by Jack Treby
I had been spared the feverish gossip that had rippled across the ship the morning after my unfortunate dice with death. I had spent most of that day in my cabin, recuperating as best I could. Adam brought me my meals and Maurice saw that my wounds were properly cleaned and dressed.
The police launch arrived from Southampton at midday, several gruff looking officers from Scotland Yard clambering aboard. I have never had a high opinion of that particular organisation, but these men set about their duty with surprising diligence. Our arrival in Southampton was to be delayed by twenty-four hours, to allow them time for a proper examination of the ship.
By mid-afternoon, I had recovered sufficiently for Doctor Armstrong to allow one of the detectives to speak to me. As the principal eyewitness to events on E Deck, my testimony was considered particularly important. Thankfully, the man in question was content to come to me, rather than dragging me from my bed to some soulless office. At the same time, a couple of sergeants were handling the other interviews, and the crime scene and the bodies were being examined by various experts. I chuckled at the thought of Harry cowering in his locked cupboard, as the police pathologists swarmed over the doctor’s surgery, conducting their post mortems. The poor fellow would not be able to get to the bathroom all day.
I did not have to tell too many lies to the detective. In truth, I had very little to conceal, beyond the real reason for my journey down to the doctor’s surgery at that time in the evening (and I had already provided Mr Griffith with a perfectly acceptable excuse for that). I could state in all honesty that I had not known Sir Richard was behind the letter writing campaign or that Mr Hopkins had colluded with him in its later stages. I had only seen two or three of the letters first hand, after all. In the matter of Harry Latimer, everyone seemed content to accept Doctor Armstrong’s assessment that the man had died of natural causes. Somehow, the doctor managed to keep his nerve, his professional demeanour maintained more easily in the face of officialdom than when confronted by two burly Mafioso. He assisted the police pathologist with a preliminary examination of Mrs Hamilton-Baynes, but still found time to visit me, to make sure that my wounds had been properly attended to. He was a decent sort, Armstrong, for all his obvious flaws. Not once, as he was checking my bandages, did he mention Harry Latimer; and, for my part, I did not feel inclined to drag it all out into the open and embarrass him.
As the day progressed, I had several more visitors, Miss Wellesley among them. She was horrified to see my head swathed in cotton. I assured her that it looked a lot worse than it was. The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes had been released from the brig, she told me, and his place taken by Mr Hopkins. ‘Jenny – Miss Simpkins – she’s absolutely distraught,’ Miss Wellesley lamented. It cannot have been easy for the girl, to discover her sweetheart had been arrested for murder, even if there were mitigating circumstances.
The one caller I did not expect came by shortly after breakfast the following morning. Maurice had packed up my things and left me to my own devices. I was alone, therefore, sitting with a book by the bedside, when Lady Jocelyn Wingfield arrived.
There was not a trace of emotion on the woman’s cold, narrow face as I invited her into the room and she accepted a chair opposite me. The great woman regarded my little cabin with practised disdain – an air of superiority that I could not help but admire – but her words at least were polite. ‘I was so sorry to hear what happened to you,’ she said. ‘This is a dreadful business. I hope you have not been too badly injured.’ Her voice had all the regret one might have felt at having stubbed a toe on a door frame. To a casual observer, it would have been impossible to guess that anything of significance had occurred in the past forty-eight hours, less still that this woman had just lost a dear cousin and a brother. To add salt to the wound, her beloved cat Matilda had now been confined to the hold and would be spending the next six months in quarantine. That, I suspected, would be the cruellest blow of all. Without Sir Richard to pull a few strings, there was no chance of getting the animal past the customs men in Southampton. But any signs of distress the lady might have felt were buried so deeply beneath the surface that they might as well not have been there at all. Lady Jocelyn was an aristocrat of the old school. I did not like the woman, but I admired her stoicism.
‘It was nothing,’ I lied, my hand reflexively touching the bandage. ‘I’ll be up and about in no time.’ I gestured to the teapot on the bedside table but Lady Jocelyn declined the offer politely. ‘I’m sorry about Mrs Hamilton-Baynes. And...and your brother. It was...the way things happened. I’m afraid there was nothing to be done.’
Lady Jocelyn nodded. ‘Richard was a difficult man. I fear I did not understand him as well as I ought to have done.’ It was a rare admission of failure, and it pained her to have to say it. Like everyone else, she had been entirely ignorant of her brother’s many vile schemes.
‘Families are always a bit tricky,’ I observed, lamely. ‘Mr Hopkins...don’t think too harshly of him. There was a...a degree of provocation.’
‘I am aware of the circumstances,’ Lady Jocelyn replied. ‘And poor dear Margaret.’
‘It’s been a difficult few days for all of us. How is the reverend?’
‘As well as can be expected.’ Hamilton-Baynes had been released from prison but he was still coming to terms with the death of his wife. ‘It is not an easy thing to lose a wife or a husband,’ Lady Jocelyn said. ‘He is with Margaret now, down in the surgery. He wanted to say his goodbyes, before she was carried away.’
‘I understand.’
‘The next few months will be difficult for him, I daresay, but time is a great healer. I will make sure he is properly looked after. In the circumstances, it is the least I can do.’ Whatever her personal feelings towards the man, Lady Jocelyn was not a woman to shirk her familial obligations.
‘Of course.’ I sat back in my chair and a brief pause fell upon us.
Now that the social niceties were taken care of, Lady Jocelyn decided to address the real reason for her visit. ‘Mr Buxton, it may be that things were said, the other night. That you became aware of certain matters...’ All at once, the great lady was floundering.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ I assured her. I had no desire to cause the woman any further embarrassment. ‘Family matters, family history. They’re not my concern.’
‘The pen letters I received...the letters that it appears my brother sent to me.’ Lady Jocelyn pressed her lips together. ‘They related to an incident in my youth. A regrettable incident.’
‘Lady Jocelyn, you don’t have to...’
‘I had an affair,’ she cut across me, ‘before I was married. Richard knew about it, of course. But it was distasteful to be reminded. And Margaret, my dear Margaret, she knew all of the details.’
‘An affair?’ I said.
‘An affair,’ Lady Jocelyn repeated firmly. That, it was clear, was going to be the official story.
‘Of course.’ That was what Mr Griffith had been told, when Mrs O’Neill had died. With Sir Richard now dead and Mrs Hamilton-Baynes too, the only people who knew the truth – apart from an elderly housekeeper – were Ernest Hopkins and myself. ‘I’m sure Mr Hopkins will be discreet,’ I said. The young secretary had no reason to want to harm Lady Jocelyn and the precise details of her past were not that relevant to the case against him. Her life would be a matter of public scandal whatever happened, but there was no need to grind the poor woman into the dirt. Would Lady Jocelyn attempt to talk to Mr Hopkins before the trial? Would she even be allowed in to see him? It probably did not matter. ‘And for my part,’ I assured her, ‘I knew nothing of the contents of any of your letters.’ That was the line I had taken with the police, and it was a line I intended to stick to. ‘The past is not my concern, your ladyship.’
‘I appreciate that, Mr Buxton. You are very kind.’
‘I do have one favour to ask, though.’
Her forehead crinkled momentarily. ‘A favour?’
‘Not for myself, you understand.’ I had been reflecting a little on what Miss Wellesley had told me the day before. ‘The young maid, Miss Simpkins.’
At the sound of the name, Lady Jocelyn narrowed her eyes. ‘What about her?’
‘I gather she is rather upset by everything that has happened.’
‘I don’t see what she has to be upset about...’ The tone was dismissive.
‘She and Mr Hopkins had developed something of a romantic attachment, I understand.’
‘Yes, I am aware of that,’ Lady Jocelyn said. ‘It was not at all appropriate.’
‘But now it looks like he’s going to hang. You must see how distressing that will be for her. And to have lost her position too. It might seem like her whole world has fallen apart.’
Lady Jocelyn had little sympathy. ‘The feelings of a servant are not my concern. She has been dismissed and that is the end of the matter.’
‘That’s your prerogative, of course. I can see that she was less than satisfactory as a maid.’
‘So what is it that you are asking, Mr Buxton?’ Her tone was now as cold as ice.
‘A reference, nothing more. An acceptable character, so that she can find herself another position. That’s not too much to ask, is it?’
Lady Jocelyn gazed across at the curtains. ‘I suppose that would not be unreasonable,’ she agreed, reluctantly. In the circumstances, she could hardly refuse.
‘Thank you, your ladyship. That’s most kind.’
‘I will see to it when we arrive in Southampton.’ The great lady rose up from her seat. ‘Thank you, Mr Buxton, for your consideration. I will not take up any more of your time.’ She moved towards the door and turned back. ‘I doubt we will meet again. Except perhaps in court.’ That last word was spoken with particular distaste.
‘Ah, yes.’ I gave out a sigh. In truth, that was a matter of some trepidation for me too.
The police had made it clear that I would be expected to testify against Mr Hopkins, when the time came. I was the principal witness, after all, in the killing of Sir Richard Villiers, and I would not be allowed to avoid the limelight. That was going to be rather awkward, to say the least. There was, however, one useful consequence to this unfortunate state of affairs: it afforded me pride of place on the police launch.
Mr Griffith had suggested the possibility to me, the previous evening. ‘I can arrange for you to go with them,’ he had said, ‘if you would like to avoid all the attention tomorrow.’ The gentlemen of the press would be lying in wait for us at the docks when the Galitia finally pulled into port and I had no desire to be put on public display. Needless to say, I accepted the offer at once.
And so I found myself aboard a much smaller ship that afternoon, on the seventh day out from New York, bouncing up and down as we sped across the water, away from the great iron bulk of the Galitia, towards the industrial docklands of Southampton. For a brief moment, as I stared out of the window, the past few days were forgotten; the murders, the brushes with death, the sheer inconvenience of shipboard life. All my thoughts now were of home.
Chapter Eighteen
The edge of the paper narrowly missed the top of the teapot as I folded back the Times and scanned the day’s headlines. The item I was looking for was on page twelve: “DEATH SENTENCE COMMUTED.” I had been alerted to the news already, but it was nice to see it confirmed in public. The Home Secretary, Mr Herbert Samuel, had commuted the sentence to twenty-five years. That seemed about right to me. Ernest Hopkins had been found not guilty of the murder of Sir Richard Villiers but guilty of the murder of Mrs Susan O’Neill. An inquest into the death of Margaret Hamilton-Baynes had concluded that Sir Richard had been responsible for her demise.
I settled back in my chair, in a reflective mood. Hopkins was in his mid twenties. He would be older than I was now when he got out of prison; but he would still have a life of some sort ahead of him, once he had paid his debt to society.
I reached for the toast and took another crunch. The marmalade was a bit off this morning. I would have to have a word with Mrs Middleton. She was my housekeeper, a stout grey haired woman in her late sixties. I had rented a small property on the seafront in Brighton and she had come with the house.
I was about to move on to another article in the Times when I heard a knock at the front door. For a moment, I dismissed it. Mrs Middleton was upstairs, changing the bedsheets, but she could waddle down to answer it easily enough. That is what servants are for, after all. Then I remembered the poor dear was as deaf as a post and, reluctantly, I hauled myself up.
I suppressed a smile as I moved across the hallway and caught sight of the figure behind the frosted glass. The man was instantly recognisable, even in silhouette. I opened the door and adopted the sourest expression I could manage. ‘Morning, Harry,’ I said.
Harry Latimer beamed at me across the doorstep. ‘Morning, old man.’ He was dressed in a smart tailored suit, a rakishly angled fedora atop his head. His eyes twinkled and his mouth split into a wide grin.
‘You managed to find the place then?’ I stepped back and gestured him inside.
‘A little off the beaten track.’ He removed his hat and moved into the hallway. ‘I didn’t expect you to answer the door yourself. Has somebody died?’ He flicked his hat across to the hook by the door.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. My valet’s away in France. Please come through. His mother passed away last week and he’s gone for the funeral.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Harry followed me through into the sitting room.
‘She’s been ill for a while. He was there at the end, which is the main thing. Well, this is me.’ I gestured to the room. ‘I was just having breakfast.’ The sitting room and the dining room were all in one. ‘I wasn’t expecting you until eleven.’ The carriage clock on the mantelpiece indicated that it was barely half past nine.
‘I caught the early train.’
‘You don’t mind if I finish my breakfast?’
‘No, no. Be my guest.’ We settled at the table. ‘Did he fly out, your valet? To France?’
‘I offered to book him a flight. Least I could do after everything that had happened. But he decided to go by boat instead. Finding his sea legs at last. Or confronting his fears. Something like that, anyway. It’s a dashed nuisance, having him away.’
‘You’re on your own here? Harry looked around the room. I could tell what he was thinking. It was hardly the Ritz. The flowered wallpaper was particularly uninspiring.
‘Not quite. I have a woman in twice a day, to cook and clean. She’s upstairs at the moment. Oh, don’t worry.’ A mild flash of concern had crossed his face. ‘She’s half blind and deaf as a doornail. And she won’t know you from Adam. Would you care for some tea? The pot’s still warm.’
‘That’s okay.’ Harry smiled as he slid into his seat. ‘I brought my own refreshment.’ He pulled a small flask from his jacket pocket.
‘Bit early,’ I said, taking the canteen when he offered it and adding a touch of brandy to my own tea cup. ‘We’re not in America now, you know. You could have brought a bottle.’
‘I’m not staying that long.’
‘I’m surprised to see you at all.’ I had not expected to hear from Harry again for at least a year or two. He was supposed to be lying low. ‘I suppose Doctor Armstrong gave you my address, did he?’ I had written to the good doctor with my current details, so that Harry would be able to get in touch when he needed to, but I had not expected to hear from him quite this soon.
‘Yeah, he said you’d settled down here, in Brighton. Nice town. Bit quiet, though.’
‘It livens up in the afternoons. How is Doctor Armstrong? I haven’t seen him since the trial.’
‘Oh, he’s fine. Better than ever.’
‘I’m glad.’ I crunched on my toast. ‘I think it was all a bit of a strain for him. Lying on oath like that.’
‘The guy has too many scruples for his own good. I keep telling him, truth is just a matter o
f perspective.’
‘I think it was more a question of whether somebody would find out. I don’t think he was the happiest of accomplices.’
‘I guess not. Still, he can’t exactly lose his job. Leastways, not any more.’
‘How do you mean?’ I picked up my cup and took a quick slurp.
‘Haven’t you heard? The doc resigned his commission a couple of weeks back.’
‘Really? He’s left the Galitia?’ This was the first I’d heard of it.
‘He’s taking up a new position, in East Africa.’
‘Good grief.’ I put the cup down.
‘He’s heading off there in a few days time. Out in the middle of nowhere, catering to the natives. And you’ll never guess who’s going with him.’
I had no idea.
‘The delectable Miss Cynthia Wellesley.’
‘Good lord.’ I laughed. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘I wouldn’t lie to you, old man. They got to know each other, apparently, during the trial.’
I grimaced, trying to remember. ‘Yes, I did see them talking together once or twice.’
‘You know what they say...’ Harry smirked. ‘Romance can bloom in the strangest of places.’
‘Evidently. And now she’s run off with him?’ I smiled. The sensible botany student. I wondered if she would ever manage to complete her studies. ‘You’re losing your touch Harry. You had quite a thing for her yourself, didn’t you?’
