Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

  “Not, Inspector,” pleaded Heritage. “I swear it!”

  “You’re two of a kind,” Mulcaster decided. “Both of you were involved.”

  “No!”

  “She’s more or less confessed it by her behavior.”

  “How can she confess to something that she never did?”

  “Guilt expresses itself in a variety of ways,” said the inspector. “We know the signs and the pair of you have started to show them in abundance.”

  Heritage took a deep breath. “For the last time, Inspector, we are innocent.”

  “Then why has there been no remorse over the death of your wife?” Heritage lowered his head to his chest. “It’s because you gloried in it, isn’t it? Look at you, Mr. Heritage. You’re a middle-aged man who was trapped in an unhappy marriage. You became infatuated with a younger woman. Miss Peterson, in turn, fell in love with you.”

  “Lord knows why!” said Mulcaster.

  “It’s a situation that we’ve seen dozens of times before. Two people have an overpowering urge to be together. Because it’s not possible, they’re driven to extreme measures. In this case, the murder of a wife.”

  “That’s simply not true, Inspector!” exclaimed Heritage.

  “No?” Redfern replied calmly. “Then answer me this. Whenever poison is sold at your pharmacy, you keep a strict record of its sale. Your partner let us examine the record book, and what did we find? A certain John Heritage—the pharmacist himself, no less—is listed as having bought some arsenic and certain other drugs that could be used to induce acute poisoning.” He watched his prisoner closely. “Now, sir, perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell us why you did that?”

  John Heritage had no answer. Slumping into his chair, he looked desolate.

  Genevieve Masefield did not escape her for long. No sooner had she sat down in the first-class lounge than Isadora Singleton came looking for her. The girl was glad to be released at last from the company of her parents and their friends. She talked at length about the extended boredom of her lunch.

  “I missed you so much, Genevieve,” she said. “Did you miss me?”

  “Of course,” Genevieve said politely.

  “Whom did you sit with?”

  “Theo Wright and his coach.”

  Isadora was mystified. “Theo Wright?”

  “You won’t have heard of him but he’s very famous in his own circles. He’s a professional cyclist, on his way to compete in a race in France that takes almost twenty-four hours to complete. Theo is a very engaging young man,” said Genevieve, “though I was not so taken with his coach, Mr. Odell.”

  “I’ve never met a professional cyclist,” said Isadora.

  “You can see him in action twice a day.”

  “On board ship?”

  “Yes, Isadora. He trains on deck, last thing at night and first thing in the morning. If you get up at the crack of dawn, you’ll see him speeding past.”

  “What fun!”

  “Theo Wright is the American champion.”

  “Then maybe I should get acquainted with him,” said Isadora. “He sounds like livelier company than the Van Wessels. The problem is that Mother and Father would disapprove,” she sighed. “Mother, in particular. I can imagine how she would react to a man who made his living on a bicycle.”

  “There are rich rewards in the sport, apparently.”

  “It’s not a question of money, Genevieve, but of class.”

  “Your mother will very much be at home in England, then. It’s even more class-ridden than Boston.”

  Isadora grimaced. “I refuse to believe that!”

  “Take my word for it. We invented class.”

  Genevieve looked up as a tall figure approached. Stanley Chase stopped beside them to exchange a warm greeting with Genevieve and to be introduced to Isadora.

  “It’s not fair,” he teased.

  “What isn’t, Mr. Chase?” asked Genevieve.

  “The two most beautiful young ladies on the ship are sitting together, on the principle that there’s safety in numbers. The Caronia is full of amorous young men in search of romance. Why deny them their opportunity?”

  “That’s not what we’re doing.”

  “I’m sure, Miss Masefield,” he said, winking an eye, “and I was only joking. In any case, nothing you could do would prevent admirers from queuing up. I can’t speak for Miss Singleton but I know you’ve already set one heart alight.”

  “Has she?” said Isadora, agog. “Who is he?”

  “A certain cyclist who sat opposite her at lunch.”

  “Theo Wright?”

  “That’s the chap.”

  “Genevieve was just talking about him.” She turned to her companion. “Is it true? Have you made a conquest?”

  “Of course not,” said Genevieve. “Theo was just being friendly.”

  “I think it may go deeper than that,” said Chase. “That’s why his coach kept shooting you those dark looks. He could see how fond of you Theo was. Talking of Mr. Odell,” he went on, glancing up and down the lounge, “have you seen him around? I wanted a brief chat with him.”

  “I haven’t seen either of them since lunch,” said Genevieve.

  “Oh, you will, Miss Masefield. I guarantee it. Sooner or later Theo will come in search of you. He can’t spend all the time training for his race.” He smiled at Isadora. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Singleton. Enjoy the voyage.”

  “I will, Mr. Chase,” said Isadora. She watched him walk off. “What a charming man. He had such a kind smile. But he was wrong about one thing, Genevieve.”

  “Was he?”

  “Yes. He said that you already had an admirer. I think you have two.”

  “Two.”

  “Theo Wright and Stanley Chase.”

  “That’s nonsense!” said Genevieve.

  “I saw the way his eyes twinkled whenever he looked at you. My guess is that he’s carrying a torch for you as well.”

  “I only met him a couple of hours ago.”

  “There’s such a thing as love at first sight.”

  “Not in this case.”

  “He’s such an attractive man. I’d be flattered.”

  “Forget about Mr. Chase,” Genevieve ordered. “And about any other imaginary suitors I’m supposed to have. You’re the one who’s being taken to look for a potential husband. Have you spotted any possibilities on board?”

  “I haven’t been given the chance.”

  “There’s more than one member of the British aristocracy on the Caronia.”

  “My parents are well aware of that,” said Isadora with a sigh. “That’s why they’re dragging me off for drinks before dinner this evening.”

  “Dragging you off?”

  “To the Openshaws’ cabin. Frank Openshaw comes from somewhere called Yorkshire. That’s up north, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Isadora.”

  “He’s one of those men who went from rags to riches and who insists on describing the journey in detail. He has a voice like a foghorn. Father thought he was frightful and Mother couldn’t bear him until he mentioned his close friendships with several aristocrats.”

  “ ‘Friendships’?”

  “That’s what he said,” she explained. “Mind you, he did go on to say that he liked to have someone from the nobility on the boards of his companies. It always looked impressive on letter-headings, he claimed. But it was no empty boast. He knows Lord Eddington, who’s a passenger on the ship, and there’s another friend called Sir Harry Fox-Holroyd, apparently. Both will be there this evening with their wives. That’s why Mother insisted we should go as well.”

  “Even though both these gentlemen are already married?”

  “Mr. Openshaw confided that Lord and Lady Eddington have a son who is one of the most eligible bachelors in Sussex. But that isn’t the only reason my parents were keen to meet them both. They’re hoping it will gain them an introduction to the circles that really matter in England.”


  “Those aren’t all to be found in the aristocracy,” said Genevieve.

  “Mother believes that they are.”

  “Then I hope someone enlightens her.”

  “Will you come with us this evening, please?”

  “What?”

  “I hate the idea of being on show,” said Isadora, “like a china doll in a store window. I don’t want Lord and Lady Eddington to look down their noses at me and decide that I’m not good enough for their son. I want you there so I’ll have somebody I can enjoy talking to.”

  “But I haven’t been invited.”

  “I’m inviting you now.”

  “No, Isadora. It would be quite improper.”

  “Father can speak to Mr. Openshaw. He seemed very approachable. Oh, by the way,” she continued, “I asked my parents if you could use our bath and they agreed without any argument. Do you see, Genevieve? You’re one of the family now.”

  “Not really.”

  “You’re the best friend I have aboard.”

  “All the more reason for you to meet some new people,” said Genevieve.

  Isadora was hurt. “I thought you liked me.”

  “I do, Isadora. I’m very fond of you, but I don’t think we should live in each other’s pockets. The truth is that I’d feel embarrassed if I went along this evening as part of your family. Don’t ask me to explain why. It’s one of the penalties of an English education, I’m afraid. We’re obsessed with decorum.”

  “So are we. Boston society thrives on it.”

  “Then you’ll understand how I feel,” said Genevieve. “Let’s reach a compromise, shall we? You go along to the Openshaws with your parents and I’ll promise to sit next to you at dinner. How does that sound?”

  “I’d prefer you to be there beforehand.”

  “I can’t be. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Oh.”

  Isadora was dejected. Genevieve was sorry to have disappointed her but there was no alternative. If it were left to her, Isadora would spend the bulk of each day in her friend’s company and that would be a great inconvenience to Genevieve. The girl needed to be weaned off her, to extend her social circle, and to learn the pleasures of being more independent. Before Genevieve could decide how to achieve those ends, she saw someone come into the lounge and look around with a nervous smile. It was Cecilia Robart. She was wearing the pearl necklace but not the gold earrings. When she recognized Genevieve, she gave a friendly wave before moving off to sit with two elderly female passengers.

  Isadora studied the woman. “Who is that?” she asked with faint jealousy.

  “Oh,” said Genevieve casually, “just somebody I bumped into earlier.”

  It took only a couple of minutes for George Porter Dillman to deal with the matter. Having found the man in his cabin, he did not even need to reveal his identity as a detective. One look at Mostyn Morris was enough to explain the misunderstanding. Short, shriveled, and gaunt, the Welshman had large eyes that seemed to be on the point of leaving their sockets at any moment. It was as if he were in a continuous state of alarm. He looked up at Dillman.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Mr. Morris?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “My name is George Dillman. I’m sorry to disturb you but I just wanted to give you a word of warning. I noticed that you were sitting opposite Mrs. Anstruther at lunch.”

  “Yes,” said Morris. “Not the most appetizing experience in any way. She’s a handsome woman but Mrs. Anstruther does tend to hog the conversation.”

  “That’s what I wanted to whisper in your ear, Mr. Morris. I had to endure her over a meal yesterday. She means well but, as you found out, she is inclined to talk too much.”

  “A torrent of meaningless words, Mr. Dillman.”

  “There is another problem.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s a widow, desperate for male company. She never quite got over the death of Mr. Anstruther. She did hint to me that she came on this voyage on the hope of finding a replacement for him.”

  “Saints preserve us!”

  “I just thought you ought to know that.”

  “Thank you for the warning.”

  “You seemed so hypnotized by what she was saying.”

  “The woman just wouldn’t take her eyes off me.”

  “I had the same trouble,” confided Dillman. “That’s why I’ve steered clear of the lady ever since. It might be wise if you did the same.”

  “I will,” Morris vowed. “She terrifies me.”

  “I hope you didn’t mind my speaking to you.”

  “Not at all. You’ve only said what I secretly feared. Thank you, Mr. Dillman.”

  Eyes bulging more than ever, Mostyn Morris retreated into his cabin and locked the door behind him. Dillman suspected the man would regret that he had no drawbridge to raise and no portcullis to lower as well. Defenses against Mrs. Anstruther needed to be as formidable as possible. One thing was certain. Those staring eyes would never again get close enough to make her think Morris was having improper thoughts about her. Mrs. Anstruther would have to find another complaint to take to the purser.

  Having sorted out a small problem, Dillman made his way down to the second-class deck to address himself to the more serious task of finding a pickpocket. The wallet had been stolen in the lounge. All the victim could remember was that he had been part of a large group of people who had left together. Shoulders had rubbed and there had been some good-natured jostling between the men. It was only when he was back in his cabin that the victim realized someone had deprived him of his wallet. Dillman intended to spend an hour in the lounge, relaxing in a quiet corner from which he could keep the room under surveillance and familiarize himself with the faces of the passengers who were there.

  But he got no farther than the shelter deck. Blocking his way, as he descended the stairs, was Sergeant Mulcaster. Instead of giving a warning, it was Dillman’s turn to receive one, and it was not issued in the spirit of friendship.

  “Keep your nose out of our affairs,” growled Mulcaster.

  “That’s what I’ve tried to do, Sergeant.”

  “Then why did you suggest that Miss Masefield should speak to one of the suspects? That’s what I’d call unwarranted interference.”

  “I’d call it an offer of help,” said Dillman. “No more, no less.”

  “We don’t need you.”

  “Inspector Redfern made that point, though in a less hostile way.”

  Mulcaster squared up to him. “Who do you think you are?” he demanded.

  “I’m an employee of the Cunard Line,” replied Dillman, meeting his gaze, “which means that I have some jurisdiction aboard this vessel. You have none, Sergeant. You may be traveling in an official capacity but you are, technically, a mere passenger. That means you come within my sphere of influence. I am paid to look after you.”

  “Clear off!”

  “Not until you tell me why you’ve gotten so riled up.”

  “I don’t like people trespassing on my patch.”

  “That’s not what I was doing.”

  “Of course it was,” Mulcaster said bitterly. “When you ask if Miss Masefield can talk to Carrie Peterson, what you’re really saying is that we’ve failed, so why not let your precious assistant show us how it’s done? That’s a professional insult.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. Inspector Redfern understood that.”

  “I see your offer for what it was.”

  “Then I withdraw it unconditionally.”

  “You don’t have to, Mr. Dillman. It’s been met with total rejection. We didn’t come all this way to hand over the interrogation of our prisoners to someone as wet behind the ears as Miss Masefield.”

  “She’s an experienced detective, believe me.”

  “I’d rather believe the evidence of my own eyes.”

  “Genevieve would surprise you.”

  “She won’t get the chance,” said Mulcaster. “Nor
will you. Do you understand? You and Miss Masefield may be able to track down someone’s missing collar-stud in first class, but this is a murder investigation. It’s way beyond the pair of you. Clear off, Mr. Dillman. You’re out of your depth. I won’t warn you again.”

  “I hope that you won’t,” Dillman replied coolly. “For your sake.”

  The relaxed and easygoing Theodore Wright came close to losing his temper for once. He and his coach were standing on the boat deck when it happened.

  “This is nothing to do with you,” he said.

  “Oh, yes it is,” retorted Odell.

  “You’re my coach and manager. That’s all.”

  “My job is to get you past that finishing line first.”

  “And you’re doing it, Wes. You devise the training schedule and I stick to it. But that doesn’t give you the right to take over my life.”

  “We can’t afford distractions.”

  “Who’s being distracted?”

  “You are, Theo—or you soon will be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not blind,” said Odell. “I saw the way you were mooning over her. I’ve heard the number of times you manage to bring the name of Genevieve Masefield into the conversation.”

  “I like her.”

  “You’re hooked on the woman.”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Not if it affects your training program.”

  “It doesn’t, Wes. You know that. I haven’t let up for a moment.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  “I’m not going to spend the entire voyage in the saddle.”

  “Metaphorically, you are.”

  Wright grinned. “ ‘Metaphorically,’ eh? That’s a big word for you. Where did you pick it up from, Wes? More to the point, what the hell does it mean?”

  “It means that you keep away from Miss Masefield.”

  “Who says so?”

  “I do, Theo. You’re a wonderful athlete but there are two things that can ruin you. Drink and women. I’ve seen it happen time and again. A guy gets to the top in this game then throws it all away for the sake of booze or, even worse”—he stressed—“because some pretty girl smiles at him.”

  “Genevieve is not only pretty,” Wright said loyally, “she’s beautiful.”

  “Far too beautiful for you.”