“I doubt my mother will accept it.”
“Well, pass it on to her, anyway. Goodnight.”
Baird turned toward the door, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he turned back and confronted Travis. “The countess has been telling you her sad story, I see. I thought Scotland Yard inspectors were trained to reserve judgment until they had all the evidence.”
“She was a refugee—orphaned and friendless—and you took advantage of her.”
“That’s not exactly how I recall it, Inspector. As I recall it, she took advantage of me. We were both only nineteen, but she was already a woman.”
“And you should have been a man. It was wartime. Why weren’t you in France?”
“I was, but I was wounded badly and sent home to convalesce. I was feeling pretty low, wondering why I was still alive when most of my friends and schoolmates were dead, wondering if I’d have the courage to return to France when I was well enough to go back, wondering if I’d be able to live with myself if I took the easy way out and didn’t go back. The only one I could talk to was Stefania. Whenever I was taking a walk, tormenting myself with my fears and doubts, she was suddenly there, by my side, listening and comforting me. At the time, it didn’t occur to me that she was watching for me, waiting for me. I thought it was just coincidence—magical, really—the way she always seemed to know when I needed someone to talk to. I won’t deny that things progressed beyond walks in the garden, but she knew what she was doing. She didn’t intend to remain friendless—as you put it—for long. She wanted security, a home, and she intended to get it by marrying me. I didn’t blame her for wanting that, but I wasn’t willing to be her dupe. So I went back to France.”
“And left her to fend for herself—and your child.”
“If it was my child, Inspector.”
It was three o’clock in the morning and Inspector Travers was wide awake. Things were beginning to fall into place, but they were falling someplace in his subconscious, a place that felt very close until he tried to grasp it, and then it slipped away, taking with it the pattern he had started to form in his mind, leaving it unarticulated and silent.
Penny Garnett was also awake, but she wasn’t thinking about murder or missing pearls. She was thinking about a fairy-tale world of champagne dinners and dancing with a charming Englishman and taking a midnight stroll and feeling the sea-scented wind blowing through her hair. It had been fun to flirt and pretend she was a rich debutante without a care in the world. But in a few days it would all be over and she would be back in a world of dance-until-you-ache rehearsals and costume fittings and opening night jitters and the hard work of performing every night and pretending it was all happening for the very first time. And what did she want, really?
She loved show business. She and Nick had been working practically nonstop ever since their father passed away more than a decade ago, and they had been forced to help support themselves and their mother or they would have all starved. She was luckier than most in a similar situation, she knew. She loved the excitement backstage, before the curtain went up. She loved that feeling when she was on the stage and she could feel waves of love coming from the darkened auditorium, where hundreds of people were caught in the dream she was spinning, a dream world where the ingénue was always beautiful and charming and got her young man before the final curtain fell.
And what about Penny Garnett? Would she get her young man before her final curtain fell and she was no longer the bright young thing setting the world ablaze? She knew she wasn’t in love with Jeffrey Baird, just as she knew she was only kidding when she insisted she wanted to marry a duke. But what sort of man would make her happy, and would she ever find him?
Knowledge of the world—and in the theatre you saw and heard things whether you wanted to or not—hadn’t helped her to become smarter and wiser when it came to judging men, she knew. A young man who seemed the paragon of perfection one day—kind, generous, even-tempered, a rock of stability—would lose all his money and become a monster: angry and drunk and bitter.
How did a woman know which man was the right one, the one who would successfully weather the storms of life? How did a woman ever have the courage to take that leap into the unknown and cast her fate with another, when the final curtain scene hadn’t yet been written?
“I suppose that’s where love comes in,” she said, yawning. She tried snuggling deeper into the covers, counting sheep, and taking deep breaths, but sleep continued to elude her. After tossing and turning for a few more minutes, she gave it up and turned on a light. A fashion magazine she had purchased before boarding the ship was still on the nightstand and she reached for it and started to flip through the pages. There was the usual collection of photographs of the season’s new fashions, advertisements, articles giving advice for how to camouflage puffy eyes or lose ten pounds, and gossip—and it was on the society page that she saw a photograph that made her gasp.
Reaching for the telephone, she asked the ship’s operator to connect her with Nick Garnett.
“Hullo?” a sleepy voice said.
“Nick, are you awake?”
“No.”
“Nick? Nick! Don’t hang up! I have something important to tell you.”
“Penny, do you know what time it is?”
“I know who murdered the duchess.”
CHAPTER 18
“THIS HAD BETTER be good,” said Nick. He was attired in dressing gown, pajamas, slippers, and dark circles under his eyes, but he was wide awake, albeit skeptical.
“It is,” Penny replied, shoving the magazine into his hands.
Nick scanned the page. It was a breathless tribute to the Duchess of Tarrington, who was about to visit New York for the first time since marrying her Prince Charming. There were the usual insipid comments about life in Merry Olde England, a rundown of which New York society doyenne was inviting the duchess to what society event, and several photos.
“One of us is dreaming, Penny.” He handed back the magazine. “This magazine came out before the duchess arrived in New York. It’s old news. How can there be anything about a murderer here?”
Penny was about to reply when she heard the door to her cabin creak open. She put her hand on Nick’s arm and signaled to him to be quiet. They both looked toward the cabin door with alarm.
“I heard footsteps,” said Inspector Travers, entering. “Is anything wrong?”
Penny made a movement to hide the magazine, but Nick stopped her. “Is there anything else you heard, Inspector?”
“Something about a murderer, I believe.” He looked from Nick to Penny. “You’re looking terribly guilty about something, Miss Garnett.”
“I … well, I was planning on telling you, in the morning. But first I wanted to discuss something with my brother. It’s not really important, though.”
“It must be important, or you wouldn’t have woken your brother at this hour.” When Penny didn’t reply, Travers added, “If you think you know something, I advise you to tell me what it is. If what you know might put you in danger, I can take steps to protect you. Believe me, Miss Garnett, it’s much safer for you to tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Do it, Penny,” said Nick, “so we can all go back to bed and get some sleep.”
“Maybe I’m wrong and it’s really nothing … I mean I wouldn’t want to accuse an innocent person, not if he really was innocent … But when I saw this …”
She moved the magazine in the direction of Inspector Travers. Like Nick, he quickly scanned the page. And like Nick, he gave Penny a puzzled look when he was through.
“It’s this photo,” said Penny, pointing to a production photograph of Belle of Broadway. It showed Honey Lynde and three chorus boys. “Honey, you know. Belle of Broadway was her last show on Broadway, according to this article. After that she went to the Riviera and met the duke, and we know what happened after that.”
“Yes,” said Travers. “But you were telling us about the photo.”
“That�
�s Tommy Peters on the far left,” said Penny. “I wish I could have seen him in the show, but Nick and I were still touring the country in 1929. We didn’t come to New York until the next year. A lot of vaudeville theatres closed after the stock market crashed and—“
“Penny, the inspector isn’t interested in hearing about the death of vaudeville.”
“I’m sure it’s a fascinating story, but the hour is late, Miss Garnett. Why don’t you just tell me about this photo?”
Penny pointed to the chorus boy in the middle. “That’s Mick Ryan. He’s still in the chorus, last I heard. The one closest to Honey … It may be my imagination, but doesn’t he look an awful lot like … Do you recognize him, Inspector?”
Travers held the page closer to the light. Nick looked over his shoulder.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” said Nick.
“Peter Carroll?” said the inspector.
“It sure looks like him,” said Nick. “But it’s a big leap from the chorus of a Broadway show to the starring role in a murder.”
“That it is,” Travers agreed. “Have you any other reason to suspect Mr. Carroll is responsible for the death of the Duchess of Tarrington, or Mabel Watson?”
“There is something,” said Penny. “Earlier today I was in my cabin and I heard two people arguing, a man and a woman. At first, I tried to ignore them, but they were talking so loudly I couldn’t do it. So then I tried to find out where the voices were coming from, to see if I could block them out in some way, and I discovered they were coming from that air vent.” Penny pointed up to the vent in the wall that was shared by her cabin and the cabin belonging to Lady Margaret and Peter Carroll. “I shut the vent at once—naturally, I didn’t want to overhear a quarrel between husband and wife—and that pretty much shut out the voices. But now that I think back, I’m not so sure it was Lady Margaret’s voice I heard.”
“What makes you say that?” said Travers. He was always suspicious of after-the-fact testimony, ideas that had been mulled over many times, facts that had been twisted and turned until they fit a pet theory.
“Well, Lady Margaret speaks with an English accent and kind of through her nose. These were two Americans talking, two people from Brooklyn.”
A gleam was beginning to show in Travers’s eyes, but his voice remained calm. “Are you positive, Miss Garnett?”
“I’m positive. It’s an entirely different way of talking.”
“Did you hear what they were saying?”
“The only thing I heard distinctly was when I was standing on the chair, closing the vent. The woman was saying, ‘I saw you in Honey’s cabin.’ I snapped the vent shut after that.”
“I applaud your principles, Miss Garnett, although in this instance I wish you had been more of a nosey parker.”
“I just assumed Peter was having a little flirtation with Honey, and Lady Margaret was jealous. She’s the type, you know. She was even jealous of me, when Peter helped Nick and me with a rehearsal. But if it was someone else in the cabin—“
“Mabel Watson, for instance?” asked Travers.
Penny nodded.
“Why would she care if Peter was in Honey’s cabin? What business was it of hers?” asked Nick, who was several steps behind them.
“Blackmail is the usual business in these sorts of cases,” Travers explained. “Although it would be nice to know for sure what she was insinuating.”
When Nick still looked puzzled, Penny rolled her eyes. “Nick, anyone would think you left Kansas City yesterday. Mabel must have discovered that Peter and Honey were having an affair and Peter murdered Honey.”
“Oh, I get it,” said Nick. Then Peter murdered Mabel so she wouldn’t blab to the inspector.”
Penny shivered. “Do you really think it was Mabel Watson in that cabin, Inspector, which was why Peter murdered her?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll take this magazine, if you don’t mind, Miss Garnett. This photograph may turn out to be important.”
Back in his cabin, Travers continued to examine the photograph, wondering if at last he had stumbled upon the missing link. He also reread the wire he had received about Carroll. The word “adventurer” stared back at him. If at first he had dismissed the accusation as class prejudice on the part of the clerk who had written the report, now he wasn’t so sure. Why, even Peter Carroll himself had used the word!
What was Peter Carroll doing in London when he met Lady Margaret? Had he followed Honey Lynde, now Holdendale, to London? And married Lady Margaret so he could stay close to the woman he really loved? But if he loved her, why would he murder her? And when Honey Holdendale still flirted in the same outrageous manner as Honey Lynde—when even the duke knew enough to set spies upon his philandering wife—what real hold could a blackmailer have over Peter Carroll? Threaten to tell Lady Margaret? More than one straying husband had said ‘I’m sorry’ and been welcomed back into the waiting arms of his long-suffering wife. Why couldn’t Carroll have done the same?
Travers closed the magazine with disgust—disgust at himself for still being in a muddle. And if he didn’t get some sleep, he would be useless in the morning. He therefore turned out the light and crawled back into bed. This time he fell asleep at once and didn’t stir until a steward knocked on the door with his early tea, which told him it was morning.
Travers may not have slept long, but he had slept well and as he approached the dining room he felt refreshed and wide awake. He was grateful for that, because he wasn’t looking forward to the task ahead of him.
Conversation at his table was kept to a minimum. Roberto had developed a head cold and he consumed his eggs and toast between bouts of sneezes and sniffles. The countess looked lovely, but her eyes had such a dreamy, faraway look in them as she sipped her coffee that the inspector hated to disturb her reverie. Before second cups were poured out by the ever-attentive waiters, Travers made his excuses to his table companions—feeling assured he wouldn’t be missed—and walked over to the table where the Lambton-Keenes were sitting. Lady Margaret and Peter Carroll had joined them once again.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Travers came to the point. “I’m going to search all the cabins in our corridor after breakfast. Some of the people might put up a fuss. If I could begin with your cabins, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course, Inspector,” said Sir William. “We’re all happy to set a good example, I’m sure. But the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it was one of the stewards who did it. Possibly a whole group of them. There’s so much talk these days about revolution and violent strikes to obtain better conditions for the working man.”
Lady Margaret opened her mouth to protest.
“I know how you feel, Margaret,” Sir William continued, “but you can’t deny that raising people’s hopes often causes more harm than good when those hopes are unrealistic. So what I think happened is that there was some sort of plot on board this ship. Perhaps it was just the stewards, or perhaps they were working with some rabble-rousers down in third class. And if I were you, Inspector, I wouldn’t waste precious time searching the cabins in our corridor. I’d search the stewards’ pantries and the third class cabins and public rooms.”
“It’s already been done, sir,” said Travers. He took note of the look on Sir William’s face, true surprise mingled with surprising wariness, if Travers wasn’t mistaken. “The ship has a very adequate detective of its own and he has conducted a thorough investigation of the places you mentioned.”
“And?”
“So far, he’s turned up nothing.”
“It is a large ship,” Sir William persisted.
“It is. And Corridor B is small. There are only twelve cabins, Sir William. It won’t take long to search them, and the sooner we begin the sooner the unpleasantness will be over.”
Sir William put up no further resistance. Travers instructed the family to wait in the library, after they had finished their breakfast, until the search of their cabins was
completed.
He then went to where Jeffrey Baird was sitting and, after taking him aside, apprised Baird of the situation. “I’d like you to gather in the library everyone who has a cabin in our corridor—and keep an eye on them while I’m doing the search. I don’t want anyone to leave the room,” he said. “I’ll inform Roberto and the countess, if you’ll inform the others.”
Baird nodded and got to work. He was grateful that the conversation of the previous day had been pushed to the side and that they had returned to the business of finding a murderer, where he was on surer ground. Although he didn’t like to admit it, it rankled that there was a soft spot inside that still ached when old memories were stirred up. He thought the second tour in France, which was even grislier than the first, had killed off the vulnerable young man he once was; that the emotion-proof shell he had constructed during the war and never cast aside was invincible. Encountering the countess again, after so many years, had shown him the fallacy of that. But he preferred to crawl into the safety of that shell once again than confront the confused feelings she had evoked. Actually, he felt he had no choice but to do so. The young man he had once been was lost to him; there was no way back, even if he had wanted to attempt a rescue mission and salvage whatever might remain from that time.
CHAPTER 19
WHEN TRAVERS RETURNED to the Lambton-Keenes’ table, he saw at once he was interrupting what looked to be an intense, if hushed, conversation.
“Lady Margaret, Mr. Carroll, I’d like to begin with your cabin, if you please.” He held out his hand for the key.
“Certainly,” said Peter, reaching into his pocket. When his hand returned empty, he said, “I must have left it in my other jacket. I came down before Margaret.”
The inspector turned his gaze upon Lady Margaret, who rummaged in her handbag until she found the requested object.
“I’ll also need the key to the safe, unless you’d rather give me the combination.”
Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1) Page 16
