by Conrad Allen
“Perhaps that was his downfall, Inspector.”
“In what way?”
“I was standing by the gangway when you came aboard,” said Dillman. “Sergeant Mulcaster did go out of his way to be seen. There was no need to tote that shotgun.”
“It wasn’t our idea. The newspapers wanted photographs of the prisoners being escorted aboard. They begged us to have a weapon in sight. The New York Police Department didn’t wish to miss out on publicity, either, so they assigned those two officers you saw. It was all done for the camera.”
“I thought it looked staged.”
“We deliberately left it until the last moment to board the ship so that we wouldn’t cause too much disruption.”
“You were still seen,” Dillman reminded him. “That’s what I keep coming back to. Someone may have recognized you. Someone with a reason to dislike Scotland Yard detectives.”
“British prisons are full of people like that.”
“We may have one or two aboard, Inspector.”
“But we took care to keep our heads down, Mr. Dillman. Neither of us went anywhere near the public rooms. I made sure of that.”
“Someone found out about this cabin.”
“But why kill Sergeant Mulcaster and not me?” wondered Redfern. “That man had me at his mercy. He could easily have smashed my head in. Instead of that, he knocks me out and ties me up.”
“Leaving the field clear for the attack on your colleague.”
“But I had no intention of going up on deck.”
“The attacker didn’t know that,” reasoned Dillman. “What was certain was that you’d soon have started to worry about the sergeant’s absence. You knew precisely how much time it took him to smoke a cigarette. Before long, you’d have gone looking for him.”
“True.”
“The villain was taking no chance. He was a belt-and-suspenders man. With you out of action, it would be a whole night before Sergeant Mulcaster’s disappearance was reported. By that time, the killer had merged back into our passenger list.”
“It’s frightening,” confessed Redfern.
“We won’t let him get away with it.”
“Look at the size of the ship, Mr. Dillman.”
“I know, sir. It won’t be easy to track our man down.”
“Where do we look?”
“Everywhere.”
There was no rest from the training schedule. While other passengers relaxed or spent the afternoon in various leisure pursuits, Theodore Wright was pounding his way around the boat deck, grateful the rain had stopped but wishing he could catch a glimpse of either Genevieve Masefield or Isadora Singleton to relieve the boredom of his run. His routine was well known by now and other passengers waved to him as he passed. Some even gave him a round of applause to encourage him. Wright acknowledged them with a wave but he was disappointed not to see a sign of the two passengers he liked most. As he made his final circuit, a tall, graceful woman stepped out on deck some thirty yards ahead of him, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat covered in flowers. Thinking it was Genevieve, he accelerated at once then saw he was mistaken. Lifting her head, the woman gave him an unfriendly glare but Wright did not even see it. His eyes were fixed on her hat.
Five minutes later, he was lying facedown on his bunk while his coach massaged his legs. Wes Odell worked slowly, using his fingers to explore any tightening in the calf and thigh muscles. He was a skilled masseur whose preparation of the cyclist enabled Wright to win a sequence of races without once suffering from cramp. The coach took the opportunity to raise a delicate subject.
“Wait until after the race, Theo,” he advised.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s the time to celebrate. When you’ve taught Gaston Vannier that he ought to keep his mouth shut. Win the race first and then start worrying about finding yourself a girlfriend to take out for dinner.”
“It’s not a girlfriend I’m looking for, Wes.”
“Then what is it?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” said Wright.
“Try me.”
“Well, I don’t want to push those pedals for the rest of my days.”
“Nobody’s asking you to, Theo.”
Wright laughed. “You would. Given the chance, you’d keep me in the saddle until I was sixty. I’m looking ahead, Wes. I have to retire someday.”
“When you’ve proved that you’re the best.”
“I am the best.”
“Only back home,” said Odell, pouring something onto his palms from a jug before continuing his massage. “You haven’t conquered France yet—or England, for that matter. You want to finish at the top, don’t you?”
“Definitely. I aim to retire unbeaten.”
“Then let’s have a final push for the next year or two. Win the Bordeaux-to-Paris and the whole of Europe will know about Theo Wright. That’s when we cash in, don’t you see? Make your name then reap the rewards.”
Wright was hesitant. “For two more years?”
“Maybe more, maybe less.”
“It certainly won’t be more, Wes.”
“Don’t be too hasty,” said Odell, moving his hands from one leg to another. “You’ve put the hard work in. Reap the benefits. When you’ve made your name in France, the offers will come flooding in. Everyone will want you to take part in their races because Theo Wright will sell tickets. They’ll pay you appearance money. We’ll be able to name our own price. Just think how much we could clean up.”
“You always said we weren’t in this for the dough.”
“We’re not, Theo—but we have to eat.”
“I want to move into designing bicycles,” said Wright. “Nobody knows as much about them as me. That’s where my future lies—on the drafting board. But I want a private life as well—a wife, kids, a proper home. I’m fed up with traveling, Wes.”
“It will all come in the fullness of time.”
“I may not be able to wait that long.”
Odell took a stand. “We’ve got a contract, remember,” he asserted.
“It doesn’t bind me hand and foot forever.”
“No, but it does give me certain rights.”
“I don’t recall any mention of a right to control what I do when I’m not in the saddle,” said Wright, turning over and sitting up. “So let’s get one thing clear, shall we? If I fall for someone, that’s my business. As a long as it doesn’t get in the way of my cycling, I’ll do what I damn well like. Okay?” He saw the coach’s shining palms. “Hey, what did you put on my legs today? It’s not the usual stuff.”
“It’s a new ointment I’m trying. How does it feel?”
“Great! It’s really great.”
“Good.”
“It doesn’t smell as strong as the liniment.”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
Wiping his hands on a towel, Odell turned away from him to hide the scowl on his face. He was seething with resentment. When they had stepped onto the vessel, Theodore Wright had been completely under his control. Power had shifted slightly. The cyclist wanted to make his own decisions now. The problem had to be addressed.
Although he was now engaged in a murder investigation, Dillman could not neglect his more routine duties. When another passenger in second class reported the theft of a wallet, the detective wondered if it had been the work of the same pickpocket. After taking a statement from the victim, he came to the conclusion that one man had been responsible for both of the crimes that had come to light. Convinced they took place in one of the public rooms, Dillman walked toward the second-class lounge. As he turned a corner, he caught sight of a familiar profile. Ramsey Leach came up some steps before walking jauntily along the corridor toward him. When he saw Dillman, the undertaker’s smile faded.
“Hello, Mr. Leach,” said Dillman, coming to a halt.
“Good afternoon.”
“What are you doing down here?”
“I got lost, Mr. Dillman.”
&
nbsp; “I should have thought you’d have found your way around the ship by now.”
“Yes,” said Leach with a pained smile. “I took a wrong turning somewhere.”
“Remember the decks in order of descent.”
“Is that the way to do it?”
“I think so. Boat, promenade, shelter, upper, main, lower, orlop. There’s also the lower orlop, of course, but you don’t need to go anywhere near that.”
“No, Mr. Dillman.”
“I haven’t seen much of you since the first day.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed you from time to time.”
“What about Mr. Openshaw?”
“I’ve kept well out of his way,” said Leach with a faint smile. “He’s a rough diamond and I’m never easy in their company. I kept feeling sorry for his wife.”
“Mrs. Openshaw?”
“Yes. I wondered how many times she’d heard the story of his life. As for his boast of being ‘Frank by name and frank by nature,’ she must wish that her husband could find something new to say.”
“Frank Openshaw is harmless enough.”
“I agree, Mr. Dillman, and I mean no criticism of him. What he’s done is truly remarkable. He’s given generously to various charities as well. I take my hat off to him. But I don’t really want to sit opposite him again,” he confessed. “In my profession, people tend to talk very quietly. Frank Openshaw is too deafening for me.”
“He’s loud,” agreed Dillman, “but not offensively so. And I found Mrs. Openshaw delightful. My only complaint about the meal we shared with them is that you and I didn’t get a chance to have a proper conversation.”
“I’m not a very sociable being.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to have heard what you thought of America.”
“It was astounding. I spent the whole time with my jaw agape.”
“We do like to do things on a massive scale.”
“It was the pace of life that I noticed. So much faster than in England.” He gave another pale smile. “I suppose I’ve been spoiled. In my daily work, everything moves very sedately. I prefer it that way.” He stepped past Dillman. “But I won’t hold you up.”
“You’re not doing so, Mr. Leach. I was going to ask what brought you across the Atlantic in the first place.”
“Curiosity, Mr. Dillman.”
“Where exactly did you go?”
Leach looked uneasy. “I haven’t time to discuss that now, I’m afraid,” he said, moving away. “Do excuse me. I’ll make sure that I don’t go astray again.”
Dillman watched him scurry along the corridor. For a man who went through life at a funereal tread, Ramsey Leach was going at a surprising speed.
Genevieve Masefield’s pace was steady rather than fast. She seemed to glide along. After visiting the purser and hearing about the evidence provided by Daniel Webb, she had to return briefly to her cabin. Before she could open the door, however, she saw a steward walking purposefully toward her.
“Miss Masefield?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“These are for you.”
He handed her a large bunch of flowers and walked away. She was mystified.
NINE
Carrie Peterson sensed something had happened. They had left her alone for too long. In the past, Inspector Redfern had always brought her meals in. He and Sergeant Mulcaster had questioned her regularly as they tried to catch her out and wrest a confession from her. By applying more pressure each day, they hoped to break her resistance. Yet there had been little sign of them so far. Inspector Redfern had made only a brief appearance to check on her, not even staying long enough for her to ask why his head was bandaged. Mulcaster never turned up at all. It was puzzling. Something unusual had occurred and she was bound to fear that it was connected with her lover. Had they used violence against him? Since their arrest, Mulcaster had often seemed on the verge of doing so. Carrie was disturbed. Was the inspector’s injury the result of a tussle in which John Heritage had fought back?
Her anxiety slowly intensified. Her lover would stand no chance against the combined strength of two detectives. The thought they might have tried to beat information out of him brought her out in a cold sweat. The longer they left her alone, the greater her fears became. Her whole body began to tremble. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Carrie rushed to the door and started to pound on it with her fists.
“Don’t touch him!” she yelled. “Leave John alone.”
The noise brought an instant response. Inspector Redfern came out of the next cabin to unlock her door. Bursting in, he eased her back to the center of the room.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
“I want you to stop hitting John.”
“We haven’t touched him, Miss Peterson.”
“Are you sure?” she demanded.
“Completely. Now, let’s have no more outbursts like that,” he said sternly. “You’ll disturb the other passengers and we can’t allow that. If you can’t behave, we shall have to place you under restraint. Do you understand?”
“I was worried about John.”
“Without cause.”
“I know that Sergeant Mulcaster threatened to punch him.”
“Mr. Heritage is unharmed.”
“You would say that, Inspector. Let me see him. Show him to me.”
“No,” said Redfern.
“A glance is all I ask. Just to reassure myself. Let me peep into his cabin.”
“He’s not there anymore, Miss Peterson.”
She became alarmed. “Where is he?”
“Mr. Heritage has been moved elsewhere.”
“Why?”
“That’s my business.”
“Have you taken him somewhere more private so I won’t hear his screams of pain while you hit him? Is that what you’ve done?”
“Of course not,” replied Redfern, raising both hands to calm her. “We’d never do anything like that. Contrary to what you might imagine, we take care of our suspects. We treat them with a degree of respect, however dreadful their crimes.”
“John hasn’t committed a crime.”
“He stole money from the business account, Miss Peterson. That was certainly a crime. Ask his partner. Stephen Duckham was in a terrible state when he learned what the pair of you had done.”
She looked surprised. “I know nothing about any business account.”
“Where do you think the money came from to buy your tickets to Ireland?”
“From our savings. John and I saved up for months.”
“That obviously wasn’t enough,” said Redfern, “so Mr. Heritage plundered the pharmacy account. I can see why Mr. Duckham was so distraught. That was the money used to buy fresh supplies of drugs.”
“I don’t believe you. John would never do a thing like that.”
“He deserted his partner without warning. So did you.”
“That was different,” she argued.
“Is it? How do you imagine Mr. Duckham felt when he saw that the pair of you had disappeared together? He couldn’t run the pharmacy on his own, especially as the funds kept for purchasing stock had been raided.”
Her mood changed. “Stephen deserved it,” she said coldly.
“Nobody deserves to be treated like that.”
“He did. It was John who did most of the work at the pharmacy, helped by me. Stephen Duckham was a dreadful man. Because he was the senior partner, he used to push us both around at will. In my case,” she added, wincing at the memory, “he did rather more than push.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He caught me on my own in the storeroom, Inspector. He began to take liberties. I begged him to stop but he kept on molesting me. If he hadn’t heard John coming in from the shop, I don’t know what would have happened.”
“Did you complain to Mr. Heritage?”
“Not at first,” she said, shaking her head. “I was too embarrassed. Besides, it would have been m
y word against that of Mr. Duckham. I didn’t think anyone would believe me.” She smiled reflectively. “But John did. He sensed that something untoward had happened. He pretended not to notice it but he made sure that he walked home with me that evening so he could get the story out of me.”
“Was he shocked?”
“No, Inspector. That was the awful thing. Apparently it was not the first time Stephen Duckham had tried to take advantage of a female employee. The young lady before me had resigned because of him.”
“What did Mr. Heritage do?”
“He promised to look after me in future.”
“Didn’t he challenge his partner?”
“John didn’t want to do that in case it caused trouble. When all was said and done, he and Mr. Duckham had to go on working together. And he guaranteed my safety,” she stressed, “so I was prepared to stay in my post. In fact,” she admitted, “after the talk we had that evening, nothing would have made me leave. That was how it started.”
“Your romance with Mr. Heritage?”
“He came to my rescue.”
“I can’t say that he looks much like a knight in shining armor to me,” Redfern said doubtfully. “I presume you were fully aware that Mr. Heritage was a married man at the time. Did that fact carry no weight?”
“Naturally, Inspector. I agonized over it for months.”
“What about him?”
She hesitated. “John was not well treated at home,” she said at length.
“Is that why the two of you conspired to kill Mrs. Heritage?”
“She didn’t deserve John.”
His ears pricked up. “So you were responsible for her death?”
“I didn’t say that, Inspector. Don’t ask me to grieve for her, that’s all.”
“Mr. Heritage shows no remorse, either.”
“Why should he?”
“A wife is a wife, Miss Peterson.”
A strange look came into her eye. She gave a mocking smile. “But he doesn’t have a wife anymore,” she said quietly. “Does he?”
As she arranged the flowers carefully in the vase, Genevieve speculated on who might have sent them. The mixed bouquet was expensive. Evidently it had come as a gesture of affection, yet there was no card from the sender. She wondered why. Did he wish to remain anonymous until he saw how she reacted, or did he assume that she would guess instantly who had bought the flowers? It was puzzling and it took some of the edge off the pleasure she had experienced at receiving the gift. Was there a hidden meaning in it? What would she be required to do in return? By the time she had finished arranging the flowers, she felt quite unsettled.
