A Poison of Passengers

by Jack Treby

  ‘I would appreciate it if you would all remain here for a few minutes. I want to have a quick word with Mr Buxton.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lady Jocelyn agreed, before I could register any alarm.

  ‘Thank you, your ladyship. Mr Buxton?’ He gestured to an internal door.

  ‘I...yes, of course.’ I followed him into the hallway, in something of a daze. What did he want to speak to me for? Was I about to be given a dressing down? I suppose it was understandable that he would want to find out what the devil I had been up to in Mrs O’Neill’s bedroom, now that the place had been properly secured. The security officer had not been at all happy to find me, in situ, contaminating his crime scene.

  Griffith closed the sitting room door and we moved quietly to the far end of the corridor. I would have liked a moment to gather my thoughts, but it was not to be. ‘In here, sir.’ He indicated the far bedroom. ‘I’m sure Sir Richard won’t object.’ He pushed back the door and we shuffled into the vicar’s quarters. It was the usual clutter that I remembered. Griffith lifted a cushion off a chair and pulled it up. He gestured for me to do the same.

  ‘Look here,’ I said, anxious not to set off on the wrong foot. ‘I am sorry about entering the room like that. I really didn’t think. It was...it was such a shock.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir,’ Griffith said calmly, pulling out his notebook and pencil. He gazed across at me with those penetrating blue eyes. ‘These thing happen. However, there are one or two facts I need to establish, before I discuss anything with Sir Richard’s party.’

  ‘Facts?’ I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that.

  ‘That’s right, sir.’ Griffith did not feel the need to elaborate. His pencil was hovering over a blank page in his notebook. ‘I understand it was the maid, Miss Simpkins, who was the first on the scene?’ He had spoken to the girl briefly before sending us across to the Reynolds Suite.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I was just coming up the main stairs when I heard her scream.’

  ‘You weren’t the only one to hear that,’ Griffith said. At least it gave me an alibi of sorts. ‘So you arrived at the door and the maid was inside the room?’

  ‘No. No, she was standing at the door. She wasn’t inside.’

  ‘And what did you do then?’

  ‘Well...erm...it was obvious that Mrs O’Neill...that there had been a dreadful accident of some kind. So I collared a passing steward and sent him off to summon a doctor. And he found you, I gather.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. And when he was gone, you took it upon yourself to enter the stateroom?’ There was no anger in the voice this time, just a calm querying of the facts. Griffith really was a seasoned policeman. He wasn’t looking at me now; he was busily scribbling away.

  ‘Er...yes. I...I did. I suppose I wanted to see if there was anything to be done.’

  He looked up. ‘And what was your interest in Mrs O’Neill’s typewriter?’

  I flinched, taken aback by the directness of the question. ‘Typewriter?’

  ‘When I found you, sir, you were standing over Mrs O’Neill’s typewriter. The Olivetti, on top of the dressing table. You were examining the drum.’

  ‘Er...yes, I was.’

  ‘Why was that, sir?’

  I gave out a sigh. There was no point concealing the truth. ‘Look, Mr Griffith, you may or may not be aware of this, but there’s been a...well, a spate of malicious letter writing onboard ship.’

  Griffith put down his pencil. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Someone’s been sending letters to various people. Nasty, distasteful letters.’

  The security officer was watching me carefully. ‘Poison pen letters, sir?’

  ‘Yes, that sort of thing. You know about that?’

  ‘Not until a few minutes ago, sir.’ There was a brief flash of annoyance. ‘The steward tells me there have been a few rumours flying around the last couple of days.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘But no-one has made an official complaint.’

  ‘No, no. They wouldn’t have done. But how did...?’

  Griffith put down his notepad and reached into his breast pocket. ‘We found this, sir, in Mrs O’Neill’s stateroom.’ He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it across to me.

  ‘Good lord,’ I said, unfolding the note. It was the usual typewritten monstrosity. “YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A CHARLATAN,” it read. “YOUR HONEY WORDS ARE FOOLING NOBODY. YOU DO NOT CARE FOR THE REPUTATION OF THE WOMEN YOU SO CASUALLY ROMANCE. YOU ARE ONLY INTERESTED IN THE SIZE OF THEIR BANK ACCOUNTS. BUT YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT AND SOONER THAN YOU THINK.” I looked up. ‘Good lord,’ I said again. ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘It was in Mrs O’Neill’s handbag, sir. By the side of her bed.’

  ‘Mrs...?’ I stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘And who do do you think it might be addressed to, sir?’

  ‘It sounds like Harry,’ I said, looking down at the letter in some confusion. My eye caught on the reverend’s silver crucifix, which was propped up on a nearby dressing table. No, it couldn’t be true. Harry had nothing to do with any of these pen letters. ‘He never received this,’ I said.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ Griffith agreed. ‘It seems to me, sir, that Mrs O’Neill must have typed this herself at the beginning of the voyage, intending to deliver it to Mr Latimer’s stateroom. But then she found him dead shortly after breakfast on the second day and she had no choice but to raise the alarm.’

  That did make a kind of sense. The woman must have stuffed the letter back into her handbag before leaving the room. ‘That...that might be possible. So she was...so Mrs O’Neill was behind it all? All these letters?’

  ‘It seems likely, sir.’ Griffith retrieved the note from me. ‘“YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT”. A colourful turn of phrase. I showed this to the steward who came to fetch me. He told me there have been a few rumours doing the rounds. Canteen gossip. All quite vague, by the sounds of it. Unfortunately, nobody thought to bring it to my attention until now.’

  ‘But if Mrs O’Neill was behind all this, do you think...do you think her death might not have been an accident?’

  Griffith inclined his head. ‘I am leaning towards that conclusion, sir. Best not to say anything to the others just yet. But you saw the scene, Mr Buxton. There was something not quite right about it. It was all far too neat, too carefully staged. If Mrs O’Neill was responsible for these letters and somebody realised she was the one doing it...’

  ‘They might have reason to do her away?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, sir. This note.’ He waved it at me. ‘It’s similar to the other ones that have been received?’

  ‘Exactly the same,’ I said. ‘The same typewriter too. That was why I was looking at the Olivetti in Mrs O’Neill’s room. The text has a slight misalignment. You see? The letter “W” is out of place.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I had noticed that.’ Griffith observed me with some surprise. ‘You have a keen eye, Mr Buxton. More than I would have expected. The difference is quite subtle.’

  ‘It...was my valet who noticed it,’ I admitted. ‘I was just following it up. And the typewriter in Mrs O’Neill’s room...’

  ‘Was used to type this letter. Yes, sir, I had already deduced that. What I haven’t determined is why no-one told me about these letters in the first place. Not the stewards,’ he clarified, ‘but the passengers I spoke to the other day.’ His eyes met mine and I could not ignore the accusation in them. ‘You, for example, did not say a word to me about any of this, sir, when I interviewed you concerning Mr Latimer’s death.’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t,’ I admitted, with some embarrassment. This was going to be dashed awkward to explain. ‘I...I didn’t think it was relevant. Harry had nothing to do with any of these letters, so far as I was aware. They pre-date his acquaintance with anyone onboard ship. It was the other people here. Sir Richard’s party. They’ve been receiving letters like this for months. I didn’t think Harry had anything to
do with it and they didn’t want to make a fuss. But you’re right. In hindsight, I...I should have told you.’

  ‘And you, Mr Buxton? Have you received anything of this sort?’

  I nodded glumly. ‘Yes. But only recently. Yesterday afternoon, in fact. After...after the funeral.’

  ‘Do you have it with you?’

  ‘Er...yes, somewhere.’

  ‘May I see it, sir?’

  I fumbled inside my jacket. ‘A very similar sort of thing,’ I said, as I handed the note across.

  Griffith opened the envelope. ‘“YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT”,’ he read.

  ‘The “LEECH” thing seems to be a common theme too. But really, you’ll have to ask the family about that. They know far more about it than I do.’

  The next half an hour was uncomfortable for all concerned, as we sat in the drawing room and Mr Griffith taxed the group regarding the history of the poison pen letters. ‘I burnt every bally one of them, apart from the first,’ Sir Richard asserted, having handed the specimen across. The security officer examined it closely. Everyone in the room had received similar letters, though the mode of attack was different in each case. Ernest Hopkins, as I had previously heard, had had his honesty impugned. The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes had been accused of impious behaviour. ‘They thought I was bringing the cloth into disrepute,’ he said, ‘by dancing and singing, and playing sports. It was terribly vexing.’ The letters Mrs Hamilton-Baynes had received had scorned her for her feebleness and her inability to restrain her husband. More significantly, however, they had suggested she was reliant on the financial support of her cousin, Lady Jocelyn. The word “LEECH” cropped up again in this context.

  Griffith did his best to mask his irritation as the litany of abuse was spelled out. The fact that not a word of this had been mentioned to him during his enquiries into Harry Latimer’s death understandably rankled. ‘It really would have been helpful if you had told me all this before,’ he said. He turned to Sir Richard’s sister. The matriarch of the Reynolds Suite had been peculiarly subdued during these submissions, her face a blank mask of hostility as the focus eventually settled on her. ‘Lady Jocelyn?’ The man’s tone was respectful but firm. ‘What were the contents of the letters sent to you?’

  ‘Is this really necessary, Mr Griffith?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, your ladyship.’

  Sir Richard cut in, anxious to save his sister from any embarrassment. ‘Look, Mr Griffith, I appreciate you have your job to do and all that. But these are delicate matters.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Richard. I’m afraid I will have to insist.’ Griffith spoke with calm authority. He had to tread delicately where Lady Jocelyn was concerned – she was a friend of the captain, after all – but the question needed answering. ‘If it will make it easier, your ladyship,’ he suggested, ‘we could discuss the matter in private.’

  Lady Jocelyn’s lips pursed into a thin slit. ‘That would be acceptable,’ she agreed.

  Griffith had not quite finished with the rest of us, however. We would all need to make statements and confirm our whereabouts this morning. The security officer raised an eyebrow on hearing that Miss Wellesley had swapped rooms the previous evening. Of all the people in the Reynolds Suite, apart from the maid, she was the only one not to have received any malicious correspondence. Griffith could see how upset the woman was – Mrs Hamilton-Baynes was now comforting her on the sofa – so he did not press the point. It was not just the fact that Mrs O’Neill had died that was causing the girl distress, however. It was the clear suggestion that the American woman had been behind the pen letters all along.

  ‘Do you really think she could be responsible?’ Miss Wellesley asked, in disbelief.

  Griffith nodded gravely. ‘It seems very likely, miss.’

  ‘But what about the letters she received herself? And the bomb scare at the restaurant...’

  Griffith had lifted both his eyebrows when we had told him about that; but before he could reply to Miss Wellesley, there was a knock at the door.

  The head steward poked his head around. ‘It’s Doctor Armstrong, sir. He’s finished up and would like to have a word.’

  Griffith acknowledged the request and glanced at his wristwatch. ‘We will have to continue this later. We will need statements from all of you in due course, but that will do for now. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation. Lady Jocelyn, Sir Richard. You’re free to head off now and have some lunch.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sir Richard breathed.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Griffith,’ Lady Jocelyn said. ‘This is a dreadful business.’

  ‘Indeed, your ladyship. If I could ask you all to keep this matter under your hat for the time being. We don’t want to alarm the other passengers.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, old boy,’ Sir Richard suggested. Half the ship would have heard the maid screaming.

  ‘Not the fact of Mrs O’Neill’s death, sir,’ Griffith clarified. ‘That will already be common knowledge. But this business of the poison pen letters. Better to keep that quiet for now.’

  ‘Righty-ho,’ Sir Richard agreed. He did not need telling twice.

  And so for now, as far as anybody onboard was concerned, Mrs O’Neill’s death was just a terrible accident.

  Chapter Eleven

  Miss Wellesley stared down at the plate of sandwiches, her face pale and disbelieving. ‘I can’t believe she’s dead. I just...I can’t take it in.’ There were no tears, just a dumb incomprehension.

  I leaned forward sympathetically. ‘Did she have any relatives? People who will need to be told?’

  ‘A sister, I think.’ Miss Wellesley frowned, trying to recall. ‘And a cousin in Oregon. I suppose I should write to them. Tell them....’ She looked up from the plate. ‘I don’t know what to tell them.’

  ‘Not the easiest thing in the world,’ I agreed, ‘passing on bad news.’ I settled back in my chair. The garden lounge was blissfully quiet at the moment. Miss Wellesley had not felt up to the hubbub of the Louis XVI, so I had suggested coming here for lunch, while the rest of the passengers were down on D Deck. A plate of sandwiches and a pot of tea among the flowers was a more palatable proposition than the noisy restaurant; even if the flowers were looking a little depleted.

  ‘Do you think it can really be true about...about the letters?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, pouring out the milk for a second cup and grabbing the strainer. I would have liked something stronger than tea, but I needed to keep a clear head for later in the afternoon. ‘Mr Griffith found that note to Harry in her handbag. And it was definitely typed on her typewriter.’ I put down the teapot and added a couple of spoonfuls of sugar.

  ‘It makes no sense,’ Miss Wellesley said, with some force. ‘Susan wasn’t vindictive. She was the sweetest, kindest woman. You should have seen her last night, in the ballroom.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘She was like a little girl – or a debutante even – dancing with anyone and everyone. Chatting away. And now...and now she’s dead. It’s such a ridiculous thing to happen. Slipping on the mat like that. And so soon after...so soon after Harry.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, removing the spoon from my cup and taking a thoughtful sip. ‘It’s a devil of a coincidence.’

  ‘And she really liked Harry. That’s what I don’t understand. Why would she write him such a horrible letter?’

  ‘She knew he wasn’t entirely sincere.’ I returned the cup to its saucer. ‘She wasn’t quite the fool we took her for.’

  ‘But there was no side to her, Mr Buxton. No malice. She enjoyed his attention. I’m sure of it. From him and...and from you.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a dreadful muddle,’ I said.

  Miss Wellesley picked up a cheese and pickle sandwich, nibbled on it for a moment and then put it down. ‘You don’t think...you don’t think there might have been anything untoward about her death?’ The question was a tentative one. ‘I mean, if she really was sending such horrible letters....’

 
‘Best not to speculate,’ I advised. ‘I’m sure Mr Griffith will get to the bottom of it, whatever happened. And if...if Susan was responsible for all this, well at least you can be assured she bore no ill will towards you.’

  Miss Wellesley frowned, not quite understanding.

  ‘You knew her longer than I did. And longer than Harry. And yet you didn’t receive any nasty letters.’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’ She took another bite of the sandwich.

  ‘Did you ever see her using the typewriter?’

  Miss Wellesley considered. ‘Occasionally. She liked to write to her sister and one or two friends. I offered to take dictation, though I’m not really very good at it, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’

  ‘And since we boarded the ship?’

  ‘Not that I recall. Oh, maybe once, on the first day. I’m not sure. She had the typewriter out of the case, anyway.’

  ‘And did anyone else have access to the cabin? Any callers?’

  ‘No. Only the stewardess, when she came in to change the sheets. Mrs Hamilton-Baynes might have put her head round the door once or twice, to say hello.’

  ‘But nobody else?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Apart from Jenny, last night, of course. The poor thing. Finding her lying there like that, this morning.’

  ‘It was quite a shock,’ I agreed. ‘Although she handled it surprisingly well, all things considered.’ Mr Hopkins had been the more horrified, that his sweetheart had stumbled across a dead body. The two of them had slipped away together, after Mr Griffith had dismissed the assembly. Lady Jocelyn would not be impressed with that. ‘But she would only have had access to the room in the last day or so. Logically, that would seem to rule her out.’

  ‘And the note under the door, in the hotel,’ Miss Wellesley said. ‘I don’t see how anyone else could have written that. I mean, on her typewriter.’

  ‘No, it does seem fairly conclusive,’ I agreed, finishing off the tea. Mrs O’Neill must have typed it herself and then dropped it on the mat after Miss Wellesley had gone to bed. It really did look like she was the guilty party. And if she was, then she had paid a heavy price for it.