Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

  “You’d be surprised what people leave in a bathroom. They take off watches, necklaces, earrings, and everything else they’re wearing before they get into the water. Then they simply forget to pick them up again. It may seem incredible, but a glass eye was once found in a bathroom on the Carmania.”

  “Who could possibly leave that behind?”

  “An old gentleman who was ever so grateful when it was returned to him.”

  “Well, he couldn’t have been more grateful than I am, Miss Masefield,” said Mrs. Robart. “I’d given up all hope of ever seeing the earrings again.”

  “You’re certain they’re the right ones?”

  “No question of that.”

  When Genevieve had called at her cabin to return the items, Mrs. Robart was quite overjoyed. Now, taking the earrings across to the mirror, she held them up to the lobes of her ears and beamed happily.

  “How on earth did they get into the bathroom?” she wondered.

  “Did you have a bath this morning?”

  “Yes. I had a reservation, first thing. I don’t remember taking the earrings in there with me. Though I did have my necklace for safekeeping,” she said, touching the pearls around her neck. “I always wear that when I’m traveling. Even for breakfast.” She scratched her head. “I suppose I could have had the earrings on. I am a little absentminded at times.” She turned to face Genevieve. “Oh, this has cheered me up no end. You must let me give you a reward.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Robart.”

  “But you recovered them within a matter of hours.”

  “The bath steward must take the credit. He found them when he was putting some fresh towels in there. Why don’t you give him a tip when you next see him?”

  “I will,” agreed the other woman, looking for her purse, “but I’d like to give you something as well. You’ve soothed my mind wonderfully.”

  “They are beautiful earrings.”

  “David always knew what to buy for me.”

  “Take more care of them in future.”

  “Oh, I will, I promise.” She found her purse. “Ah, here we are.”

  Genevieve held up both hands. “No, Mrs. Robart. Put it away. I’m not allowed to take money. I was only doing my job and I get paid for that. I just hope that every problem I encounter gets sorted out as quickly and painlessly as this one.”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “We aim to serve.”

  “You certainly did that.” She opened the door. “Thank you again.”

  “If I might offer one last piece of advice….”

  “Leave any valuables in the purser’s safe from now on,” said Mrs. Robarts, anticipating the counsel. “I will, Miss Masefield, I guarantee it. I’ve had my scare. You won’t hear another peep out of me for the rest of the voyage, I promise you.”

  Sergeant Mulcaster was outraged. Bunching up his fist, he brought it down on the table with such a bang that he scattered a pile of papers lying there. They floated lazily to the floor.

  “Poke their nose into our investigation?” he roared.

  “Calm down, Ronnie.”

  “I hope you told him to mind his own bloody business.”

  “It was only a suggestion,” said Redfern.

  “Well, it’s one that we can do without.” Mulcaster’s pride had been hurt. “When I see Mr. Dillman again, I’ll tell him what I think of his offer.”

  “He was making it on behalf of Miss Masefield.”

  “That’s even worse, Inspector.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the lady is an amateur!” snarled Mulcaster. “She’s nice to look at, I grant you, but she’s had no experience of real police work. At least Dillman has had some professional training—if you can call it that. But not that well-dressed assistant of his. What on earth did she imagine she could do?”

  “Talk to Carrie Peterson as a woman.”

  “Give me a dress to wear and I could do that.”

  “Ronnie!”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but this has made my blood boil. We don’t need any outsiders butting in on our investigation.”

  “That’s what I said to him.”

  “How would Dillman like it if we started to do his job for him?” He bent down to pick up the pages on the floor, still seething with righteous indignation. “Blimey! There are five days to go yet. We’ve got bags of time to squeeze a confession out of Heritage and his fancy woman. By the time we reach Liverpool, we’ll have them singing like canaries.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said the inspector.

  “Oh?”

  “They’re a tougher proposition than I thought. Especially Miss Peterson.”

  “Let me frighten the truth out of her.”

  “No, Ronnie.”

  “We’ve been much too soft so far.”

  “You weren’t exactly soft when we arrested them,” Redfern reminded him. “You used undue force against her, there’s no doubt about it. She’s not a strong woman. You had no cause to pounce on her like that.”

  “I thought she was trying to get away, Inspector.”

  “Let’s be honest, Ronnie. You jumped in too fast and too hard. And it’s not the first time it’s happened, is it? You’ve been disciplined twice for handling suspects too roughly.”

  “They deserved it.”

  “Only if there’s provocation.”

  “Well, I was provoked.”

  “That’s not the view the superintendent took. If I hadn’t spoken up for you, he might well have suspended you. And you’d never have been given this assignment,” stressed Redfern. “I had to defend you all the way.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Mulcaster, restoring the papers to the table. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t want thanks, Ronnie. I just want recognition that I’m the senior officer here, which means I make the decisions. There’ll be no strong-arm methods with Carrie Peterson. That could get us both into trouble.”

  “It would also get us the confession we need.”

  “The evidence is strong enough as it is.”

  “It’s not enough for me, Inspector,” said Mulcaster, rubbing his hands together. “When I’ve got someone in custody, I like to break them down bit by bit. It saves so much time in court.” He nodded toward one wall. “What do you think she’s doing in there now?”

  “Thinking about Heritage, probably.”

  “And him?”

  “I daresay he’s playing chess with himself.”

  “Eh?”

  “That was my reaction at first, Ronnie, but it is possible.” He heaved a sigh. “John Heritage can certainly give himself a better game than I can. He trounced me good and proper at chess. It’s a pity there’s no dartboard in that cabin.” A reflective smile spread over his face. “Now, there’s a game where I’d take on anybody. I’ve won cups at it.”

  “I could win cups at interrogation—if I was given free rein.”

  “Well, you’re not.”

  “What are we going to do, Inspector?”

  “Bide our time.”

  “Let me have an hour alone with Heritage.”

  “No, Ronnie.”

  “I won’t lay a finger on him,” said Mulcaster. “I’ll just talk to him. Face-to-face.”

  “That’s what you said last time, and the suspect finished up with a split lip and three missing teeth.”

  “He threw a punch at me. I had to restrain him.”

  “Well, I’m restraining you now,” said Redfern, fixing him with a stare. “I want to get those two back in one piece. This case could be the making of us, Ronnie. Think of the headlines in the papers. ‘Detectives Cross Atlantic to Capture Murder Suspects.’ There’ll be photographs of us, probably. And of them, of course,” he added, taking his pipe out of his pocket and slipping the stem into his mouth. “We have to keep Heritage and his mistress looking pretty for the camera.”

  Mulcaster gave a low cackle. “And for the hangman,” he said.
<
br />   Frank Openshaw was a gregarious man. In the course of a single day afloat, he had befriended a large number of people. As he strolled along the boat deck, he was able to greet several passengers by name. George Porter Dillman was one of them.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Hello, Mr. Openshaw.”

  “I’m just taking my constitutional,” said the Yorkshireman, patting his stomach. “It’s the only way to keep this from getting even larger.”

  “How is Mrs. Openshaw?”

  “Not too well, I fear. A touch of seasickness. Kitty is having a lie-down in the cabin. For some reason, it always happens like this. She’s fine on the first day out, then has an upset tummy on the second. You’re a sailor, Mr. Dillman,” he recalled. “Do you know a cure for seasickness?”

  “Yes,” replied Dillman. “Stay on land.”

  Openshaw chortled. “That’s a fair comment.”

  “I was being facetious. Seasickness is not amusing to those who suffer from it.”

  “Kitty could confirm that.”

  Dillman had just returned from interviewing the man in second class whose wallet had been stolen. A pickpocket was evidently at work in the public rooms and the detective would need to stalk him. He had also dealt with the other problem reported to the purser. When Dillman unlocked the storeroom from which noises had been heard, the ship’s mascot, a large cat, came darting out of the prison in which he had inadvertently been locked. During his incarceration, he had managed to knock over a number of small boxes. Dillman had stacked them neatly before locking up the storeroom again with his master key. He was pleased to see Openshaw again. They had lunched at separate tables so had not spoken since the previous day.

  “I was interested to hear that you owned two theaters,” said Dillman.

  “Both in London’s West End. The music hall is in Manchester.”

  “What sort of plays do you present?”

  “Ones that make money, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Pinero? Shaw? Henry Arthur Jones?”

  “Don’t ask me the names,” the other said dismissively. “I hardly ever go to the theater, myself. I usually fall asleep. Music hall is my passion. I do love that. But I cater to all tastes,” he went on. “One of my theaters put on a Shakespeare play last year.”

  “There’s a certain amount of vaudeville in some of those,” opined Dillman.

  It was not a point he had any chance to develop. At that moment, a figure tried to sidle past them without attracting attention. Openshaw spotted him at once.

  “Mr. Leach!” he called out, moving to intercept him.

  Leach came to a halt and exchanged reluctant greetings with the two men. Wearing a long black coat and a black hat, he looked as if he were about to attend another funeral. Dillman recalled the way Leach had left his cabin the previous night.

  “Where have you been hiding?” asked Openshaw.

  “Nowhere,” said Leach.

  “We didn’t see you at dinner last night or at lunch today.”

  “I was there, Mr. Openshaw.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll be able to join us for drinks before dinner,” said Openshaw, with a benevolent wave of his arm. “You, too, Mr. Dillman. Kitty so enjoyed your company, and I’m sure that she’ll have recovered completely by this evening. We’re in cabin number six. Can I count on seeing you there, Mr. Leach?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “You can tell us about the tricks of your trade.”

  “They don’t make for polite conversation.”

  “There must be some yarns you can tell us. And you’ll be able to meet some of our other friends as well. They include a couple of attractive single ladies,” he said with a roguish smile. “They’re the best decoration of all at a drinks party, I always think. Come along and say hello to them, Mr. Leach.”

  The undertaker looked alarmed. The invitation was unwelcome but he seemed unable to find the words to refuse it. Eyes darting, he shifted his feet uneasily. Dillman could see how uncomfortable the man was. Frank Openshaw waited for a reply that never came. Unable to find an excuse, Ramsey Leach simply turned on his heel and scuttled away as fast as he could. Openshaw turned in surprise to Dillman.

  “By heck!” he said. “What did you make of that?”

  SIX

  John Heritage had grown increasingly worried about the condition of Carrie Peterson. Not having seen or communicated with her for over twenty-four hours, he began to fear the worst. She was not the most robust person, and the predicament in which she found herself would be almost unbearable. He blamed himself for landing the two of them in the dire situation they faced, and longed for an opportunity to relieve her suffering in some way. Locked in his cabin, he could do little but anxiously pace up and down. However, when he was accompanied to the bathroom by Inspector Redfern, he saw his opportunity. They had to walk right past Carrie Peterson’s cabin. He was under no restraint. On the way back from the bathroom, therefore, he waited until he reached her cabin, then broke away to bang hard on the door.

  “Carrie, it’s me!” he yelled. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, John!” she called. “What about you?”

  “Come away from there,” said Redfern, grabbing him by the arm.

  “You must eat, Carrie,” urged Heritage. “Keep up your strength.”

  The inspector dragged him away. “This way, sir.”

  “I love you, John,” she declared from the other side of the door, waiting for a reply that never came. “John!” she said. “John, are you still there?”

  But Heritage was already being hustled into his own cabin by Redfern. Hearing the commotion, Sergeant Mulcaster came in from next door to see if he was needed.

  “What was all that about?” he asked.

  “Mr. Heritage broke the rules,” Redfern said irritably.

  The prisoner gave a shrug. “I simply wanted to speak to her.”

  “That comes under the heading of ‘privilege,’ ” said Mulcaster, “and you don’t have any. That was a very silly thing to do.”

  “I just wanted to know how she was.”

  “Safe and sound.”

  “Has she had any food yet? You told me she wouldn’t touch anything.”

  “She ate some lunch,” said Redfern. “Not very much, it’s true. But we did coax her into eating a sandwich. At least, Sergeant Mulcaster did.”

  Mulcaster grinned. “I want to keep her alive for the trial.”

  “Do you need to take quite so much pleasure out of it, Sergeant?” complained Heritage. “Miss Peterson and I are completely innocent. It’s demeaning to be treated like a pair of convicts.”

  “In my book, that’s what you are.”

  “They’re suspects in a murder investigation, Sergeant,” corrected Redfern. “The burden of proof lies with the prosecution. Not that I have any qualms on that score,” he said, flicking his eyes to Heritage. “As for you, sir, we’ll have no more of the stupidity I just witnessed. If you try to make contact with Miss Peterson again—even by calling out to her—I’ll have to take you to the bathroom with a gag in your mouth.”

  “Let me do that,” Mulcaster suggested, eager to take on the role.

  “I’m hoping it won’t be necessary. Will it, Mr. Heritage?”

  “Perhaps not,” mumbled the prisoner.

  “I want your word on that,” said Redfern.

  “You have it, Inspector—as long as you treat Miss Peterson with respect.”

  “We do, sir.”

  “Yes,” added Mulcaster. “I always bow three times when I enter her cabin.”

  “That’s enough, Sergeant,” warned Redfern. “There’s no call to gloat.”

  “She needs the company of another woman,” Heritage argued. “Not someone like Sergeant Mulcaster. He doesn’t know how to behave with a lady.”

  “I don’t see her as a lady,” Mulcaster retorted. “Only as your accomplice.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “So you ke
ep telling us.”

  “She’s the last person in the world to lend herself to any type of crime.”

  “Unless she was driven to it by desperation,” said Redfern.

  “We wanted to be together, Inspector. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Only too well. But there was the small matter of your wife.”

  “That’s why we ran away to Ireland.”

  “Having killed her beforehand.”

  “No, Inspector.”

  “Then why bother to flee like that?” asked Redfern. “If your wife died by natural causes, then you had everything you wanted. Freedom to marry Miss Peterson and to spend the rest of your life together.”

  “It was not as simple as that.”

  “It never is, Mr. Heritage. We talked to the family doctor. He told us your wife was in the rudest of health. Not surprising, when she was married to a trained pharmacist. You could cure any minor ailments she had, couldn’t you?”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Mrs. Heritage came to trust you,” said Mulcaster. “When you brought pills and potions back from the shop, she took them without questioning your judgment.”

  “You know nothing about my marriage, Sergeant,” said Heritage testily.

  “We know that it came to a sudden end.”

  “Death by unnatural means,” said Redfern. “And you did not even stay around to mourn your wife’s passing. You planned it very well, didn’t you? When you shut up the shop on Saturday evening, you told your business partner you’d be taking a few days off at the start of the following week. That gave you ample time to make your escape. You also sent a note to the cleaning lady, telling her not to come on her usual day. That delayed the discovery of the body.”

  “It may look like that, Inspector,” said Heritage, “but you’re quite wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  “I’ve told you a dozen times what really happened.”

  “You’ve told us what you want us to believe happened,” Redfern said firmly, “but we’re not that easily fooled. I’d bet a month’s wages that you were responsible for the death of Winifred Heritage. The only point on which I have the slightest doubt concerns Miss Peterson. Was she a party to the murder or not?”