“I didn’t pay much attention.”
This neither proved nor disproved Carroll’s alibi. Travers would just have to interview the bartender and waiters, or let Baird do it.
“Then Roberto went to the ballroom to see the dance performance,” the countess continued. “I was tired, and so I returned to my cabin.”
“Did anyone see you?”
The countess thought for a moment and then shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“And so you remained in your cabin for the rest of the night? You had no visitors?”
“There was the steward, although I would not call him a ‘visitor.’ The lightbulb in the lamp near my bed had burned out. I wished to read, and so I called for him to fix it.”
“About what time was that?”
“I think it was about ten o’clock. I know it was before the sea began to grow choppy. I don’t like to read when the ship starts to roll. When I started to feel a bit ill, I turned out my light and tried to go to sleep.”
“Did you hear anything unusual in the corridor, while you were reading?”
“You mean a voice shouting ‘Murder!’? No, I heard nothing like that.”
“What about something less dramatic? Two people arguing, for instance?”
“My cabin is at the end of the corridor, as you know. I don’t hear much.”
“All right, the inquisition is over. Are you sure I can’t interest you in another glass of wine? Or perhaps a liqueur?”
The countess shook her head. “Not for me, but enjoy yourself, Inspector.” She would never say to a man that she had reached the age when too much wine and alcohol was bad for her complexion. A woman had a right to keep her secrets.
The dinner orchestra had begun to play, and a few young people came onto the dance floor. Inspector Travers noticed that Bert Ayres was keeping his eyes on his dinner plate, but Penny Garnett was not without a partner. Jeffrey Baird had gone over to her table, and she accepted his invitation to dance.
Baird was a satisfactory dancer, but he was not of the same caliber as his partner. The young American dancer didn’t seem to mind. She had that quality that was so characteristic of her countrymen and so appealing to jaded Europeans—the ability to enjoy herself and share that joy with others. Travers would have continued to watch them with pleasure, if there hadn’t been a tap on his arm.
“That girl is very appealing,” said the countess, nodding in Penny’s direction. “She did me a good turn, you know. She warned me that Mrs. Hardwick’s emeralds had been found outside my door. I have been waiting patiently for you to question me. You did not suspect that I had taken them?”
“And left them outside your door, like a pair of shoes waiting to be polished?”
They laughed. Once again Travers felt himself being transported back in time, to Lord Tremont’s country house. There, the countess had been willing to share a bottle of wine with him one evening, an occurrence that nearly made him lose his head and his job.
“Is it permitted to barge in, or is this a private conversation?” asked Cecil Arden, who had come up to their table.
Travers motioned for Arden to take a seat, reluctantly, but as etiquette demanded. “We were discussing Mrs. Hardwick’s emeralds. They went missing for a short while, until they turned up outside Countess Scharwenka’s door.”
Arden exchanged a look with the countess. “Paste?”
The countess laughed.
Travers did not. Instead, he asked, “How did you know they were fake, Arden?”
“I don’t mean to sound unchivalrous about my dinner companion, but what man would buy that Hardwick woman expensive jewels?”
“She might have inherited them,” replied Travers.
“I suppose you’re wishing the Tarrington pearls would turn up in the same way.”
“Outside my door?” said the countess. “Now you really are being unchivalrous. Why not outside your cabin, Cecil?”
Travers noted the countess’s use of Cecil Arden’s given name, suggesting that their acquaintanceship dated back much further than this voyage. As he shifted his glance between the two, the fog began to lift. Cecil Arden had also been one of the guests at that weekend party given by Lord and Lady Tremont. He was still in his reckless period; there was something about an expensive automobile being driven into a wall by a group of young people who had had too much to drink. No one was seriously hurt, but Arden, who had been driving, allowed himself to be persuaded to go back to town and get looked over by a doctor. Later that night, Lady Tremont discovered that one of her best necklaces was missing.
“It was you, Arden, who disposed of the necklace and saved the neck of the charming Countess Scharwenka. Wasn’t it?” Travers asked.
“My dear man, I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“The Tremont Affair.”
“That was ages ago.”
“You took the necklace with you when you went back to town.”
“If this conversation is off the record, Inspector, yes, I did. If you are on duty, I am shocked to be accused of such of thing, and if you continue to harass me I shall lodge a complaint with the head of Scotland Yard as soon as we get back to England.”
“I don’t suppose you two are working together on this trip, are you? For old times’ sake?”
“My sole intention for coming to your table was to ask the countess if she wished to dance.”
“I’d be delighted,” said the countess, and the two drifted over to the dance floor.
Travers didn’t mind sitting alone at the table. He was only there in body, anyway. His mind was busy turning over this new development. The Countess Scharwenka and Cecil Arden. Was it really possible that they were up to their old tricks again?
“My mother and father invite you to have coffee with us, Inspector,” said Freddie Lambton-Keene, another apparition who had appeared at the inspector’s table when Travers’s mind was miles away.
Travers followed the young man back to the family’s table. Lady Margaret and Peter Carroll were dining with them. There was therefore no conspicuously empty place at the table. Indeed, the occupants would have had to make room for the inspector if Freddie hadn’t wandered off to where some young people were sitting.
“How is your investigation going, Inspector?” asked Sir William. “Any progress?”
“Some,” replied Travers, assuming an official, noncommittal air. “I hope you are feeling better, Lady Margaret.”
“Thank you, I am.”
“She gave us quite a scare, fainting like that,” Lady Lambton-Keene said to the inspector.
“It was nothing,” said Lady Margaret. “There was no need to make a fuss.”
“I say it was the lobster salad,” said Peter.
“I never eat lobster unless I know the cook personally,” said Lady Lambton-Keene. “Or am I being overly cautious, Inspector? Are all those cases of poisonings caused by spoiled lobster from tins that you read about in mystery stories only fiction?”
“Food poisoning is a real danger, although a physician would be more qualified to speak about that topic than someone like me.”
“Is it true that the young woman seated at the next table was also murdered?” asked Sir William.
“Miss Watson’s death was unexpected,” Travers replied. “As for whether or not it was murder, it’s early days.”
“If she was murdered, there must be a maniac on board this ship,” said Lady Lambton-Keene.
“Why do you say that?” asked Peter.
“If the murderer was sane, he would have a motive for killing the two women. There would be something to connect them. Can you think of any connection between the late duchess and that young woman?”
“I haven’t tried. But if I did, perhaps I could come up with something.”
“I don’t think so,” Lady Lambton-Keene insisted. “These must be random killings, and if they are random it must be the work of a maniac.”
“Perhaps the inspector has discov
ered a connection,” said Sir William.
All eyes turned to Inspector Travers, who was feeling uncomfortably like a dog who was expected to perform clever tricks on cue. “If I had, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell.”
“Of course, he can’t,” said Lady Lambton-Keene to the others. “If he gives away his hand and the murderer is sitting at this table—which is of course ridiculous in this instance—the murderer will be able to get away.”
“Can we please not talk about murder anymore?” asked Lady Margaret.
“You’re right, dear,” said Lady Lambton-Keene, giving the young woman a pat on the arm. “It’s a morbid topic to talk about at dinner.” She then turned back to Inspector Travers. “What about the pearls? Have you found them?”
“Lady Lambton-Keene and I were just making a wager,” said Peter. “I say the police are stumped.”
“And I, being a patriotic Englishwoman, say you have found them, but for reasons of your own you don’t wish to make it public yet.”
“I appreciate your faith in the British police,” said Travers.
“It’s only partly that. After all, we are stuck on this boat. Unless the thief threw the pearls overboard, the pearls have to be here somewhere.”
“Very true. But this is a rather large ship. There are also the second and third class decks.
“Please stop, Inspector,” said Peter. “The thought of the Tarrington pearls reposing with the peasant class is causing Lady Lambton-Keene distress.”
“I’m not as prejudiced as you might think,” she replied. “But I don’t see how anyone from third class could have stolen the pearls. Wouldn’t their presence on this deck be noticed?”
“Not if he was wearing a steward’s jacket,” said Sir William. “That is what I have been saying from the first. Whoever stole the pearls and murdered the duchess—my apologies, Margaret, for bringing it up again—must have been dressed as a steward. That’s why no one noticed him.”
Sir William looked to Inspector Travers for confirmation.
“It’s possible,” said Travers. “We’re investigating all possibilities.” He didn’t mention that so far the ship’s detective had come up with “nixie,” to use Rogers’s own disappointed word.
“I do hope Cecil isn’t going to make a fool of himself over that countess,” said Lady Lambton-Keene, who had the best view of the dance floor. “Middle age is such a dangerous time for a man.”
CHAPTER 17
DINNER HAD ENDED and the first class passengers had dispersed, some to the card room to play bridge, some to the cinema, and some to hear a lecture about English gardens. A few had escaped to the bar, including Cecil Arden. But his drinking partner was not one of his own choosing.
“I tell you, Inspector, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Arden was saying, “if you’ll pardon the hackneyed expression. I’m a respectable man these days. I even bore myself.”
“And next you’ll be telling me you haven’t seen Countess Scharwenka since you helped her dispose of the Tremont necklace.”
“I have no intention of saying that. I met her at a party in Hollywood.”
“What were you doing in Hollywood?”
“Working. I went there to interview some of the people who write film scripts, for my radio program. I needed a break from interviewing the same old dreary authors, and I managed to convince my producers that a trip to Hollywood would add some spice to an increasingly dull broadcast. I have the recordings in my cabin, though you’ll have to take my word that they are recordings of drunken hacks and not banshees crying in the night. I didn’t bring a phonograph with me.”
“Let’s return to the party. You met the countess and then what happened?”
“If you’re thinking we tore off our clothes and dived into the swimming pool naked for a midnight swim, I fear I have to disappoint you. I have a touch of rheumatism these days and I try to stay away from damp.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Nothing happened, really. We met once for dinner and went dancing afterward. But the countess was going back to Europe, and my visit was nearing its end. She happened to mention she was sailing home on this ship. I had booked passage for a sailing the following week. I was planning on staying with some friends, who if truth be told are as boring as they are rich, and so I thought, why not sail on the same boat as the countess? At least I’d know there would be one charming woman on board.”
“The two of you didn’t discuss pulling a heist, not even as a joke?”
“It’s funny you mention that, Inspector. When I found out Honey was sailing with us, it did cross my mind that it would be great fun to steal the pearls and give Gerald a heart attack—figuratively speaking, of course. But the countess wasn’t interested. She insisted she had retired. She has arthritis in the fingers, poor thing. I suppose it comes from cracking open too many safes. That’s why she took that consulting job on a film. She obviously wouldn’t publicize her expertise as a jewel thief if she still planned to do some jobs.”
“How does she intend to support herself? The money from the Hollywood job won’t last forever.”
“I suggested she write her memoir—and then sell it to the movies. It’s quite a story. War, betrayal, eventual triumph. You know some of it, I believe.”
“I know she was a refugee from Belgium during the Great War.”
“That’s right. Her entire family was killed. She arrived in England penniless, and was taken in by one of those do-gooder minor aristocrats.”
“That would be Jeffrey Baird’s mother, if I recall.”
“Yes. Dorothy Baird was the youngest daughter of Lord Croftsbury. By the time it was her turn to traipse down the aisle there wasn’t enough money left to make a brilliant marriage. So she married George Baird. No title, but plenty of money and a big house out in Surrey. During the war, Dorothy turned one wing of the house into a hospital and sort of hotel for refugees. The countess ended up there, was seduced by the young man of the manor, our Jeffrey, who, of course, promised to marry her, and who promptly dropped her when she told him she was with child. Mama tried to marry off the girl to a greengrocer’s assistant in the next village, but our future countess wasn’t having any of that. She pinched one of her benefactor’s pearl necklaces and went to London, where she tried to set up a home for the child she was carrying. But the money from one necklace doesn’t go very far. So she pinched another one, this time from a jeweler’s shop.”
“What happened to the child?”
“She died when she was six or seven months old. Diphtheria, I think.”
“I didn’t know about the child,” said Travers.
“Afterward, the countess stole because she was good at it and it paid well, so we don’t need to be too maudlin—which reminds me, you and Jeffrey Baird are thick as thieves these days. The countess wants to give him something.” Cecil Arden took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Travers. “You can open it.”
Travers did. Inside was a check, made payable to Jeffrey Baird and signed by the countess.
“It’s for the pearl necklace that belonged to Baird’s mother.”
“I doubt Baird will accept this,” said Travers, pocketing the check, “but I’ll give it to him. And if you and the countess did steal the Tarrington pearls as a lark, leave them outside my door tonight. I won’t arrest either of you. I’m more interested in catching the duchess’s murderer.”
After Travers left the bar, he went onto the outside deck for some fresh air. His head needed clearing. He was becoming too emotionally involved in people’s lives again, when what was needed was merciless detachment. The fact that the countess had stolen her first necklace to provide for her unborn illegitimate child was sad, even tragic; but she wasn’t going to get away with stealing the Tarrington pearls, if, indeed, she had done it. And if she wasn’t the culprit, who was? Who had access to the duchess’s cabin?
Once he had discounted Roberto and Bert Ayres, the only other person who was seen a
t the cabin door on the day the duchess was murdered was Lady Lambton-Keene. But he couldn’t see her stealing the pearls, just as he couldn’t imagine her murdering Honey Holdendale. Lady Lambton-Keene was a rebel, but she knew where to draw the line. And murder was on the other side of that line.
There was a steward who had delivered dinner to the cabin. Was Sir William correct when he suggested that someone had dressed up as a steward and gained access to the cabin that way? It could be done. But by whom? The stewards had all been questioned. No one noticed a stranger within their midst, or anything unusual, for that matter.
And where was the connection between the Duchess of Tarrington and Mabel Watson? There had to be one. The idea of a homicidal maniac roaming the corridors of the ship was absurd. But what was the connecting link, the one piece of the puzzle that would make all the others fall into place?
He needed a break, desperately.
He heard footsteps approaching; heard rather than saw because it was another foggy night.
“Good evening, Inspector.” It was the ship’s captain. “Any progress yet?”
“A little.”
“We’ve had a wire from the head of the company. He’s very anxious that this is cleared up before we reach port.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“Should I include any words from you in my reply?”
“Nothing printable, I’m afraid. Goodnight.”
Jeffrey Baird was saying goodnight to Penny when Travers entered the corridor, on his way to his cabin. It was usually awkward when a person interrupted two young people saying goodnight, but Travers was in a foul mood and he didn’t care that he was intruding. As he passed them he said, “I’d like a word with you, Baird. Come to my cabin when you’re done.”
He continued to walk. When he reached his cabin, Travers entered and left the door open. A few minutes later, Baird entered.
“Shut the door behind you.”
Baird shut the door. “Has something happened?”
Travers handed him the check. Baird looked at it and frowned.
“Payment for your mother’s pearl necklace. The debt is now paid in full, I hope.”
Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1) Page 15
