Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

  “That’s it, in essence. The only way that he could live with Miss Peterson was by killing his wife. Over a period of time, he administered small doses of poison so that she would appear to have died from natural causes. But he gave her too strong a dose one day,” said Redfern solemnly, “and she expired that evening. He and his mistress had no choice but to take to their heels.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “The woman who came in to clean the house. It frightened the living daylights out of her. When foul play was suspected, we became involved.”

  “The evidence so far is only circumstantial,” said Dillman.

  “Finding the victim’s diary was our breakthrough.”

  “Why was that, Inspector?”

  “Because it not only contained details of her husband’s relationship with Miss Peterson,” said Redfern, “it also had entries that revealed Mrs. Heritage’s fears that her husband might be trying to poison her.”

  “What did she do about it?”

  “She made an appointment with the doctor. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to keep it because she died on the evening before the appointment. Do you see what I mean?” he asked. “Posthumously, the victim is our star witness.”

  They heard a key being inserted into the lock as Sergeant Mulcaster let himself into the cabin. The stocky figure stood in the doorway to appraise them, stroking his mustache while he did so. His cap had been removed to reveal thinning hair that was carefully parted into a herringbone pattern. His face was expressionless. When he was introduced to the visitors, he responded with a gruff politeness. Closing the door behind him, he stayed on his feet.

  “How is he?” inquired Redfern.

  “As miserable as sin, Inspector,” Mulcaster replied. “I’m not looking forward to spending five days in there with John James Heritage, I can tell you. He says nothing.”

  “We’ll take it in turns, Sergeant.”

  “Why not just leave him alone to stew in his own juice?”

  “Will he have any other visitors?” asked Dillman.

  “No,” snapped Mulcaster.

  “Not even a priest? There’s a chaplain aboard.”

  “And what about Miss Peterson?” said Genevieve. “Is she in there alone?”

  “Yes,” admitted Redfern, “but we make regular visits to go through her statement with her. It’s vital that the two of them be kept apart or they’ll have time to concoct a story together.”

  “And a chance to get up to some hanky-panky,” Mulcaster complained. “We’re not allowing that. They’re criminals. They’re not here to enjoy themselves.”

  “How long were they on the run?” asked Dillman.

  Mulcaster was blunt. “That’s our business.” He turned to his superior. “I know you want to let them know why we’re here, Inspector, but this is our case. It’s not something that should be discussed with outsiders.”

  “There’s no harm in sharing thoughts with fellow detectives,” said Redfern.

  “I’m sure they’ve got work of their own to do.”

  Dillman responded to the cue. Inspector Redfern might be inclined to talk to them about the case but Sergeant Mulcaster obviously had strong objections. Ever since he had come into the cabin, it had seemed crowded and uncomfortable. Nothing would be gained by remaining there any longer.

  “We have indeed,” said Dillman. “Come along, Genevieve. We’re only in the way here.” She got up from her seat. “Thank you, Inspector. It was kind of you to tell us what you did. The only thing you didn’t explain was why Sergeant Mulcaster thought it necessary to carry his shotgun when you brought the prisoners aboard.”

  “For God’s sake, man!” Mulcaster snarled. “They’re dangerous criminals.”

  “They looked harmless enough to me.”

  “Tell that to their victim!”

  “Calm down, Sergeant,” advised Redfern, reaching for his pipe. “Mr. Dillman’s question was a perfectly reasonable one. All you needed to tell him is that we were taking no chances. It’s the way we do things at Scotland Yard.”

  “I can see that,” said Dillman, opening the door. “Oh, one last thing, Inspector.”

  “Yes?”

  “I assume the prisoners have both confessed to their crimes?”

  “Their flight was a confession in itself.”

  “In other words, they’ve denied their guilt.”

  “We’ll get the truth out of them sooner or later,” boasted Mulcaster.

  “How?” wondered Dillman. “By pointing the shotgun at them?”

  Before the sergeant could reply, the visitors left the cabin.

  THREE

  Nobody could accuse Frank Openshaw of hiding his light under a bushel. It blazed before him like a small bonfire. He was a big man in every way. The large body with the wide shoulders and the huge paunch was matched by a loud voice that carried his North Country vowels well beyond the ears of his companions. Nearing sixty, Openshaw had the energy and brio of someone much younger. Since he found himself sitting opposite the ebullient Yorkshireman, Dillman soon heard the story of his life. Sitting back in his chair, Openshaw scratched at one of his muttonchop whiskers and held forth.

  “When I were a lad,” he said with a wistful smile, “I thought a financier was a fella that kept pigeons. I’d no idea what he really did and I never thought for a moment I’d end up as one myself. Happen I’d be a chimney sweep like my dad, I thought, or go down pit like two of my uncles.” He laughed throatily. “There’s not much call for financial know-how in jobs like that. Any rate, my elder brother, Bert, helped Dad to sweep chimneys so there was no place for me there, and, when one of my uncles was killed in a pit explosion, I lost all interest in being a miner.”

  “So what did you do?” asked Dillman.

  “Became a bricklayer.” He displayed two massive hands. “These have done their share of hard work, I can promise you. Covered in cuts and blisters, they were, for the first three months in the trade. Then they hardened off. So did I.”

  “Tell them about the house, Frank,” prompted his wife.

  “I was just about to, Kitty.”

  “He built our first house all by himself,” she announced proudly. “Except that we didn’t know we’d live there because we hadn’t even met then. Properly, I mean.”

  “We’d seen each other,” said her husband. “That was enough for me.”

  He gave another throaty laugh and pulled his waistcoat down over his paunch. Dillman was interested to see the way the couple behaved toward each other. After almost forty years of marriage, there was still a visible spark of romance between them. Kitty Openshaw was a short, roly-poly woman with a chubby face that gleamed with pleasure. There was a touching humility about her. She had never quite got used to the idea that her husband was a millionaire, and a look of amazement—Is this really happening to me?—occasionally came into her eye.

  “Tell them about the house,” she repeated, nudging Openshaw.

  “I built a house not far from Bradford,” he said. “Single-handed. Well, that’s what I tell everyone but I used both hands, really. Took me ages. I couldn’t afford the bricks, you see, so I built it up room by room. It were my hobby at first, then I thought, ‘Hey, wait a minute, Frank Openshaw, there’s a chance to make some brass here.’ So that’s what I did. When the place was only half-built, I rented out the bit that had a roof, then used that money to buy more materials. So it went on. By the time I’d finished, I’d rented out two more rooms. Just think on it. I were nowt but a struggling young bricklayer yet I were a landlord as well.”

  “Then he met me,” said Kitty with a coy smile. “Properly, I mean.”

  “We soon needed the house to ourselves then.”

  “Frank always had plans. That’s what I liked about him.”

  “Never settle for less,” boomed Openshaw. “That’s my motto.”

  Dinner on the first evening afloat was a relatively informal affair but many of the ladies wore full-length gowns and a few o
f the men opted for white tie and tails. Dillman, like Openshaw, wore a smart three-piece suit. The first-class restaurant was a large room with elaborate decoration and an abiding sense of opulence. As in all public rooms aboard, skylights and a domed ceiling were used to add more light and to create an impression of space. Long tables were set parallel to each other and the upholstered chairs, revolving for convenience, were fixed securely to the floor. Dillman sat directly opposite Kitty Openshaw. To his right, facing Openshaw himself, was a man named Ramsey Leach, a diffident individual who seemed to be overwhelmed by the buoyant Yorkshireman and who had completely withdrawn into his shell. Leach was a thin, nervous, balding man in his late thirties. He was returning to England after his first visit to New York but was reluctant to talk about the trip. Dillman felt sorry for him and tried in vain to draw him into the conversation. Leach preferred to remain silent, concentrating on his food, and throwing a glance over his shoulder from time to time. Dillman had a feeling the man would make sure he never sat in the shadow of Frank Openshaw again.

  “And that’s how I realized I had a gift,” said Openshaw, coming to the end of another chapter of his autobiography. “I had this knack of seeing an opening and going through it. That’s all it was. The guts to take a chance.” He paused to allow a waiter to remove his plate. “What line are you in, Mr. Leach?”

  “I inherited the family business in Tunbridge Wells,” Leach mumbled.

  “Have you got a factory or something?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Openshaw.”

  “What do you make, then?”

  “Nothing.” Leach squirmed in his seat before revealing his profession. “I’m a funeral director,” he said. “An undertaker.”

  “I’d call you a fool,” teased Openshaw with a loud guffaw. “Get yourself out of that trade, lad. It’s a dead-end job.”

  Leach gave the weary smile of a man who had heard the gibe a thousand times. He was grateful when Openshaw turned his attention to Dillman. After waiting until the next course was served, Openshaw gave another tug on his waistcoat then raised an eyebrow.

  “What about you, Mr. Dillman?” he asked. “How do you earn a crust?”

  “Not as a financier, alas,” replied Dillman. “I’m like Mr. Leach. I went into the family business in Boston.”

  “Burying the dead?”

  “Quite the reverse, Mr. Openshaw. We try to bring excitement to the living. We design and build oceangoing yachts. They’re tiny by comparison with a vessel like the Caronia, of course, but they have a definite market.”

  “I know. Kitty and I have had a cruise or two on private yachts.”

  “We went all round the Mediterranean,” she added. “It were grand.”

  “Yachts, eh? How d’you start designing a thing like that, Mr. Dillman?”

  “It’s a question of trial and error,” said Dillman.

  He talked knowledgeably about his former profession, throwing in enough information to interest them but taking care not to confuse them with technicalities. What he did not tell them was that he had disappointed his father by leaving the firm, then outraged him by trying to make a living on the stage. For the purposes of the voyage, Dillman was content to be identified as someone employed in the nautical world. It was a useful disguise. While he liked to talk, Openshaw could also listen. He and his wife were fascinated by what they learned. Leach, too, took an interest in what Dillman told them. The undertaker was sufficiently engaged to venture a remark.

  “So,” he noted, “we have a sailor in our midst, do we?”

  “A yachtsman,” said Dillman. “Someone who sails for pleasure rather than for pay.”

  “There’s money to be made in pleasure,” argued Openshaw. “And I don’t mean the sordid kind, either. I’ll have nowt to do with that. Back in England, I own two theaters and a music hall. Aye, and I’ve a hotel in Scarborough and another in Blackpool. Holiday resorts, both of them. Invest in pleasure and there’s no limit to what you can do.”

  “Frank proved that,” said his adoring wife.

  “I did, Kitty, even though I say so myself. ‘Frank by name and frank by nature,’ that’s me. I may blow my own trumpet but you’ve got to admit that it’s a damn good instrument. Trust,” he declared. “That’s been my watchword. My whole career has been built on trust. In all this time, I’ve never once had a complaint from a business associate or an investor. We trust each other. What about you, Mr. Leach?” he said, switching his gaze to the funeral director. “I bet that none of your clients have ever complained, have they? Hardly in a position to do so, six feet under the ground.”

  Dillman could feel his neighbor wincing with embarrassment.

  Genevieve Masefield had a problem. The more she got to know Isadora Singleton, the more she liked her. The girl had a blend of intelligence and naiveté that was endearing. But she was quickly forming a dependency on Genevieve that was worrying, turning to her for advice and using her as a legitimate means to escape the vigilance of her parents. Seated beside her in the restaurant, Genevieve was able to further her acquaintance with the whole family. Opposite her were Waldo and Maria Singleton, a couple who looked so irrevocably married that it was difficult to believe they ever spent an hour apart. Waldo Singleton was a tall, stooping man with wispy red hair curling around the edges of a domed forehead. He had made a fortune out of selling real estate to rich clients but Genevieve caught the whiff of Old Money as well. Only the most expensive tailor could have made his suit. His wife, too, advertised their wealth in subtle ways. Her beauty had faded slightly and her midriff had thickened but she was still a handsome woman. What Genevieve objected to was the woman’s blatant snobbery.

  “We should have traveled on the Lusitania,” said Maria Singleton. “That’s the finest of the Cunarders.”

  “The Mauretania is supposed to be marginally faster, my dear,” said Singleton.

  “It’s not the speed that concerns me, Waldo, but the food. This meal is pleasant enough in its own way but it lacks character. It needs more individuality. The Ferridays sailed on the Lusitania earlier this year and said that the cuisine was beyond compare. They talked about nothing else for weeks. Haddon Ferriday was so impressed that he gave the chef a hundred-dollar tip at the end of both crossings.”

  “Haddon always was ridiculously extravagant.”

  “The Lusitania has so much more class, Waldo.”

  “Yes,” said Isadora impulsively, “but the Caronia has something even better. It has Genevieve on board and she’s worth more than a hundred chefs.”

  “Thank you,” said Genevieve, discomfited by the comment. “As long as you don’t ask me to cook. My skills in the kitchen are very limited, I’m afraid.”

  “Mine are nonexistent,” Maria proclaimed, as if it were an achievement. “And so they should be. Why toil at the stove when you have servants? Our cook is the best in the neighborhood.” She turned to her husband. “Why didn’t we sail on the Lusitania?”

  “I was unable to book passages on her, my dear.”

  “She’s a very popular ship,” Genevieve confirmed. “And rightly so. I was fortunate enough to sail on her maiden voyage and it was a wondrous experience.”

  Isadora was excited. “I bet it was. Tell us about it.”

  “Yes,” encouraged Singleton. “Is she really all she’s cracked up to be?”

  “According to the Ferridays, she is,” said Maria. “They were enchanted. And not only by the meals. Haddon Ferriday said it was like sailing in a luxury hotel.”

  “Is that how it was, Genevieve?” pressed Isadora. “Do tell us.”

  “How does it compare with the Caronia?” asked her father.

  Genevieve took a deep breath and weighed her words carefully before answering. In fact she had sailed on the Lusitania a number of times but she did not wish to give the impression of being too familiar with it. As far as the Singletons were concerned, she had been visiting America to stay with friends. They must never be allowed to suspect that she had a profes
sional connection with the Cunard Line. The Lusitania would always hold a special place in her affections because it was on the ship’s maiden voyage that Genevieve first met Dillman, an encounter that was to alter the whole direction of her life. That fact, too, would be concealed from the Singletons, though it gave her a warm glow simply to remember the event. A smile touched her lips.

  “It’s difficult to know where to begin,” she said.

  She described the vessel as best she could and talked about the unique atmosphere of a maiden voyage. Isadora was enthralled, Singleton was intrigued, and Maria kept saying she wished they had been sailing on the Lusitania. The trouble was that Genevieve was distracted slightly by a conversation going on to her left. While giving her own brief lecture, she also tried to listen to what was being said elsewhere. Two men and a woman, all American, were involved in a breathless conversation.

  “Who told you that, Harvey?” asked one man.

  “I saw them being escorted onto the ship,” replied the other. “They looked as guilty as anything. And they were obviously dangerous. There were two cops and a detective with a shotgun.”

  The woman was shocked. “What can they possibly have done?”

  “My guess is that they’re killers.”

  “Harvey!”

  “What else can they be, Millicent?” Harvey said knowingly. “They wouldn’t get that kind of treatment for simply failing to pay a hotel bill. I mean, why are they being taken to England?”

  “Because they’re wanted by the cops over there,” the other man decided.

  “Exactly, Douglas. And they wouldn’t send two detectives all this way for nothing. There must be a high price on their heads.”

  “I’d love to know the details,” said Douglas.

  “Well, I wouldn’t,” protested Millicent. “I don’t want to cross the Atlantic in the company of a pair of murderers. And you say that one of them was a woman?”

  “Yes,” replied Harvey. “She was about your age, Millicent. But she had the hard-bitten look of a criminal. So did he. I’d believe anything of those two.”

  Their talk turned to another subject and Genevieve was able to close her ears to them. She concluded her account of her crossing on the Lusitania then fielded a number of questions from the Singletons. But her mind kept straying back to what she had just overheard. In common with Dillman, she had been impressed by Inspector Redfern and troubled by Sergeant Mulcaster. Genevieve did not envy anyone who was kept in custody by the man with the walrus mustache. He would be a stern jailer. If the pair were guilty of their alleged crime, she wanted them to pay for it. That did not, however, prevent her from having a lingering sympathy for them, especially for the woman.