‘Othello?’
‘Too neat perhaps?’
‘Let’s look at our other suspects and see who we can eliminate.’ Verity thought for a moment. ‘I suppose Sam Forrest is the strongest suspect. He came up from the bowels of the ship just before your idiotic race with Frank and Perry. He admitted he had resisted Day’s attempt at blackmail. In a moment of rage, he could have hit him over the head. We know he’s used to living in the violent world of American union politics and, to prove it, he carries a gun.’
‘And you think he could use it?’
‘In certain circumstances but, of course, he didn’t use it on Day.’
‘No, he was hit on the head by some unidentified blunt object, probably the hammer missing from the toolbox of the man repairing the controls to the steam room.’
‘Does that suggest the knock on the head was unpremeditated? You would hardly go to kill someone without a weapon.’
‘I don’t know, V. I think the idea of killing Day was premeditated even if the actual killing was not.’ They were silent, thinking things over. Then Edward said, ‘Stop being objective about Sam. Tell me what your instinct is. What’s your gut feeling?’
‘Feminine intuition?’
‘No, I just respect your judgement of character.’
Verity was pleased. ‘I think he is basically honest and not a violent man. The fact that he refused to do some deal with Day which might have made him very rich supports my view. I don’t think he did it.’
‘Nor do I,’ Edward said and they smiled at each other with relief.
‘Who else?’ Verity persisted. ‘What about Marcus Fern? You said that, rather surprisingly, he carries a gun.’
‘Yes. He’s a tough cookie and he keeps on asking me about Day – or at least he did last night. He has come up the hard way, he says so himself. A boy from the wrong class without family, with no one with an established City position to help and protect him. You have to be very good to beat the system and you would probably fight hard to keep what you had won.’
‘I should think so! He’s the exception which proves the rule. It’s exactly what we in the Party object to – the “old boy” thing, the shake of the hand, the nod and the wink. He’s probably a Mason. That’s the sort of club he might be allowed to join.’
‘Yes, well, that doesn’t make him a murderer but it does mean he’s capable of being tough when his back’s against the wall.’
‘But what’s his motive? Why would Day have had anything against him or been able to blackmail him? I agree that, having fought his way up to become a confidant of men like Benyon, he has a lot to lose but there’s absolutely no evidence he had heard of Day before that moment at the Captain’s table. Is it likely their paths would ever have crossed? I doubt it.’
‘You’re right but the jury’s still out on him. He’s an enigmatic man.’
‘You’ve got that look on your face, Edward. I think you know who killed Day.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, V. What look?’
‘Don’t play the innocent with me. That look of having trapped a mouse . . . you can’t fool me. Out with it.’
‘You sound like a dentist. I tell you what, you get on with investigating Bernard Hunt. Try and find out where he was when Day was hit on the head. He gives me the creeps so much I really can’t talk to him . . . He put his filthy paws on Frank . . .’
‘Don’t be silly, Edward. Frank’s a big boy. If he can throw a pillow at a man with a gun, he can cope with Hunt. Talking of Major Cranton, I mean Blane, why did he do that awful thing?’
‘Murder Barrett?’
‘No, I can see he panicked when he recognized Barrett and knew that Barrett had recognized him but why did they end up in the cold store and why did he . . . you know . . . take all his clothes?’
‘Blane was desperate to get rid of Barrett before his cover was blown so he persuaded Barrett to meet him “to do a deal”. After all, Barrett couldn’t have Blane arrested just for being on board.’
‘He was travelling under a false name on a false passport. If the Captain had locked him up he wouldn’t have had a chance of taking a shot at Benyon.’
‘The passport would be a matter for the immigration authorities in New York. The Captain couldn’t have locked him up for that.’
‘But how did it happen – the killing, I mean? Barrett was an experienced Special Branch man. How did he allow himself to be outwitted by Blane?’
‘I don’t know yet. No doubt we’ll find out when Blane talks but I expect Barrett did what I did.’
‘What was that?’
‘Underestimated him. Blane seemed a pathetic character and, of course, he was but I forgot that weak men, inadequates, can still do damage. The meeting took place near the kitchens. There was so much going on down there – so many cooks and scullions and what-not rushing around – that, paradoxically, it was just the place they could meet without anyone noticing. Blane managed to knock him unconscious and then dragged him into the cold storage room.’
‘But why take his clothes? To humiliate him?’
‘I would guess for a more practical reason. Barrett was only unconscious and not dead. Maybe Blane didn’t feel like hitting him again. He didn’t find it easy to work himself up to carrying out an act of violence, like shooting Benyon. Anyway, it might have been messy. He wouldn’t have wanted blood on his clothes. An easier option must have occurred to him. Naked, Barrett would die very quickly from hypothermia.’
‘Ugh, how horrible! But why hook him up among the carcasses – that was disgusting.’
‘For the same reason. Hiding him among the carcasses would delay discovery until he was dead.’
‘Poor Barrett! Secret policemen aren’t my favourite people but what a horrible way to die.’
Edward was uneasy. Was he a secret policeman? After all, he took his orders from one.
Verity was talking again. ‘So you think Hunt killed Day? Is that what I’m to try and establish?’
‘No. I want you to eliminate him if you can. I believe I do know who killed that bad man but I need to think about it. Perhaps it’s not my job to bring Day’s killer to justice.’
‘You mean it’s not your job but maybe it’s your duty?’
‘In a naughty world, oughtn’t we to do our bit to clean it up?’
‘Don’t parlourmaids sweep the dirt under the carpet?’
‘We don’t approve of that, do we?’ Edward said primly. ‘In fact, we have had occasion before now to criticize the police for doing exactly that.’
Verity sighed. ‘You must do what is right. Surely that is the one principle we both believe in and you’ve only got a few hours in which to do it. We dock about five this afternoon. The Purser told me we’re a bit behind schedule. It’s now . . .’ She looked at her watch. ‘. . . seven. Can you wrap it all up in ten hours?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘When did you know who had killed Day?’
‘When the conjurer took the rabbit out of the hat.’
Verity found Bernard Hunt eating breakfast, a copy of the ship’s newspaper propped up against the toast-rack in front of him.
‘Might I join you or would you rather be alone?’ Verity inquired, with one of her most persuasive smiles. ‘It’s probably rather awful eating breakfast with someone who’s almost a complete stranger but, I don’t know why, I feel that – when we all troop off the Queen Mary – some sort of chapter will close and we’ve not really had a chance of getting to know each other.’
‘By all means join me, Miss Browne. Waiter! Bring a chair for the lady, will you, and . . . coffee?’
‘Yes please.’ She offered another smile to the waiter. ‘I wanted to ask you if . . . if there had been any more news . . . about the Poussin.’
‘Oh that,’ Hunt sighed. ‘It’s a great disappointment but there we are. La commediaè finita. There’s no point in brooding. Actually, Miss Zinkeisen’s been most helpful.’
‘Miss Zinkeisen?’
<
br /> ‘Yes, I told you we know each other quite well and she was grateful I got her the commission to design the mural in the Verandah Grill. Anyway, she is going to introduce me to some of her Hollywood friends. The thing is, apparently, many of these film stars like investing their earnings – and you’ve no idea how much some of them earn – in property and art rather than stocks and shares. After the crash, the stock market doesn’t seem a sensible place to put one’s little all and if there’s a war – God forbid – the whole system will probably collapse.’
‘I do hope so,’ Verity could not help interjecting.
‘As a Communist, you mean?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s what we are working for.’
Hunt looked dubious. ‘The funny thing is, all that rubbish Marx talks about the capitalist system – I don’t really hold with it. I’m an art dealer – a parasite, I suppose you might say. If there are no Lorenzo de Medicis to buy and Michelangelos to sell . . .’
‘Hey!’ Verity said, trying to talk with her mouth full of toast and honey, ‘I remember you saying the artist ought to be an artisan with a secure place in society – like a postman or a carpenter – and that he should have a salary and not be subject to market demands.’
‘Did I say that?’ Hunt was vague but his small eyes were beady. ‘How very clever of you to remember, my dear.’
Verity did not like be called ‘my dear’ particularly by someone who, if not a card-carrying Communist, was certainly a sympathizer and therefore ought to have known better.
‘Yes, you did.’
‘I must have been in one of my theoretical moods. I’m afraid I’m such a weathercock – not consistent . . . not consistent at all.’
She had a feeling he was mocking her. ‘So you are going to be art adviser to the stars?’ She, too, could mock and Hunt looked a little embarrassed.
‘If you put it like that, yes, that’s the idea.’
Verity suddenly remembered why she was having this conversation. She was trying to find out if Hunt could have killed Senator Day. She must turn on the hot tap again and warm up the conversation.
‘I think it’s a brilliant scheme,’ she said confidingly. ‘If you get to know the powerful people in Hollywood, it will help get them on our side.’
‘Which side is that?’ Hunt was still not mollified.
‘I mean if Day’s friend, Senator Dies, gets his un-American whatever-it-is . . . un-American activities committee . . . off the ground, the government will use it to clamp down on Communists.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ Hunt sounded vague again. ‘I don’t know anything about politics.’
Verity felt she wasn’t getting anywhere. She ought to have him eating out of her hand by now but, instead, she could sense she was losing him. She’d better get to the point.
‘Talking of Senator Day, I wonder who did kill him? Have you any ideas?’
‘None at all. Does it matter? Someone did us all a good turn. Let’s leave it at that.’
‘But I can’t help being interested,’ she persisted. ‘I was watching the race when it happened. You were too, weren’t you?’
‘The race? You mean that silly rush round the deck when Corinth got hurt? Why should I watch that?’
‘So where were you then?’
‘Do you really want to know?’ A gleam of malice ripped the vagueness from his face.
‘I do,’ Verity said stoutly.
‘You’ll be shocked.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘No? Well then, I’ll tell you but you musn’t breathe a word – especially not to your friend Corinth. I’m sure he would be shocked. You know that boy who’s always running about in a brass-buttoned uniform?’
‘One of the pageboys?’
There were a dozen or so pageboys available to fetch and carry, take messages and otherwise make themselves useful to First Class passengers.
‘There is only one,’ he said reproachfully, ‘worth looking at, that is. Rudi. You must have seen him. Red-haired, such a cheeky boy. Anyway, Rudi and I were in my cabin when the good Senator was getting himself killed.’
‘What were you doing with Rudi in your cabin?’ she asked faintly.
‘What do you think we were doing? He was cleaning my shoes for me.’
When Edward was regaled by Verity with this story, he laughed outright.
‘What are you laughing about?’ she said crossly. ‘That horrible man was perverting some boy in his cabin and you laugh.’
‘I’ll get the Purser to have a quiet word with Rudi but I think you’ll find he was just polishing Hunt’s shoes – even if Hunt hoped he might be available for something else. Haven’t you noticed how he worships Jane Barclay? Rudi is a red-blooded heterosexual boy, whatever Bernard Hunt might wish to the contrary. Still, he may well be able to give Hunt an alibi. I think he knew just what you were up to, V, and wanted to tease you.’
‘Well, I’m glad you think it’s funny. All I can say is you’d better be right about Bernard Hunt. I would be quite pleased to be able to say he was a murderer.’
‘But he’s a Comrade!’ Edward said in mock horror. ‘What can it matter if a Comrade is a killer provided he kills on the Party’s instructions?’
‘He’s not a member of the Party,’ she replied coldly.
He knew he had gone too far. ‘I’m sorry, V. Forgive me? Please!’
She stalked off in high dudgeon. Golly, Edward thought. A few minutes ago they had been proclaiming eternal love to one another and now they were back to their normal squabbling. He shuddered. What would marriage be like? He shuddered again.
He was just turning to hobble down to the lounge – he couldn’t go back to his cabin because Fenton had begun packing – wondering if it were too early to get a drink when he bumped into Frank.
‘I say, Uncle Ned, can we have a word? There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you.’ His manner was formal as though he had asked to see the headmaster, and Edward repressed a smile. He thought he knew what was coming.
‘I was just going down to the lounge. We can find a quiet corner there. It’s too early for people to be having drinks,’ he added with regret.
The leather armchairs were so deep and wide that it made confidential conversation difficult but there was no one else in the place except a waiter whom they dismissed as they seated themselves.
There was a pause. Edward looked at his nephew expectantly but the boy seemed unwilling to begin so he said, ‘How’s the arm?’
‘Oh, it’s all right. The doctor insisted on making me wear this sling but I think it’s just to make me feel important.’
There was another pause and Edward tried again. ‘I don’t know why but I can’t seem to hate that man Blane even though he killed an innocent man. He just seems so pathetic.’
‘You might feel differently if he’d killed me or Benyon,’ Frank said tartly.
‘You’re right, of course. I was being stupid. The inadequates make us suffer for their inadequacies. Hitler is using us to make up for his. Have you read Freud?’
‘No. Look, Uncle Ned, I didn’t want to talk to you about Freud.’
‘Of course not. What do you want to talk to me about?’
‘The Roosevelts – Perry and Philly.’
‘Are you still engaged to Philly? She’s a charming girl.’
‘No, I’m not. I don’t know what happened. I wanted to ask her if she really loved me or if she loved my being a lord and all that tosh and being . . . you know . . . rich. We were dancing and she felt like . . . like gossamer in my arms and I swear, if she had said she did love me, I would have married her whatever Father said . . . or you . . .’
‘But . . .?’
‘But, before I could say anything, she put her hand over my mouth and led me off into a corner and told me she was sorry but she couldn’t marry me.’
‘Did she give any reason?’ Edward inquired mildly.
‘She said she was ill and that it wouldn’t be fair on me. I sa
id that didn’t matter. I would help her get better.’
Edward winced inwardly. If the girl had wanted to take that as a renewal of Frank’s offer, she would have had every right to do so.
‘And what did she say?’ He spoke gently but there was an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice which his nephew must have sensed.
‘I . . . meant it . . . I would have stood by her,’ he said with dignity, ‘but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said she wanted to get well first and then if we met . . . well, it would be different.’
‘That was very fair of her.’
‘Yes, it was, and I let her persuade me. I don’t why I still feel a bit of a cad. She is the most lovely thing . . .’
‘I know she is, Frank. She’s enchanting but you are still very young.’
Frank looked at his uncle with dislike. ‘That’s not a very original thing to say. If I’m old enough to be shot at, I’m surely old enough to know when I’m in love.’
‘Sorry, Frank. I didn’t mean to be patronizing. Was that what you wanted to tell me?’
‘Yes – I mean no. There is something else.’ He was clearly wrestling with himself. Edward lit a cigarette and waited. ‘You remember our race?’
‘I do,’ Edward said, tapping his leg.
‘Yes, of course you do. I mean, that was when Day was murdered, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Edward was curious, wondering what was coming next.
‘Well, I don’t want to . . . I’m probably mistaken but . . .’
‘But what, Frank? You may as well spit it out.’
‘The thing is, Perry wasn’t there.’
‘Not there? But I saw him race.’
‘Not there all the time. You raced first and you fell and we all clustered around you. Then – I don’t know – five minutes later, I ran and then . . .’
‘And then Perry ran.’
‘Yes, but there was a period of perhaps ten or fifteen minutes when Perry just wasn’t around.’
‘I thought I saw him but, it’s true, I was in pain and concerned that I had made a fool of myself.’
‘You may have seen Philly and thought she was Perry. I noticed they were wearing very similar colours.’
‘She wasn’t wearing white tie and tails.’
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