Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

“Yes and no,” said Isadora with a shrug. “I resent it at the time because it makes me feel like a child but then I tell myself that Mother is only acting in my best interests.”

  “I see.”

  “And she does so in the kindest way.”

  “It must still be rather irritating.”

  “Nobody can be irritated by Mother for long. She has such a sweet disposition. She’s not cold and tyrannical, like some mothers.”

  “But she does overprotect you, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Mother is only doing what Grandmother did to her. It’s a family tradition.”

  “You seem to have survived it pretty well so far,” said Genevieve, wanting to encourage her. “And you won’t have to put up with your parents’ control for much longer. You’ll be twenty-one soon, Isadora. You’ll be able to spread your wings.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet,” said Isadora with a touch of anxiety. “I’ve so much still to learn. I’m hoping you’ll be my teacher for the next week.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re so poised, Genevieve, so sophisticated.” She gave a wan smile. “Beside you, I feel so ridiculously juvenile. How do I achieve the same assurance?”

  “It comes with time.”

  “There must be more to it than that.”

  “Perhaps,” conceded Genevieve, “but you have no reason to be self-critical. You have all the qualities a young lady ought to have. And I’d better warn you now, I won’t be the only one to notice that. Before too long, you’ll have a swarm of male admirers buzzing around you. Even a chaperone won’t be able to keep them at bay.”

  Isadora giggled. “That would be tremendous fun,” she said.

  “Enjoy it while you can.”

  Another sigh. “If only I could, Genevieve.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mother and Father have very firm ideas about what would be a suitable match for me. It’s one of the reasons they’re taking me to England.” She lowered her voice. “I wouldn’t tell this to anyone else but I know I can trust you. The truth is that my parents have set their hearts on a son-in-law with a title.”

  “A title?”

  “Yes,” Isadora said with foreboding. “In their eyes, it’s the best possible birthday present. They want me to marry into the British aristocracy.”

  TWO

  During the first couple of hours at sea, the busiest person on the ship was the purser. The navigational crew was sailing the ship, the stokers and trimmers were slaving away in the engine room, and the cooks were preparing the first meal of the voyage. All were going through a well-established routine. The purser had a more difficult job. Faced with a battery of requests, suggestions, and demands from a host of passengers, he had to make instant decisions on the hoof. Some of the calls made upon his time were habitual but most were specific to that particular crossing. The purser had to work flat-out to oblige, reassure, or appease those who came knocking at his door in an endless line.

  Aware of the pressures put upon him, George Porter Dillman delayed his own visit to the purser until well into the afternoon. By that time, the detective had settled into his cabin, enjoyed his lunch, and explored the Caronia from stem to stern.

  Paul Taggart gave him a cordial welcome, pumping Dillman’s hand vigorously. A tall, angular man in his early forties, the purser was a New Yorker who had been born and brought up within sight of the Hudson River. A childhood spent haunting the harbor had prepared him well for a life at sea. Nothing else would have satisfied his primal urges. Taggart had a long, lean, pleasant face that was remarkably unlined. His smile was warm and his voice deep.

  “Good to have you aboard, Mr. Dillman,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Taggart.”

  “Your reputation goes before you.”

  Dillman was modest. “I’ve been lucky, that’s all.”

  “Luck is a decisive factor in your trade.”

  Taggart perched on the edge of a desk piled high with paperwork. Maps and charts covered the walls. Wooden filing cabinets took up much of the remaining space. On top of one of the cabinets was a framed photograph of Taggart, in uniform, with his wife and two young sons. All four of them were beaming happily at the camera. Dillman glanced at it.

  “That was taken a few years ago,” explained Taggart. “The boys are twice that size now. I don’t know what my wife feeds them on, but it certainly does the trick.”

  “Are they going to follow in their father’s footsteps?”

  Taggart gave a hollow laugh. “Not if I can help it!”

  “The call of the sea tends to run in families.”

  “I sometimes wish that I’d never heard of it, I know that.”

  “Busy?”

  “I’ve been swamped, Mr. Dillman.”

  “The purser always gets the real headaches.”

  “I know,” Taggart said tolerantly, “and I complain like mad about it. But the simple fact is that I love this job more than anything else in the world. If you’re a student of human nature, there’s nothing to beat it. Something happens to people when they’re at sea. They behave in ways they’d never even think of on land.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “What about you, Mr. Dillman? I guess you like your job as well.”

  “Very much.”

  “Any red-blooded man would enjoy working alongside Miss Masefield.”

  Dillman was surprised. “You’ve met Genevieve?”

  “Yes,” said Taggart. “She reported to me half an hour ago. Her timing was perfect. I’d just got the last of the passengers off my back.” He smiled admiringly. “Miss Masefield is a delightful lady. I’d never have taken her for a detective.”

  “That’s her main advantage.”

  “Is she efficient?”

  “Extremely efficient.”

  “Then she’s got everything. Looks and brains.”

  “Not to mention courage,” said Dillman. “Genevieve is the ideal partner.”

  “I can see what you mean about being lucky.” Taggart became businesslike. “Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks. I’ll tell you what I told Miss Masefield. Most of your work will be pure routine, looking out for the thieves, pickpockets, and cardsharps we always seem to attract. But our main problem concerns narcotics. We’ve had a tip-off that the Caronia is being used to carry drugs on the eastward crossing. What kind—and in what quantities—I’ve no idea, but I take the warning seriously. I don’t want this ship to act as a mule for some lousy drug-runners. We’re proud of this vessel. She has to be kept clean of that kind of thing.”

  “Do you have any information to go on?”

  “Precious little.”

  “How reliable is the tip-off?”

  “That’s for you to find out, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Drugs are big business,” said Dillman, stroking his chin. “The people involved go to any lengths to protect themselves. They’re likely to be armed.”

  “That’s what I told your partner.”

  “They’re also inclined to travel in comfort. If they make huge profits out of crime, they don’t cross the Atlantic in steerage. They expect luxury.”

  “Not on my ship,” Taggart said sharply. “Run them down for me, Mr. Dillman, and the master-at-arms will arrange more basic accommodations for the skunks.”

  “Does he have those other prisoners locked up?”

  “Prisoners?”

  “The two people I saw being escorted onto the ship by detectives.”

  “Oh, that pair. No, they’re not in one of our cells but they are confined to their cabins. Inspector Redfern will give you the details,” he went on, picking up some sheets of paper from the desk. “I promised to send you along to him when we’d finished here. Take your partner with you. It will save repetition.”

  “Where will I find Inspector Redfern?”

  Taggart handed over the papers. “Here’s a copy of the passenger list for the entire ship. As you’ll see, Inspector Redfern and
Sergeant Mulcaster are sharing a cabin.”

  “What about their prisoners?”

  “Right next door.”

  “Together?”

  “No, Mr. Dillman. On either side of them.”

  “Why was Sergeant Mulcaster carrying a shotgun when he came aboard?”

  “He likes to let people know who he is.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Taggart, rolling his eyes, “but I won’t claim I enjoyed the experience. Inspector Redfern is a good, honest, straightforward cop but the other guy is a pain in the neck. If I were you, I’d keep clear of Ronald Mulcaster.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s just like that shotgun of his—liable to go off with a bang.”

  After lunch in the first-class restaurant, Genevieve Masefield had disentangled herself from Isadora Singleton and made her way to the purser to introduce herself. When he had briefed her, she went up on deck to enjoy the sea air in solitude, striding purposefully along to discourage people from trying to speak to her. She was approaching the stern of the vessel when she heard the patter of feet behind her. Genevieve walked briskly on but she was soon overtaken. A tousle-haired young man in a white running vest and knee-length shorts jogged past her and weaved his way expertly between the people ahead of her. Only when he reached the stern did he pause to catch his breath. He was tall, slim, and wiry. After supporting himself on the rail for a few moments, he turned to see Genevieve coming toward him and his face was split by an amiable grin.

  “Hi,” he said, waving a hand. “How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you,” she replied, pausing beside him. “Though I could never run like that after such a large meal.”

  “I didn’t have a large meal. Wes keeps me on a diet.”

  “Wes?”

  “My coach and manager. At least that’s what he calls himself. I think he’s a professional torturer, but then, I’m the guy stretched out on the rack.” He extended a friendly hand. “I’m Theodore Wright, by the way. ‘Theo’ to friends. If you like to promenade on deck, you’ll see a lot of me.”

  She shook his hand. “I’m Genevieve Masefield,” she said, “and I’m hoping to have a less arduous crossing. You’re obviously in training for something.”

  “ ‘The Big Event.’ ”

  “Are you a boxer?”

  “Hell no,” he replied with a chuckle. “I’m ugly enough as it is. I don’t want some two-fisted gorilla to make me look even worse. Anyway, boxing is for suckers. It’s a short life and a painful one. No, lady, I chose a real sport.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Cycling.”

  “Are you a professional, Mr. Wright?”

  He chuckled again. “I can see that you didn’t read the sports pages while you were in the States,” he said. “The name of Theo Wright pops up in them all the time. I’m the American champion. That means I have to keep myself really fit.”

  “Will you be racing in England?”

  “Yes, Miss Masefield.”

  “How did you know I wasn’t married?”

  “Because no husband in his right mind would let you wander around the deck of a ship on his own,” he said cheerfully. “But, to answer your question, I do have a few races lined up in England but the real point of this trip is to get to France.”

  “Why?”

  “Even you must have heard of the Bordeaux-to-Paris race.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Wright.”

  “It’s the Holy Grail of cycling. Whoever wins that really is the champ, and I aim to be first across the line this year. If I’m not, Wes will murder me.”

  Genevieve was impressed. “Bordeaux to Paris? That’s a very long race.”

  “Now you can see why I have to build up my stamina. The best place to do that, of course, is in the saddle but I can hardly cycle along here with so many people around. Wes is going to work out a timetable for me so that I can pedal up and down the deck when it’s deserted.”

  “You must be dedicated.”

  “I like to win.”

  Theodore Wright was bright, fresh-faced, and personable. Genevieve found him a welcome relief from the polite social rituals she had been going through with others. He was open and unaffected. When he talked about his ambition, he did not resort to empty boasts. Wright had the inner confidence of a true champion.

  “I hope to see you around, Miss Masefield,” he said.

  “Not if you’re cycling on deck in the middle of the night.”

  “Wes is bound to give me some time off.”

  “Does he control what you eat, as well?”

  “I can’t even clear my throat without his permission,” he added. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. He’ll be waiting for me with his stopwatch. Nice to meet you, Miss Masefield.”

  “I’m glad we bumped into each other.”

  He beamed at her. “Yes. You’ve met your Mr. Wright at last.” With a last chuckle, he ran back in the direction from which he had come. Genevieve looked after him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Theodore Wright was an original, quite unlike anyone she’d encountered before on a Cunard liner. His chirpy manner might offend some of the more conservative passengers but it was a breath of fresh air to her. She recalled what he had said about cycling from Bordeaux to Paris.

  “That’s not a race,” she said to herself. “It’s an endurance test.”

  The first thing he noticed when he entered the cabin was the sweet smell. Dillman inhaled the aroma of pipe tobacco and found it oddly soothing. There was a soothing quality about Detective-Inspector Ernest Redfern as well. Alone in the second-class cabin, he had slipped off his jacket and stood there in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat; a watch chain dangled from the pocket. While the two men introduced themselves, they weighed each other up. Redfern was relaxed and quietly spoken.

  “I had hoped to speak to your partner as well, Mr. Dillman,” he said.

  “Genevieve will be here any moment, Inspector. I sent her a note.”

  “Good. I’d like to put the pair of you in the picture, if only as a matter of courtesy. I know you’ll have enough on your plate during the voyage but it’s only fair that you should know about our little cargo.”

  “We’d appreciate that, Inspector. I saw you coming aboard.”

  “At the last moment, I’m afraid. We’re very grateful to the purser for fitting us in at the eleventh hour, so to speak. Cunard has been very cooperative.”

  Dillman nodded. “They’re always ready to help the forces of law and order.”

  Redfern waved him to a seat then slipped on his jacket before lowering himself into his own chair. He had nondescript features but his eyes glistened with intelligence.

  “Mr. Taggart tells me that you once worked for the Pinkerton Agency,” he said.

  “That’s right,” replied Dillman. “It was my first introduction to the darker side of humanity. I had no idea criminals could be so devious. It was a real eye-opener. I still remember the sense of pride I felt when I made my first arrest.”

  “Who was the offender?”

  “A pickpocket who operated in the Broadway theaters. The irony was that I’d been working at that same theater myself only a couple of months earlier. I was a penniless actor then. That’s why I had such satisfaction in catching the guy,” he confided. “I mean, there were we, toiling away onstage for modest wages while this fellow had rich pickings among the spectators. It seemed indecent.”

  “How did you come to work for Cunard?”

  “That’s a long story.

  “I’d like to hear it sometime,” said Redfern, with genuine interest. “And I certainly want to hear more about the Pinkerton Agency. We must compare notes. I suspect that its methods are rather different from ours at Scotland Yard.”

  “I doubt that, Inspector. Don’t forget who founded it. In a sense, the agency was a kind of Scotland Yard as well. Allan Pinkerton came from Glasgow.”

  There was a tap on the door and Redfern g
ot up to let Genevieve Masefield in. Dillman rose to his feet to perform the introductions then yielded his chair to his partner. When he gave her a wink, she smiled back. Redfern noted the little exchange.

  “Well,” he said, looking at them in turn, “you’re not at all what I would have expected as onboard detectives. The ones I met on the crossing to New York were ex-policemen from Liverpool. I could have picked them out in a football crowd.”

  “We believe in camouflage, Inspector,” said Dillman.

  “Yes,” agreed Genevieve. “It makes people lower their guard.”

  “That’s something we can never afford to do ourselves,” resumed the inspector. “The reason I asked for this meeting was to explain our presence on board the Caronia. Briefly, the facts are these. Sergeant Mulcaster and I were dispatched in pursuit of two people we believe to be guilty of the murder of a woman named Winifred May Heritage. The man who is in the next cabin with Sergeant Mulcaster,” he continued, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, “is John James Heritage, husband of the victim. And in the cabin on the other side of us is his accomplice, Miss Carrie Peterson.”

  “The evidence against them must be pretty strong to bring you all this way,” observed Dillman. “How did you know they had fled to America?”

  “We didn’t, Mr. Dillman. Our information was that they’d gone to Ireland. When we tracked them down there, they hopped on the next ship from Queenstown.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Went after them in the Mauretania. She’s the fastest ship afloat. Even though they had a good start, we overhauled them. We telegraphed the other vessel with details, then made the arrest aboard. It spared us all the hassle of extradition procedures.”

  “Are you certain they’re guilty?” asked Genevieve.

  “Innocent people don’t make a run for it.”

  “They do in some circumstances, Inspector.”

  “Not in this case, Miss Masefield,” insisted Redfern. “The victim was poisoned. John Heritage was a pharmacist with access to the poison used. Carrie Peterson was his assistant. On the promise that he would marry her, she became his mistress. But his wife refused to give him a divorce.”

  “Go on,” said Genevieve.