Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1)

by Jolie Beaumont

  Yet if Peter Carroll didn’t do it, who did? Was there some mysterious X lurking about the ship? And if there was, when would this person make a mistake and reveal himself—or herself—as the real killer?

  After he finished searching the other cabins, he made arrangements for Lady Margaret to sleep in the Lambton-Keenes’ cabin; she was moved into Freddie’s room, while the young man agreed to camp out on a cot in the sitting room. Peter Carroll was told that Lady Margaret was temporarily suffering from a woman’s ailment and needed to be under a woman’s care for a few days. Whether he believed this or not, Travers didn’t know. His first duty was to provide for the safety of Lady Margaret, just in case she was the one who was telling the truth.

  He then retreated to his own cabin to take stock of the situation, hopefully undisturbed. That was too much to hope for, he knew. Only a few minutes after he had closed the door, there was a knock. It was the fingerprint expert. Travers had sent down the syringe and case for testing. As he had suspected, the only clear prints belonged to Lady Margaret and Peter Carroll. If someone else had used the syringe to kill the two women, they had either worn gloves or wiped off any fingerprints they may have left behind.

  It was maddening that he still didn’t have a solid piece of evidence to rely upon. The search of the other cabins in the corridor had turned up nothing useful. Cora Hardwick, the most likely candidate for having a hypodermic syringe in her cabin, because of her age, didn’t have one; apparently she was as healthy as she had implied, because her cabin was remarkably free of even common remedies. The countess and Cecil Arden were possible candidates for illegal drug use, but their cabins were innocently clean of paraphernalia. Travers had also paid Dr. Wallace a visit in his infirmary and asked him to check his supply of syringes; all were accounted for. As for other clues that might point to a motive for killing one or both of the women, the cabins revealed nothing that Travers didn’t already know. The keys were therefore returned to the cabins’ occupants and the restless voyagers scattered to their various pleasures.

  Travers was once again at a dead end. He admitted as much to Jeffrey Baird, who suggested they drown their sorrows in the bar.

  “Let’s go over what we know,” Baird suggested, after they had downed their first whiskies.

  “That’s easy,” said Travers. “I know nothing. When I get back to England I’m going to retire and do nothing more complicated than the Sunday Times crossword puzzle.”

  “Seriously, let’s do the old motive-and-opportunity maneuver.”

  “Fine. We’ll start with me. Motive: I resented having to play nanny to the Tarrington pearls, so I killed the Duchess of Tarrington to get back at my superiors at Scotland Yard. I killed Mabel Watson because I dislike people who cheat insurance companies; they raise the premiums for the rest of us. Opportunity: Plenty of them. Like the steward, the police inspector is dressed in an invisible cloak. No one sees him, because no one cares about him.”

  Baird had never seen Travers in this sort of mood, and he was enjoying it. “By your lights, you should have also knocked off Cora Hardwick. She seems to have done a good job of cheating her insurance company.”

  “She’s next.”

  “And I’m next for motive and opportunity,” said Baird. “Let me think for a minute.”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you. It will only get you into trouble. I say we just put all the names into a box, and whichever name we pull out is the murderer. We’ll then plant some clues that prove their guilt.”

  “Is that what detective story novelists do?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Baird shook his head. “No, don’t deprive me of this challenge. Why would I kill the Duchess of Tarrington?”

  “She reminded you of your mother?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Then, because she didn’t remind you of your mother. You are a new Jack the Ripper, determined to rid the world of its scarlet women.”

  “That will do, for now.” Baird jotted it down. “What about Mabel Watson?”

  “She slurped her soup at dinner.”

  “Actually, she did. Some people should skip the soup course, I’m afraid.”

  “Give them an overdose of potassium chloride and they will. Opportunity: You favorably impressed our man-hungry duchess on the tennis court and so you would have no problem gaining a private audience in her boudoir after the game.”

  “I suppose that’s right. And Mabel Watson?”

  “It was you who went to her cabin for that stomach medicine or whatever it was, when Lady Margaret was ill. You—“

  Travers grew serious. “Something isn’t right there.”

  “How so?”

  “If Peter Carroll gave Lady Margaret an injection of potassium chloride for her stomach ailment, as Lady Margaret said, why did he need to go searching for help and some other remedy?”

  “She’s lying?”

  “That is a possibility. But tell me again what happened.”

  Baird described how he had been searching for a way to speak with Mabel Watson. When he encountered Peter Carroll in a corridor, Baird used Lady Margaret’s illness as an excuse to gain entry into Mabel Watson’s cabin.

  Travers wasn’t happy. “Why did Carroll have to find a steward? Give me a reason in his favor.”

  “Some people go to pieces in a crisis. He was looking for help.”

  “He could have called the doctor.”

  “All right, perhaps at first Lady Margaret’s ailment wasn’t serious enough for a dose of potassium chloride. Perhaps she wanted to try a common stomach tonic first, and she didn’t have any.”

  Travers thought back over the contents of the medicine cabinet. There had been a box of tonics—which was empty. He gave Baird an appreciative smile. “Good work. But—“

  “There always is one, isn’t there?” said Baird, a bit disappointed that his moment of glory had faded so quickly.

  “Would you say that Carroll was highly agitated or merely annoyed, when you met him?”

  “You’re right, Inspector. He did seem more annoyed than worried. That suggests, I suppose, Lady Margaret’s ailment wasn’t so serious. Hence the desire for a stomach tonic.”

  “And then it could have become more serious later on, after the stomach tonic didn’t work, which was why Carroll gave her the injection.”

  “You seem to take a perverse delight in complicating matters, Inspector.”

  Travers smiled. “No, I just don’t like to make mistakes. Go on.”

  Baird continued with his report: The conversation with Mabel Watson, where he learned she had been in jail and saw the photograph on the dressing table of Tommy Peters, her younger brother.

  “When I opened the door to leave, Carroll and Miss Garnett were standing outside the door.”

  “I want this part in detail, verbatim if you can do it.”

  “I’ll try,” said Baird. “I showed Carroll the packet with the tonic powder. He said to Watson—”

  “Verbatim.”

  “Right. Carroll said, ‘Thank you very much. It was very kind of you to help.’

  “Watson said, ‘Not at all.’ Or something like that. Then Carroll reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet and said, ‘Can I pay you for it?’ ”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as odd? How much can one packet of stomach powder cost? It surely doesn’t require a banknote.”

  “So he should have reached into his trouser pocket for some change? He might have meant to give her something extra, for her trouble.”

  “Possibly. Go on.”

  “Watson didn’t take the money. She said, ‘This one’s on me.’ ”

  “This one, mind you,” said Travers. “That suggests she wouldn’t refuse payments in the future.”

  “Then Lady Margaret’s story is true?”

  “Possibly. But go on.”

  “Then Penny, I mean Miss Garnett, showed Watson the pouch with the emeralds. She said, ‘I found this in the corridor.
I believe it belongs to Mrs. Hardwick. She’s not in her cabin, so I thought I’d ask you.’ Mabel took the pouch and shook out the emeralds—a bracelet and a pair of earrings. We all looked at the jewels for a few moments. Then Peter Carroll said, ‘It’s a good thing you spotted that, Miss Garnett. I’m sure Mrs. Hardwick wouldn’t want to lose those gems.’ Mabel replied, ‘I’ve told her a thousand times not to carry her jewels with her. Maybe now she’ll listen.’ She thanked Miss Garnett and made a move to close the cabin door. But Miss Garnett had spotted the photo of Tommy Peters. Do you want me to go on?”

  “No. I’ve asked this question before, but I’ll ask it again. Why did Watson tell a lie that could be so easily checked? Mrs. Hardwick didn’t carry her jewels with her.”

  “She wasn’t a quick thinker?”

  “That’s probably it. But that means Peter Carroll was telling the truth when he said he had suggested that Miss Watson pretend to steal her employer’s jewels, so she could find and return them and receive a reward.”

  “What about Lady Margaret’s story? They can’t both be true.”

  “They can both be partially true. Let’s take Lady Margaret’s story, first. She says she was only resting in bed, but let’s suppose she was sleepier than she thought and she had dozed off—and missed the first part of the conversation, when Carroll suggested stealing the emeralds as a way to get Miss Watson some money. She woke up when the conversation had moved on to Peter Carroll’s rendezvous with the duchess and Watson threatening to blackmail Carroll, as a sort of backup if the emeralds scheme didn’t work out. If Watson was accused of stealing the jewels, she’d want Carroll to back up her story that she didn’t really intend to steal them.”

  “Our Mabel sounds like she was a charming woman.”

  “A desperate one is more likely. It’s not easy to be a woman without family and with a prison record. The point is, though, that Peter Carroll might have been telling the truth about his conversation with Miss Watson—just not the whole truth. He neglected to mention the bit about murder and blackmail. But if we assume that both the emerald heist and blackmail were mentioned in that conversation, the encounter outside Miss Watson’s cabin door takes on an interesting light.”

  “Oh,” said Baird, “I think I’m starting to see. Peter Carroll meets Miss Garnett in the corridor, outside their cabins, and she tells him about her find. He realizes Watson has tried to steal the emeralds and bungled the job.”

  “Good.”

  “Carroll follows her to Watson’s cabin. Why?”

  “So Miss Watson will know that he knows the scheme has gone wrong. It saves a meeting.”

  “Watson, not being a quick thinker, tells a lie to explain how the emeralds ended up on the corridor floor.”

  “Before that, Baird, don’t forget that Carroll offered to pay Miss Watson.”

  “For the stomach tonic.”

  “No, for her help.”

  “Her help.” Baird savored the words. “Watson might not have understood completely when he pulled out his wallet, but after she got back the emeralds she would.”

  “Exactly. Carroll was agreeing to pay her, as long as she helped him by keeping quiet about his murdering the duchess. It would have been easy for him to gain entry to Miss Watson’s cabin later on. All he had to do was say he had money for her and she would have opened the door.”

  “And then he killed her. It’s perfect.”

  “Except for one problem. We still don’t have any proof.”

  CHAPTER 22

  PETER CARROLL SAT at the piano in the music room. While his fingers moved effortlessly about the keys, his thoughts were thousands of miles away. They weren’t happy thoughts, so he didn’t mind at all when Nick and Penny entered the room.

  Nick and Penny, on the other hand, were startled to see Peter. In the hours since Penny had first spotted the Belle of Broadway photo, she and Nick had come to a firm belief that Peter Carroll had murdered the Duchess of Tarrington and Mabel Watson. Being creative types, they hadn’t left their conviction to simmer in some vague miasma of unspoken thoughts. Instead, they had come up with at least a dozen scenarios for how Peter had committed the crimes, each one more vividly described than the one before. Any one of them could have been the basis for a Hollywood thriller, and by this time they had succeeded in scaring themselves nearly to death.

  The man they saw before them was therefore not the Peter Carroll they had known and conversed with the day before, but a crazed madman ready to kill anyone who might give him away. Thus, their overwrought nerves were screaming: Run! Run as fast as you can! Yet they both knew they couldn’t just turn around and run out of the room. That had happened in Version Three of their fevered imaginings, and they both knew what had happened to the lead actress (they naturally thought in terms of plays and motion pictures) after that! If Peter knew they suspected him and suspected they had tipped off the inspector—and he had hidden in his coat an axe or a gun or a lasso (that last murder weapon was for the western version, where Peter originally hailed from Wyoming)—who knew what he would do!

  After an awkward few moments, Nick said, “We thought we’d get a little rehearsing in. It’s only a few more days until we reach England.”

  “If you’re busy with your symphony, we can come back later,” said Penny.

  “Ah, yes, my symphony,” said Peter. “I’m thinking of changing the name from Symphony for the Tone Deaf Man to Symphony for the Wrongly Accused Man. It will be just one long cacophony of notes, a musical representation of the anguish a man feels when he knows he’s going to be hanged for a murder—no, two murders—he didn’t commit.”

  Peter banged his fingers on the piano keys.

  “Inspector Travers suspects you of killing the duchess and Miss Watson?” asked Penny, trying to play innocent after the noise subsided.

  “The one and only.” Peter made a little bow. “You should be happy. Now your friend, Mr. Ayres, is off the hook.”

  There was another awkward silence.

  “Well, I guess we’ll be going,” said Nick.

  “Don’t rush away on my account,” said Peter. “My symphony can wait—for eternity, if need be. I’d much rather accompany you again, while I wait to be arrested.” He began to play a few bars of music—the introduction to one of the songs from their show. “I wonder if it’s very difficult to play the piano with handcuffs.” He mimed having his hands cuffed together and continued with the song.

  “If you haven’t been arrested yet, you’re probably worrying about nothing,” said Nick, who was trying to think of a graceful exit line.

  “That’s right,” said Penny. “If Inspector Travers really thought you were a murderer, he wouldn’t let you roam around this ship.”

  “You could kill all of us.”

  Peter stopped playing and stared at them. “You think I’m a murderer too?”

  Penny and Nick began to back closer towards the door.

  “Of course not,” said Nick. “I only meant to say that the murderer could ... kill … more people. I didn’t have anyone particular in mind.”

  “I wish I knew who first put my name into that inspector’s mind,” said Peter. “I’d strangle him—or her—with these two hands.”

  After they were safely out the door, Penny and Nick ran. They had no idea where to run to—or rather they couldn’t agree upon a safe place to hide until Peter Carroll was under lock and key.

  “I told you from the start that we shouldn’t get involved,” said Nick, when they stopped to catch their breath outside the cinema.

  “I thought they were going to arrest Bert,” Penny replied. “At least we helped him.”

  “We did? How?”

  “Well … We just did. We convinced Inspector Travers that Bert couldn’t have killed Honey without getting caught within five minutes. He’s not smart enough.”

  “That’s not proof. The inspector must have found out something else.”

  “Do you think that’s why he hasn’t yet arrested
Peter, because he doesn’t have proof?”

  “It must be. Oh, Penny, why did you have to buy that fashion magazine? Why didn’t you buy the Saturday Evening Post or Popular Mechanics?

  “Because we work Saturday nights and we don’t have a car. But let’s not stay here any longer.”

  “I still say we should go back to our cabins. We can lock ourselves inside.”

  “Honey and Mabel were murdered in their cabins,” said Penny. “You can lock yourself in yours, but I’m not going to be a sitting duck.”

  “Where, then, do you suggest we go?”

  “Somewhere where there are people. He won’t strike if there are people around.” Penny glanced about the lobby. “I know. You go to the barbershop and I’ll go to the beauty salon. We’ll stay there until dinner.”

  “My hair is already thinning. If I sit in a barber’s chair for three hours I won’t have any hair left.”

  “Get a shave. And a manicure. Tell them you’re working on a new number that takes place in a barbershop. I’ll do the same at the beauty salon—without the shave, that is.”

  The beauty salon was crowded, and because Penny hadn’t made an appointment she was told she would have to wait for her wash and set. Penny assured the manageress that she didn’t mind.

  Penny sat down in the waiting area and looked through the salon’s supply of magazines. She eschewed the fashion magazines; she didn’t want to risk coming across another photograph of Honey and Peter and being seen in public gawking at the pair. There was only one more serious magazine on the table, Foreign Affairs, which looked very dull. But the magazine’s cover assured her the articles would be about politics and not the affairs of Broadway stars, and so she started to read. She was still in the middle of reading the letter from the editor at the beginning of the magazine when Lady Margaret entered the salon.

  “I was here a few days ago,” Lady Margaret told the manageress. “I think I may have lost something—a letter. It must have slipped out of my purse. Did you by any chance find it?”