The False Inspector Dew

by Peter Lovesey

  She picked up her bag. 'I made these sandwiches for you, as you won't get any lunch.'

  'That was thoughtful.' He took the packet and unwrapped it. 'Lettuce and tomato. You couldn't have made a better choice.'

  She took out another packet. 'There's chocolate cake as well.'

  'My favourite. Did you make it?'

  'I needed to occupy my mind. It's silly. I don't know why I'm so nervous when you can keep so calm.'

  'It's a matter of training and procedure. I know exactly what I have to do. These are excellent. Would you like one?'

  She shook her head, it will be difficult enough trying to find an appetite for lunch.'

  Walter gave a slight shrug, if you can't face a full meal, order something light. Don't let those waiters intimidate you. They are there to serve you, remember, not to spy on you. But you'd better not lose any weight or those new clothes Lydia bought won't fit you.'

  Alma managed a smile in gratitude for his attempt to induce her to think beyond the next hour. 'I brought a few things of my own in that bag you carried for me, and there's a needle and thread in case I have to make some adjustments, but I think my size is probably the same as hers.'

  'I don't expect your taste is. She always liked flamboyant things. She liked to look theatrical. By the way, my dear — the dress you're wearing is ideal — certain to be noticed.'

  Alma thanked him. She had picked out the most colourful day dress she owned, a short-sleeved one in red and white georgette. She had a white straw hat with a red band to match. She said, 'The beads were my leaving present from Mrs Maxwell at the shop.'

  'They're most attractive. What reason did you finally give for leaving?'

  Alma smiled. 'I said I was going to Paris to learn to paint. She thought it was very rash of me. So did the people who rented the house. They won't be a bit surprised when I don't come back. The bank manager even warned me about white slavers.'

  'How did he become an expert?' said Walter with a smile. 'You must have convinced them, Alma.'

  Before she could respond, the cabin vibrated to a deafening boom that must have tested every rivet in the ship.

  'Ship's whistle,' said Walter. 'Isn't it a marvellous sound to hear?'

  'Are we moving?'

  'We're about to.'

  She got up and put out her arms to him. He held her closely. 'Don't go yet,' she murmured.

  'It's all right,'he said, i can wait for a while yet. I intend to go to her while everyone else is at lunch. She thought she might be prone to seasickness, so I advised her to do without lunch.'

  7

  It was the duty of the second officer to man the last gangway. The visitors had gone ashore and stood waiting in hundreds along the quay, shouting and waving to the passengers massed at the rails on every deck. The last few shore staff left the ship. The bugle was sounded and the watchkeeping and navigating officers went to their stations. The commander came on to the bridge.

  Captain Arthur H. Rostron was a slightly built, clean-shaven man with silver hair. He could have passed as a shopkeeper except that his years at sea had toughened his skin and given his eyes the screwed-up look that comes from years of staring ahead into every kind of weather the elements inflict. He had taken command of the Mauretania in 1915. By then his name was a legend in the Cunard Company. One bitterly cold night in 1912, when he was in command of the Carpathia, Captain Rostron had received a wireless message from a vessel in distress. Other ships were closer. Arthur Rostron changed course and raced the Carpathia for sixty miles to the scene. He coaxed speeds from her that no-one believed possible in those waters perilous with icebergs. He rescued seven hundred survivors from the Titanic.

  The captain looked down to where the second officer stood at the head of the gangway, craning to catch the signal from the bridge. He raised his hand and lowered it. The time was exactly mid-day. The last gangway was landed. The mooring ropes were slackened fore and aft. The stern tugs stretched the hawsers to their limit and began to tow the Mauretania away from the quay. The marine superintendent in his bowler hat supervised the shore gang. They followed the great ship along the quay until the last bow rope was released.

  Steadily the tugs hauled the ship out of the Ocean Dock into her swinging ground in the fairway. On the bridge the outward pilot had taken the wheel. The tugs started to swing her. In less than five minutes she was pointing seawards. The tugs cast off.

  'Sound the bugle,' ordered Captain Rostron.

  The Mauretania was under way, first to Cherbourg to pick up more passengers, and then New York.

  Under the direction of the master-at-arms, an immediate search was made for stowaways. The searchers looked in the traditional places, the lifeboats, storage chambers, engine rooms, laundry and kitchens. It was a token search to satisfy company regulations. As everyone acknowledged, any stowaway with a modicum of sense would mingle with the passengers at this stage. So Alma, trying to be calm in Walter's stateroom, and Poppy, in the arms of Paul, stayed undetected.

  8

  Lydia was still unpacking when she felt the movement of the ship. She went to the porthole. She could no longer see the crane on the quay. She could see white gulls against the blue sky. They were beating their wings in flight, yet they seemed to make no progress until one soared upwards as if it had snapped an invisible thread. It screamed its triumph over the others. Lydia gave a shiver of excitement.

  She turned back to the task of emptying her cabin trunk. Some of the dresses would need pressing. She would have to see the steward later. For the present she was content to spend an hour or two in the quiet of her stateroom. She had no reason to stand out on deck watching England slip out of sight. England had not appreciated her. But in five days she intended to be at the rail with the others waiting for the first glimpse of America.

  The ship seemed to have stopped for a minute. Now there was another shattering burst of sound from the ship's siren or whatever it was called. The vibration of the engines returned in force. Lydia felt it through her shoes. She was not upset by it, but she decided to sit on the bed while her body got accustomed to the novelty. She disliked the thought of being seasick. Walter had been right. It was a sensible precaution to go without lunch. Poor Walter, so thoughtful, so unadventurous. She reached for the paper and shut him out of her mind.

  She need not have worried about the risk of being seasick. She was not seasick. It takes at least an hour before the pitch and roll of a great ship disturbs the equilibrium of the inner ear to that extent.

  Lydia had less time than that.

  9

  The cold facts may have suggested that Poppy wanted to make a monkey out of Paul Westerfield, but that was not so. She had a job to do, and she did it in the best way she could. She had not been paid to give him sexual favours. She was prepared to allow enough familiarity to smooth the way for the job, and that was all. So when he had taken her back to Chicksand Street in the taxi the previous night, she had presented him with a cup of tea and a kiss on the horsehair settee in the parlour. She had spent what remained of the night upstairs with her sister Rose. At six in the morning when Rose had gone down as usual to look at the milkmen bringing out their horses she had found a strange man asleep in the parlour. She had reported it to Poppy, who had truthfully said that the man was a millionaire who was sleeping in the parlour instead of the Savoy. Poppy had gone back to sleep for an hour. Soon after seven she had put on her crepe de chine dress, tied an apron round her waist and cooked sausages and bacon for two. By eight they had arrived at the Savoy to collect Paul's luggage and by nine they had found themselves seats on the boat train.

  If Paul had entertained ideas of seamier scenes in his stateroom, he was denied them. Poppy proposed to remove one thing: the wallet from Paul's blazer pocket. She was under instructions to take it and pass it to Jack. One chance had gone. She could not miss another.

  She allowed him enough kisses and embraces to allay suspicion. He was no Casanova, but it was not unendurable. Perhaps twe
nty minutes had passed when his hand disconnected the first hook and eye at the back of her dress.

  She said in a tortured voice, 'Oh my God, I think it's moving.'

  'What?' His hand jerked away from the dress.

  'The blooming ship — I can feel it. Oh, no, I'm trapped. I never really meant to stow away.'

  'Don't worry.'

  She sat up on the bed. 'Don't worry, he says!'

  'What I mean is that I can pay.'

  'Pay what?' demanded Poppy, i don't want to go to America. You live there. I don't.'

  'You can get off at Cherbourg. We stop there to pick up more passengers.'

  'Cherbourg? Where's that, for God's sake?' Jack had told her, of course, in case of emergency, but she was enjoying herself now.

  'France. You can stay overnight and be home by tomorrow. I'll pay. I'll give you two hundred dollars.'

  'I'll need French money.'

  'You go to a bureau cie change.'

  'What's that? I can't speak French.'

  'No. Better still, I'll see the purser and get some francs.'

  'Paul, I'm frightened.'

  'Don't be. I'll fix everything.'

  'Can I go to the bathroom?'

  'Why, sure. Go right ahead.'

  It was like a dream in that bathroom, all spotless white and shining chrome. Much better than a tin bath in the parlour. Poppy pushed the bolt across the door and turned on the taps. She took off her things and tried on the bathrobe that was hanging on the door. She made faces in the mirror. She tried the water with her toes. She dropped the bathrobe on the floor and stepped into the bath. She found that she could lie in there with water up to her chin and her legs stretched out as if in bed.

  After a while Paul's voice enquired, 'Are you okay in there, Poppy?'

  'I'm all right, darling. How about you?'

  'It's just that you've been a long time. I didn't know you were figuring on a bath.'

  'I asked you, didn't I? I like a bath whenever I can get one.'

  She enjoyed it a few minutes more.

  When she unbolted the bathroom door she was fully dressed again. She said to Paul, 'I left the water for you, darling. It's still nice and warm.'

  'For me?'

  'You want to stop smelling like the Southern Railway, don't you? Them carriages might be comfy, but they always leave a pong. No offence, sweetheart.'

  'I had no idea.'

  She had him flustered. This was the moment to go to work. She stood against him and put her right hand round his waist inside his blazer. She scratched his back with the tip of a fingernail and said, 'You'd be surprised what you can pick up in them first class carriages.' At the same time, her left hand smoothly lifted the wallet from his inside pocket and dropped it on the bed. She pulled him towards the bathroom. He hadn't noticed a thing. She said, 'Don't be long.' She stepped aside and closed the door after him.

  She put the wallet out of sight under the bedspread and waited. She heard him empty the bath and fill it again. She heard him get in. She picked up the wallet and went to the stateroom door and looked out. Jack was at the end of the passageway smoking a cigarette. He waited for a steward to walk by and then he came casually towards her and took the wallet as he passed. Nothing was spoken. Poppy closed the door quietly. But she jumped like a scalded cat a moment later when the bugle sounded for lunch.

  'Yes, madam. What name?' asked the chief steward.

  'Baranov. Mrs Lydia Baranov.'

  The chief steward ran his finger down the list of first class passengers. 'Ah, yes. A table for one, Mrs Baranov?'

  'If you please,' answered Alma.

  The chief steward snapped his fingers and one of his team stepped forward. 'Number forty-one for Mrs Baranov. Enjoy your meal, madam.'

  Alma nodded demurely and followed the man down the steps and along the broad strip of carpet towards the far end of the enormous restaurant, said to be one of the most striking and resplendent public rooms afloat or ashore. It was double-tiered. It was richly panelled with exquisite carvings in the style of the Francois Premier period. Its ornately decorated ceiling was unimaginably high.

  She kept Walter's advice firmly in mind: 'Don't be intimidated. Lydia wouldn't. It doesn't matter what gaffes you make so long as you walk in there with your head high and expect to be treated like a lady.' Walter was a tower of strength. He had betrayed no sign of nervousness. He expected her to succeed in this. She could not fail him.

  Another steward handed her the menu. It was in several languages. Each dish was more than she could face. She kept calm. She said, 'All I require is a simple salad without meat of any sort. Can you arrange it?'

  'Certainly, madam.'

  The wine waiter approached her. She waved him away. She needed a clear head this afternoon.

  The salad was put in front of her. She began to eat. She poured herself some water. Her hand shook. Some was spilt. She watched the white tablecloth darken as the liquid saturated the fibres. She had a vivid image of a pad of chloroform. Please God, she thought, let it be over quickly. She covered the wet patch with the jug of water. She forced herself to eat some lettuce. She tried to imagine New York.

  A feeling of immense relief came over her. The dreadful tension lifted like a curtain. She glanced at the clock above the chief steward's table. 1.15pm. She was positive that Lydia was dead.

  10

  England was reduced to a grey blur between sea and sky astern of the Mauretania. A faint arc of steam beyond the Nab Tower marked the progress shorewards of the pilot tender. Captain Rostron in the wheel-house had his glasses trained forward, for the first sight of France. The visibility was good and the Channel calm for late summer. The chief officer and the junior first and third officers stood on duty with the captain. Really there was nothing to detain him on the bridge. He was free to go below for a late lunch with the first class passengers. However, he would not be going.

  'Did you know that every passenger liner has three sides?' he said to no-one in particular.

  No-one answered.

  'Would someone care to name them? How about you, Chief?'

  'No, sir. I'm at a loss.'

  'Really? I thought I told you last time we crossed. The three sides of a passenger ship, gentlemen, are the port, the starboard and the social. On this ship I take full responsibility for the first two. I look to you and the other officers for some relief from the other.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'If the passenger list can be believed, we are in for a smooth crossing. We have no prima donnas, pugilists or politicians. Just the usual complement of millionaires. Be patient with their questions, gentlemen. If they ask you, as they will, about sea serpents, mermaids and the Mary Celeste, keep your answers short, truthful and polite. When they raise the matter of icebergs, give them reassurance, not your reminiscences. Tell them the worst hazards on the Mauretania are cardsharpers. Tell them that you have no idea how to smuggle the liquor they bought in England through the New York customs. Tell them what you like about me, except that I answer questions.' Captain Rostron paused. 'Any questions?'

  The only sound came from the throb of the turbines.

  11

  In the hours after lunch, Alma kept rigidly to the plan. She took coffee in the main lounge under the vast domed skylight. She made conversation with a couple from Boston who had been in Europe buying antique furniture. Thirty crates of it were stacked in the hold. She told them she was Lydia Baranov. She took care to articulate her words with clarity. She said she was an actress. The woman said they didn't get much time for the theatre, but it would be a change to have a proper actress in the ship's concert. Alma said she had a contract that prevented her from performing in variety.

  She went on deck and promenaded with a woman whose husband was delayed in the smoking room. She took part in the lifeboat drill at three o'clock. She found the deck steward and reserved a chair on the port side. By half past three she estimated that she had spoken to eight people and given her new name to five. At l
east another ten must have overheard her using it.

  The next stage in the plan had to be faced. During lunch she had experienced the utmost difficulty stopping herself from rushing from the restaurant to Lydia's stateroom to be with Walter, no matter what had happened there. Her afternoon alone had altered that. She had disciplined herself to use the time as Walter had suggested, establishing herself as Lydia. The concentration necessary had made great demands. She had tried to banish Walter and the stateroom from her mind. Although the thoughts resurfaced after each encounter with a steward or a passenger, they were more detached. The effort to make contact with other people, unknown, unknowing people, had insulated her from Walter. A kind of trepidation had crept into the space between them. She dreaded knocking on that door.

  Stateroom 89 on D Deck.

  He had told her several times. She knew exactly where to find it. Her nerves were still so active that she had to consult the passenger list on the board outside the purser's office. Mrs Lydia Baranov… 89.

  She found the stairs and saw the notice Staterooms 70 to 90. A pulse was beating in her forehead. Her hands were icy. She moved slowly up the corridor, counting off the doors. 89. "Do Not Disturb".

  She stopped. She looked along the way she had come. She was quite alone. Her mouth was dry. That pulse was throbbing harder than the engines of the ship.

  She closed her eyes and tapped her knuckles on the door. Too softly. She tried again. She heard a movement from inside.

  The door opened. Walter looked out. He was a changed man. The colour had drained from his face. There were lines of tension across his forehead and at the edges of his mouth. His eyes seemed to have sunk in their sockets.