Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1)

by Jolie Beaumont

  “How certain are you that an overdose was the cause of death?”

  “There’s no wound. No signs of her being strangled or hit on the head.”

  “In other words, no signs of foul play?”

  “None that I can see. She might have had some pre-existing condition, heart trouble, for instance, which made her pop off so suddenly. I’d suggest analyzing that glass before we go any further.”

  Jeffrey Baird, who had been standing beside the inspector, stirred. “What about poison?”

  Travers gave him a look—he had been thinking the same thing—but didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll know more after I’ve done a more thorough examination in my clinic,” said the physician.

  When the cabin was empty of everyone except Travers and Baird, the Scotland Yard inspector turned to his assistant and asked, “Why poison Mabel Watson?”

  “I was just thinking about Cora Hardwick’s lorgnette case.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect her of murdering her companion?”

  “Not likely, I agree. Not when she’d have to fetch her own magazines and get her own cups of bullion for the rest of the voyage.”

  For the first time since he entered the small cabin, Travers allowed the taut muscles around his mouth to relax into something like a smile.

  “We have no proof that Mabel Watson wanted to die,” Baird added.

  “So you think someone helped her along?”

  “It’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

  “Let’s get to work.”

  Travers went to close the door. He saw Penny and Nick standing in the corridor. “Just curious or have you anything to tell me?”

  “Is Miss Watson … dead?” asked Penny.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Was she murdered?” asked Nick.

  “We don’t yet know the cause of death.” He then added, “I suppose you’re going to warn your friend Bert Ayres.”

  “What do you mean, warn him?” asked Penny.

  “Tell him what’s happened, so he’ll have time to think of an alibi. So I think you’d better stay with us in the cabin, for the time being. You can help us search the room. Baird, you take charge of Mr. Garnett. Miss Garnett, you can go through the drawers in this cupboard.”

  The cabin was really too small for four people to work comfortably, but they managed to do the job without bumping elbows too many times. Travers’s attention was concentrated on the small case with the medicines, while Baird and Nick searched the furnishings, looking under seat cushions and under the mattress and behind the mirror.

  “What are we looking for?” Nick asked.

  “Whatever we find,” replied the Scotland Yard inspector.

  Penny’s job was to search through the dead woman’s clothing. Her first instinct was to shrink from touching anything; it seemed obscene to go through the woman’s intimate garments. The only thing that convinced Penny to overcome her reluctance was her knowledge that a woman would prefer another woman to do the search.

  Thirty minutes later they placed the fruits of their labor on the dressing table. Jeffrey Baird had found a yellowing letter placed behind the photograph of Tommy Peters. Penny had found the woman’s passport underneath a pile of underwear. Nick thought he had found a stash of cocaine parading as an unopened box of talcum powder, but it turned out to really be what the box said. While the others finished straightening up the woman’s belongings, Travers settled into a chair and, after glancing through the pages of the passport, read the letter.

  “Helpful?” asked Baird, after several minutes had passed.

  “The passport explains the problem of the names,” Travers replied, pointing to the photograph of Tommy Peters, which was back in its frame. “Her full name was Mabel Peters-Watson. Young Tommy dropped the Watson, it seems, when he went on the stage.”

  “So he really was her brother,” said Penny. “I never would have guessed.”

  “He calls her ‘Sis’ a few times in this letter. Apparently, he wrote it not long after she went to jail.”

  “And not long before he was killed,” Penny added, noting the date.

  Travers nodded. “I suppose that’s why she kept it. At any rate, it’s a lucky break for us. Here, read this bit.”

  He handed the letter to Penny, who read aloud the relevant paragraph:

  Guess you don’t follow the scandal sheets anymore where you are, but Vernon Hardwick is making a laughingstock out of himself over that dancer Honey Lynde. If you ask me, she’s a bit long in the tooth. But Vernon is smitten, the poor devil. He threatened to blow out his brains last Sunday if she continued to refuse to marry him. The joke is that she is still married to some third-rate over-the-hill vaudevillian, according to Mick Ryan. You remember him, Sis. Mick and I were in the chorus of Belle of Broadway, before we came out to Hollywood. Old Mick is the one to go to when you want an earful of gossip. He says that Hardwick’s patrician mother is threatening to close down her darling boy’s monthly allowance, unless Vernon gives up his Honey pot. I hope she doesn’t do it before Hardwick gets his new motor car. He’s promised to take me for a spin.

  “That’s enough,” said Travers. “I suppose you all caught the references.”

  “Honey Lynde is our duchess?” asked Baird.

  “Lady Lambton-Keene mentioned that Honey was going by that name when she met the Duke of Tarrington.”

  “And Vernon Hardwick is Cora Hardwick’s son?”

  “We’ll soon find out. For the moment, though, I’m interested in that over-the-hill vaudeville performer.” Travers looked over at Penny and Nick.

  “You think the letter is referring to Bert Ayres?” asked Nick.

  “It would rather tie things up in a bow if it did. If Honey Lynde was still married to Bert when she married the Duke of Tarrington, it must have been a surprise when she saw Bert on this ship.”

  Penny and Nick exchanged glances.

  “Baird, take these two somewhere and don’t let them out of your sight. I’m going to find Cora Hardwick, and then I’ll speak with Mr. Ayres. But I don’t want anyone getting to Mr. Ayres first.”

  “Right, Inspector,” Jeffrey Baird replied, looking not a whit unhappy about having to keep Penny under surveillance.

  Cora Hardwick glared at the Scotland Yard inspector. They were sitting in a corner of the card room, where Mrs. Hardwick had been playing bridge a few minutes before. “I have an appointment to get my hair done in seventeen minutes, Inspector. I do not intend to be late.”

  “I’m sorry you are taking the death of your companion so badly, Mrs. Hardwick,” Travers replied.

  “Don’t be absurd. I hardly knew the girl. And she was incompetent. I was going to send her packing when we reached England.”

  “How did you find her, Mrs. Hardwick? Through your son Vernon?”

  “Ver …”

  For a moment Travers feared he was going to have another case of heart failure on his hands. The color had drained from Cora Hardwick’s face, leaving a ghastly gray mask. He was about to go over to the sideboard, where several bottles of liquid refreshments were sitting, including a bottle of brandy, when thankfully the color began to return to her cheeks.

  “If you are referring to my son Vernon, Inspector, he could hardly have recommended Mabel Watson to me. Vernon has been dead for three years. He died in a motor accident, in California.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be.”

  “But I believe he was an acquaintance of Mabel Watson’s brother, Tommy Peters.”

  “Was that dreadful boy Watson’s brother? I had no idea.”

  “You knew him?”

  “No. He was driving Vernon’s car when they had the smash up. They were both killed.”

  “I seem to be bringing up unpleasant memories.”

  “I have learned to come to terms with my loss.”

  “Did you know the Duchess of Tarrington would be on this ship when you booked your cabin?”

  “Why s
hould I care?”

  “Come, come, Mrs. Hardwick, if you intend to get to the beauty salon on time you’d best answer my questions truthfully. I know your son was in love with Honey Lynde and I know that Honey Lynde was the Duchess of Tarrington. How much did you hate her?”

  “Hate is a strong word.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Cora Hardwick rapped her lorgnette case against the arm of her chair. “Why shouldn’t I hate the woman? She convinced Vernon to invest in that show of hers, Belle of Broadway. It closed after two weeks and he lost every penny. And don’t tell me it wasn’t her fault the stock market crashed, or that other shows closed. She had no right to seduce an innocent boy, when all she was interested in was his money.”

  “All right, I won’t say it. But did you know she would be on this ship?”

  “No.”

  “When you did find out, did you make any attempt to speak to her?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you go after dinner on the second night of the voyage, the night the duchess died? Did you go back to your cabin?”

  “I went straight to the card room to play bridge. I wanted to obtain a seat before the tables filled up. Sir William was my partner.”

  “You didn’t go back to your cabin at any time during the evening?”

  “Only when I wished to retire for the night. Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “Why did you tell Mabel Watson to drop your emeralds outside the cabin door of Countess Scharwenka?”

  “You have lost your mind, Inspector. I hope you regain your sanity when we reach shore.”

  “Do you carry your jewels with you wherever you go?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you know why Miss Watson was not at lunch?”

  “No. She asked if she could eat lunch in her cabin. I was tired of looking at her sullen face, and I said yes. I also told her I would be playing bridge after lunch and then I would be having my hair done, so I wouldn’t need her until I dressed for afternoon tea.”

  “Were the emeralds in your cabin’s safe before you went to lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should we assume it was Miss Watson who removed them?”

  “You may assume what you like.”

  “Mrs. Hardwick, why did you entrust her with the combination to you cabin’s safe, if you didn’t know her very well? Weren’t you at all worried that she might be tempted to steal some of your jewels?”

  Mrs. Hardwick gave the inspector a triumphant smile. “My real jewels are in the bursar’s safe. The jewels in my cabin are all paste. I know better than to parade around in valuable jewels on a ship, where there all sorts of people wandering about. The Countess Scharwenka, my eye. And I wouldn’t be surprised if that girl calling herself Lady Margaret is also a swindler and a fake.”

  She rose, as though to go. “If you have finished, Inspector.”

  “Just one more question, Mrs. Hardwick. Were the medicines in Miss Watson’s cabin for you or for her?”

  “I know nothing about medicines. I never take them.”

  “Not even if you can’t sleep?”

  “I have a clear conscience, Inspector. I sleep very well at night.”

  CHAPTER 15

  BERT AYRES, BLISSFULLY unaware that the Scotland Yard inspector was about to give him the third-degree, was undergoing a different sort of torture. Lady Lambton-Keene, unable to write another letter, read another chapter from her book, or engage in some other similarly sedate activity appropriate for mourning, was trying to teach the American how to play tennis. It was highly unorthodox, she knew; one did not engage in sporting activities while one of the members of one’s family was awaiting burial. But, she reasoned, Honey Holdendale had only been the duke’s second wife and she had not left an heir. Therefore, one could be forgiven for breaking the rules.

  Her husband, Sir William, was not so sure. He had therefore found a seat in the library, where he was reading an outdated newspaper and drinking a glass of sherry. Freddie was playing chaperon to his mother and assisting her with the tennis lesson, although the pained look on his face showed what he thought of the endeavor.

  “Perhaps if you didn’t try so hard to hit the ball, Mr. Ayres, your game would improve,” said Freddie, after retrieving yet another wayward tennis ball.

  “I thought that was the point,” said Bert, rather peevishly. “Hitting the ball.”

  “What Freddie means to say is that you only need to swing into the path of the ball and the racquet will do the rest of the work,” said Lady Lambton-Keene. “It’s similar to dancing. You want to hold your partner lightly and move to the rhythm of the music, not throw her around.”

  “You don’t need to tell me how to dance.”

  “We’re only trying to say, Mr. Ayres, that there is a rhythm to tennis as well,” said Freddie.

  “Watch how Freddie and I do it.”

  Bert walked off to the side of the court. Mother and son sent the ball flying back and forth for several minutes.

  “There, you see …” Lady Lambton-Keene looked around the room. “Why, he’s gone.”

  Cecil Arden looked on with amusement at the scene going on at a table on the other side of the café. He was watching Jeffrey Baird bravely dip his spoon into a banana split, clearly not a dessert he was accustomed to, but trying to look happy because he was sharing it with the rather pretty Broadway dancer. The girl’s brother was toying with a piece of pie and very much trying not to look like a third wheel, which he obviously was.

  It had been a long time since Arden had gotten tangled up in affairs of the heart. Indeed, he couldn’t quite remember when it was that he had left the problems of youth behind and sidled into a more settled middle age, but it seemed like the change had happened ages ago. His life now was certainly comfortable enough. Some might even say it was glamorous. He was invited to all the important literary parties, because of his radio program at the BBC. He was also on the A-list for first nights at the theatre. He received more invitations to dinner than he could attend, and he knew he was still considered an attractive dinner partner. He supposed he could have his share of love affairs, if he so wished. And if it wasn’t all such a bore.

  That was why he now smiled benevolently at Baird, for whom life was not yet a bore. Even if he could no longer feel the thrill of the chase, Arden enjoyed seeing young people going about the business of falling in love.

  The moment was spoiled by Roberto, who threw himself down on the seat beside Arden and exclaimed, “Mon dieu, this voyage is a disgrace! You have heard?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Another one dead.”

  Arden raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, the one at your table.”

  “Mrs. Hardwick?”

  “No, the young one. The companion to the old woman.”

  That surprised Arden. “Why on earth?”

  “We are all at sea.” Roberto chuckled over his little joke.

  “How did she die?”

  “The rumor says she took a sleeping powder. But do we believe it? Not Roberto.”

  “At least it wasn’t another death by steak knife.”

  “I do not care. I do not like all these deaths. I take the sea voyage to relax.”

  A small orchestra had taken their places on the stage and started to play. Arden looked with approval as Baird and Penny Garnett began to dance. True, there had been two deaths in as many days. But it was when death was staring you in the face that it became an imperative to live life to the fullest.

  “Ah, there is the countess,” said Roberto. “I wish I could give her the dresses I designed for the Duchess of Tarrington. It is a waste for them to sit in the closet the entire voyage, and the countess has the figure to show them off well. What do you think? Is it bad taste to ask the family? You are an English …”

  Arden had left the table and gone over to where Countess Scharwenka was standing.

  “Would you care to dance, Countess?”

>   Countess Scharwenka gave him her hand and her smile.

  “I don’t know, Inspector,” said Sir William, who was still sitting in the library. “I thought Mr. Ayres was playing tennis with my wife and son.”

  “He’s not there now,” said Inspector Travers. “When you were playing bridge with Mrs. Hardwick the night the duchess was murdered, did—”

  “That’s the elderly woman from Philadelphia?”

  Travers nodded.

  “A splendid player. A risk-taker, which surprised me at first, but she was able to pull it off every time. There was one hand—”

  “Do you recall if she left the room for any length of time?” asked Travers, who was in no mood to hear a play-by-play account of the game.

  “I suppose we all got up one or two times, to stretch our legs, refill the glasses.”

  “But to your knowledge, Mrs. Hardwick was in the card room playing bridge the entire evening?”

  “Yes, if I recall correctly she was getting up from the table when the steward told us the news. It must have been almost one o’clock. After that, I’m afraid I was too dazed to notice much else that was going on.”

  “That’s very understandable, Sir William. Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Travers left Sir William to his magazine and continued his search of the first class public rooms.

  “Inspector Travers!” a voice called out to him.

  He turned. A steward was coming toward him.

  “This wire just arrived.”

  Travers tore open envelope and removed the flimsy piece of paper that was inside. The message took only a few moments to read. But it left him even more determined to find Bert Ayres.

  Lady Margaret turned on the light above her bed. Her mind was still fuzzy, in a state that was more dreamlike than awake. And what dreams she had had! Or had the conversation she overheard really happened? If she could only sort it all out.

  “Peter?” she called.