“Yes, of course.” She removed a thin gold chain she was wearing around her neck. A small key dangled at the end of the chain.
After thanking her, Travers turned to Sir William and said, “It will speed things along if I take your keys now.”
Sir William gave the inspector the key to his cabin, while saying, “I have no idea if we’ve used the safe, Inspector. Did we put our passports in there, dear?”
“You know we did,” replied Lady Lambton-Keene. She glanced around the dining room, which had begun to empty. “I can save you some time and trouble, Inspector.”
“I don’t think—”
Lady Lambton-Keene motioned to her husband to be quiet. “It’s no use. The inspector will either believe my story or not.” She turned to Travers. “Do sit down, Inspector. You may need to. I’m about to deliver a bombshell.”
Travers took a chair from an adjacent table and sat down. Lady Lambton-Keene poured him out a cup of coffee. Ever the gracious hostess, she inquired if he used cream and sugar. He noted her voice didn’t quiver and her hand didn’t shake as she prepared his coffee, although Sir William was toying nervously with a watch fob he wore in his vest. If Travers ever found himself on safari and confronting a ferocious tiger, he decided he’d prefer to have Lady Lambton-Keene beside him than her husband. And he wondered what if anything could shake her seemingly unshakable calm confidence.
“I don’t envy you your job, Inspector,” Lady Lambton-Keene began. “I imagine you are always dirtying your hands with the sordid laundry that occurs in so many families, even the best ones.”
“It’s a necessary part of the job, as you say, my lady.”
“I’m sure you will recall the first night on this ship. The Duchess of Tarrington made rather a spectacle of herself in this dining room. Poor Freddie had to dance with her.”
“All in the line of duty, Mater,” said Freddie, trying to look unconcerned but not quite pulling it off.
“I suggested to the duchess that she retire early—both Margaret and I were dead tired and yawning our heads off—but she wouldn’t have it. She insisted on prowling about the ship—I can think of no other word for it—and Peter offered to play chaperon. My husband likes his game of bridge after dinner, and I didn’t want to deprive him. I also didn’t think it fair to spoil Freddie’s fun completely.”
“We can shorten the agony by saying I let the family down,” said Peter. “The duchess and I first went to the bar and had a few drinks. When I saw she planned to continue, even though she was getting tipsy, I suggested we go to the music room, which was more private, and I’d play the piano while she sang. I got her there, but she had brought along a bottle of champagne and insisted we drink to the composers before and after we sang their songs. By then I suppose I was tipsy too, because I was singing just as loudly as she was.”
“It was embarrassing beyond words,” said Lady Lambton-Keene, picking up the thread of the story. “I had been listening for Honey to return to her cabin, and when it was already one o’clock and she still wasn’t back I got dressed and went looking for her. It didn’t take long to find them. I just had to fall the sounds of their drunken howling.”
Inspector Travers noted that another woman might have given a withering look of censure to Peter Carroll, for failing so dismally in his job, but Lady Lambton-Keene didn’t. She kept her calm eyes on him, instead.
“I told Peter to go on ahead,” she continued. “Thankfully, Margaret was already asleep and so she didn’t have to see her husband in his drunken state. I helped Honey back to her cabin. You saw us, Inspector.”
Travers nodded. “I believe you said you would see that the pearls were safely deposited in the cabin’s safe, my lady.”
“That’s right, I did. I was looking for her nightgown, when I saw Honey take off her pearls and fling them across the room, just anywhere. She was very drunk, you understand.”
The inspector nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
“I went to pick up the pearls—they had fallen under the dressing table—and was about to put them in the safe, when I stopped and considered the situation. For all I knew, Honey intended to get drunk every night, and there was no way to know who she would be drinking with and who she would be inviting into her cabin. She was vulnerable to any scoundrel who wanted to take advantage of her. I couldn’t stop her or protect her from harm; she was of age and I wasn’t her jailer. But I could protect the Tarrington pearls from harm.”
“And so it was Mater who stole them,” said Freddie, lifting a defiant eyebrow.
“Your mother didn’t steal the pearls,” said Sir William, correcting his son. “She put them in our safe, for safekeeping. She had every intention of giving them back to Honey to wear the next night.”
“When did you tell the duchess you had the pearls?” asked Travers.
“That’s just it, I didn’t. I didn’t have a chance. I had already finished breakfast by the time Honey came down to the dining room the next morning. Then we had reserved the tennis court for after breakfast and I had to find a partner for Honey, because Freddie was in no shape to play. I didn’t want to mention the pearls and embarrass Honey in front of a stranger, that young man Jeffrey Baird. And after tennis Honey was already acting very strangely. She wouldn’t speak more than two words to me. I have no idea if she had discovered the pearls were missing, and if that is what was causing her distress, but at the time I thought she really did have a headache—or perhaps it was seasickness. I’ve never suffered from it, you understand.”
Travers once again nodded to show he understood.
“I only knew that she didn’t want to talk to me, so I didn’t force myself upon her. I checked on Honey several times during the day—you know about the trays I had sent up. And then she was dead, murdered, and I …”
For the first time in the telling of her story, Lady Lambton-Keene paused and her lips began to tremble, slightly. “I know I should have told you all this before, Inspector. But I was afraid—really, for the first time in my life. You see, I thought you might think it was I who killed Honey. That’s ridiculous, of course. I wouldn’t do that to Gerald. You see, she was carrying his child.”
Inspector Travers stared. Time seemed to stop, temporarily. He had the sensation that something had clicked somewhere in the back of his mind. If he could only coax the thing forward, into the light, he was sure he would be much closer to solving the puzzle.
Meanwhile, the family waited for his reassurance, but Travers didn’t give it. Instead he thanked Lady Lambton-Keene for the coffee and went to their cabin to begin his search.
Although he was traveling first class as well, there was first class and then there was first class. His own cabin was a one-room affair with comfortable contemporary-style furniture, but not much of it. This was a suite of spacious rooms, all of which were elegantly furnished in the style of an English country home and appointed with all the amenities. He took a moment to appreciate the sheer beauty of it all, even though he knew it was a fake, more like a stage set than a true home. No family had lived in these quarters for hundreds of years, putting their individual stamp upon the space—choosing the pictures, leaving the imprints of their riding boots upon the rugs, or staining the china with cups of tea past. This was the English country home as interpreted by the glossy magazines: picture perfect and therefore devoid of the necessary messiness of a life well lived.
Yet why was he thinking those thoughts now? he wondered. This was, after all, a ship. It made no pretense to be a permanent home, any more than a set one saw on the stage did. He shook his head. Perhaps the abundance of food and wine was dulling his mind. He therefore forced himself to return to the job he was being paid for: going through other people’s dirty laundry, as Lady Lambton-Keene had so aptly put it.
Lady Lambton-Keene had shown a creative flair when she chose a hiding place for the key to the suite’s safe. In the sitting room there was a writing table, and in the writing table’s drawer was a bottle of ink th
at looked like it contained ink but was really empty. She had placed the key inside it. Travers removed the key and went to the safe, which was located in the bedroom. The Tarrington pearls were sitting inside, as she had said.
That much was the truth. But was the rest of her story true? He couldn’t afford to be dazzled by privilege and wealth any more than he could afford to be dazzled by innocent youth or beauty. Time was running out, and from this point on no one could be above suspicion.
His search of the suite was slow and methodical; if the small crowd herded into the library was growing impatient, Baird would have to take care of them. Yet despite his efforts, the yield was remarkable only for its paucity. The safe contained an innocent jumble of jewelry, travel documents and money. There were very few personal papers, other than three letters strewn about the writing table in the sitting room, which were as dull as they were respectable: two unfinished and nearly identical thank you notes to two women who had hosted the Lambton-Keenes during their stay in New York, and a letter to the family’s housekeeper in the country with directions for preparing the house for a weekend party to be held the next month. They were all written in Lady Lambton-Keene’s hand. A diary, which belonged to Lady Lambton-Keene and was also sitting atop the writing desk, was filled with the usual society woman’s appointments: luncheon dates, charitable events, appointments at the dentist and the hairdresser, and the like.
As nothing sinister was stashed underneath a cushion or stuffed into a vase, Travers left the room, locking the door behind him, and moved on to the real object of his search: the cabin belonging to Lady Margaret and Peter Carroll.
He flicked on the light switch and was greeted to the sight of a suite that was slightly smaller in size but still wonderful in its elegant furnishings. His thoughts went to Peter Carroll, and he wondered about this poor boy from New York who was poor no more. Was it only because of his wife that Peter Carroll spent so much time away from the cabin, or was he inwardly awed and ill at ease, as Travers was, by all this luxury and wealth? Or was it a bitter, mocking reminder of the price he had paid to enter a world where he didn’t belong?
Well, there wasn’t time to stand there and ponder such things. He had work to do, and once again he headed to the bedroom, where the cabin’s safe was located, to begin his search. After turning on the light, he gave the room a quick glance and was on his way to the safe when an object sitting on the dressing table caught his eye. Time once again seemed to stop as he walked the short distance to the table, bringing the object into clearer view with each step. He was certain the object hadn’t been there the day before, when he had interviewed Lady Margaret. And so when he reached the table and reached out his hand, he half expected the entire scene to disappear, like some crazy dream. But, no, the object was still there. He took out a handkerchief and picked it up and brought it close to his eyes. It was true. He was holding in his hand a hypodermic syringe, and he knew he had found his murder weapon. The syringe’s needle was sitting nearby, in an open case.
He put the syringe in the case, closed it and put the case in his pocket. He then took in the other objects strewn about the top of the table, which were in a similar state as the day before: a lady’s comb and brush set, a few tubes of lipstick, a bottle of perfume, a few pamphlets about workers’ rights. The only other change, as far as he could ascertain, was a scrawled note from Peter to his wife, saying he had gone down to the music room to work on his symphony before breakfast.
Travers made a mental note to ask Carroll again about that symphony. Perhaps he would ask the ship’s orchestra to play the score. It was such a convenient excuse, going off to write a symphony, and almost any person could set down notes on a music staff page. An untrained eye—and Travers was certain Lady Margaret knew very little about music—wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a real score and musical gibberish. But an orchestra’s musicians would know after playing just a few bars.
What was not on the table was a drug to put in the empty syringe, and Travers went into the bathroom to search there. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. Sitting on a shelf in the medicine cabinet was a half-full bottle of potassium chloride. There was also a box that contained individual packets of the drug in its powdered form. Using his handkerchief once again, he lifted the bottle and slipped it into his pocket.
He should have felt happy, even triumphant. It was very likely he had discovered the way the two women had been killed, but he was puzzled. Peter Carroll didn’t strike him as being a lunatic, yet only someone who had lost their senses would commit murder and leave the murder weapon lying about in the open, for anyone to see and ask about. It was true that Travers hadn’t made a public announcement about potassium chloride being the true cause of death for both women. But the murderer knew. Why, then, hadn’t Carroll tried to stop him, come up with some excuse, so he could reach the cabin first and hide the syringe and bottle before Travers got there?
And there was another thing: Wouldn’t Lady Margaret have noticed the syringe lying about and asked about it?
Once again Travers found himself longing for a straightforward bank heist or, if not that, a humdrum crime of passion—one where the jealous husband strangled his wife or the debt-ridden children did away with their aging parent for the money.
Instead, he put his feelings aside and continued to go through the cabin with his usual thoroughness. The pamphlets and magazines of a political nature he had seen the day before; he went through them quickly to make sure no letters were hidden inside the pages. There weren’t. As for Peter Carroll’s belongings, aside from his clothes and shaving kit, they consisted of a few books about musical composition and several reams of music staff paper, the vast majority unused.
After completing his search, Travers rang for a steward, who appeared promptly.
“Tell Mr. Carroll I’d like to see him in his cabin. He is in the library.”
CHAPTER 20
AFTER THE STEWARD left, Travers arranged the syringe and the bottle on a table in the sitting room. He put the music paper beside them. Then he waited for Peter Carroll to arrive. Several minutes later the young man entered the cabin, looking like a guilty schoolboy being called in to see the headmaster.
“I’ll come straight to the point, Carroll. What are you doing with this syringe and a bottle of potassium chloride?”
If Travers had expected Carroll to collapse and confess out of shock, he was deeply disappointed. Instead of being shaken by the question, the young man breathed an audible sigh of relief.
“I thought you had discovered my guilty secret, Inspector,” he said, pointing to the music paper. “I don’t know a thing about reading music—or writing it, for that matter. I can only play by ear. As for the potassium chloride, it’s for my wife. She’s suffered from a potassium deficiency for most of her life. On normal days, she uses a powder; you’ll find a box of them in the bathroom. When she’s very ill, as happened last night, she gives herself an injection.”
“Who else on this ship knows she has the stuff?”
Carroll examined the inspector with a curious eye. “I don’t know. Lady Lambton-Keene would know. Sir William might know, but he’s awfully self-absorbed, so he might not remember. Some of the stewards might have seen it. My wife doesn’t try to hide it.”
“Did you have any visitors? Invite anyone for tea or a nightcap?”
“My wife doesn’t drink alcohol—only a little wine at dinner—so we wouldn’t have invited anyone for drinks. I don’t recall inviting anyone to our cabin, but I can’t speak for Lady Margaret. She might have done so while I was out of the room, writing my ‘symphony’.”
“Would Mabel Watson have seen it?”
The young man stared at the inspector with real surprise.
“When Miss Watson threatened to blackmail you?”
“Mabel … What are you implying, Inspector? You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with her death?”
“I can, Mr. Carroll. She
died from an overdose of potassium chloride. The day she died you were overheard having an argument with her, here in this cabin.”
“That’s preposterous. I never set eyes on the woman before we boarded this ship. What could we have to argue about?”
“Mr. Carroll, lying won’t help you. I know you were acquainted with Miss Watson’s brother, Tommy Peters. You appeared together in a play, Belle of Broadway, starring Honey Lynde. Perhaps you appeared together in other productions. You would have had ample opportunity to meet Miss Watson, before she went to jail. Yes, I know about that too. Why was she trying to blackmail you?”
Peter Carroll started to laugh. It wasn’t a nervous, strangled sort of laugh. The young man was really enjoying himself. “Someone has been pulling your leg, Inspector.”
“Is that so?” Despite the hardness in his voice, Travers was beginning to feel uneasy. Peter Carroll was looking much too relieved and relaxed.
“I’ll admit Mabel was in this cabin and we exchanged a few heated words, but she wasn’t trying to blackmail me. She wanted my help. When I wouldn’t give it, she got angry.”
“What sort of help?”
It was a long story. The concise version, after all the digressions had been pared away, took Travers back to California and the car accident that had claimed the lives of Tommy Peters and Vernon Hardwick. According to Mabel Watson, Hardwick had been driving the car and not Tommy Peters. Hardwick, who was drunk and depressed, intentionally smashed the car into a wall. Both young men were killed instantly, and a witness saw it all. But he changed his testimony after Cora Hardwick paid him off, in exchange for telling the insurance company that Tommy Peters had been driving and lost control of the car.
“The insurance money was at stake,” Carroll explained. “Apparently, Vernon had been insured for the maximum and the payout was enormous. But if it was suicide, the company didn’t have to pay. If it was an accident, they did. Mrs. Hardwick wanted the money. Vernon had gone through a pile of the family’s money pretty quickly, and I suppose his mother wanted to recoup some of the losses. Somehow Mabel got wind of the scam and she thought she’d try to get some of the insurance money. Her brother’s name had been taken in vain to take the rap, so why shouldn’t she get something out of it, as Tommy Peters’s only surviving kin?”
Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1) Page 17
