“Bribed?”
“Or fetching towels for the passenger who wants a bath. Or helping a gentleman find a missing cufflink. Or bringing a cup of tea. It seems that a steward’s work is never done.”
Inspector Travers paused and leaned against the railing. In the silence, the ocean’s incessant murmuring seemed to be mocking him. While he was busy running after death, its waters were teeming with life. Yet it was impersonal, anonymous life, he reminded himself, while his job was always about the personal—the unique life that had been cut short too soon, the tangled, sometimes tormented motive of the killer. Sometimes, he was burdened by the sordid nature of his chosen profession, but at other times he viewed it as something almost holy.
Somewhere above them a light switched on, dispersing some of the darkness, as well as Travers’s late-night philosophical ramblings. It also cast just enough light for Travers to dimly see the other man’s face. He was only a few years older than Jeffrey Baird and they were both professionals, but there the similarities ended. He knew from the passenger list he had received before the ship set sail that Jeffrey Baird was one of “them”—Eton, Oxford, and welcomed in all the houses in London and the country that counted. Travers, fighting back his weariness, was beginning to resent the fact that he couldn’t even take a walk before going to bed without stubbing his ego against yet another class barrier. But he couldn’t let his own social insecurities interfere with his work.
“I don’t suppose you were in the duchess’s cabin at any time during the afternoon or evening,” Travers asked, “even though she wasn’t your type?”
“No. And I’ll save you your breath. After I left you to your tea and scones in the drawing room, I went to the indoor swimming pool and had my swim.”
“Anyone there who can vouch for you?”
“There were two people, but I don’t know if they would admit to being seen or seeing me.”
“A clandestine meeting between two lovers?”
“I suppose that’s what it was. Although the female half of the pair was Miss Watson.”
“Miss Watson? The companion of the American lady?”
“I suppose even paid companions are entitled to have a little romance. Or are you from the old school, Inspector, where servants are supposed to be celibate?”
Travers ignored the comment. “Who was the fellow?”
“I don’t know his name. An American, I believe. During dinner last night he was dancing with that Broadway performer, Miss Garnett.”
Inspector Travers didn’t give voice to what was going through his mind. But he did find it interesting that Bert Ayres seemed to have gotten around a great deal in a very short amount of time.
“You can see why neither one might want to give me an alibi,” Baird continued. “And to be honest, I wouldn’t want to get the woman in trouble with her employer, even though it can’t be much fun working for that harridan. Jobs are hard to find these days.”
“All right, so you had your swim. Then what?”
“I went to my cabin to read a bit. Then I changed and went down to dinner—Miss Watson surely wouldn’t mind vouching for that. Of course, Mrs. Hardwick and Cecil Arden were also there. After dinner I followed the others to the ballroom and watched the Broadway dancers perform. When I saw you in a huddle with a steward and quickly leave the room, I followed.”
Travers had a vague memory of seeing Jeffrey Baird in the ballroom, but he couldn’t vouch that the young man had been there the entire time—and that was going to be a common problem, he feared. Anyone could have slipped out of the room unnoticed, gone back to the corridor, and murdered the duchess.
“Who were you sitting with, during the performance?”
“I didn’t know them. I believe there was an American couple seated to my left. The woman, who was next to me, had a bag of sweets with her and she made loud sucking sounds throughout the performance.”
“So all I have to do is find an American woman who likes sweets?”
“Or you can believe me.”
“You didn’t exchange words with anyone? Who was seated to your right?”
“I don’t recall. As for speaking, there was no reason why I should. We were all there to see the performance.”
“But there is a reason why you wanted to talk to me,” said Travers, who was regretting his decision to come on deck for a stroll. What he needed now was a warm bed and sleep, not getting chilled to the bone. “It surely wasn’t to make sure I knew you had nothing to tell me. That could have waited until the morning.”
“You’re right, Inspector. I was hoping to speak with you because I would like to offer my services—play Watson to your Sherlock Holmes, if the overused comparison doesn’t make you cringe.”
“Is there a reason why I should assume you’re innocent? I have only your word that you were in the ballroom throughout the performance.”
“Very true. But I know I’m innocent.”
“Any other qualifications for the job?”
“I like to think I ask good questions.”
“Such as?”
“If the duchess didn’t have a beastly headache, why did she lock herself in her cabin all day?”
CHAPTER 8
THE NEXT MORNING Inspector Travers set up shop in the small office off the library. Because it was sometimes used by businessmen and financiers who needed a private setting to draft letters or answer wires, the furniture was good and more closely resembled a private office at a gentlemen’s club in London than one at Scotland Yard. Travers ran his hand over the top of the highly-polished wood desk, which had nary a nick or ink spill upon it, and selected a pen from the half-dozen sitting beside the neatly arranged bottles of black, blue and red ink. Sitting off to the side of the room, with notebook and poised pen, was Jeffrey Baird.
Travers eschewed the imposing leather chair behind the desk for one of the two comfortable armchairs placed by the mantelpiece. People were seldom fooled by his efforts to turn an unpleasant conversation into something more palatable, but it did usually put them at least slightly more at their ease.
Bert Ayres, who was occupying the second armchair, was doing his best to appear relaxed, but it was painfully clear that he was anything but.
“I was surprised as anyone to learn that Honey—the duchess—was on the ship,” he was saying, running his fingers through his hair for the sixth time in as many minutes.
“You didn’t see her while she was in New York?” asked Inspector Travers.
Bert shook his head. “I hadn’t seen her in—why, it must already be about eight years, maybe even ten. I’ve lost track. We didn’t stay in contact after the act folded.”
“Did you remain in show business?”
Bert began to run his fingers through his hair. “I can’t see why you should be interested in that. Don’t get me wrong, Inspector. I want to help. But I don’t know a thing about what happened to Honey after we parted ways.”
“By the way, Bert is short for Herbert, I presume. What does the M stand for?”
For a moment, it looked like Bert was either going to pass out or bolt out of his chair. Baird didn’t need instructions from Travers to be ready for either possibility and he was already sitting with feet firmly on the ground, ready to spring forward if needed.
But Bert pulled himself together, and even managed a smile. “Are you going to give me back my handkerchief, Inspector, or keep it as evidence?”
“I’ll keep it for now. Why were you in the duchess’s cabin?”
“I don’t see how my lost handkerchief proves I was in her cabin. Maybe I saw her on the deck and she asked to borrow it.”
“And she asked to borrow your fingerprints, which is why they were on her bottle of perfume and her hairbrush?”
Bert returned running his fingers through his hair, using bit hands this time, for good measure.
“It will be much better, Mr. Ayres, if you tell me the truth.”
“Why shouldn’t she invite me to her cabin? W
hat’s wrong with having a few laughs about old times?”
“The items on her dressing table were amusing?”
“Sure,” said Bert, warming to his subject. “That perfume she was wearing, the stuff in the little black bottle, you’ll never guess how much it costs. Thirty-five dollars. Thirty-five dollars! I don’t know about rents in your part of the world, but for thirty-five dollars a month you can get a pretty okay apartment in Indianapolis. So we were laughing over how well she’s done. I mean, how well she had done, marrying and all that.”
“The duchess didn’t say anything about being tired or having a headache?”
“Not to me, she didn’t.”
“And you just talked?”
Bert pulled himself up as straight as he could. “What’s that supposed to mean, Inspector? Honey was a nice girl. I won’t stand for anyone saying she wasn’t.”
“You didn’t have lunch together in her cabin?” Inspector Travers could assume the innocence of the angels when he wanted to.
Bert relaxed. “Oh, is that what you meant? No, we didn’t have lunch.”
“You still haven’t explained why your handkerchief was in the duchess’s cabin.”
“It must have fallen out of my pocket. By the way, my middle name is Martin. Herbert Martin Ayres. Honey was the one who thought of my getting some handkerchiefs with my initials on them, when we still had the act. HAM. Get it? Ham actor.” He looked hopefully at Inspector Travers, who didn’t smile back. “It was a joke. Some people thought it was funny.”
“Did Miss Watson find the joke funny?”
Bert looked ready to bolt a second time. Then he glared in the direction of Jeffrey Baird. “Who is that guy, anyway?”
“Mr. Baird is helping me with the investigation.”
“Oh, is he? Well, maybe he’d like to explain what he was doing running away from that Polish countess. She’s got something on him, or my name isn’t Bert Ayres.”
Jeffrey Baird was about to say that it wasn’t; the man’s name was Herbert Martin Ayres. But he suppressed the instinct to score a point, which would have been childish given the seriousness of the situation.
Inspector Travers maintained his wooden look, but he filed away this piece of information about Baird and Countess Scharwenka for a later time.
“Right now I’m asking you about Miss Watson,” he said.
“We were just taking a walk. That afternoon tea stuff is too high class for me.”
“You seem to choose interesting places to have atête-à-tête, Mr. Ayres. A lady’s cabin, an indoor swimming pool—is there a reason why you were afraid to be seen in a public place with Miss Watson?”
“Sure. Her employer is a witch. Next question.”
There wasn’t time for another question before the office door burst open and Mrs. Hardwick flew into the room, as if on cue. She strode up to Inspector Travers and shook her lorgnette case in his direction.
“I don’t care who you are and by whose authority you have set up this inquisition. I have an engagement to play shuffleboard at eleven o’clock, and I do not intend to break it, just because some foolish woman got herself killed on board this ship.”
“We can change your appointment for after lunch, Mrs. Hardwick, if that will suit you better,” said Travers, his voice all honey.
“There is no need, young man. Everyone knows who killed that Tarrington woman.”
“They do?” asked Bert.
Mrs. Hardwick stared down her nose at him. “You were dancing with her the other night.”
A look of sincere puzzlement passed over Bert’s face. “Penny?”
“A cheap name for a cheap woman.” Mrs. Hardwick returned her attention to Inspector Travers. “I heard her speaking to that young man of hers the first day we were at sea. She said with her own lips that she intended to marry a duke—and she intended to do the work while she was on board this ship. Well? What are you waiting for? She obviously had designs on the Duke of Tarrington. Why don’t you find that young hussy and arrest her?”
“I assure you, Mrs. Hardwick, we will be questioning everyone whose cabin is located in Corridor B. You may keep your shuffleboard engagement.”
Mrs. Hardwick left the room in a huff. Jeffrey Baird got up to close the door behind her.
“I get it,” said Bert. “You guys intend to pin this murder on one of us, working people like me or Penny or Miss Watson. Well, I’ve got news for you, Mister Scotland Yard, I’m a citizen of the United States of America and my government—”
“No one is pinning anything on anyone, at least not yet,” said Travers. “That will be all for now.”
After Ayres left, Jeffrey Baird went over to the vacated armchair. “You didn’t ask about the pearls.”
“No. At this point I don’t wish their disappearance to be widely known.” He waited. “Well?”
“Ayres is lying about something.”
“That’s certain, and we’ll know more when I get a response to the wires I’ve sent to the London and New York police. But I was inquiring about the countess. I did notice that she ran after someone, when you left to change for tennis. Was it you?”
“As Bert Ayres would say, I can’t see why you should be interested in that.”
“It didn’t help him.”
“And it won’t help me?”
“Is there a reason why you’ve been avoiding her?”
“How much do you know about Countess Scharwenka?”
“Enough for my purposes, I think. What about you?”
“I knew Stefania—that’s her given name—before she was a countess, when she was just a scared nineteen-year-old refugee from Belgium,” said Baird. “My mother ran one of those shelters for war refugees on our estate. She became quite fond of Stefania. She had always wanted a daughter.”
“And Stefania repaid your mother’s kindness by running off with a pearl necklace.”
Jeffrey Baird looked at Travers with surprise. “How did you know?”
“I had heard the story, but without any names being mentioned.”
“I don’t know if I would have recognized her, if she hadn’t made it obvious that she wanted to speak with me. Once I did realize who she was, I knew I had nothing to say to her.”
“What did she have to say to you?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t give her a chance to renew our acquaintance.”
“Even after the murder, you aren’t curious? You didn’t speak with her last night, or this morning?”
“No. I presumed you would question her. If she knew anything about the duchess, it would come out then. Shall I call her in now?”
“Not just yet,” said Inspector Travers.
“I think that’s rotten,” said Penny.
“Wait a minute,” said Nick. “Are you sure that’s what the inspector said?”
“Well,” said Bert, “maybe not those exact words. But he sure gave me a grilling. And after what that old witch said, I’ll bet he’s going to give Penny a grilling too.”
The threesome was sitting in the ship’s ice cream parlor—a nod to the ship’s American clientele. The walls were painted with a child’s vision of life on the high seas, complete with ships made from jelly beans and with licorice sticks for masts, pirates in the mode of Peter Pan, and friendly dolphins playing with modestly clad mermaids. A few nannies sat with their young charges.
Penny, Nick and Bert were the only party where everyone was over the age of twelve. But Penny usually found comfort in a dish of ice cream and not in a shot glass, which is why she had nixed Bert’s idea of talking in the bar. However, on this day her dish of uneaten, melting ice cream was a sure sign she was unusually upset.
“If he doesn’t have proof, he can’t arrest you, Bert,” said Nick. The fact that he had gulped down his piece of pie without noticing was the sign that he was upset.
“He’s gotten hold of a handkerchief of mine. Those coppers sure know how to twist things around.” Bert then looked around the room. A ten-year-old
girl caught his eye and stuck out her tongue. He grimaced and grimaced again when he looked down at the soupy mess in his ice cream dish. “Maybe we shouldn’t be seen together. I’d hate it if that Scotland Yard bird tried to drag you two into this thing because of me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Penny. “We’re in this together. Aren’t we, Nick?”
“Sure,” said Nick, somewhat half-heartedly.
“We’ll just have to find out who really did kill the Duchess of Tarrington.”
“How are you going to do that?” asked Bert.
Penny glanced over at Nick, who said, “Right, Penny, how are we going to do that?”
Penny shrugged her shoulders, took a straw from its wrapper and took a deep sip of her melted ice cream. “We’ll think of something.”
CHAPTER 9
INSPECTOR TRAVERS CAST a cold glance upon the young woman sitting opposite him. For his interview with Marianne, the duchess’s French maid, he had moved behind the desk; there was no reason to assume a friendly demeanor with a woman of her ilk, he knew from experience. And as Marianne stared back at him with a look that was three parts ice to one part boredom, there was nothing that suggested his initial impression had been mistaken. The duchess had meant nothing more to the maid than her wages at the end of the month.
“But yes,” Marianne was saying, examining the perfectly manicured nails on her right hand. “Madame informed me she would not be going to the dining room for dinner.”
“About what time was that?” asked Travers.
Marianne shrugged. “Perhaps it was at six. Perhaps it was before.”
Travers recalled that the steward, Thomas, hadn’t mentioned anything about Marianne being in the corridor. Perhaps this was when he was helping Cecil Arden find his shirt stud. Or perhaps he had seen more than he admitted to and had either been bribed or too scared to become involved.
“What did you do then?” he asked the lady’s maid.
“I returned to my cabin.”
Travers glanced down at the chart he had been given at the start of the voyage, which showed all the cabins on the duchess’s deck. Marianne’s cabin, along with the cabins belonging to other servants, was on Corridor C, on the other side of the deck. “Did you see anyone on your way back to your cabin?”
Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1) Page 7
