Captain Mortimer looked at Mercer again. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, in which I realized for the first time that Mr. Babson was in tears, the captain said, “Mr. Mercer, how do you respond to Herbert Watts’s account?”
“It is an outright fabrication,” said the banker, who seemed unaware of Mr. Babson’s distress. “Rubbia has plainly testified that he saw the so-called German prince push poor Robert overboard. Unfortunately, he is presently in no condition to refute this sorry fellow’s story. I suggest that this man knows more than he’s said about the attack on Signor Rubbia, as well. I find it hard to credit that you would accept his testimony at face value. He is evidently deluded by some sort of religious mania. There is not a shred of evidence to connect me with this alleged incident.”
“Oh, I almost forgot about that,” said Herbert Watts. “Remember ’Ow I said the gentleman wiped the blood off ’is ’ands with ’is pocket ’andkerchief? ’E threw it away, but the wind blew it back on deck. I thought it better not lie there, and picked it up—and then, later, I thought I’d better keep it, just in case I needed a trump card. ’Ere it is.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled, blood-stained square of white linen, placing it on the captain’s desk. Even from where I sat, I could see the embroidered monogram VM in one corner.
29
“Poor Watts will have to stand trial, but I don’t think he’s in danger of the gallows,” said Captain Mortimer. After the meeting in which Mr. Mercer had been exposed as the murderer of Robert Babson, the captain had sent out for whisky and a siphon and sat us down to hash over the day’s events. “Watts went along not intending to harm anyone, and he and Gallagher took no part in the actual killing—though I fear they’ll face charges as accessories before and after the fact. But perhaps Watts’s having testified against Mercer will convince a judge to be lenient with him.” He shook his head sadly. “What a terrible scene that must have been.”
“It was fearful enough in Watts’s description from what you say,” said Mr. Kipling, swirling the whisky in his glass. “Curious, isn’t it? A poor half-educated fellow who can barely speak a proper sentence can bring more of a chill to your blood in five minutes than Lord Lytton can in three volumes.”
“The plain truth is always more frightening than made-up bogeymen and monsters. I reckon Andy Jones is thinking about that right now; odds are, he’ll be climbing that ladder to the gallows along with Mercer,” said Mr. Clemens. He took a cigar out of his pocket and began searching for a match. We were all silent for a moment, thinking of what awaited Mr. Mercer and his hired toughs when the City of Baltimore docked in Southampton on Monday.
“Yes, I’d think Mercer and Jones will hang,” said the captain, a stern expression on his face. “Even if poor Signor Rubbia recovers, Jones’s laying hands on Robert Babson makes him a direct accomplice to the murder, even if he didn’t strike the fatal blow. Some judges might find extenuating circumstances, but you won’t see me arguing for leniency. There’s no excuse for crew to attack one of my passengers, no excuse at all.”
“Can it be proven that Jones attacked Rubbia?” asked Mr. Kipling. “Has he confessed?”
“Not yet,” said the captain. “Mr. Jennings is quizzing him right now, and perhaps he’ll make a clean breast of it. Jones was in Ruckgarten’s cabin when Rubbia confronted the prince, and he heard the prince suggest that Rubbia would tell a different story under hard questioning. He must have decided that the threat had to be taken seriously. Watts says that Jones followed Rubbia and Mr. Babson toward the upper deck when he left the cabin, instead of going back to his own quarters. He didn’t think anything of it at the time, but in retrospect it’s a telling circumstance. Jones had no business in that part of the ship.”
“What will happen to Gallagher?” I asked. The first mate had been put under arrest along with Mercer, Watts and Jones; all four sat in the ship’s brig. No comfortable cabin arrest for them.
“If I were the judge, he’d never again see the light of day outside a prison,” said Captain Mortimer, in a voice that brooked no denial. “That’s assuming there’s not enough evidence to hang him. He was dead wrong to take one passenger’s money to play roughhouse with another, no matter how the boy had offended him. But if the judge is lenient, he may escape the worst—Watts said that Gallagher never laid hands on Babson, and that may save him from the gallows, in the end.”
“And Mercer’s money may save him,” said Mr. Kipling. “A rich man can often buy his way out of trouble— even this kind of trouble. He’ll certainly have the best barrister he can hire.”
“It won’t be Babson, that’s for sure,” said Mr. Clemens.
“No, certainly not,” said the captain. “But Mercer is trying every excuse in the book. His latest story is that Jones killed the boy, that he was dead even before he kicked him, and that it was Gallagher’s idea to throw the body overboard. By the time he’s done, he’ll be claiming that he was trying to save the boy from the murderous crewmen.” He snorted in disgust.
“The whole thing is a tragedy,” said Mr. Clemens. “Here we have half a dozen lives ruined—not even counting Rubbia, supposing he survives. And how many more permanently shadowed by the tragedy? Mercer’s poor wife and children, and the Babson boy’s family, too—though I think Babson senior brought much of his misery on himself.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” I said. “I wondered from the beginning why he was so intent on proving that Robert was murdered. Wouldn’t it have comforted him more to believe that his son was the victim of an accident?”
“Not necessarily,” said Mr. Clemens. “I know how it feels to lose a child—my little boy Langdon died when he was barely two years old. I wanted to blame everybody and everything except myself, even though I knew I was the one most to blame. The same may be true of Babson—I don’t know for sure. All I can say is that a young man doesn’t get that wild all by himself, and the father must know he carries some of the responsibility for it. But Babson did accomplish one thing. If he hadn’t insisted that his son had been murdered, and pressed the investigation, we’d never have learned the truth—terrible as it is.”
“It is a terrible thing, yes,” said the captain. He stood up and walked out to the front of his desk, then leaned against it, his hands on the desktop. “The one thing I cannot for the life of me understand is why Signor Rubbia would come forward to accuse an innocent man of murder. What could he possibly have hoped to gain by it—other than an enemy for life, if the prince managed to clear himself?”
“It may not have been his idea to begin with,” said Mr. Clemens. “It was Robert Babson’s father who picked Prinz Karl as the likely suspect, if you’ll remember. That fight after the concert gave him a believable motive, and at the time we weren’t entirely certain of the prince’s bona fides. In fact, we may not be really sure of them until we’re in port.”
“We’ll find out shortly thereafter,” promised the captain. “It won’t be a mystery once my directors learn what’s happened. A few telegrams, and they’ll have him sorted out.”
“I’ll be curious to know the answer myself,” said Mr. Clemens. “Not that I put any stock in titles and the like, but it’s taken on an interest independent of the murder. Anyhow, I suspect that when Babson started making a stink about his son being murdered, Mercer must have panicked. He wasn’t sure whether an investigation would point to him or not. He had four witnesses to worry about, and he couldn’t be sure the bribes he’d given them would keep them quiet if the pressure got too high.”
“You think he bribed Rubbia?” said the captain.
Mr. Clemens blew a puff of cigar smoke and nodded. “It makes sense that he did. Rubbia was the only one who didn’t have to worry about being put in the dock if the case ever came to trial. And Rubbia had Mercer over a barrel. So when Babson started talking murder, Mercer must have been willing to do anything to dodge suspicion—at least long enough to get to shore, where he’d have a chance to disappear before the inv
estigation got back to him. So he must have bribed Rubbia to claim he’d seen the prince do it. Rubbia didn’t like the prince, to begin with—they were like fire and powder from the first time they met.”
“Didn’t Rubbia know he was risking a perjury charge?” I asked. “He must have known he would be exposed if the prince could establish his alibi, or if any of the other participants confessed.”
“Rubbia likely doesn’t know English law,” said Mr. Kipling. “Perhaps the prospect of money blinded him. Or perhaps, like Mercer, he assumed he could fade away, and never face the consequences.”
“Not as a material witness to a capital crime he wouldn’t,” said Captain Mortimer, with a grim smile. “He’d never have been allowed out of the jurisdiction until he’d testified in court. If he showed any sign of bolting, he’d have been in a cell, just as tightly guarded as the accused.”
“More tightly, if the prince really is who he claims to be,” said Mr. Kipling. “Poor Rubbia. He almost talked his way into being the next murder victim. I hope he lives to tell the true story in court, and then to set his life back on the proper road.”
I thought of Signor Rubbia’s offer to give me drawing lessons, and his encouraging my interest in art, and I hoped that he would recover to pass on his knowledge and skills to other students and art lovers. Perjurer or not, I couldn’t find it in my heart to hate him.
“I’ll drink to that,” said Mr. Clemens, raising his glass. We all solemnly echoed his gesture and drank. Then he grinned and said, “With any luck, maybe he’ll even give up the art tour business and become an honest horse trader, or a sincere spiritualist.”
Mr. Clemens’s lecture was scheduled for that evening, and after a brief consultation with the captain and the librarian, Mrs. Tremont, it was decided that (in spite of the events of the last day) it would be best to go ahead as planned. Mrs. Tremont had reported greater interest in this event than anything she had scheduled for the entire season, so it would have been too great a disappointment to postpone it. With the ship due to arrive in England midday on Monday, the only other possibility would be Sunday evening. That would force many passengers who wished to attend the lecture to stay up late to complete their last-minute packing for debarkation—not to mention depriving those passengers who were strict in observing the Sabbath—of their only opportunity to see my employer speak. Besides which, the lecture might give the passengers some subject of conversation other than the murder, for by now the entire ship knew that Robert Babson had been killed and that Mr. Mercer had been arrested for it.
Since Mr. Clemens’s half-serious plan to turn the lecture into a satire on the City of Baltimore and its crew was no longer relevant, he sat down after our meeting with the captain to decide on a subject. He used to say it took him three days to work up an impromptu speech, and here he was with only a few hours for the same preparation. (Of course, most of the last three days, his mind had been occupied with solving the murder.) He was shuffling through his notes for various set pieces he could deliver with no rehearsal, when there was a knock at the door. “See who that is, Wentworth,” he said, and I went to open it.
To my surprise, there stood my Yale friend Bertie Parsons, with Mr. Jennings close behind him. “Hullo, Cabot,” he said. “This fine gentleman was about to eject me from the upper deck, but I managed to persuade him that Mr. Clemens would want to hear what a fellow Yale man had to say. Does your boss have a minute free?”
“I guess I do,” said Mr. Clemens, getting to his feet. “Come on it and sit down. You too, Jennings. Would you fellows like a drink?’ ‘
“Thank you, but I’m on duty,” said Mr. Jennings, who remained standing.
“It would be against my principles to refuse such a generous offer,” said Bertie, plopping himself on the sofa, across from Mr. Clemens. “Whatever you’ve got is fine.”
“Give him whisky, then, Wentworth,” said my employer, returning to his chair. The light from the porthole fell directly over him, and his white suit was dazzling. “What can I do for you, Bertie?”
Bertie looked at Mr. Jennings, then back at Mr. Clemens. “Well, the De Witt boys and I heard that you were going to give a talk tonight, and we thought it would be bully to come hear it. But when a fellow from steerage tries to come up to the Grand Saloon, half the crew seems to be looking to send him back down. So I wondered if you could put a word in the captain’s ear to let us come hear you talk?”
“Damn right you can come hear me!” exclaimed Mr. Clemens, jumping to his feet again. “In fact, I won’t give the talk unless you—and anybody else aboard who cares to hear me—can come to the lecture. That includes steerage, and the stokers, too. Do you hear that, Jennings? Go tell the captain!”
“I don’t think he’s going to like that, Mr. Clemens,” said the officer, who looked uncomfortable. “Besides, I can’t leave this young man unattended.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him. He’s not going anywhere else—not while the whisky’s free here, anyhow,” said Mr. Clemens, glowering. “And unless you’re slower than molasses, not even a Yale man is going to drink up my whole supply in the time it takes you to get to the bridge and back. Hurry, now!”
Somewhat flustered, Jennings turned and walked briskly out the door. Just before it closed, Bertie said nonchalantly, “You haven’t seen me drink before, have you, sir?”
There was a perceptible pause in the closing of the door. Then Mr. Clemens said, “You don’t know how much whisky I keep on hand, do you, son?”
The door closed, and we heard Jennings’s footsteps receding rapidly down the corridor. Evidently he had decided that it was a good idea to get his answer and return as quickly as possible—just in case Bertie’s capacity was larger than he anticipated.
After a period of amiable chatter—Mr. Clemens seemed far better informed of current events at Yale than either Bertie or I, who were both alumni—we heard a gentle knock on the door. “That’ll be Jennings again,” said Mr. Clemens. “Let him in, Wentworth.”
But to my surprise, when I opened the door, there stood Mrs. Tremont, the librarian. She smiled shyly and said, “May I come in?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” said Mr. Clemens, jumping to his feet. “What brings you to an old man’s humble cabin on a Saturday afternoon?” He bowed low, taking her hand and kissing it in the European style. The librarian blushed, but was clearly pleased at his flattery.
Mrs. Tremont recovered her composure and said, “Captain Mortimer has sent me to speak to you, after Mr. Jennings informed him of your request to admit the steerage passengers and crew to your lecture tonight.”
“I see,” said Mr. Clemens. “I reckon he means to refuse me, and thinks I’ll take rejection easier from a sweet little lady than from a bluff old sailor. Well, that just goes to prove he don’t know Sam Clemens. You can go back to your books, and I’ll go straight to the bridge and show him just how stubborn a Missouri mule can be.” He crossed his arms over his chest, all gallantry forgotten.
Mrs. Tremont shook her finger, like a kindly teacher reprimanding a naughty schoolboy. “Really, Mr. Clemens, you should learn what my news is before you compose your answer to it. I have not come to refuse your request—quite the opposite, in fact.” She smiled and cocked her head to one side.
“I’ll teach him not to. . . What did you say?” Mr. Clemens stopped in mid-rant as the import of Mrs. Tremont’s message penetrated his consciousness. “Then why did he need to send you here?”
“For two things,” said Mrs. Tremont, moving into the room. “May I have a seat?”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Clemens, now obviously flustered. He showed the librarian to a comfortable chair, while Bertie and I stood looking on, amused at the turn of events.
“To begin with,” said Mrs. Tremont, “Captain Mortimer is delighted at the notion of letting the steerage passengers and those of the crew who can be spared from work hear your lecture. They so rarely get to hear any of our speakers, let alone such a famous one as Mark Twa
in.”
“I’m flattered, Mrs. Tremont,” said my employer, with a little bow. “Then I’ll double my efforts and try to be especially diverting tonight.”
“I am pleased to hear you say that, Mr. Clemens,” said Mrs. Tremont. “That raises the second reason for my visit. Since the Grand Saloon cannot hold all those who might wish to hear you speak, the captain wonders if you might be willing to give two lectures tonight—let us say at eight and ten o’clock? That way, none of the crew will have to miss you on account of work, and we can accommodate everyone.”
Mr. Clemens slapped his knee and laughed. “I should have known there’d be a kicker to the story, but I guess I brought it on myself. Sure, two lectures aren’t much more work than one. Tell the captain I’ll do it, and I leave it up to you to get me a full house both times.”
“I can promise you my best efforts, Mr. Clemens,” said the librarian, getting to her feet. “And I shall be on hand to hear you—both times, in fact.”
“Mrs. Tremont, it will be my pleasure,” said Mr. Clemens, bowing and showing her out of the stateroom.
30
Mrs. Tremont was as good as her word. The Grand Saloon was full for the first lecture. Many of the first-class passengers looked askance at the humbly dressed steerage passengers and the rough-looking crewmen, but once Mr. Clemens ambled out to the podium and began to speak in that slow, drawling voice, they followed his every word. Bejeweled ladies in satin, and burly stokers, whose faces bore traces of coal dust despite their best efforts at cleaning up, laughed together at his stories, and at the end they stood and applauded as one.
[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor Page 32
