Doctor Who

by Alex Kingston

  Mrs Peterson-Lee looks at her. ‘Really? You mean three of us were on the same ship? How strange!’

  ‘She was at the auction for me,’ says Cuttling. ‘Got an interest in jewels, came highly recommended. Perfect person to send.’

  At least the change of subject stopped Cuttling goggling at my sister like she was an especially appetising Grenadin de veau. Thankfully, Harry had steered clear of the love-struck teenager thing, but he was sending a good few dirty looks my way, and I’m meaning that in the sense of ‘down and dirty’ before you ask. The full glower type of dirty look was also coming in my direction, though, for good measure, and it was coming hard and wolfish from Miss Jones. ‘What big teeth you have, Grandma,’ I thought again.

  And suddenly all these thoughts are springing up in my brain, ricocheting off each other like bagatelle balls.

  What big teeth you have …

  Spirit of St Louis …

  ‘So you docked in New York?’ I say to Miss Jones. ‘You get a chance to sightsee before heading back to Chicago?’

  Cuttling laughs and answers for her. ‘She lives in the place! I got people all round the States. Dolores here’s been one of my New York agents for years now. Got top reports from everyone. Knows her jewels. Best person to send.’

  Well, what d’you know. I’m thinking that’s a piece of information I could’ve done with earlier.

  I put down my knife and fork. My mind’s racing so fast I ain’t got any energy left for eating.

  Then I carefully and deliberately wipe any concern off my face and look straight into Harry’s eyes, letting him know that I am his and only his and all his.

  ‘I guess we all need an early night tonight,’ I say. ‘What time is it we’re due to land? Four a.m.?’

  I’m addressing everyone but I’m still looking at Harry. He knows what sort of ‘early night’ I have in mind. ‘Quarter after four, or thereabouts,’ he says. ‘So yeah. An early night seems a real good idea.’

  The meal drags on, as does the tedious evening’s conversation. River and I are the first to leave. ‘Midnight, old cabin,’ I whisper to Harry as we say our goodnights. He virtually licks his lips.

  ‘Come on, then, what was all that about?’ River asks when we’re back in our cabin. ‘Don’t tell me you’re really planning a happy night with Harry.’

  ‘It’s all part of the plan,’ I say.

  So of course she asks, ‘What plan?’

  I throw myself back on the lower bunk, hands behind my head. ‘Oh, thing is, I’ve solved the mystery,’ I say. ‘I know who murdered Wallace.’

  ‘And are you planning to tell me who it was?’

  ‘Sure, sis!’

  I pause for dramatic effect, letting the events replay themselves in my head. Harry and I leaving Wallace with the map in his office at the back of the Pink Tiger club. The singer crooning away – the same canary who’d later be the one and only witness to Mrs Peterson-Lee going into Wallace’s office. I remember her singing ‘Meet Me In St Louis, Louis’. I remember thinking of her as ‘all teeth and curls’ – but those curls were a wig.

  I look River in the eye, and I smile. ‘It was Miss Jones. She murdered him.’

  ‘What? That dismal little woman?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear? She was in New York when it happened! I’d assumed – we’d all assumed – she came from Chicago with Cuttling. No! She was auditioning to be a singer at Wallace’s club – and soon as the coast’s clear, she sticks a knife in his back.’

  ‘But if she took the ruby – and the map too – how did they end up in Susan Peterson-Lee’s hotel suite?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I say. So I’m the detective, but she doesn’t have to embarrass me.

  She gets it. ‘Harry.’

  ‘Mm-hmm. Harry. Maybe they met on the boat, maybe he knew her before then – whatever, they were a team. He’d know how to get her the gig at the Pink Tiger, straight off the boat. She slips the stuff to him and he hid them while he was allegedly searching for them – then, hey, surprise! He finds them again, neatly incriminating a woman who his partner in crime has already pointed the finger at. If Susan hadn’t had that alibi, she could be on Death Row right now.’ I sigh. ‘Which is why, even if Miss Jones was the one who did the deed, Harry’s just as guilty.’

  The trouble is, although I’m now certain Miss Jones is the killer, I still ain’t got a scrap of evidence. No proof she was the nightclub singer. No proof she stabbed Wallace. No proof she poisoned our coffee – yeah, I’m sure that was her too. I don’t reckon that bit was part of Harry’s plan, it was a little bit of freelancing because she hated me. I’ve seen the way she looked at me – which is why I’d goaded her at the dining table by making such an obvious play for her man.

  Oh yeah, I’d made a date with Harry all right. But I didn’t think Miss Jones would let that happen, and that’s where I’d get my evidence.

  I was listening out for the others to make their way to bed.

  ‘Goodnight, Malone!’ Harry calls as he passes our cabin.

  ‘Goodnight!’ I call back.

  ‘Goodnight, River!’

  ‘Goodnight!’

  Then follows clunk after clunk as the cabin doors are shut noisily behind everyone.

  I ready myself for bed. Well, for ‘bed’. Black chiffon negligée with a scarlet silk kimono, so it’s clear as can be I ain’t got no concealed weapons. A dab of Femme du Temps here, here and here, remembering Coco Chanel’s advice to apply perfume where you wanted to be kissed – or at least where you wanted people to think you wanted to be kissed.

  I lay back on my bunk and wait for the clock to creep to midnight.

  Two minutes before the hour, I hear a cabin door open.

  I open my door too. Yes, it’s Harry. He hasn’t bothered changing into nightclothes, but he’s wearing a smarter shirt and jacket than earlier. Fine by me. The more buttons there are to undo, the longer I can draw this out.

  But his eyes are greedy, and I know as we enter the old cabin that drawing things out is not what he has in mind. Sorry, Harry, we’re going by my timetable, not yours.

  I slip my arms under his jacket and check for weapons under the guise of a caress. He’s clean. It’s safe for me to step back.

  He looks like he wants to return the favour, but I take a step back and put a finger on his lips. ‘Slow down, sailor! We’re not coming in to land yet.’

  He steers me backwards, then growls in disappointment and disgust when he sees the lower bunk is still occupied. ‘They haven’t got that thing out of here yet?’ he says. ‘I thought they were going to.’

  I shrug. ‘I guess they forgot. But hey, dead men tell no tales. You ain’t gonna let it put you off? A big brave man like you?’

  No, seems nothing’s going to put him off. I’m hoping I don’t have to drag this out for too long before Miss Jones makes her move.

  I’m hoping she does make a move.

  Thank the good lord above, I hear a door opening – slowly, carefully, but unmistakably. I can turn things up a gear. I cup his head in my hands and lean in for a kiss. He don’t seem to mind one bit.

  The door opens behind Harry. For a moment he’s too busy to notice, but as Miss Jones shuts and bolts the door he spins around.

  She’s pointing a bean-shooter at us.

  Harry’s eyes pop out of his head. ‘Sweetheart, honey –’

  ‘Don’t you honey me,’ she says. Weird thing is, she’s suddenly gone all British. Guess her accent was as phony as mine is.

  Harry holds out his hands, palm up, like he’s approaching a wild animal (maybe a mongoose) and trying to show he’s not a threat. ‘Just keeping her sweet, honey, we agreed … You’re my girl, you know I am.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind if I get rid of her right now,’ says Miss Jones.

  The gun barrel is pointed straight at my heart. Her finger tightens on the trigger.

  And River bursts out from under the sheet, where she’s been doing her best corpse impression. She
grabs the Jones dame by the knees and pulls her down. The gun goes off as she falls – and Harry falls too. Blood is already soaking through his shirt; he looks so surprised. And then his expression just fades into blankness.

  Miss Jones lets out a wail. She lifts the gun again, waving it between us.

  River’s looking all weird. Blinking and shaking her head. She’s staring down at her wrist. The weird bracelet thing she wears there is all hanging off in bits. She curses.

  ‘Maybe it’s not really broken,’ she says. ‘Maybe it’s not real.’

  It looks both real and really broken to me, but funny thing, it’s not the thing most on my mind, what with the gun pointing at us and all.

  ‘Oh, well, at least we did it,’ she says. ‘We found the murderer.’ Well, I guess as twins we get to share everything. I used to borrow her hair ribbons when we were kids, so now she shares the credit for solving a homicide. Fair enough.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, I’m going to kill both of you!’ Miss Jones says. ‘You lured Harry here to murder him, and I didn’t turn up in time to save him, but I still got you both. You’re going to rot in hell, you twisted twins.’

  ‘Come on, you gotta tell us your evil plan first,’ I say. ‘That’s how this is supposed to work.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just the bare bones,’ I say.

  River and I start to fire questions at her, and she’s so flustered she actually answers a few. (You’ll find out later.) But it ain’t long before she pulls herself together again – and she’s still pointing the gun at us. Right now, it’s aimed right at River.

  But River’s not looking at Miss Jones, she’s looking over her shoulder. ‘No, don’t!’ she cries out, and again, it ain’t Miss Jones she’s talking to.

  ‘Do you really think I’m that stupid?’ says Miss Jones. Then she looks down at her chest, maybe to see why it’s suddenly hurting – but sad to say, the knife didn’t make it all the way through, so I’m guessing she died still not knowing. She crumples, revealing behind her Phil, standing in the wardrobe. He’s holding that super-sharp ‘paperknife’ he’d borrowed from the galley.

  I’d known River was hiding in the cabin, of course – I mean, it was my idea. She’d been in place long before the others went to bed, so there’d be no doors creaking to warn anyone someone was on the move, and being identical in voice as well as face, I’d called out a few additional goodnights – in my original accent. Sounded just like there was two of us in our cabin. But Phil – nope, him I hadn’t known about.

  ‘That your idea?’ I say to my sister, and she nods.

  ‘He’s not the type of kid to hold back when someone’s in danger,’ she says.

  I smile at him. ‘Thanks, Kid.’ I would have ruffled his hair, but he never takes that cap off. Oh, and he don’t have no hair. But apart from that.

  Phil gives me a little bow. Yeah, he’s a funny kid all round. But we suit each other.

  Someone’s banging on the door. ‘What’s going on in there!’ demands Cuttling’s voice.

  River unbolts the cabin door and opens it, to reveal Cuttling (in a pair of mustard and brown striped pyjamas) and Mrs Peterson-Lee (in what would be a simple white nightdress if she hadn’t added to it a gold-coloured belt and a gold collar that resembled nothing so much as an Egyptian Usekh and – oh, right. She was being Cleopatra. If Cleopatra had been a 60-year-old white woman with cliff-ledge bosoms who pranced around in a nightie, that is).

  Wearily, I suggest going elsewhere to explain. I mean, we’re just swimming in blood here.

  Susan Peterson-Lee is hyperventilating and fluttering her hands wildly, her eyes rolling into her head as though she’s about to faint – or maybe wants to give the impression of someone about to faint. ‘Come on, Susan,’ I say. ‘I reckon Cleopatra saw a lot worse. She bumped off a whole heap of folks, didn’t she?’

  ‘Assassination is a necessary tool of princes,’ put in Phil. ‘The alternative is to be killed oneself.’

  ‘A good point by my young and slightly bloodthirsty assistant,’ I say. ‘Miss Jones was trying to plug my sister and me, see? Come on, let’s go to the lounge and tip a few. I could sure do with a brandy, and I guess you could too, Mrs P-L.’

  But Mrs Peterson-Lee is still looking down at Miss Jones. The secretary’s severe hairstyle is lying about a foot from her body – it turns out it wasn’t only her nightclub curls that was a wig. Her real hair is revealed: a jet-black bob that has a hint of the Ancient Egyptian about it.

  ‘I know her,’ says Mrs Peterson-Lee. ‘I’ve seen her somewhere before, I know I have.’ And then her eyes widen in recognition. ‘But it can’t be! She’s dead!’

  ‘Who is?’ I demand.

  ‘Why, I saw her at the auction! That’s George Badger’s daughter! That’s Ruby Badger!’

  We make the move to the lounge. Phil pours glasses of brandy for everyone, himself included, although he wrinkles his nose at the taste. I down mine and hold out my glass for a refill, before I start on the story.

  River and Phil chime in here and there, and Cuttling and Mrs Peterson-Lee jump in with questions, and between us, with the information Miss Jones – sorry, Ruby Badger slash Durkin – gifted to us before she died, we work out what happened.

  As Wallace’s agent in Egypt, Harry acquires the map, that much was true. What he didn’t spill was how much he wanted to find that tomb. He had a go while he was out there, but no luck. He needed a proper expedition. Trouble is, that sort of thing costs money. He wanted Wallace to fund a huge expedition, but Wallace says no, not without a definite location. So Harry starts sticking his fingers in the till. He’s eyeing up Wallace’s sweet, sweet New York empire, and he’s decided to transfer a substantial cut of the profits into his own pocket and fund the thing himself.

  January 1939, poor old Mrs Badger kicks it. Ruby inherits the Eye of Horus ruby, along with her father’s letter to her mother. She don’t know nothing about the map, she just wants cash. Lots and lots of cash. So, off to Bothesy’s she goes, and they say, ‘Oh yeah, we’ll get you a boatload of cash for that, just you wait and see.’

  Peterson-Lee wants the ruby. Cuttling wants the ruby. Cuttling sends over his New York agent, one Dolores Jones. Wallace has already got an agent in England, Floyd. They all go begging to Ruby, wanting to negotiate a private sale. No way, is her answer. It’s going to auction and they can take their chances alongside of everyone else.

  Now Harry, he happens to be in England, so he swings by to see Floyd. And Floyd, who’s still trying to put pressure on Ruby, suddenly finds himself with a real pip at his disposal, and he decides to set him on the girlie in question. That Ruby would fall for Harry – not the biggest shock. That Harry would fall for Ruby – well, that was maybe less on the cards, although how much of it was her personal attraction and how much all the folding green that she’d get for that sparkling red, who knows.

  Here’s the auction. Present: Ruby, Harry, Floyd, Susan Peterson-Lee, Dolores Jones, George Badger Junior. Junior kicks up a fuss but the hammer falls anyway and Horace P. Wallace has a shiny new toy, Floyd’s got it.

  Harry and Ruby celebrate. She – and therefore by extension they – are up a cool million or so. But then, for the first time, Harry sees what she’s been selling. He sees the letter. He recognises the ‘hieroglyphs’ immediately, and he wants that letter. He wants it real bad. It could be the key to finding that tomb, and he’s not handing that chance over to anyone.

  Ruby tries to withdraw the lot, but the sale’s gone through; that wire transfer’s already on its way from Horace P. in good ol’ NY. She asks for the letter back – Floyd says no way. It’s part and parcel of the lot. The pair of them are sore as a boil.

  But all ain’t lost. Badger sent hundreds of letters to his wife, Ruby says, they can work out the cipher with those. Back they go to the Badgers’ house and search it top to bottom. Not a letter in sight. Not a single one. Looks like Mrs Badger burned the lot of them before she croaked. So that letter that go
t sold to Wallace? It’s the sole survivor.

  Back to Floyd. He says the stone ain’t got there yet, but they ain’t getting it anyhow. It’s going back on the Caesarion with Marvin Motson. So what do Harry and Ruby do? They book a couple of passages on the ship themselves, maybe intending a bit of persuasion, maybe intending a bit of burglary, maybe just cos they liked playing deck quoits and fancied the trip. Other folks who had the same idea: one, Susan Peterson-Lee and two, Dolores Jones. While they’re waiting, Harry and Ruby spring for a special licence and become Mr and Mrs H. Durkin. I’m guessing Harry wanted to make sure he had hands on her money, if nothing else.

  They report to the RMS Caesarion, ready to make friendly with Motson. Trouble is, Floyd had fed everyone a yarn. Marvin Motson had already made his getaway the day before on the Tithonia. Main coincidence was that Badger Jr, running away from his troubles, had also ended up on the Tithonia, not knowing to start with that his pop’s letter (not to mention the ruby) was a couple of berths along.

  Now Harry, he’s pretty sore. Why? you might ask. All he’s gotta do is talk to Wallace, get him to set up the expedition at last. Big problem: from a few things Floyd let drop, it looks like Wallace is about to wise up that Harry’s been glomming on to his profits. Just in case Floyd passes on any gen to the boss, plus to pay him back for sending them in the wrong direction, Harry arranges for Floyd to get rubbed out.

  They set off on the Caesarion anyways, they’ve already sprung for the tickets and it can be their honeymoon. And like all young lovers, they spend the time plotting a few murders. First off, they find Cuttling don’t know Miss Jones all that well. They spot an opportunity right there, and she gets tipped overboard. Except hey, they tell everyone it’s Ruby. What a tragedy. Ruby Durkin née Badger is now Miss Dolores Jones, and Harry pretends he don’t know her at all.

  While I’m running all over New York dealing with Ruby’s baby brother, their ship gets in. Ruby, in a blonde wig, does her canary turn at the Pink Tiger – Harry had told her who to ask for, was pretty sure she’d be put in place where he needed her to be. He sees Wallace – and while he’s there, Wallace takes a call from Peterson-Lee, handily making herself a suspect, something Harry’s gonna grab with both hands.