by Conrad Allen
“No idea.”
“But she could be,” said Odell, with rancor. “She’s the kind of woman who gets herself invited to things like this. It’s her world.”
“Why don’t we keep Genevieve’s name out of this?”
“You know damn well why not.”
“Wes—”
“She’s bad news, kid. Take my word for it.”
“Look,” said Wright, trying to keep calm. “When it comes to cycling, I worship you as a god. There’s nobody to touch you. Away from it, though, I make my own decisions and you’d better get used to the idea.”
“Not if one of those decisions costs us that race in France.”
“It won’t do that.”
“Stay away from her, Theo,” urged the coach. “Let’s skip that party this evening.”
“No, Wes.”
“I got this feeling about it.”
“So have I. It’s going to be good fun.”
“Pull out, Theo.”
“But I’ve no reason to.”
“I’m asking you, as a favor to me. I won’t be turning up, I know that.”
“You can please yourself,” said Wright. “Whatever happens, I’m going.”
Carrie Peterson was astonished when her visitor explained who she was. The prisoner stared at Genevieve Masefield with a surprise that was tinged with disbelief.
“You’re a detective?” she asked.
“Employed by the Cunard Line.”
“I didn’t realize a woman could do a job like that.”
Genevieve smiled. “We can go to places that men can’t always reach. When it comes to a difficult arrest, of course,” she said, “some male assistance is welcome.”
“I know all about being arrested,” said Carrie, scowling. “Sergeant Mulcaster left bruises all down my arm.” She was suspicious. “Why isn’t he here with you?”
“Inspector Redfern thought you might prefer to talk to me.”
“I’d rather talk to anyone but the sergeant.”
“If nothing else, I can break the monotony for you. Of course, you’re under no obligation to speak to me, Miss Peterson. Say the word and I’ll disappear.”
The other woman scrutinized her in silence for a long time.
“How is John?” she said at length.
“He’s fine, I promise you.”
“Have you seen him yourself?”
“No, but a colleague of mine had a long talk with him earlier. Mr. Heritage is bearing up very well under the circumstances.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Carrie.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“They shouldn’t treat me like this. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
The strain showed in her face and in the sag of her shoulders. Carrie Peterson looked weary and hunted. There was an edge of desperation in her voice. Genevieve schooled herself not to feel sorry for the woman. Objectivity was essential.
“May I sit down?” she asked.
Carrie nodded.
“Thank you.”
Genevieve took a seat but the other woman remained on her feet, still watchful.
“What exactly is going on, Miss Masefield?”
“ ‘Going on’?”
“Yes. Inspector Redfern has a bandage around his head, Sergeant Mulcaster hasn’t looked in all day, and now you turn up out of the blue. It smells fishy to me.”
“Does it?”
“Why should you be involved at all?”
“I explained that.”
“There something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
“Miss Peterson,” said Genevieve calmly, “I simply came here to listen to you. It’s all I’m authorized to do. I understand that you’ve been troubled by the way you’ve been questioned so far. It must have been frightening, coming as it did on top of the shock of the arrest.”
“I’ve been terrified.”
“Tell me why.”
Carrie Peterson needed some time before she decided she could trust her visitor. When she spoke again, she gave a detailed, if halting, account of her arrest and of the statements she’d given the detectives during her time on the vessel.
“I’ve told them the truth,” she pleaded. “We’re completely innocent.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Neither of us has ever been in trouble with the police before, Miss Masefield. We led respectable lives. We worked hard at the pharmacy. John and I caused no trouble to anybody.”
“You made up for that when you left,” Genevieve reminded her. “I gather that Mr. Duckham was distraught when the pair of you walked out on him without warning.”
“It was the only way we could do it, don’t you see?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Our hand was forced.”
“Did Mr. Heritage have to raid the shop account like that?”
“That’s what the inspector asked me,” said Carrie. “To be honest, it was the first I’d heard of it. If it happened, John must have had a good reason to do it.” Her voice darkened. “He suspected for a long time that his partner was taking money out of the account on the quiet. That’d be typical of Stephen Duckham! I shed no tears for him.”
“What Mr. Heritage did was a crime.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“And what about the death of Mrs. Heritage?”
“We knew nothing about that until the police arrested us.”
“Then why did you run away?” asked Genevieve. “If you were not implicated in Mrs. Heritage’s murder, why jump on a ship and sail to America?”
“It was our only chance,” said Carrie, sitting opposite her and leaning forward in her chair. “We knew that John’s wife would try to find us but we never imagined they’d follow us to Ireland. When we realized the police were on our tail, we thought Mrs. Heritage had sent them. So we booked passages on the first ship we could find.”
Genevieve pondered. “You didn’t like Mrs. Heritage, did you?”
“I despised her.”
“Why?”
“Because of the terrible way that she treated him.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“I saw it with my own eyes, Miss Masefield, believe me. Winifred Heritage was a witch. While he was in that house, John led a dog’s life.”
“It’s one that he chose himself, Miss Peterson.”
“That’s what he always used to say,” recalled Carrie. “John admitted that it was his own fault for marrying her. He’s a religious man. He took his marriage vows seriously.”
“Until he met you.”
“He wrestled with his conscience for months about us.”
“What about you?”
“I did the same, of course. What sort of people do you think we are?” asked Carrie with indignation. “I’d been brought up to believe that marriage was for life. The last thing I wanted to do was to break up a home.” She screwed up her face. “Then I met Mrs. Heritage and I changed my mind. It would have been cruel to leave him under the thumb of a woman like that.”
“Like what?”
“Have you ever been treated with total contempt by anyone, Miss Masefield?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
“John had to put up with that day after day. Sneers, insults, demands. It was the same at work,” she said. “Because he was the senior partner, Mr. Duckham used to tease and bully John. It was embarrassing to watch.”
“Why did Mr. Heritage put up with it?”
“Because he had no choice at first.”
“And then?”
“He saw a way out,” she said simply. “With me.”
“Whose idea was it to go to Ireland?”
“Mine. I had relatives in Cork.”
“What about your family in England?”
“I have none, to speak of. My parents both died.”
“You must have had lots of friends?”
“I just had to forget about those, Miss Masefield.”
“It
was such a huge step for the both of you to take,” said Genevieve. “Running away from everything like that. You must have thought about it for a long time.”
“We did.”
“Were there no misgivings?”
“None at all.”
“Did you never pause to consider the damage you’d leave behind?”
“No,” Carrie Peterson said with a defiant smile. “We’re in love.”
______
After sleeping for a couple off hours, Inspector Redfern awoke in his cabin. His head was still throbbing but there was far less pain. Anxious to get back to work, he struggled out of bed then summoned a steward to fetch some hot water. While the man was away, Redfern peeled off the bandaging and examined himself in the mirror. His face was drawn, his eyes bloodshot. His forehead still bore the imprint of the bandage. The hot water finally arrived and he was able to wash and shave. He felt much better as a result. Redfern had just finished dressing when there was a light tap on the door. He opened it to find Dillman outside. The visitor was invited in.
“I wasn’t sure if you were awake,” said Dillman. “That’s why I didn’t knock hard.” He peered considerately at the other man. “How are you feeling now, Inspector?”
“Better.”
“Good.”
“Any news?”
“I came to tell you about my conversation with Mr. Heritage.”
“How did you find him?”
“Bitter and unhappy.”
“Criminals are always like that after arrest,” said Redfern. “They always blame us for daring to catch them. And even if you nab them with a smoking gun in their hand, they always swear that they’re innocent. In twenty-five years of arresting villains, I’ve never had one with the guts to admit his guilt straight away.”
“Mr. Heritage is still protesting his innocence.”
“He would.”
“I expect that Carrie Peterson will do the same.”
“What did Miss Masefield get out of her?”
“I don’t know, Inspector. Genevieve is in there with her now. I daresay she’ll report to you when the interview is finished.” He produced a small notebook from his inside pocket. “But let me tell you about Mr. Heritage. I jotted this down after I’d left him. I didn’t want him to think he was being grilled.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Dillman.”
Redfern sat down to listen. He was impressed by Dillman’s lucid account of the meeting with the prisoner and interested to hear the new facts that had come to light. On one point, however, he remained skeptical.
“I refuse to believe that John Heritage bought that poison because he was contemplating suicide.”
“That’s how he thought you’d feel,” said Dillman.
“To begin with, I don’t think he’s the type.”
“Why not?”
“Look at the fellow, Mr. Dillman. He was locked into an unhappy marriage for all those years. His partner, Stephen Duckham, seems to have taken advantage of him at every stage. Heritage became resigned to it all,” said Redfern. “You don’t put up with that kind of misery for all those years then decide one day that you can’t stand it. He could stand it. That’s obvious.”
“You’re forgetting the crucial factor.”
“Am I?”
“Carrie Peterson. When she came into his life,” said Dillman, “everything was transformed. He suddenly had a vision of a better life with her. He just couldn’t go on as he was. The low point came when his wife refused to give him a divorce. My guess is that that was when he had these suicidal thoughts.”
“Thoughts, maybe. But would he have the courage to act on them?”
“You need desperation rather than courage, Inspector. He certainly had that.”
“What about Miss Peterson? He claims to love her.”
“I don’t think we can doubt that.”
“Would any man commit suicide in that situation? He’d be leaving her in the most appalling predicament. Heritage would never have done that to Carrie Peterson.”
“Probably not.”
“There’s another point, Mr. Dillman. According to the pathology report, the poisons he bought were used to make a lethal compound. Winifred Heritage died in agony. Her husband was a pharmacist,” said Redfern. “If he was planning to kill himself, surely he’d have chosen a less painful method.”
Dillman nodded. “What puzzled me is the record book, Inspector.”
“Why?”
“When he bought the poison, Heritage noted it down with care. When you found his wife dead, all you had to do was to look in the record book at the pharmacy, and there was your proof.” Dillman shrugged. “Mr. Heritage is an intelligent man. He would have diverted suspicion away from himself, not paint a large red arrow for the police to follow. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It does when you really get to know him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve played chess with him, remember? His true character began to emerge then. He was toying with me, laughing into his beard every time I made a mistake. I think he wanted us to know that he’d murdered his wife,” said Redfern, “because he never thought we’d track him to Ireland. Don’t you see, Mr. Dillman? He was taunting us.”
“There’s a big difference between a game of chess and a murder.”
“Both involve cunning and forethought.”
“True.”
“Be frank with me. You’ve met the man. Do you think he’s capable of murder?”
“Yes,” decided Dillman. “He’s capable of it, but that doesn’t mean he actually committed it.” He put his notebook away. “Does the name of Sidney Nicholls mean anything to you?”
Redfern’s face hardened. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he was mentioned by Sergeant Mulcaster on more than one occasion, it seems. When he questioned Mr. Heritage, the sergeant used to boast about some of the arrests he’d made. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead,” said Dillman, “but your colleague does seem to have exceeded the bounds of reasonable force at times.”
“Ronnie Mulcaster was a good detective.”
“I’m sure that he was.”
“I don’t need to tell you how aggressive some criminals can get.”
“Was this Sidney Nicholls one of them?”
“According to Sergeant Mulcaster,” said Redfern. “He was working with someone else in those days. Nicholls was the worst kind of villain. He was completely unscrupulous. We’d been after him for years.”
“He was involved in drug trafficking, I believe.”
“And prostitution. Sidney Nicholls was scum, Mr. Dillman. When Ronnie finally caught up with him, Nicholls gave him a lot of verbal abuse. Ronnie saw red and gave him the hiding that he deserved.”
“In other words, he lost his temper.”
“He was provoked,” Redfern said defensively.
“What did his superiors do?”
“They gave him a reprimand.”
“Is that all? It sounds to me as if Sergeant Mulcaster went too far.”
“Nicholls was asking for it, Mr. Dillman.”
“Would you have responded like that, Inspector?”
“No,” Redfern admitted. “I’d have exercised restraint.”
“What happened when Sergeant Mulcaster was reprimanded?”
“I spoke up for him, Mr. Dillman. I asked for him to be transferred to me.”
“When was this?”
“A few years ago.”
“Did the sergeant do anything like that again?”
“Nothing as bad as that.”
“But there were other occasions when he became over-zealous?”
“Look, why are we talking about him like this?” Redfern said angrily. “Ronnie Mulcaster had an excellent record as a detective. He got results and that’s what matters. You ought to be searching for his killer, not running the man down. Why dredge up the name of a villain like Sidney Nicholls?”
“Because I think he may be relevant here.”<
br />
“How?”
“Indirectly,” said Dillman. “He may be part of the reason that you were spared and Sergeant Mulcaster was murdered. What you’ve just told me has made me even more convinced of it. We have a clear motive, Inspector.”
“Do we?”
“Revenge.”
Locked in his cell again, John Heritage had plenty of time to brood. He wondered what sort of an impression he had made on Dillman. The detective was not an official part of the investigation but he was a means by which Inspector Redfern could be influenced. Heritage had reservations about his visitor. Dillman had been polite, efficient, and highly plausible but his reason for being there was never exactly clear. Heritage had been on guard throughout, sensing that the American was there to use a friendly chat as a subtle means of cross-examination. It was a more pleasant way of being questioned than either of the Scotland Yard detectives could devise, and it got him, albeit briefly, out of the narrow confines of his cell. For that alone, he was grateful to Dillman. Whether or not he could count on him as a possible ally was uncertain. Heritage reminded himself that, in essence, his visitor was a policeman. None of them could be trusted.
While his chief concern was the fate of Carrie Peterson, he also speculated on the whereabouts of Sergeant Mulcaster. It was late afternoon and still he had seen no sign of the man. That was highly unusual. Mulcaster was the sort of person who would be sure to call on him, if only to gloat through the bars in the window. Heritage suspected it was on the sergeant’s advice that he had been moved from his cabin. By depriving him of any comforts, they were hoping to weaken his resistance. That seemed to be their strategy. Ignoring him throughout the day might also be deliberate. It left him vulnerable to the more relaxed interrogation by Dillman and allowed the two detectives to concentrate instead on Carrie Peterson. It was impossible to know how she would cope under the strain. Unable to help her or even to make contact with her, Heritage felt sad and frustrated. The blame lay firmly on him and he was beset by recriminations.
It was the commotion that interrupted his brooding. An old man’s voice, slurred and angry, echoed along the corridor. There were distinct sounds of a scuffle.
“Take your hands off me!” yelled the old man.
“Come along, sir,” said a younger voice. “You need to sober up.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, you bastard!”
