by Conrad Allen
There was a long pause. “Let’s get you back to your cabin, shall we?”
By the time she arrived, almost all the other guests were there. Frank Openshaw swooped down on her to clasp her hand and shake it. He beamed with delight.
“We thought you’d forgotten us, Miss Masefield.”
“I could never do that, Mr. Openshaw.”
“Why stand on ceremony? I’m always ‘Frank’ to my friends. And I know they all laugh behind my back when I come out with my catchphrase,” he added with a chuckle, “but people remember it. I get noticed.”
Genevieve smiled. “Nobody could dispute that.”
Taking her gently by the arm, he introduced her to some of the others in the cabin. Most of them were strangers to her but she had met Stanley Chase before. In spite of carrying too much weight, he looked very striking in his white tie and tails, and wholly at ease in the surroundings. He was in good spirits, explaining to Genevieve that he had just interested a London banker in a Regency secretaire he had in stock. Iris Cooney was also in sparkling form. For a woman with severe arthritis, she was incredibly zestful, holding a small audience spellbound with a description of a trek she had once made in Africa with her late husband.
Standing on the fringe of the group, silent and forlorn, was Pamela Clyne. She wore a nondescript dress made from a dull brownish material. Among the fashionable evening gowns of the other ladies, it rendered her almost invisible. Long gloves of black lace stretched up to her elbows. Her only concession to style was a gold brooch in the form of a leaf, pinned close to her left shoulder.
When she saw Genevieve in her full splendor, she backed away and simpered.
“Good evening, Miss Clyne,” said Genevieve.
“Hello.”
“Nice to see you again.”
“Thank you.”
A waiter brought a tray of drinks across to them and Genevieve took a glass of champagne from it. When he held the tray in front of Pamela Clyne, she shook her head.
“I’ve had one glass,” she said apologetically. “That’s all I can manage.”
The waiter went off to circle the room. Genevieve sipped her drink.
“Mrs. Cooney seems to be enjoying herself,” she observed.
“She always does.”
“That’s a lovely dress she’s wearing.”
“It’s not as lovely as yours,” said Pamela, glancing at her companion’s blue velvet evening gown. It exposed both of Genevieve’s shoulders. “You’re so brave, Miss Masefield. I could never wear anything like that.”
“Of course you could.”
“I’d be too afraid people would stare at me.”
“That’s what they’re supposed to do.”
“You can carry it off.”
“So could you, if you tried.” Genevieve waved an arm to include the whole room. “Look around you, Miss Clyne. You’re among friends. There’s no need to be a shrinking violet here. Try to show off a little.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. It’s not in my nature.”
With a shy smile, she withdrew to the corner of the room. Frank Openshaw brought his wife across to be introduced to Genevieve, then left them alone together.
“My husband was right,” Kitty said approvingly.
“About what?”
“About you, of course. Frank said you turn heads.”
“That can be a handicap sometimes, Mrs. Openshaw.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. The only person whose head I ever turned was Frank Openshaw’s. Not that I’ve regretted it for a moment,” she said, looking fondly across at him. “He’s been a wonderful husband. My only complaint is that he can’t stop making money.”
Genevieve laughed. “Most wives would think that was a virtue.”
“Well, it is, I suppose. It just means that we’ll never be able to retire. We have more than enough money to live on but Frank can’t resist making that one extra deal.”
“I had a feeling he was talking business with Mr. Chase.”
“Yes,” said Kitty. “He mentioned that. But there’ll be others as well. There always are.” She smiled tolerantly. “My husband will be getting people to invest in one of his companies until the day he dies.”
“I hope that won’t be for a long time yet, Mrs. Openshaw.”
“So do I, believe me. My investment is in Frank himself. Oh, look,” she said, seeing Pamela Clyne by the wall, “that poor lady is all on her own. Somehow, I don’t think she enjoys parties. I’d better go and rescue her.”
“Please do.”
Genevieve sipped her champagne again and gazed around the cabin. Before she could rejoin the group encircling Mrs. Cooney, she was pounced on by Theodore Wright. He came bounding up to her with a broad grin on his face.
“I was waiting for the chance to catch you alone,” he said.
“Hello, Theo.” She stood back to appraise him. “Is it really you?”
“Don’t say it. I look dumb in this outfit.”
“Not at all. You look …” Genevieve groped for the appropriate word. “… different.”
“You’re just being polite.”
“Perhaps it isn’t altogether ideal for you.”
Genevieve fought hard to control her amusement. It was the first time she had seen Wright in a white tie and tails. He looked almost ludicrous. The trousers were too short, the coat far too large, and the person inside both of them had no idea how to hold himself. A hand in his pocket, he put his weight on one leg so that he stood at a slight angle. His unruly hair had been covered in some kind of brilliantine then slicked fiercely back in the most unbecoming way. Genevieve warmed to him even more. Other people would have been embarrassed to look so out-of-place at a public function but Wright almost reveled in it. His clownish appearance did not worry him at all.
“Maybe I should have worn a red nose and a wig as well,” he said.
“I think you’ve created enough interest as it is.”
“Nobody will notice me beside you, Genevieve.”
The intensity in his voice worried her slightly. “Where’s your coach?” she asked. “I don’t see any sign of him.”
“Wes is not coming.”
“Wasn’t he invited?”
“Yes, but he pulled out. He’s still sulking in the cabin.”
“Why?”
“No reason,” he said casually. He used a finger to loosen his collar. “I’m baking in this thing. It’s so warm in here.” He sipped his drink. “How are you, anyway?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Not often I catch you without Isadora clutching at your skirt.”
“She is rather possessive.”
“Did she tell you our secret?”
“No, Theo.”
“Then I’ll say nothing more.”
“Why not?”
“Isadora would rather tell you herself.”
“Can’t you even give me a clue?”
“She’d be real upset if I did that, Genevieve.”
He gazed admiringly at her again and she remembered what Wes Odell had said to her. According to the coach, Wright was more than interested in her. The look in his eye seemed to confirm that. He moved in closer to her.
“What kind of a day have you had?” he asked.
“A very pleasant one.”
“Anything special happen?”
“Not that I can think of, Theo.”
“No surprises?” he probed. “No unexpected gifts?”
Genevieve was taken aback. Realizing at once that he had sent the flowers, she did not know quite how to react. Too gushing a response would encourage him, while too formal a reply might wound his feelings. She opted for a controlled enthusiasm.
“The flowers were gorgeous,” she said. “Thank you, Theo.”
“Did you guess they came from me?”
“Eventually.”
“ ‘Eventually’?” he echoed, pretending to be upset. “How many other guys would think of sending you flowers like that? I got
the idea from this woman up on deck. She was wearing this hat that was covered in flowers.” He leaned in even closer. “I was hoping you’d guess right away who it was. Knowing it was me, you’d understand why I didn’t need a card.”
“Well, no. To be honest, I was rather puzzled about that.”
“The flowers said it all, didn’t they?”
“I suppose so.”
“There you are, then.”
She felt uncomfortable. “Does Wes know that you sent them?”
“Of course not,” he replied. “He’d tear his hair out if he did.”
“Then don’t you think it was a little unwise? … Don’t misunderstand me,” she went on. “I was thrilled to receive them and they fill my cabin with the most lovely scent, but I don’t want to cause a rift between you and your coach.”
“Forget him.”
“It’s difficult to do that.”
“Wes is not here now, is he? So—talk to me.”
“That’s what I am doing, Theo.”
“No, you’re not, Genevieve. You’re holding out on me.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“Then give me a proper answer,” he insisted. “What did you think when those flowers were delivered to you?”
“I thought it was a lovely gesture and I’m very grateful to you.”
He became serious. “It was more than a gesture.”
Genevieve felt uneasy. Instead of being able to relax in congenial company, she had been put on the spot by a direct question from an admirer. She began to wish that it had been Cecilia Robart who sent the bouquet, not Theodore Wright. The flowers were an indication of his commitment. Staring intently into her eyes, he was hoping for a positive response. Genevieve was glad when Frank Openshaw came to her rescue.
“Hello, Theo,” he said, clapping the cyclist on the shoulder. “You’re the only person in the room who isn’t drinking this wonderful champagne. I know you’re in training but can’t you let yourself go just a little?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Pity. Anyway, come on, lad. Be fair. We can’t have you monopolizing the lovely Miss Masefield like this. You have to share her with the rest of us.”
“Sure,” said Wright, forcing a smile.
Genevieve breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
The purser was heartened by his stroll around the upper decks of the Caronia. Everything was under control. The passengers were happy, the crew was pleasant and efficient, the ship was maintaining good speed, and the general atmosphere was buoyant. Apart from the glaring exception of Mrs. Anstruther, everyone seemed to be content. None of them knew about the callous murder that had occurred on the previous night. Sergeant Mulcaster may have caused a splash in the ocean but his death did not even create a minor ripple among the passengers on the Caronia. Paul Taggart was reassured. For the first time that day, he actually began to relax.
Arriving back at his office, he found he had a visitor waiting for him.
“Ah,” said Inspector Redfern, “I was hoping to catch you.”
“Did you see the skipper?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get on with him?”
“Not all that well, actually. Captain Warr can be very prickly.”
“He’s fine when you get to know him, Inspector.”
“We didn’t meet in the best of circumstances,” admitted Redfern. “Having to report the murder of a colleague is not the most enjoyable duty. The captain was sympathetic but he was also critical. He came very close to blaming me for not keeping a closer eye on my sergeant.”
“You weren’t to know he was in danger,” Taggart said reasonably. “Besides, you expect a trained policeman like that to look after himself. It’s not your job.”
“I think Captain Warr came to appreciate that eventually. And, in fairness, he was very sorry about the injuries I’d sustained.”
“Are you feeling better now, Inspector?”
“Much better, thanks. At least, I was until I spoke with Mr. Dillman.”
“Dillman?”
“I’d asked him to say nothing about last night to anyone at all, especially to the prisoners. The captain was equally anxious to keep this whole thing quiet. He wants us to catch the killer before anyone else even realizes there was a murder.”
“That’s my view as well.”
“We’re too late, Mr. Taggart.”
“Why?”
“The cat’s already out of the bag. John Heritage knows the truth.”
“I can’t believe Mr. Dillman told him.”
“He fears that he did—indirectly. Do you recall Daniel Webb?”
“Vividly. My office stank for an hour after he’d left.”
“Apparently Mr. Dillman bought him a bottle of whisky in order to coax evidence out of him. Webb went off to celebrate,” said Redfern. “Drank half the bottle and got into a brawl with the other people in his cabin. Three members of the crew had to manhandle him. When they put him in the cell next to Heritage, he spilled the beans.”
“But we warned him to keep his mouth shut.”
“The whisky loosened his tongue, I’m afraid.”
“Wait a minute,” said Taggart. “All that Webb saw was someone being heaved over the side of the vessel. He had no idea who it was and, in the interests of secrecy, we took great care not to tell him Sergeant Mulcaster’s name. How could he possibly have passed it on to Mr. Heritage?”
“He didn’t. He simply boasted that he was a star witness in a murder case.”
“I get it.”
“When he described what he saw, Heritage put two and two together.”
“We should have bound and gagged the old idiot!”
“You can see why Mr. Dillman blames himself,” said Redfern. “If he hadn’t given him that bottle of whisky, none of this would have happened. Because he did, we had a fight in steerage, extensive damage to a cabin, and such foul language from Daniel Webb that the air turned blue.”
Taggart fumed. “Wait till I get my hands on him!”
“You’ll have to wait your turn. Mr. Dillman is first in the queue.”
Daniel Webb had drifted off into a deep sleep. Even when he rolled over and fell off his bunk, he did not rouse from his slumbers. Dillman had to shake him unmercifully before he came awake. The old man got one eye half open.
“Where am I?” he groaned.
“Where you should be, Mr. Webb,” said Dillman. “Behind bars.”
“Eh?”
“You got drunk.”
“No, not me, sir. I never get drunk.”
“I can still smell the whisky on you.”
“Oh, yes. That was good stuff. I enjoyed it.”
“Too well, it seems.”
Taking him by the scruff of his neck, Dillman hauled Webb upright then sat him on the edge of the bunk. The sudden movement set off a series of aches and pains. Clutching his head in both hands, the old man winced aloud. He then started to massage limbs that were stiff from their time on the hard floor of the cell. Dillman showed no compassion.
“You forgot your promise, didn’t you?” he said.
Webb blinked in agony. “My head is splitting.”
“What do you expect if you drink all that whisky?”
“They tried to take the bottle off me—those Yankee bastards in my cabin.”
“According to them, you swung it like a club. Mr. Miller had to have six stitches put into a head wound that you gave him. I’ve just come from him and his story is very different from yours, Mr. Webb.”
“Then he’s lying!”
“He and his friends were sober. You were drunk. I know who I believe.”
“Trust you to side with those rotten Yanks!”
Dillman knelt down close to him. “We warned you, didn’t we?” he said into the old man’s face. “The purser and I emphasized that you were not to breathe a word of what you saw to anybody.”
“And I didn’t—I swear it!”
“Then how did Mr. Heri
tage come to hear about it?”
“Who?”
“John Heritage. The man in the next cell to you.”
“Is that his name? He didn’t tell me.”
“You did all the talking, Mr. Webb, that’s why. You opened your big mouth and told him everything you saw on the main deck last night.”
Webb was confused. “Did I?”
“You know you did. Because of that, I’m going to recommend that we keep you locked up in here for the rest of the voyage.”
“Don’t do that!”
“You can’t be trusted,” said Dillman. “If we let you out of here, everyone on the ship will soon know what happened. We can’t take that chance.”
“I give you my word, Mr. Dillman!” the old man vowed.
“You gave it to us once before.”
“This time I’ll keep it.”
“Until you get the next drink inside you.”
“But you told me that I helped you.”
“You did, Mr. Webb. I admit that freely. You gave us valuable evidence and we’re grateful to you. But,” Dillman said firmly, “this latest escapade of yours has exhausted our gratitude.”
“Let me out, sir,” implored Webb. “I’ll behave. Honest to God.”
“Your promises are worthless.”
“I can’t spend the rest of the trip in here.”
“Oh yes you can.”
“But there’s days to go yet.”
“You should have thought of that before you guzzled all that whisky.”
“I was thirsty.”
“Well, you won’t get any alcohol in here,” warned Dillman, standing up. “You know what I think about you. I daresay the purser will want to have his say as well.”
“Hang on, sir. Don’t leave me!”
“Good-bye, Mr. Webb.”
“But I can help you again!” urged the old man.
“Only if you shut up for the rest of the voyage.”
“I’m serious, Mr. Dillman. You were good to me so I owes you a favor. It’s about that bloke who’s locked up next door.”
“We’ve moved him.”
“I didn’t do all the talking,” explained Webb, standing up. “He had his twopenny’s worth as well. Moaning hard, he was. I could tell he’d never been locked up before. So I let him ramble on.”
Dillman was interested. “And?”
“He said all the usual things. How he’d been wrongly accused and how he’d been threatened by the coppers. Funny thing was, he never told me what they arrested him for. But I guessed, of course,” said Webb, with a cackle. “You can’t fool an old lag like me, sir. I’ve listened to a thousand hard-luck stories in prison. They’ve got him for murder, haven’t they?”
