Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

  Wright was stung. “In what way?”

  “In every way, Theo. Look at her, will you? She’s an English thoroughbred. She’s got real class. Miss Masefield is way beyond the reach of someone like you. Can’t you see what will happen, Theo?” he urged. “If you start chasing her, you’ll only end up being given a polite brush-off and then where will I be? Trying to coach a cyclist with a broken heart.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “I don’t work with losers.”

  “I’m a winner,” asserted Wright. “On and off a bicycle saddle.”

  Odell stiffened. “I’m ordering you to stay away from that woman.”

  “And I’m telling you to mind your own business.” Pushing his coach aside, he stormed off angrily.

  Odell wondered if he should go after him or wait until his ire had subsided. Before he could make up his mind, he became aware of someone standing by his side. Stanley Chase looked apologetic.

  “I seem to have come at the wrong moment,” he said.

  Odell forced a laugh. “Not at all. Theo always blows off steam like that.”

  “He sounded as if he was really upset.”

  “It was nothing. Now, then, Mr. Chase. What can I do for you?”

  Chase lowered his voice. “I wondered if I might have a word with you.”

  Dinner that evening provided everyone in first class with an excuse to dress up and show off. The men wore white ties and tails while the women ransacked their wardrobes to find their most striking evening gowns. Jewelry of all kinds was reclaimed from the purser’s safe. Expensive perfume was sprayed in discreet amounts and cosmetics used sparingly yet artfully. When the first batch of guests swept into the dining room, it was clear the hairdressers had been busy that afternoon. There was a distinct sense of occasion, heightened by the fact that a small orchestra was playing for the first time. Dinner on the Caronia was the special event around which the rest of the day revolved. Everyone entered into the spirit of it.

  Genevieve caught only a fleeting glimpse of Dillman but she was struck anew by his elegance. Suave and graceful, he seemed completely at home in his surroundings. She liked to believe that she, too, blended in well. Once again, she sat opposite Waldo and Maria Singleton with their daughter beside her. Whenever her parents were preoccupied, Isadora passed on her comments about the earlier gathering.

  “It was a terrible ordeal,” she confided. “Far too many people.”

  “Just as well that I didn’t barge in, then,” said Genevieve.

  “Mother insisted on introducing me to every man under the age of thirty.”

  “Did you find any of them at all appealing?”

  “Not really. They all looked the same.”

  “What about Lord and Lady Eddington? Did you meet them?”

  “I had no choice,” said Isadora. “Lord Eddington wore a monocle and his wife looked at me as if I were one of her domestic servants. It was rather unsettling.”

  “Take that kind of thing in your stride,” Genevieve advised.

  “The strange thing is that I made a good impression on them. According to Mother, that is. She was triumphant. Lord Eddington owns a string of racehorses, it seems. When he invited us to share his box at Royal Ascot, I thought Mother would faint with joy.”

  Genevieve was interested to hear all the gossip and offered what support she could. But she also took care to speak to the person on the other side of her, a middle-aged Englishwoman named Pamela Clyne, who was so lacking in confidence that she hardly ventured a word for the first half an hour. She was a plump, round-shouldered woman in a black dress that looked hopelessly old-fashioned. She wore neither jewelry nor cosmetics. Her gray hair was brushed back into a bun that was skewered in place by two bone pins. On her hands were thick black lace gloves. When Isadora spoke to her parents, Genevieve eventually managed to have something approximating a conversation with her other neighbor.

  “Was this your first trip to America, Miss Clyne?”

  “Yes,” whispered the other.

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Very much.”

  “Where did you stay?”

  The question embarrassed her. “With a friend,” she admitted.

  “And what did you see?”

  “New York, principally. It took my breath away, Miss Masefield.”

  “It is rather splendid, isn’t it?”

  “I found it a little intimidating.”

  “So did I, at first.”

  “They were nice people,” said Pamela Clyne. “Very friendly.”

  “That’s what I found. Will you be going back again one day?”

  “Oh, no! There’s no possibility of that. This visit was very special. People like me don’t get to visit America more than once.” She looked around uneasily. “Especially in first class. I just don’t belong here.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Genevieve, with a smile of encouragement. “Savor every moment of it, Miss Clyne. Think of the stories you’ll be able to tell your friends.”

  “There is that.”

  Isadora soon reclaimed her but Genevieve did not forget Pamela Clyne. She wondered why such a tense and frightened woman had chosen to cross the Atlantic on her own, among people with whom she had so little in common. A week in the Lake District would have been more suited to her character. What impulse had taken her on a lengthy visit to a foreign country? It was baffling.

  Dinner in the second-class restaurant was also a rather grand affair but it was a treat the two detectives had to forgo. Inspector Redfern and Sergeant Mulcaster ate in their own cabin then took a tray of food apiece in to their prisoners. Redfern chose to visit Carrie Peterson and was pleased when she cleaned her plate for the first time. When he got back to his cabin, Redfern passed on the information to Mulcaster.

  “Heritage only pecked at his food,” said the sergeant. “I think he’s finally accepted that there’s no way out. We’ve got him.”

  “Yes, Ronnie. He gave himself away earlier when I asked about that poison.”

  “We still haven’t got a written confession out of him, though.”

  Redfern took out his pipe. “It will come.”

  Now that their charges had been fed and locked away, the two men could relax slightly. All the inspector wanted was to smoke a pipe and think about his wife and children. Mulcaster, a bachelor, had none of the comforts of family awaiting him in England. His mind was filled with visions of the kudos they would earn for their arrest of the two murder suspects. Excusing himself, he went out on deck for a stroll to ease the feeling of restlessness that had plagued him since they had set sail.

  Redfern was left alone. After lighting his pipe, he took out his wallet and extracted the sepia photograph of his wife that he always carried with him. She had been alarmed at the thought that he was going three thousand miles in pursuit of two murder suspects, and doubtless would have endured some sleepless nights in his absence. He longed for the moment when he could see her again and reassure her with a warm embrace.

  A polite tap on the door interrupted his thoughts. He looked up.

  “Yes?”

  “The steward, sir.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A message from the purser.”

  Redfern hauled himself out of his chair and opened the door. But there was no uniformed steward outside it. He found himself staring into the barrel of a revolver held only inches from his face.

  “Back inside,” ordered a curt voice. “I won’t ask twice, Inspector.”

  Daniel Webb believed he was the unhappiest passenger aboard the Caronia. He loathed being at sea, he despised the accommodations in steerage and he detested the country to which he was being forced to return. Old and in failing health, he had tried to start a new life in America with the thousands of other emigrants who flocked there but he had been turned back at Ellis Island. What counted against him were his age, his medical condition, and the fact that he had criminal convictions to his name. He cursed himself for
being so honest with the authorities. After being held in custody, he was summarily deported. The only way he could face the return voyage was by drinking as much alcohol as he could beg from other passengers. That night, he had been very successful, telling his tale of misery with such poignancy that he had earned himself a regular supply of beer. Webb had drunk too much too swiftly.

  In the hope that the fresh air would clear his head, he went up onto the main deck but his stomach continued to churn even more violently. After being sick over the rail, he stumbled backwards into the shadows and sat down involuntarily on a coil of thick rope. It was dark and late. A gusting wind deterred anyone from trying to spend the night on deck and very few passengers were about. Webb dozed off to sleep for a few moments. When he awoke, he saw something that made him sit up in astonishment. Two men came out of the gloom to approach the rail. The second of them was holding something to the back of his companion’s head and pushing him forward. When they reached the rail, the second man suddenly clubbed the other to the floor with a series of vicious blows. He then lifted the heavy body with some difficulty and tipped it over the side of the ship. The noise of the ship’s engines muffled the sound of the splash.

  Daniel Webb fell back into a drunken sleep.

  SEVEN

  The alarm was raised on the following morning when the steward assigned to their cabin brought breakfast for the Scotland Yard detectives. Getting no reply to his knock, he used his key to open the door and saw something that almost made him drop his tray. Bound and gagged, Inspector Redfern was lying on the floor in an unnatural position. The back of his head was caked in blood. Flying into a panic, the steward abandoned his tray and rushed off to find the purser. Within a matter of minutes, Paul Taggart had raced to the cabin with Dillman and the ship’s doctor in tow. While the detective started to untie Redfern, the doctor examined the victim’s head wound. As soon as his gag was removed, the inspector spluttered with relief.

  “Thank God!” he gasped. “I thought you’d never come.”

  “What happened?” asked Taggart.

  “I’m not entirely sure.”

  “You took quite a blow to the head,” said the doctor, cleaning the blood away with a piece of lint. “I’ll need to put stitches in this.”

  “Where’s Sergeant Mulcaster?” said Taggart.

  “I’ve no idea,” replied Redfern.

  “Why don’t we wait until the doctor has finished?” suggested Dillman, untying the last of the rope and allowing Redfern to flex his legs once more. “What the inspector could do with first, I suspect, is a nice cup of tea.” He crossed to the tray. “How do you take it, Inspector?”

  “With milk and two spoonfuls of sugar, please.”

  When Taggart helped him to his feet, Redfern swayed badly. The purser guided him to a chair and sat him down. After giving his patient a more detailed examination, the doctor began to clean the wound again so that he could insert the stitches. A dab of iodine made the inspector wince. Dillman poured the tea and brought it across to him.

  “Do you feel able to hold the cup yourself?” he asked.

  “I think so, Mr. Dillman.”

  “How long were you lying there?”

  “It seemed like an eternity.”

  “Two, three hours?”

  “All night.”

  Dillman waited while the doctor took over. Redfern did not flinch as the stitches were inserted, but he was evidently in pain. A night trussed up on the floor had left him with aching muscles and a pounding head.

  When he had stitched the head wound and covered it with bandaging, the doctor gave the patient some pills to relieve the pain. He hovered in the background while Taggart and Dillman fired their questions.

  “Now,” said the purser. “Take it slowly and tell us what happened.”

  Redfern bit his lip. “All I can remember is that someone knocked last night and claimed to be a steward. When I opened the door, I was staring into the barrel of a gun. A man ordered me back inside and made me turn round. Next moment, I had this bang on the head and fell to the floor unconscious.”

  “Did you get a good look at the man?” asked Dillman.

  “Not really.”

  “What was his face like?”

  “I’ve no idea, Mr. Dillman. He wore a hood.”

  “How tall was he? What sort of a build did he have?”

  “I didn’t have time to take any of that in,” Redfern admitted. “When you have a gun pointed at your head, all you can concentrate on is the weapon itself.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Where was Sergeant Mulcaster?” asked Taggart.

  “He went up on deck for a stroll.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, Mr. Taggart.”

  “Why didn’t he come back and release you?”

  “I’ve spent most of the night asking myself that question.”

  “He was intending to come back, then?”

  “Of course.”

  “Forgive me, Inspector,” said Taggart, “but I have to ask this. Is there any chance that the sergeant might have … slept in another cabin last night?”

  “Another cabin?”

  “I was just wondering if he might perhaps have had an assignation.”

  Redfern gave a dry laugh. “Not Ronnie. He has no time for women. Besides, he was on duty. We take it in turns to check on the prisoners every two hours throughout the night.” He sat up with concern. “They haven’t been released, have they?” he said. “Is that what this is all about? A rescue attempt?”

  “I’ll check,” said Taggart.

  Pulling out his master key, he went swiftly out of the cabin. Dillman took over.

  “This man who forced his way in here,” he resumed. “What was his voice like?”

  “Authoritative.”

  “What sort of an accent did he have? English? American?”

  “A mixture of both,” said Redfern. “He barked his orders at me, as if he were trying to disguise his voice. Once inside the cabin, he said nothing at all.”

  “Would you be able to recognize that voice again?”

  “I doubt it, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Can you remember what he was wearing?”

  “I’m afraid not. It all happened so quickly.”

  “The inspector is still groggy,” noted the doctor. “He may recall more detail in time. What he really needs to do now is rest.”

  “How can I rest after something like this?” Redfern said angrily.

  “Calm down, sir.”

  “I want this villain caught.”

  Taggart came back in.

  “Well?”

  “They’re both still there,” confirmed the purser.

  Redfern relaxed. “Thank heaven for that!”

  “Who would want to release them from custody?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Taggart. But I can’t think of any other reason why someone would want to disable me like that.”

  “Not to mention Sergeant Mulcaster,” observed Dillman. “Since he didn’t return here, we must presume that he was forcibly prevented from doing so.”

  Redfern was bewildered. “Why?”

  “That’s what we’ll have to find out.”

  “First of all, we have to track down the sergeant,” said Taggart. “I’ll organize a search. We’ll comb the vessel from top to bottom until we locate him.”

  “If he’s still on board.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Dillman?”

  “That we have to take every eventuality into account. Sergeant Mulcaster was a strong man, not easily overpowered. He was also devoted to duty,” said Dillman, “which is why his failure to return to the cabin is so disturbing. I hope there’s a simple explanation for his absence and that he was not attacked like the inspector. But we have to consider the worst possible situation,” he warned. “The sergeant may no longer be on the ship.”

  ______

  It was the rain that brought him awake. Carried by a swirling wind, it scoure
d the ship and kept all but a few passengers away from the unprotected areas of the deck. Daniel Webb opened his eyes to find that his clothes were damp and his face was covered in a wet film. He shook himself like an old dog. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings. When he finally realized that he was at the mercy of the elements, he hauled himself to his feet and sought shelter. The beer he had drunk on the previous night had left his head feeling muzzy and his stomach queasy. What troubled him most, however, was the strange dream he had had. It had been so vivid and frightening. He dreamt he had witnessed a murder that took place only yards away from him. A man had been clubbed to the deck before being tipped over the rail into the sea. Webb could not imagine a more horrible death. As he lurched off towards his steerage quarters, all he could think about was finding some more alcohol. It was the one thing that might block out the dream that was haunting him.

  Genevieve Masefield responded swiftly. When Dillman’s note was delivered to her cabin, its contents made her abandon her plans for breakfast in the restaurant. She hurried to the cabin occupied by the two Scotland Yard detectives and found Dillman alone in there with Inspector Redfern. The sight of the inspector’s head, swathed in a bandage, made her start. Dillman explained what had happened.

  “That’s dreadful!” she exclaimed.

  “I agree, Miss Masefield,” said Redfern. “Violence against a police officer is a serious offense. I’ll impress that fact on the villain when I catch up with him.”

  “You’re in no state to catch anyone at the moment,” Dillman said gently. “You spent the whole night tied up on the floor and you lost a fair amount of blood. Remember what the doctor advised, Inspector. You have to take it easy.”

  “Not a chance, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Any sign of Sergeant Mulcaster?” asked Genevieve.

  “They’re still searching for him.”

  “Where could he possibly be?”

  “We’re working on the theory he may have been attacked as well,” said Dillman. “It was a case of divide and rule. Someone waited until the inspector was alone in here before seizing his opportunity. That meant the sergeant was also alone.” He looked at Redfern. “Would he have been armed, Inspector?”