“And now it’s time for you to dream, dear. Close your eyes and try to get some sleep.”
Penny closed her eyes, but opened them a moment later when there was a knock on the door. Countess Scharwenka entered.
“You’re needed in your cabin,” she said to Lady Lambton-Keene. “Your husband is very upset. He has just received a wire from England. I hope the news is not too distressing.”
Lady Lambton-Keene looked back at Penny.
“Don’t worry,” said the countess. “I’ll take care of Miss Garnett.”
Inspector Travers had informed the ship’s captain and Rogers, the ship’s detective, that the assault on Penny Garnett might have been a simple case of robbery. He therefore asked Rogers to assemble a team to search the corridor and the adjoining lobby for the weapon, as well as the missing handbag and its contents. About a dozen stewards went to work, dressed in full uniform and wearing white gloves, searching under cushions and in the large vases containing potted plants. Rogers moved among them, giving suggestions and encouragement, obviously in his element, while a small crowd of curious onlookers stood about and watched the proceedings. Travers felt like he was watching a performance at the light opera.
The handbag was eventually found behind the counter of the chocolate shop. Rogers seemed eager to question the shop’s flustered proprietor—a stolen handbag came under his jurisdiction—and Inspector Travers agreed to step into the background.
“What’s going on here, Jones?” asked Rogers, poking an unlit cigar in the shop owner’s face. “We run a respectable ship. How did this handbag find its way into your shop? It couldn’t have walked in here by itself.”
“It didn’t, Mr. Rogers,” said Jones, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the tobacco. “I can explain.”
“So, do it.”
“A woman came into the shop and said she had found the purse on the ground, under the display window. I assured her I would notify the concierge, but then an American woman came in and wanted to purchase a large amount of chocolates and it took quite a bit of time until she had made her selections, and then we had to wrap all the packages and wait until she had written her notes, and then I suppose we quite forgot about the handbag. But I can assure you that none of my salespeople were involved in its theft.”
While the proprietor was speaking, Travers opened the handbag and examined its contents. The wallet was still there, and a little money was inside. There were also a handkerchief, a comb, a compact, and a lipstick. The key to the young woman’s cabin was inside as well. In short, it looked as though nothing had been taken. But the handbag had been stolen for a reason.
Was it just bad luck for the thief that he had chosen a passenger with nothing worth stealing? Yet how many women carried around large sums of money, when they could charge their purchases to their cabin and settle their account with the ship’s purser before disembarking? No, there had to have been something in Penny Garnett’s handbag that was worth stealing—for someone. But who?
“Excuse me, sir,” said the steward in charge of the search operation. He was British and so he instinctively deferred to the inspector from Scotland Yard. “I think we’ve found the weapon.”
The steward handed Travers a paperweight. Travers tested the weight of the object, which was round and smooth and adorned with nautical motifs. It was certainly heavy enough to cause considerable damage, if the person using it had a good swing.
“Do you know where it usually sits?” he asked the steward.
“I don’t, sir, but we can find out.”
“Please do so.”
Travers wasn’t entirely surprised when he received the information about where the paperweight sat, when it wasn’t being used to hit people over the head. His next stop was the ship’s communications headquarters, where he asked to see the log book of all wires sent and received since the ship left New York. It was a large ship and reasonably full, and there were several pages to peruse. In the end, he found what he was looking for and copied the relevant messages into his notebook. It wasn’t as good as finding at the scene of the crime a cufflink or lipstick case engraved with the murderer’s initials. But along with the circumstantial evidence the wires might be enough to convince a jury, if the barrister at the head of the prosecution’s team was skillful.
He was ready to make his move. The only thing stopping him was that nervous queasiness that often played havoc with his stomach when he wasn’t one hundred percent certain of success. Stage fright, he muttered under his breath. How very appropriate.
CHAPTER 24
INSPECTOR TRAVERS STOOD by the mantelpiece in the cabin belonging to the Lambton-Keenes. There was something solid about a mantelpiece, even one that was sitting on something as unstable as water. Or at least it had the illusion of solidity, which Travers found to be rather apt, under the circumstances.
All of the occupants of Corridor B had been summoned, and they were all present. Tea had been ordered and served. Only Bert Ayres had refused a cup—or a chair. He stood to the side, nervously running his fingers through his hair, looking painfully ill at ease.
Cora Hardwick, on the other hand, was looking very pleased with herself. At last she had been invited to the Lambton-Keenes’ private suite. As she arranged her black lace shawl about her shoulders, she was envisioning future invitations during her stay in England.
Nick Garnett was hovering around Penny, like the nervous hen that he was. Thanks to the buoyancy of youth and a good constitution, she was making a good recovery and already the color had returned to her cheeks.
Roberto was sitting with Countess Scharwenka and Cecil Arden. As usual, the ebullient dressmaker was chatting away, but neither the countess nor Arden was paying attention.
Freddie Lambton-Keene was making an effort to play host to the gathering, making sure everyone was comfortable, bringing an extra pillow for Penny and ordering a bottle of mineral water for the countess, who preferred that drink to tea. His father, Sir William, was unusually subdued and staring rather vacantly into space, while his mother was preoccupied with Lady Margaret, who had had another bout of stomach illness and was looking pale.
Peter Carroll was seated conspicuously alone, until Jeffrey Baird slid into the seat beside him.
It was time for the curtain to go up on this little drama, and Inspector Travers cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. This tried-and-true gesture, although a cliché, was still useful because it worked. All eyes turned to Inspector Travers, and there were a few nervous throat clearings in response.
“I appreciate your patience and your civility during the past few days,” he began, casting a kindly eye upon the group. It was always good to begin like a family’s favorite uncle, he had discovered early on his career; it put people off their guard.
“Two murders have taken place, and it’s only natural that you expected the murderer to be apprehended before there was a third,” he continued. “I can tell you now that an arrest is about to made.”
Glances were exchanged, but no one said a word.
“First, though, I’d like to go over the crimes. I’m sure you’re all interested?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Cecil Arden called out, “Everyone loves a good mystery, Inspector. Start laying out the breadcrumbs and we’ll try to follow.”
“Our story begins in the United States, more than a decade ago, in a vaudeville theatre. The dance team of Honey and Ayres has top billing, while a juvenile act called The Two Garnetts is—”
“Between the comedian and the magician,” said Nick.
There were a few nervous laughs, which died swiftly when Inspector Travers resumed speaking.
“But Honey Lynde and Bert Ayres weren’t just dance partners. They were also man and wife.”
A dozen pairs of eyes turned to where Bert was standing.
“It’s not a crime to get married,” he said, once again nervously running his fingers through his hair.
“No,” Travers agreed. “But yo
u refused to give your wife a divorce, after Honey left you and the act. You did, though, hound her for money. When she married the Duke of Tarrington, you continued to blackmail her—which is a crime, Mr. Ayres.”
“Bert!” Penny called out. “Tell him that’s not true.”
Bert pulled out his handkerchief and mopped the perspiration from his face. He stared at the monogram for a moment—HAM—and thrust the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Sorry, kid, it is true,” he said to Penny. “But I didn’t kill her,” he said to the others. “I didn’t kill Honey—or Mabel. You can’t pin this on me.”
There was a moment of silent anticipation as the group glanced from Bert Ayres to Inspector Travers. The Scotland Yard inspector remained by the mantelpiece and slowly cast his glance in a different direction. Bert began to relax.
“Our story continues in Hollywood,” said Inspector Travers. “One night a lovesick young man named Vernon Hardwick, who had spent a small fortune in a fruitless pursuit of Honey Lynde, went out for a drive in his new motorcar.”
All eyes turned to Cora Hardwick, who stared at the inspector with unconcealed fury.
“With him was a young Broadway performer named Tommy Peters, who had recently had a big success in a motion picture—and who was the younger brother of Mabel Watson.”
“Ah, I know that picture,” said Roberto. “The star wore one of my dresses in the nightclub scene. It was almost a disaster. The foolish woman had gained five pounds and—”
The countess put her hand on the dressmaker’s arm. “Not now, Roberto.”
Roberto looked around and remembered where he was—and why. “My apologies, Inspector.” He made a motion to zipper his lips closed.
“Hardwick and Peters were in a smashup and died on the spot,” Travers continued. “Vernon Hardwick was insured for a large sum of money, and the insurance company made an investigation. At question was who was driving the car and if it was an accident or suicide. The only witness at first told a newspaper reporter that Vernon Hardwick was the driver, and the paper printed a story about how the brokenhearted young man had smashed into a rather high and visible wall on purpose. When an agent from the insurance company questioned this witness, he changed his story. He said he had confused the two young men, who had both been thrown from the car. The insurance company reluctantly agreed to honor the claim, and Mrs. Cora Hardwick received one hundred thousand dollars.”
Nick whistled, in spite of himself.
“And why not?” demanded Mrs. Hardwick, glaring at the inspector through her lorgnette. “The money was rightfully mine.”
“Whether you bribed the witness or not is between you and your insurance company, Mrs. Hardwick,” said Inspector Travers. “What interests me is the claim Mabel Watson made. She thought she deserved some of that money.”
“If she did, she was wrong.”
“You must have been shocked, Mrs. Hardwick, when you discovered the companion you had hired for this voyage was none other than the sister of Tommy Peters, and that she was threatening to tell your insurance company about the fraud—unless you agreed to give her half the money.”
“Another blackmailer in our midst?” said Freddie Lambton-Keene. “Dear me, first class travel isn’t what it used to be, eh, Pater?”
Sir William looked up, but he didn’t respond.
“It must have also stirred up old and bitter memories,” Travers continued, “seeing the Duchess of Tarrington on this ship—the woman who had driven your son to despair, the woman he had squandered a fortune upon. It was only natural to hate her, for destroying your son—and to hate Mabel Watson for trying to take away the only thing you had left, the insurance money.”
“Are you accusing me of murdering those two women?” When the inspector didn’t respond, she began to shake her lorgnette at him with rage. “How dare you! How dare you! I’m a Hardwick of Philadelphia!”
Inspector Travers tried without success to conceal a small smile. He then turned his gaze to where Roberto, Countess Scharwenka and Cecil Arden were sitting. “Mrs. Hardwick wasn’t the only one with a motive to kill the duchess. The duchess was beginning to tire of your dresses, wasn’t she, Roberto? And it wouldn’t be good publicity to lose such an important client. Bad for business, wouldn’t you say?”
“It would be even worse to hang, Inspector. Do I look like an idiot?”
No one answered.
“It looks like we’re next for the hot seat,” said Cecil Arden, taking the countess’s hand. “What’s our motive, Inspector?”
“Yours is possibly the most convincing motive of all, Mr. Arden.”
The smirk disappeared from Cecil’s face.
“As a single man, perhaps you really didn’t care that you’d never inherit the family title and fortune, even though you were next in line, after the unexpected death of the duke’s only son,” said Travers. “But once you proposed marriage to Countess Scharwenka—“
“How in the devil—” Cecil regained his composure and shrugged. “I suppose it is your business to snoop into our private affairs. But to echo the words of Mr. Ayres, is it a crime to get married?”
“No, just as it’s not a crime to want to support your wife in a grand style. With a beautiful wife at your side, especially one who is accustomed to a life of luxury, the thought of inheriting the title and wealth began to look more attractive, did it not?”
Cecil shrugged. “I’m only human. Human, Inspector, not a monster. Besides, if it was the title I wanted, I would have had to kill Gerald. There was no reason for me to murder his wife, so long as Gerald was still alive. He could remarry again and have another heir—and there would go my inheritance.”
“Precisely, Mr. Arden. Honey Holdendale was with child. If she gave birth to a male child, that child would inherit the title—not you. If you wanted that title and fortune, you had to work fast.”
Cecil’s mouth dropped open. “And how was I supposed to know all this? I’m a BBC broadcaster, not a Harley Street obstetrician.”
“It’s a valid point, Mr. Arden. Indeed, it eventually became the main point of my investigation. Who knew the Duchess of Tarrington was with child—and who cared?” Travers turned to Lady Lambton-Keene. “You knew, my lady. You told me. Your husband and son were also at the table, along with Lady Margaret and Peter Carroll. I assume the Duke of Tarrington also knew.”
“Then you assume wrong, Inspector,” she replied. “It was still early in her pregnancy, a time when miscarriages do happen. I knew Gerald would be heartbroken if anything happened to the child, so I thought it best to keep it quiet until Honey began to show. It was stupid of me to blurt out the news in front of the others.”
“Yes, but no one there stood to inherit the title and the fortune.”
Inspector Travers thought he heard a sigh of relief escape from someone’s lips.
“Yet there could have been another motive for the murder,” Travers continued, “and that leaves us with Lady Margaret and Peter Carroll.”
“Excuse me, Inspector,” said Freddie, “haven’t you forgotten someone?”
“Would you like to confess, sir?”
“Not I.” He nodded his head in the direction of Penny and Nick. “What about our two Broadway sensations?”
“We didn’t kill anybody!” Penny exclaimed.
“Like Roberto said, hanging is bad for the box office,” said Nick.
“Yes, that’s why I discounted them fairly early on,” Inspector Travers told Freddie. “Of all of you, they are the only ones with a truly watertight alibi, thanks to the performance they gave on the night of the murder.”
Travers turned to Peter Carroll. “You, on the other hand, Mr. Carroll, had a motive, but no alibi. You were always working on that symphony of yours, but what would happen if we invited the ship’s orchestra to play it?”
“Make fun of my symphony all you like, Inspector. But I loved Honey. Why would I murder her?”
“You loved her, but did she still love you? She was carryi
ng the Duke of Tarrington’s child, while you were part of a rather tawdry past that she preferred to forget. Didn’t she tell you as much when you visited her in her cabin that night? When you found out she was pregnant with the duke’s child and she didn’t want you hanging around her anymore, didn’t you fly into a rage and kill her? And when you found out that Mabel Watson knew and was threatening to blackmail you, didn’t you kill her too?”
Peter flew from his chair and grabbed Travers by the lapels of his jacket. “Let’s get one thing straight, Inspector. It was my child. When Honey was killed, my child was killed with her.”
Jeffrey Baird had sprung out of his chair and was pulling Carroll away from Inspector Travers, while Lady Margaret began to sob. Lady Lambton-Keene rushed over and put her arm around the young woman. “She’s ill,” she said to Inspector Travers. “I’m taking Margaret into the bedroom.”
“To give her an injection?” He stared coldly into her eyes. She stared back.
“She’s ill,” Lady Lambton-Keene insisted. “If she collapses, you will be to blame.”
“I accept that responsibility, my lady, but she’s under my charge now,” said Inspector Travers. “Lady Margaret, I charge you with the murders of Honey Holdendale, Duchess of Tarrington, and Mabel Watson.”
Lady Margaret looked up at him in shock. “Me?”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Lady Lambton-Keene. “No, it’s worse than ridiculous. It’s cruel. She’s ill and everyone knows Peter killed those two women—and he tried to kill Margaret too.”
“Why would I kill Margaret?” asked Peter.
“Because you knew she had overheard your conversation with Mable Watson. She heard Watson threaten to blackmail you.”
“That’s a lie! Mabel had no reason to blackmail me. She was only after Mrs. Hardwick’s insurance money. Margaret, surely you don’t believe I would ever hurt you!”
Lady Margaret rose from her chair. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, which gave her face a vital beauty she ordinarily lacked. “Hurt me? Don’t you think it hurt me every time I saw you looking at that woman? Don’t you think it hurt me, knowing that everyone knew you were carrying on with her? I hate you, Peter. I hate you—and I wanted to see you hanged!”
Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1) Page 21
