said – were now confirmed. Simon was their spokesman, and if she did not get Elias on his own she would never learn anything other than Simon’s own opinion regurgitated through the lips of his brother.
“I would appreciate it if you did not query my methods,” Clara became a little sterner, she wasn’t going to be bullied. “After all, this is my business. I would not like to tell you how to import wine, for instance.”
Simon was unimpressed.
“What nonsense! A woman detective? Not that I would have time for you if you were a man either. I don’t intend to participate in this idiotic performance.”
O’Harris was about to bark, angry on Clara’s behalf, but Clara stepped in faster.
“That is a shame, as the alternative is the police, Mr Noble, and a long time sitting in a police station being interviewed and drawing up a statement. I thought your father wished to avoid such publicity for his company,” Clara lowered her voice. “Rather bad for business, a senior manager being murdered. Noble and Sons’ name will be in every paper, can’t be helped if the police get involved. I had aimed to keep this discreet, so that it could all be resolved before we returned to port. But if it is your wish to make things public…”
Clara raised her hands, indicating she could do nothing to help him if that was his desire. Simon noticeably hesitated. No one likes bad publicity, especially sons who are due to inherit a prestigious and thriving business that enables them to live luxuriant and idle lives. Money talked, Clara knew that well enough when it came to men like Simon. She could almost see the cogs in his mind whirring as he processed what she had said. Hopefully he would realise that talking to her, and allowing Elias to talk to her alone, were the best ways of avoiding further scandal.
Eventually Simon gritted his teeth and conceded;
“Fine. You can talk to me.”
“I would like to speak with Mr Elias Noble first, alone,” Clara told him swiftly.
Simon was ready to argue, his mouth open as he went to form the word ‘no’.
“It would be best,” Clara interceded before he could speak. “I will not speak with you together. It would be improper, as you may accidentally influence each other.”
Clara did not think Simon was smart enough to realise she was jibing at him and indicating he was making Elias sing to his own tune. She was right.
“This is so ridiculous,” Simon grumbled, but his fire had gone. “Elias, go talk to her and get her out of our hair.”
He pointed a thumb at Clara and O’Harris nearly wrenched it off his hand. He looked fit to explode, but he restrained himself, glancing at Clara for her opinion. She winked at him again. Simon was only left with derisive gestures against her, which she found amusing.
Elias emerged from his brother’s shadow. He might be Elias’ agent and subordinate in all things, but that did not mean he was a weak person. He had the same look of indignation and stubbornness about him as his brother.
“This way,” Clara told him with a smile. She had won, for the moment, and could happily endure Simon’s sour glare burning into her back as she led Elias down to the captain’s cabin.
She did not offer Elias a glass of water as she had Charles. She asked him to sit and then took a seat opposite. O’Harris sat to one side.
“Let’s start with something straightforward,” Clara said. “You climbed into a lifeboat with the others, but Henry refused to get in?”
Elias shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
Clara sat back in her chair and gave a deep, disappointed sigh.
“Really? You want to make this that hard?” She declared to Elias, her gaze now stern. “I thought we had already agreed on this? Talking to me is a lot more comfortable and private than talking to the police.”
“Who do you think you are?” Elias demanded of her sourly.
“Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara answered promptly. “Private detective and not someone to be trifled with. One of your employees has been murdered Mr Noble, that is a serious matter and yet you seem to think it is a minor mishap. You realise that you have wasted more of your time by arguing with me than if you had just talked to me in the first place?”
“Let me put it another way,” Clara glanced at Captain O’Harris. “You won’t be leaving this room until you speak to me.”
Captain O’Harris understood her sly look, he rose from the table and walked over to the cabin door, which he locked, removing the key to his own pocket.
“You can’t keep me prisoner here!” Elias shouted, a sudden panic coming over him.
“You can complain to the police,” Clara replied. “In the process, you can explain how you refused to help in the investigation of Henry Kemp’s death. However, as the only radio is on the bridge, you will first have to endure the next several hours locked in this room, until we return to port tomorrow. Your choice.”
Elias looked at the locked door, a degree of alarm coming over his countenance. He was processing all his options and realising that, even if he remained surly, it was only going to result in his own inconvenience.
“All for the sake of just answering a few questions,” Clara addressed this to O’Harris. “It’s not even as if I suspect the man of murder.”
“Some people make being obstinate a habit,” O’Harris replied. “And yet, nearly always it makes life harder for them not better.”
“I had just about finished talking to Mr Walsh, by now,” Clara pointed out. “He was returning to the party.”
“If people want to waste their own time…” O’Harris shrugged.
“True,” Clara looked back at Elias who had a face like thunder. “But, presumably it makes you feel better to act so stubborn.”
“You two think you are funny,” Elias growled.
“No, Mr Noble, what is funny is you sitting there when you could be up on deck sipping champagne. I do believe that in the next few minutes,” Clara checked her watch, “the cook will be serving the main course of his feast. Pheasant in port with crisp roast potatoes and buttered peas.”
Clara had remembered the evening’s programme from the card they had all been given when they boarded. The main course was to be presented at 8.30, following by a range of desserts at ten o’clock. For a man like Elias, who clearly enjoyed his food, miss
ing the feast was paramount to torture. Clara was convinced she saw his lip tremble.
“Ask me these damn questions then!” He snapped.
Captain O’Harris returned to his seat and Clara began again.
“You were in the lifeboat when Henry Kemp refused to get in?”
“Yes,” Elias said.
“Were you aware that Henry was drunk?”
Elias started to shrug, then thought better of it.
“We had all been drinking. I hadn’t been keeping track of Henry. He did seem to have consumed a lot for so early in the evening.”
“How well did you know Henry?”
“Hardly at all.”
“You mainly saw him during business hours?”
“Yes,” Elias meant this to be his sole answer, but when he saw Clara’s expression he elaborated. “I’ve been spending a few hours each week at the office. Simon is going to take over from father, so really I am surplus to requirements, but I go along anyway. Father wants me to learn too. Henry used to take us around and show us how things worked.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He was polite, efficient,” Elias frowned. “He explained things well and was very patient. I always assumed he would be senior manager when Simon took over. He was younger than us. I thought he would outlast us.”
Which had no doubt made Simon and Elias feel very comfortable, knowing that there was someone they could rely on without having to expend themselves.
“You had no reason to be concerned about him or his habits?” Clara asked.
Elias shook his head.
“Henry was always very proper. Simon liked him, and Simon rarely likes anyone.”
That was quite a confession, but Clara did not pursue it. She sensed it was a slip from Elias and didn’t want to pull him up on it in case he became more cautious. The slip, in itself, was not revealing, but another might be more relevant.
“Were you concerned when you returned to the ship and could not see Henry?”
“I think Miss Dodd noticed his absence,” Elias replied. “She had been worried when he didn’t get in the lifeboat. She had been trying to see into the other boats, in case he was in one of them. Miss Dodd had a soft spot for Henry.”
“Really?” Clara remarked, recalling what Jane Dodd had said about her first meeting with Henry.
“Miss Dodd took a shine to him,” Elias answered. “She has dedicated her life to the company, but that has meant she never married. I think she had hoped Henry would take a shine to her.”
“But that never happened.”
“No,” Elias had mellowed as he talked. “Miss Dodd is a good person. I have always liked her. She deserved to get married and have a family, I always thought that.”
Elias’ voice had taken on a sentimental tone. Clara paused just a beat, before asking;
“You are fond of Miss Dodd?”
Elias almost startled at the question, which was answer enough for Clara.
“She is older than me,” he stated, as if that precluded any possible feelings towards her.
Clara didn’t push the matter. She secretly smiled to herself. Elias’ slips were becoming more intriguing, though, as yet, they did not relate much to Henry Kemp.
“When you learned that Henry had been murdered, what did you think?”
“I was stunned, naturally,” Elias said quickly.
It was the answer that he felt was expected of him.
“You were surprised then? You had not had concerns for Henry before?” Clara pursued a new line of questions that she felt might be more prudent for the future joint owner of Noble and Sons. “There had been no threats against Henry? Through the business perhaps?”
“Father had not mentioned it.”
“No trouble that could have reflected badly on Henry?”
Elias frowned, the question had thrown him.
“No one had said anything. As senior manager Henry did bear the brunt from any difficult decisions.”
“Had there been difficult decisions recently?”
Elias became uncertain, and this time it was not because he was being obtrusive, rather he genuinely didn’t know.
“We changed one of our shipping contracts,” he said at last. “It was the oldest one on our books, but we were concerned that the cargoes were not coming in as swiftly as they should and there had been more breakages than we would have expected. Henry told me and Simon about it all.”
“Henry was the one who cancelled the contract?” Clara asked.
“Yes,” Elias nodded.
“It was rather awkward, actually. The skipper of the ship is here tonight. Henry was avoiding him.”
Clara wanted to jump up in delight at this news – at last someone with a grudge against Henry!
“What is this skipper’s name?” she asked.
“Patrick Wainwright,” Elias muttered, he did not seem to realise the significance of what he had just told them. “Can I go now?”
Clara was only half-listening. Patrick Wainwright had a motive to be angry with Henry Kemp, could it be he was the killer?
“Miss Fitzgerald, can I go?”
“Oh,” Clara glanced up, “yes, go enjoy dinner.”
O’Harris unlocked the cabin door. After he had let Elias out, he looked to Clara.
“Patrick Wainwright?”
“Let’s find him!” Clara joined him at the door, a new surge of enthusiasm coming over her.
At last they had a lead!
Chapter Twelve
Clara sought out Captain Pevsner first and asked him to point her in the direction of Patrick Wainwright. She had a hunch that, as a fellow captain, he would know the man. He did and looked surprised when Clara asked.
“Skipper Pat?” he said. “Why do you want to know about him?”
“He appears to have been one of the few people aboard the Mary Jane who knew Henry Kemp and might have a reason to be angry with him.”
“Pat would never hurt someone,” Captain Pevsner hesitated. “Not badly, anyway.”
Clara thought that an interesting statement.
“Does he have a temper?”
“Most skippers do,” Pevsner shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a hard life out at sea. To be a captain you have to be tough, not just physically, but mentally. You are always battling the elements.”
“Being tough does not necessarily mean you have a temper,” Captain O’Harris countered. “It means you are resilient and, at sea, I would think being level-headed a necessity.”
“Pat is all those things,” Pevsner hastily agreed. “Just, he can lose his head when he drinks. Never seen him out of line when aboard his ship, but sometimes in port you can find him in a dockside brawl.”
“He is a fighter, then?”
Captain Pevsner was clearly regretting his statement.
“He can throw a punch or two. Never seen him use a knife, however, that is not his style.”
Clara said nothing, there was no knowing what a man might do when his temper was up.
“I think I best have a word,” Clara said. “I won’t get Simon Noble to talk to me while he is eating pheasant, anyway.”
Captain Pevsner walked with them onto the sun deck and pointed out a dusky-skinned man wearing a smart, but clearly old, dress suit. Skipper Patrick Wainwright was in his late fifties or early sixties and had the weathered appearance of a man who has spent all his years out in the elements. His face seemed cut by lines of deep wrinkles, his forehead, in particular, bore distinctive worry lines even when he was not frowning. The corner of his eyes bore dozens of tiny creases that looked like the frantic work of a poor seamstress. His was a face you could imagine protruding from an oilskin, the wind whipping salt water over him as he fought to keep his ship on track. It was not a face you expected to associate with a dress suit, even an old one.
“Skipper Wainwright?” Clara asked politely as they drew near.
Captain Pevsner had departed, not wanting to be around. He seemed upset a
t the thought of a fellow seaman – a skipper, no less – murdering one of his guests. He didn’t want to be associated with the interview, at the very least.
Patrick Wainwright looked at Clara with a curious twinkle in his eye. He had a plate in his hand, but it was empty. Unlike some of the guests (namely the Nobles), Wainwright did not feel the need to eat until he burst. He had enjoyed a modest plateful of pheasant and potatoes and was now satisfied. At least Clara would not be interrupting his meal.
“I am,” Wainwright said at last. “Who are you?”
“Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara introduced herself. “And this is Captain O’Harris.”
Wainwright raised an eyebrow at O’Harris’ title.
“RFC,” O’Harris quickly interjected. “I flew in the war.”
“Braver man than me!” Wainwright said with a laugh, some of his caution lifting. “I think the sea is bad enough.”
“Would you have a moment to talk to us?” Clara said, hoping to catch him while he was distracted.
Wainwright was not so easily caught off-guard.
“What for?”
“It is a private matter,” Clara lowered her voice. “I wanted to ask your opinion on a certain person who has, unfortunately, caused Captain Pevsner some trouble this evening.”
Clara felt that was vague enough to not only alleviate any concerns Wainwright might have about whether he was in trouble, but also to play on his camaraderie towards a fellow ship’s captain.
“It won’t take long,” Clara promised.
“Pat, what is this all about?” The question had been posed by a woman who was stood beside Wainwright and who Clara assumed was his wife. She was the same age as Wainwright and almost as tall. She looked worried.
“It is just a minor thing,” Clara reassured her. “Someone has caused a spot of bother. I am a private detective, I have been asked by Captain Pevsner to resolve this matter discreetly and quickly. He doesn’t want tonight disrupted for his guests. It has already been eventful enough.”
Throwing in Captain Pevsner’s name had been a deliberate attempt to stir up Wainwright’s empathy, once again, for a fellow captain.
“All very cloak and dagger,” Wainwright observed, without apparently knowing the irony of that statement. “I can spare you a moment or two.”
