She handed Cecil Arden the case, and he unsheathed the small blade that had been nestling inside. After testing the blade with a finger, he gave a low whistle.
“It has retained its sharpness, because it has never been used,” said Mrs. Hardwick. “As you so rightly said, a blade like this could never have been used in a crime such as occurred last night. Although if the Duchess of Tarrington had been born a duchess I dare say she would have rated a better instrument of death than a common steak knife.”
Arden returned the lorgnette case, with the blade safely inside, to the outstretched hand of its owner. “You believe in poetic justice?”
“I believe in justice.”
At another table, Penny and Nick were trying to convince Bert Ayres to come clean. The older man was doing his best to look hurt.
“You don’t have to believe me,” he was saying. “You two don’t owe me a thing.”
“We do believe you,” Penny insisted. “We just think maybe there was more to your conversation with Honey than you’ve told us.”
“Maybe you didn’t even realize you said something to upset her,” Nick added. “You know how women are.”
“No, how are we?” asked Penny, looking offended.
Nick patted her on the arm. “I wasn’t speaking about you, of course, Penny, dear. But there are some females who take offense at the slightest thing. Why, just mention that during the second chorus they were off a beat and they accuse you of being a brute, a tyrant, and a broken metronome.”
“Don’t start that again, Nick. I was on time. You came in a beat too early. You just won’t admit it, because you’re a man and no man will ever admit he’s wrong.”
“Is that so? I can think of at least a few times when I’ve admitted I was wrong. I’m sure Bert could too.”
“I suppose so,” Bert agreed. “And if I did say something to offend Honey, I sure wish I could remember what it was. Not that it would matter now, when I can’t tell her I’m sorry.”
“Maybe she just was upset about meeting you again,” said Penny. “You know how snobbish the English can be. Her friends might be the type to look down on you.”
“I didn’t ask Honey to introduce me to her friends. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Of course, you wouldn’t. But if they asked about you, Honey would have to say you were her first husband and—”
Bert’s face began to turn frightening shades of red as he slammed his napkin on the table. “Who said that? Who said Honey and I were married?”
Penny’s mouth fell open, while Nick’s spoon slipped out of his hand and into his consommé cup with a splash.
“I … I just thought so, Bert,” Penny stammered. “Because you were a team … you know … sharing the billing and the … the …”
“The hotel room, I suppose you mean,” said Bert, having calmed down. “We did that to save money.” He was about to take another sip of his consommé when he stopped with the spoon in mid-air. “You two haven’t been talking about Honey and me to anyone, have you?”
“Of course not,” said Nick.
“I’d hate for any rumors to be going around, especially now, when she’s dead.”
“We’ve hardly talked to anyone on this ship, except you,” said Penny. “It’s been kind of disappointing. Not that we haven’t enjoyed seeing you again.”
“I know what you mean, kid,” said Bert, replacing the spoon in his empty cup. “There aren’t too many eligible young men. And with Honey getting killed in that awful way, this trip hasn’t been much fun.”
After lunch, Bert excused himself and said he had an appointment to get his hair cut. Penny and Nick remained at the table, lingering over their coffee.
“I wonder why Bert got so mad when I said I thought he and Honey were married,” said Penny.
Nick unhappily stirred the remains of the cold coffee in his coffee cup. “So do I.”
Jeffrey Baird didn’t have an appointment at the barbershop, nor did he need a haircut. But his gut instinct was telling him that Mabel Watson was not feeling under the weather, that there was some other reason why she had played hooky from lunch in the dining room. He had therefore given a silent word of thanks to Cecil Arden, when after lunch that gentleman escorted Mrs. Hardwick to the card room, where a game of bridge was forming. Baird didn’t play bridge himself, but he knew that for serious players the looks and charms of one’s partner—attractive and engaging or otherwise—were unimportant. What did matter was a will to win, and Cora Hardwick was therefore very likely a formidable player. With Mrs. Hardwick safely out of the way for a few hours, Baird could continue his pursuit of Mabel Watson unimpeded. He couldn’t do anything as obvious as knocking on the woman’s cabin door. But he could follow Bert Ayres, to see if the pair had arranged another secret meeting.
When he reached the barbershop, Jeffrey Baird asked for a scalp treatment, while Bert Ayres got his hair cut in the next chair. Ayres wasn’t in a talkative mood and, unfortunately, the barber attending Baird was too talkative. That made the time in the barbershop a waste from Baird’s point of view. But with what smelled and felt like salad dressing in his hair, there was nothing Baird could do until his treatment was over.
After lunch, Penny returned to her cabin to change. There was nothing wrong with the dress she was wearing—and earlier she had commented to Nick that a sea voyage required more costume changes than a Broadway show—but she knew one of the unwritten rules for first class female passengers was “Thou shalt not wear the same dress for more than two hours.” She therefore opened the door to the closet in her cabin and contemplated the dresses hanging inside. While she was deciding between a two-piece gray outfit with a long tunic that went over the skirt and a fake fur collar that fit snugly about the neck or a brown-and-white plaid dress that belted at the waist and had a matching brown coat with three-quarter length sleeves, her attention was distracted by the sound of raised voices coming from …
It wasn’t clear where they were coming from. The voices—and by then she could hear enough to know it was a man and a woman who were arguing—didn’t seem to be coming outside her cabin door; they didn’t seem loud enough for that. She was pretty certain the voices couldn’t be coming from Nick’s cabin, which was next door to hers, on the right. For one thing, Nick had said he was going to have his shoes shined after lunch. For another, who would Nick be arguing with? They didn’t know anyone well enough yet to exchange heated words. And she knew her brother wasn’t a skirt chaser; if anything, he was too focused on their dance routines, in her opinion. Therefore, she didn’t think he was trying to corner a reluctant maid come to change the sheets and towels.
But someone was having a doozy of an argument, and Penny moved about her cabin to see where the noise was the loudest. When she reached the spot, she glanced up and saw an air vent. Moving a chair over to the wall, she climbed up on it and listened. The voices were coming from the cabin to the left of hers, which belonged to Lady Margaret and Peter Carroll. Penny quickly climbed down from the chair. If the newlyweds were having a quarrel, that was their business and not hers. She grabbed the gray outfit and went into the bathroom to change, so she wouldn’t have to hear another word. For good measure, she turned on the tap and let the cold water run into the sink. By the time she emerged, she was relieved to discover the quarreling voices had ceased.
CHAPTER 12
After his haircut, Bert Ayres went to the ballroom, where a class in ballroom dancing was just getting under way. He joined the dozen or so participants—none of whom was Mabel Watson—in learning the steps to a dance called the Continental. Baird, who had casually followed Ayres at a safe distance, watched from the side of the room for a few minutes. Since Ayres’s interest in the lesson seemed to be genuine and there was nothing to be gained in watching the dancers, Baird decided he needed to change his strategy.
Fortunately, his luck changed with a change of corridors. While on his way to the telegraph room—he had come up with the admittedly lame idea o
f writing and delivering a fake telegram to Mabel Watson, which would provide him with an excuse for going to her cabin—he ran into Peter Carroll, who was looking more than usually weary.
“Have you seen one of those female stewards or stewardesses or whatever you call them?” the composer asked.
“Lady Margaret isn’t feeling well?” asked Baird.
“It was probably the lobster salad they brought her for lunch,” replied Carroll. “I would like to know where everyone disappears to when you need them.”
“I’ve an idea. That Watson woman, Mrs. Hardwick’s companion, probably has an entire suitcase full of remedies for every occasion. Shall I fetch her?”
“Thanks, if you don’t mind. I’ll continue to look for a female steward.”
The two men parted ways. Baird quickened his step, now that he had a legitimate reason for going to Mabel Watson’s cabin. But when he knocked upon the door, she didn’t answer.
A locked door posed no serious challenge for Baird; breaking and entering was part of his job duties, when desired information couldn’t be obtained in any other way. But here there was a question of etiquette involved. Mabel Watson’s only crime, so far, was having an unremarkable past. That didn’t warrant entering her cabin uninvited—and a moment later he was glad he had resisted the impulse to do so.
Mabel Watson entered the corridor, looking the picture of health. When she saw Baird outside her cabin, she stopped and gave him a wary glance, before continuing to her door.
“Lost?” she asked, rummaging in her purse for her key.
“Lady Margaret is unwell,” he explained. “Her husband thought that perhaps you might have a tonic for an upset stomach.”
“Let her ask her own maid.”
“I don’t believe she brought one.”
“She should have,” said Mabel. “Instead, she cheats a poor girl out of a job while pretending to be a friend of the people.”
Righteous indignation did not become Mabel Watson, Baird decided. Bitterness only etched the lines deeper into her skin, further aging a face that may have once been pretty, in a coarse sort of way, but was now ravaged by whatever troubles had pursued and vanquished the woman. But he was there to talk to the woman, not photograph her for a fashion magazine, and so he assumed what he hoped was a sympathetic expression. “That’s one way of looking at it. I’m not overly fond of socialists in fur coats myself.”
Mabel gave him the once-over. “Not that I have anything against fur coats.”
“Sensible woman.”
Mabel unlocked the door and the two went inside the cabin. While Mabel went over to a carrying case to find a tonic suitable for an upset stomach, Baird did a quick look around the room. It was reasonably tidy and devoid of personal effects, to his chagrin. But there was a framed photograph of a young man that might provide an opening.
“Your brother?” he asked, picking it up to get a better look.
Mabel took the photograph out of his hand and put it back on the small dressing table. “Here’s the tonic,” she said, handing him a small white packet, which presumably held some sort of powder. “Mix it in a glass of water and pour it down her ladyship’s gullet.”
“Why did you become a companion, Miss Watson? You’re not really the type.”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but there’s a Depression going on.”
“What did you do before?”
“I did a bit of nursing during the war.”
“I was wounded in France.”
“Maybe I helped to sew you back together.”
“Maybe. Someone did.”
They stood a moment without talking. The war. In terms of days, months and years, it was ages ago—a different world. But for those who had gone through it, the Great War created an instant bond. It was its own world of acts of impossible courage and moments of unspeakable horror, which only the initiates—those who had experienced the battlefield firsthand—could completely understand.
And without planning it, Baird had stumbled upon the point of connection he had been searching for. Yet even as he felt Mabel Watson warming toward him and letting down her guard, Baird pulled back. There was something sacred about a person’s war experiences that shouldn’t be profaned—not even in a murder investigation.
At the same time he found himself starting to regard Mabel Watson in a different light. She was no longer just the homely companion, with no existence of her own. She was also a woman who had run off to France as an idealist young girl to mend bodies that had been shattered, comfort and give courage to those who were convinced they had nothing more to live for.
“After the war I was a secretary to a stockbroker,” she continued, sensing the change in his attitude toward her. “It was good while the good times lasted. Then the stock market crashed. When my boss jumped out of his office window I found myself also out on the street.”
“Other men need secretaries. Surely an office job is preferable to living with a woman like Cora Hardwick day and night.”
“Look, Mr. Baird, I know you’re snooping for that Scotland Yard inspector, and he’s going to get the goods on me soon, if he hasn’t already got them. My boss didn’t jump only because of the crash. He was involved in some funny business before, and he got me mixed up in it. I was too young and foolish and in love with him to say no. When he died, he left me holding the bag and I went to jail. I got out six months ago. Now I’m trying to start over and go straight, okay?”
“Okay. And good luck.” He extended his hand, and she took it.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t suppose the photograph is of the stock broker.”
Mabel shook her head. “You were right the first time. That was my kid brother.” She picked up the photo and gazed down at the young man’s smiling face.
Baird had noted her use of the past tense and he sensed there was a story behind the photo. But he didn’t want to hear that the young man had been killed on the battlefield. He had too many memories of his own. “Well, thanks for the tonic,” he said, trying to bring them both back to the present.
“Sure. Any time.”
Baird opened the cabin door. To his surprise, both Peter Carroll and Penny Garnett were standing on the other side of the door.
“Here he is,” Penny said to Carroll.
“Here’s the tonic,” said Baird, showing them the packet.
“Thank you very much,” said Carroll, nodding in the direction of Miss Watson. “It was very kind of you to help.”
“Not at all.”
“Can I pay you for it?” Peter reached into a pocket and took out his wallet.
“This one’s on me,” replied Mabel, who made a move to close the door. Penny slipped inside before she could do so.
“I found this in the corridor,” said Penny. Sitting in the palm of her hand was a blue velvet jeweler’s pouch. “I believe it belongs to Mrs. Hardwick. She’s not in her cabin, so I thought I’d ask you.”
Mabel stared down at the pouch for a moment. Then she took it from Penny’s hand, opened it and shook out the contents into her own hand. An emerald bracelet and a matching pair of earrings sparkled in the light.
“It’s a good thing you spotted that, Miss Garnett,” said Peter Carroll. “I’m sure Mrs. Hardwick wouldn’t want to lose those gems.”
“I’ve told her a thousand times not to carry her jewels with her,” said Mabel. “Maybe now she’ll listen. Thank you, Miss Garnett.”
“Not at all,” said Penny, who had spotted the photograph on the dressing table and was moving toward it. “That’s Tommy Peters, isn’t it? I had such a big crush on him. I cried and cried when he was killed in that motor car accident.”
“Tommy Peters?” asked Jeffrey Baird.
“The movie star,” said Penny. “At least he would have been a big star if he had lived longer and made more than one picture. But I loved the way he sang ‘How Long Has This Been Going On?’ and I must have seen that movie half a dozen times just to hear him sing it aga
in. It’s nice to meet a fellow fan, Miss Watson.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about, Miss Garnett. This is a photograph of my younger brother.”
Penny took another look at the photograph before putting it back on the dressing table. “He sure does look a lot like Tommy. If your brother can sing and dance, I bet he could have a career in Hollywood.”
Mabel ignored this last comment and said to Peter Carroll, “If you’re not going to use that tonic, I’ll take it back.”
“Oh, I’ll use it. Thanks again.”
Peter left, followed by Penny and Jeffrey Baird. Mabel closed the door behind them with a slam. Baird let Peter walk ahead of them.
“How sure are you about that photograph, Miss Garnett?”
“I had one just like it in my scrapbook when I was seventeen. Why do you suppose she said it was her brother?”
“I don’t know.”
They continued in silence until they reached the corridor for their own cabins. “Where exactly did you find that pouch?” he asked.
Penny pointed to the spot on the floor outside of the cabin door belonging to Countess Scharwenka. “It was there. I was on my way to the outside deck, to get some fresh air, when I remembered I had forgotten to put a fresh handkerchief in my handbag. I spotted the pouch when I was returning to my cabin. When I opened the pouch, I recognized the jewels. Mrs. Hardwick wore them the first night. I remember thinking they would have gone well with my gown.”
“You weren’t tempted to keep them?”
“Certainly I was tempted,” Penny said. “But I’m waiting for the real thing.”
“You suspect the jewels are paste?”
“Not the jewels, the way I get them. I’m waiting until I meet a nice duke or earl with a big safe filled with the family jewels—and he gives them all to me.”
“Not a bad hour’s work,” said Inspector Travers, after Baird had made his report. “What do you make of it?”
The inspector and Jeffrey Baird were sitting in the small office that served as their headquarters. A pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches were sitting on a side table—Travers didn’t know if he should be amused or disgusted by the ship’s apparent belief that a person might die from hunger if he went without food for longer than an hour—but neither man showed any interest in the refreshments. The hint of progress, although small, had their full attention.
Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1) Page 11
