by Q. Patrick
“Ye Gods!” I cried, “there seem to be a perfectly indecent amount of Alfreds in this business. And what a horrible name it is too!”
But I did not finish my remark, Davy, for at this moment two people came out and occupied the chairs where Mrs. Clapp had been sitting earlier in the evening with her unknown companion. You can imagine my surprise when I realized that they were Daniels and Wolcott, both of whom I had seen a few minutes before very differently engaged. These two arch-enemies were now occupied in earnest discussion.
Whatever your opinion of eavesdropping, Davy darling, you must admit that almost anything was justifiable after our terrible experiences on board the Moderna. All’s fair in love and murder, so both Adam and I pricked up our ears and listened for all we were worth. Fortunately the orchestra was playing very softly.
Mr. Wolcott’s voice was speaking: “You haven’t a scintilla of evidence against me, Daniels, not a scintilla.” (He was evidently rather proud of his long word.)
“Oh, I haven’t, haven’t I?” The little Cockney replied pugnaciously. “I could make things so hot for you, Wolcott, that you’d want to follow Betty Lambert overboard if I started to tell all I know. One word from me and the passengers of this ship would tear you limb from limb.”
“Nonsense, Daniels. You are exaggerating.” Even in the distance I could hear a slight tremor in the oily tones of Wolcott. “You know quite well there’s nothing you can do and, for the sake of the line, you wouldn’t do it if you could. A scandal of the sort you suggest would ruin the reputation of the ship. Heaven knows it must be bad enough now!”
There was a long pause before Daniels replied. “I’ll admit it doesn’t suit my book to tell what I know about you just at present. In fact I might forget it—on one condition. Now there’s a little proposition I’ve been thinking over. It’s dirty business but—”
At this point the orchestra began to play louder and we could hear only fragmentary snatches of their conversation. It was perfectly maddening, Davy, because I distinctly heard my own name mentioned once or twice—and then I caught Daniels’ voice:
“She’s keeping a journal of the whole affair—even the game of bridge—you’ve got to do it, Wolcott—it’s the only way.”
And Wolcott’s: “Too dangerous, Daniels—Miss Llewellyn—a newspaper reporter—crime—horrible.”
And then we heard no more because the dance was over and a number of people came out on deck. Adam and I looked at each other questioningly and then I looked at my watch. It was 11:30.
“Bed time,” I said. “Goodnight, Adam. I’ll see you in a jigsaw puzzle.”
Then I fled. I was too tired to talk over these new developments.
But before going to bed, Davy, I made a decision which I have just carried out. There are altogether too many people interested in this journal of mine. Well, it is now reposing in the captain’s own private safe. I took it there this morning and I’m not going to let it see the light of day until I wrap it up and send it off to you from Georgetown. Neither Earnshaw, Adam, nor Jennings will persuade me to produce it again. I have not said anything about this move of mine to a single soul, but as I finish each installment I’m going to take it up to Captain Fortescue and give it into his own hands for safe keeping.
And that, Davy darling, is that!
On Deck.
Friday, November 20.
2:30 P. M.
At this point of the trip, Davy, I cannot help wishing that Aunt Caroline had adhered to her original intention and come along with me. I need a woman badly: someone in whom I can have complete and absolute confidence. Daphne is too close to Mrs. Clapp and Mrs. Lambert is too close to her sorrow. As for the other women on board, they have held themselves very carefully aloof from all murderous complications and there’s not a nickel’s worth of brain amongst the lot of them anyhow. But there are moments when I feel I shall go mad if I have to spend the rest of my “holiday” hating and suspecting everyone around me.
And then there are so many currents and cross-currents involved that I cannot help thinking that the Moderna will soon start to turn round like a spinning top and be sucked under the ocean in a gigantic whirlpool. And it’s less than three days before we get to Georgetown. After that, the murderous Robinson will probably become a myth, and the ghosts of Mr. Lambert and Betty will wail over the Atlantic—unavenged throughout eternity.
How I dither on! Let me come back to the facts which I learned this morning from Adam, most indefatigable of snoopers. One thing he maintains quite definitely. The authorities hold the theory (this through Jennings) that it was unquestionably Robinson who murdered both Mr. Lambert and Betty; that he is an impersonation; that he is either a passenger or a member of the crew; and that no one, as yet, has provided any decent suggestion as to his motive. Radiograms have been sent to police headquarters in New York, but no information has come to hand.
The possibilities surrounding Robinson’s identity are so numerous that it’s no good even considering them. There are over a hundred men on the boat and I still maintain that “he” might easily have been a woman. The funny part of it is that the people who could not possibly have been Robinson are about the only ones who have acted suspiciously so far. I refer, of course, to Daniels and Wolcott, whose conversation last night is still puzzling Adam and me.
We were talking about these matters in the smoking room this morning when the two of them came in together, as friendly as possible, and started to play bridge with a couple of the passengers—a Mr. Hirsch and a fellow called Stutton, who never speaks a word to anyone. They played for about half an hour and then Wolcott broke up the game and left the room. After about ten minutes he came back and joined Daniels. They talked together for a while in low tones and then sauntered over towards the bar and invited two other men to play. By this time our curiosity was thoroughly aroused, so Adam and I asked permission to stand behind their chairs and watch the game. Daniels and Wolcott were partners and I noticed that, after the first rubber, they managed to cut out together again.
There was nothing unusual in the game itself. One thing, however, struck me quite forcibly. On the night of Mr. Lambert’s murder I distinctly remember Wolcott’s saying that he did not play bridge—or, rather, that it was only the psychology of the game that interested him. Now I noticed that he played remarkably well, better by far than little Daniels, who made so many mistakes that his partner’s white goatee wagged constantly and a gentle “tut, tut” followed almost every hand.
“What stakes are you playing?” asked Adam, after Daniels had failed to make an obvious little slam, and gone several hundreds down.
Wolcott gave a pious smile and leered at me. “I always prefer to play for love,” he said unctuously. “Bridge is such a noble game that it should never be commercialized.”
We watched for a little while longer and then strolled out on deck. There the initial rounds of the various Deck Sports tournaments were in full swing. Rubber quoits were flying about in every direction; noisy couples were screaming excitedly over deck tennis, and a shuffle-board block almost hamstrung me as I walked towards the ship’s rail.
“Beastly sorry!” called Daphne. I might have known that only she could have been responsible for such violence. Smiling, I acknowledged her apology.
“Oh, Miss Llewellyn,” cried Mrs. Clapp, who was dressed in white tailored silk and, through some trick of light and shadow, looked sixteen instead of sixty, “you must enter the shuffle-board contest. Daphne and I are anxious for your blood. We’ve beaten two couples already!”
“I’m sorry,” I answered, “but I lost all the blood I can stand before coming on board and I could no more wield one of those ferocious implements than I could—”
I paused, reflecting that the conversation was beginning to take on an almost sinister turn. But Mrs. Clapp did not seem to notice it. She merely turned back to the game and “shuffled a board” with almost as much vigor as Daphne had done a few minutes previously. Marcia Manners is un
doubtedly a remarkable woman, Davy. Her success last night has given her a jaunty, rejuvenated air and she is as different as she can be from the sable-clad, negligible old lady she seemed when I first saw her. And there is fire in those dark eyes, just as there was fire in those words I overheard last night.
What was she talking about and—to whom? So far both Adam and I have been utterly unable to figure it out.
And what is the secret between Daniels and Wolcott? How much do they know? And why have they suddenly become such friends and so keen on bridge? And why, oh why, is everyone so interested in my journal—now safely reposing in the captain’s safe, thank Heaven!
Then there is Daphne. Is she just an ordinary overgrown Englishwoman with a simple soul, large feet, and the strong right arm of a trained nurse? Or is she—as Adam puts it —“not at all the type of iron horse that I should like to see beside my bed of pain!”?
Adam and I discussed this and various other problems as we gazed seaward over the unending stretches of the Atlantic.
Then we went down to lunch.
Stateroom.
Friday, November 20th.
6:30 P. M.
While I was at lunch the steward brought me a message—“Mrs. Lambert presents her compliments and would Miss Llewellyn be so kind as to take tea this afternoon, etc.” Of course I said that I would be delighted, and presented myself at her suite at 4:30. I hesitated for a moment at the door because I saw that Dr. Somers and the nurse were there too. It was Earnshaw who bade me enter.
Mrs. Lambert was lying on the couch in the sitting room, fully dressed in a long and rather becoming black gown. Her hair had been carefully fixed but there was no make-up on her face. She looked her age and then some. On the other hand, her appearance is considerably improved by the fact that she must have lost at least fifteen pounds since she came on board.
“Well, Miss Llewellyn,” said Dr. Somers, with the youthful heartiness that will one day develop into a perfect bedside manner, “how do you think our patient is looking?”
I took Mrs. Lambert’s hand and told her how glad I was to see her up again. The nurse, a brisk, efficient young woman, smiled at me as though I had paid her a personal compliment.
“Yes, yes,” continued the doctor, “and I’m packing nurse off too. There’s no more need for her either. Fresh air and plenty of food from now on, Mrs. Lambert; that’s my last prescription.”
The widow gave a wan smile. Then Dr. Somers turned towards Earnshaw, whose pale cheeks were in striking contrast to the ship surgeon’s healthy tan.
“And you, Mr. Earnshaw—the same applies to you too. I shall have you on my hands as a patient if you don’t get out and about more. Try and work up some interest in the activities of the ship. Play deck tennis, shuffle-board, bridge, and take your mind off your troubles. I’m serious, man. You look all in.”
Earnshaw promised to be a little more considerate of his health and then tea was brought in. The surgeon refused to take a cup, and when the nurse had collected her things, they both took their leave. The atmosphere of the sitting room seemed to grow cold and chilly without their professional cheerfulness. For a while no one spoke, but after Trubshaw had passed the teacups, my hostess did her best to be polite. I admired her effort just as I admired Earnshaw’s charming manners, but they could not make me forget the terrible bereavements which they had both suffered.
It was Earnshaw who finally broached the subject which was apparently uppermost in everyone’s mind.
“Miss Llewellyn,” he said, “I told you last night that from the beginning I have had a theory about the death of Mr. Lambert and Betty. I did not mention it to anyone before, but since Mrs. Lambert seemed so much better today, I decided I would discuss it first with her. She has agreed—”
“I have agreed,” interrupted Mrs. Lambert, “to let him tell you all this on one condition. I hope you will forgive me for bringing up the matter of your profession—but you are a journalist—and there are certain details, certain intimate family matters—which I would not wish to have made public. In deference to my husband’s memory—I’m sure you will understand.”
“Of course, I will treat it as confidential,” I replied earnestly. “Only, don’t you think, Mrs. Lambert, that if this theory is going to be of any help in solving the terrible riddle of your husband’s death, you ought to tell the captain, or someone in authority? He’s the nicest man—so discreet.”
Mrs. Lambert passed a hand wearily across her forehead. “You shall help us to decide what is best,” she said. “But when you’ve heard what Mr. Earnshaw has to say, I think you will agree that it’s the sort of thing that should be kept in the family as far as possible.”
“Yes, but why—”
“I know what you are thinking, my dear, but you’ve been so kind all through this dreadful time. And then, I have a feeling you’ll be able to help us. Jimmie spoke of a journal—a sort of record you are keeping.”
I nodded my head without speaking. Then Earnshaw’s voice broke in again. “Miss Llewellyn,” he said gravely, “Mrs. Lambert was right in saying that some rather intimate family history was involved. I don’t want to be long-winded, but I’ll have to go back a bit—if you don’t mind?”
He fumbled for a cigarette and offered me one. I prepared myself to listen.
“You know, of course, that Mr. Lambert had been married before. His first wife was a Miss Felicia Manners—sister to the Mrs. Clapp who sits at our table. She was a woman of about the same age as Mr. Lambert, and for the last ten years of her life she suffered from some disease of the spine which confined her almost entirely to her room. Mr. Lambert was good to her—very kind and considerate—but in many ways he was a man far younger than his years. His zest for life was amazing. He loved dancing, golf and the theatre, everything where there was movement and excitement. There were many people who said that he neglected his invalid wife. The chief of these was his son, Alfred Junior. I have often heard the old—er—Mr. Lambert say that his son’s face was like the voice of conscience. I never met Alfred Junior, so I can’t say to what extent either of them was justified. In fact, I didn’t even know Mr. Lambert himself till after he became a widower, and by that time his son had gone abroad.”
At this point Earnshaw got up from his seat and threw his cigarette out of the porthole. It was evident that he was coming to the part of the story that was not so easy to tell. When he resumed his narrative, he kept glancing towards Mrs. Lambert, who was lying back in her chair with her hand covering her face.
“You may or may not believe it, Miss Llewellyn, but Mr. Lambert’s interests in the theatre took an extremely practical turn. He put up the money for two of New York’s, most successful comedy hits—‘Watch my Dust’ and ‘Face the Footlights.’ I believe he did extremely well out of these two productions, though in one or two others he was not so successful. It was through his interests in the stage that he met the present Mrs. Lambert. He—er—helped her—”
At this point Mrs. Lambert sat bolt upright and looked me squarely in the face.
“As one woman to another, Miss Llewellyn, I may as well tell you there was nothing between us at that time but friendship. If you want the honest truth, I do believe that Mr. Lambert started to care for me before his first wife died, but I took nothing from him—that is, nothing but what I had the right to take. He saw that I got one or two parts in his various shows, but I had to work for them the same as everyone else. He admired my work. There was no reason at all why his son should have objected to our friendship.”
Right or wrong, Davy, I believe she was speaking the truth. Otherwise I saw no reason for what seemed like a mass of irrevelant detail. I can imagine few things less interesting than the extra-marital infidelities of poor old Lambert.
“The long and the short of it is,” continued Earnshaw, “Mr. Lambert quarrelled very bitterly with his son. Even before his second marriage Alfred declared that he would have nothing more to do with his father. He left home and went to l
ive in Paris with his aunt, Marcia Manners. When she made her ridiculous marriage to young Clapp, a friend of her nephew’s and about his own age, (who died last spring, by the way, of tuberculosis) Alfred Lambert got disgusted again and went off to South America. Nothing has been heard of him for quite a long time—that is, unless Mrs. Clapp has heard. I know Mr. Lambert didn’t.”
Here Mrs. Lambert interposed with: “And you must believe me, Miss Llewellyn, when I tell you that I did all I could to heal the breach between father and son. I urged my husband to write—to send money—. He even offered a pretty substantial allowance, but the letters were all returned marked ADDRESS UNKNOWN. The boy never made a move towards reconciliation. I understand he referred to me, even after my marriage, as ‘the woman my father lives with.’ A business associate of my husband’s saw him in the Argentine not so very long ago and told us that he still spoke very bitterly.”
Earnshaw lit another cigarette and turned towards me. “Now perhaps, you are beginning to get a glimmering of my theory, Miss Llewellyn; and at least you will see why it’s not the kind of thing one would wish to tell the authorities. Now here’s another point which is important—” He drew some papers out of one of the drawers of the small writing table. “Here is a copy of Mr. Lambert’s will. The original is with his lawyer in New York, but there is something extremely interesting about it. The bulk of his property goes to Mrs. Lambert. Alfred Junior is not mentioned, but the money is left to Mrs. Lambert in trust for the duration of her life, to go, at her death, to the nearest male relative who bears the name of Lambert. Betty’s father, Mr. Lambert’s only brother, is the executor. He is an old man and has no male children—now, do you see what I’m driving at—if Mrs. Lambert were to die, young Alfred would inherit every penny of his father’s money!”
