Murder on the Caronia

by Conrad Allen

  She gave him a farewell smile then hurried off to her cabin to collect a book. From there she went to the Singletons’ suite. As she approached, a steward was taking some empty plates away on a tray. The family obviously had dined in private and their meal was over. Genevieve felt able to knock. Waldo Singleton opened the door.

  “Oh, good evening, Miss Masefield,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Singleton,” she said, “but I’d rather hoped to catch you in the dining room. I have something for Isadora.”

  “Is that you, Genevieve?” asked an excited voice from inside.

  Waldo opened the door wide. “Perhaps you’d better come in.”

  Genevieve went in and saw the table set for three. Although they were dining in their own suite, the Singletons had dressed for the occasion. Waldo was in his white tie and tails and Maria had produced a turquoise-colored gown with a draped bodice and long sleeves. Around her hair was a pink bandeau. She smiled graciously. Isadora sat beside her mother with a look of gratitude in her eyes.

  “I brought that book I promised to give you, Isadora.”

  “Oh, thank you!” said the girl, recognizing the excuse for what it was. “I’ve been waiting for that. May I talk to Genevieve in the other room, please, Mother?”

  Maria hesitated. “What is the book?” she asked.

  “It’s a novel by Edith Wharton,” said Genevieve. “I bought it in New York.”

  “No harm in that,” remarked Singleton, with heavy-handed humor. “It’s not as if you’re trying to corrupt our daughter with an English author.”

  “Don’t be fatuous, Waldo,” said Maria.

  “No, dear.”

  “Off you go, Isadora.”

  “Thank you!” said Isadora, leaping from her seat.

  She took Genevieve through the connecting door to her own cabin then closed it behind her. As soon as they were alone, she burst into tears.

  Genevieve held her in her arms and tried to soothe her. “Theo told me what happened,” she said.

  “It was dreadful. Father went off to put him in his place.”

  “Well, I don’t think he succeeded, Isadora. When I saw Theo a few minutes ago, he was as lively as ever. Nothing can dampen those high spirits of his.”

  “I do hope not. I felt so guilty for landing him in the situation.”

  “He knew the risks.”

  “We both did, Genevieve. Oh, I could kick myself for giving the game away like that!” said Isadora. “I let the hem of my dress touch the bicycle chain and it picked up some oil. Mother saw it at once. They’ve banned me from talking to Theo.” She crossed to the door that opened onto the passageway and turned the handle. “You see?” she said. “It doesn’t open. They’ve locked me in.”

  “They can’t do that for the rest of the voyage.”

  “Mother says I’m to stay close to them at all times.”

  “Won’t they even let you talk to me?”

  “You’re the only exception to the rule.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Genevieve.

  “Will you help us? Theo and me, I mean?”

  “In what way?”

  “I’ve written him a letter,” said Isadora, opening a drawer to take out an envelope. “I managed to smuggle out that note to you because the stewardess likes me, but I didn’t want to risk letting this fall into the wrong hands.” She gave Genevieve the letter. “It’s an apology to Theo for the trouble I caused him. An apology and a promise.”

  “ ‘Promise’?”

  “Two days after we land in England, I celebrate my twenty-first birthday. I’ll be able to do what I want to do then. Mother and Father will complain, of course, but they can’t really stop me from going.”

  “Where?”

  “To France, I hope,” Isadora said excitedly. “I’ve got money of my own. I want to be in Paris when Theo wins that race.”

  There was a sharp tap on the door. Maria’s voice was peremptory.

  “Don’t be too long in there, Isadora,” she said. “You need an early night.”

  “I’m just leaving, Mrs. Singleton,” called Genevieve, slipping the letter into her purse. She handed the book to Isadora. “You’d better take this.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “The House of Mirth.”

  Isadora giggled. “It’s not about my family, then!”

  Throughout dinner, Dillman had studied Cecilia Robart, wondering if she really was a legitimate suspect and, if so, who her accomplice was. It could hardly be Sir Harry Fox-Holroyd, yet he was the man with whom she talked most. When dinner was over, Mrs. Robart went off to the lounge with her companions. Dillman got up and drifted into the smoking room. Several people were enjoying a postprandial cigar or cigarette. The majority of them were men but a few women were there as well, using long cigarette-holders, as much for affectation as for any other reason. Dillman scanned the faces, recognizing a number of them.

  The man who interested him most was talking animatedly to two friends. Short, smart, and with a dark complexion, he was one of the few men who preferred a cigarette. Most of them, including Frank Openshaw, pulled on Havana cigars, filling the room with a pungent odor. The short individual was clearly a heavy smoker. Finishing one cigarette, he stubbed it into an ashtray and immediately lit another before continuing his conversation. Dillman counted three discarded butts before he slipped out of the room to escape the stink of smoke.

  He loitered nearby until the man he had been watching came out. He gave Dillman a nod as he went past. The detective responded with a smile before moving casually into the smoking room again. Strolling across to the ashtray into which the cigarettes had been stubbed out, he waited until nobody was looking before he picked up some of the butts. A glance told him they were the same brand as those found in Cecilia Robart’s cabin. Dillman dropped the butts back into the ashtray and went off to the lounge. The man had now joined a group that consisted largely of ladies. He was making them all titter with amusement. Frank Openshaw ambled into the room.

  “Good evening, Mr. Dillman,” he said, crossing to him. “We must talk more about those yachts of yours sometime. I’ve always wanted to be skipper of my own craft.”

  “That’s what you are on the Caronia, to some extent, Mr. Openshaw,” observed Dillman. “You’re far more of a presence among the passengers than Captain Warr.”

  Openshaw chuckled. “I like to get around.”

  “Then you’ll probably recognize that gentleman over there.” Dillman pointed. “The one who’s diverting all those ladies.”

  “Oh, him! Yes, he joined us for drinks this evening.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Michel Fontaine,” said Openshaw. “He’s a mad Frenchman.”

  * * *

  Theodore Wright was troubled. The letter Genevieve had delivered to him had been both delightful and worrying. He was pleased to hear that Isadora Singleton planned to support him in France and was touched by the affection that ran through her letter. At the same time, he was alarmed to hear she had been confined to her cabin that evening as a result of something he had done. Isadora blamed herself for unwittingly revealing their secret and she apologized profusely for anything her father might have said to him. Wright was tempted to go to their cabin and confront her parents, but he saw that that might only embarrass his young friend. Instead he rested on his bunk until it was time to get back in the saddle. Even when he was cycling around the boat deck, he was still brooding about Isadora Singleton, desperately searching for a way to alleviate her suffering. He saw a parallel in his own situation. Wes Odell was watching him as closely as the Singletons watched their daughter. It was a shared problem.

  Something else troubled Wright. He felt tired. He was putting his usual effort into the training ride but maintaining nothing like his usual speed. The sequence of late nights and early mornings was affecting him. He always took care to have a long nap in the afternoons but it was not the same as continuous sleep. Be
cause they could only use the deck at certain times, they had been forced to adopt a testing schedule. Wright thought enviously of his French rival. Gaston Vannier would be practicing on the very route that would be taken during the Bordeaux-to-Paris race. It was a huge advantage. Stung by the remembrance, Wright put more power into the thrust of his legs and surged forward.

  When he finally came to a halt, however, his coach had no words of praise. Odell jabbed a finger at his stopwatch. “What’s wrong with you, Theo?” he demanded.

  “Sorry, Wes. I’m tired.”

  “Your mind is not on your cycling.”

  “I need more sleep.”

  “What you need is more practice,” said the coach, taking a small tin from his pocket. “Get back in the saddle for another quarter of an hour.”

  “I’ve had enough for one night.”

  “Do as you’re told. Open up.”

  “What?”

  “Open your mouth. I want to give you something.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will wake you up, that’s why. Come on.”

  Wright opened his mouth and Odell took some flakes from the tin to place on his tongue. The rider swallowed them uneasily. He looked worried.

  “Off you go,” said Odell. “You’ve got to ride for twenty-four hours in France, remember. We’ve must get those miles in your legs, Theo. Show me what you can do.”

  Wright set off again and was soon cycling with a new vigor.

  Inspector Redfern decided to follow Dillman’s advice and arrange a joint interview with his two prisoners. The session was scheduled for the following morning. On their way to the cabin, Genevieve Masefield met up with Dillman.

  “I was thinking over what you told me last night, George.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t think Michel Fontaine is implicated,” she said. “I sat next to him at dinner last night. He’s an inveterate flirt but I didn’t get the feeling he was a criminal.”

  “I’m going on the evidence of those cigarette butts.”

  “It’s a popular French brand. Other people smoke them.”

  “True.”

  “It may not even have been a man in Cecilia Robart’s cabin. Those cigarettes could have been smoked by a woman.”

  “I considered that,” said Dillman, “but most women use cigarette-holders. The ends of the butts would have been squeezed to fit into them. I’m not saying that Monsieur Fontaine is our man, but we need to keep an eye on him.”

  They reached the cabin and were let in. Redfern explained the way he wanted to conduct the interview before going out. He returned first with John Heritage, who was surprised to see Genevieve there. Dillman introduced her. Redfern went off to fetch the other suspect. When she was brought in, Carrie Peterson did not even notice the others at first. Her eyes were fixed on her lover. She tried to run to him but Redfern held her back.

  “I warned you, Miss Peterson,” he said. “Any impulsive behavior and you go straight back to your cabin. That goes for you as well, Mr. Heritage.”

  “Of course,” said Heritage. “We’re just pleased to see each other again.”

  Carrie was trembling. “How are you, John?”

  “I’m fine, Carrie. And you?”

  “Much better.”

  Her words were contradicted by her appearance. She looked strained and wan. During the days aboard the ship, she seemed to have aged visibly. But there was still a hint of defiance in her gaze, and her spirits were clearly lifted by the sight of her lover. After introducing Dillman to her, Redfern made her sit on one side of him while Heritage was on the other. The inspector explained what was going to happen and reiterated his warning that the suspects would be returned to their cabins if they misbehaved in any way. Grateful to be in the same room again, both promised to cooperate. Dillman and Genevieve sat directly in front of them so they could watch their reactions.

  “Let’s start with the discrepancies, shall we?” said Redfern, consulting his notebook. “There are several details that don’t seem to match up. Perhaps you can explain why.”

  He listed some of the new facts Dillman and Genevieve had elicited from the suspects and asked them to explain why there were slight differences between their individual accounts. Heritage answered with a degree of confidence, giving plausible answers that were also signals to Carrie Peterson to corroborate his testimony. She was more guarded in her replies, agreeing with most of what he said but correcting him on some points. Genevieve had the impression the woman was being slightly more honest. Dillman, too, came round to the view that Heritage was hiding more than his mistress. He was also trying to shield her from their questions by drawing attention to himself. When the Cunard detectives were invited to participate, both of them turned toward Carrie Peterson.

  “You believe Mr. Heritage is innocent, don’t you?” asked Dillman.

  “I know he is,” replied Carrie. “We both are.”

  “How do you know, Miss Peterson?”

  “Because it’s not in John’s nature. He’s the most gentle person alive.”

  “Inspector Redfern and I have both met extremely gentle people who have committed murders,” said Dillman. “When someone is put under severe pressure, there’s no telling how they will behave.”

  “John did not kill his wife.”

  “Then why did he buy that poison from the pharmacy?”

  “I’ve already told you that,” interrupted Heritage.

  “We’d rather hear it from Miss Peterson.” Dillman turned to her. “Well?”

  Carrie was distressed. “John bought it because he was considering suicide.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dillman.”

  “And did you believe him?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did it make you feel?” said Genevieve, taking over. “What did you say when you learned that he was so desperate he was thinking about taking his own life?”

  “I was upset.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” said Carrie. “I was deeply hurt. I couldn’t believe John would dream of doing that and leaving me high and dry.”

  “But I didn’t do it, Carrie!” insisted Heritage. “Because of you, I drew back.”

  “Keep quiet, Mr. Heritage,” said Redfern.

  “But I want the situation to be understood.”

  “I think we understand it all too well,” said Dillman. “You were faced with an intractable problem. You couldn’t bear to live with the woman you hated and you weren’t allowed to be with the one you loved. Any man would feel hopeless and desperate in those circumstances. There must have seemed only one way out—to kill yourself.”

  “No,” cried Carrie. “There was another way! I convinced him of that.”

  “We had the idea that he convinced you, Miss Peterson.”

  She tried to look across at Heritage but Redfern blocked her view. She bit her lip. “It was a joint decision,” she said.

  “Like everything else we did,” added Heritage.

  “In that case,” said Redfern, “the murder was also a joint decision.”

  “There was no murder, Inspector.”

  “Then who poisoned your wife?”

  “Winifred must have poisoned herself.”

  “That’s right,” said Carrie, taking her cue. “Mrs. Heritage told me that she’d rather die than lose John. And she was capable of dispensing poison of her own. I lost count of the number of vile letters she sent, accusing me of trying to take her husband away from here. They were dripping with poison.”

  Heritage was disturbed. “You never told me about those, Carrie.”

  “I wanted to spare you any extra pain.”

  “Winifred actually wrote to you?”

  “I tore the letters up and burned them.”

  “Why didn’t you show them to Mr. Heritage?” asked Genevieve.

  “Because he had enough to endure at home,” said Carrie. “John must have told you some of the things h
is wife did and said. She was vicious. When she turned her fire on me, I was shocked at first. Then I reminded myself I had something she would never have, and that was John’s love. So I ignored the letters.”

  “You should have brought them to me, Carrie,” said Heritage, in pain.

  “Why?” asked Dillman. “What would you have done?”

  “Confronted my wife, of course.”

  “Would that have achieved anything?”

  Heritage was about to answer but changed his mind. He shook his head sadly.

  “In other words,” said Dillman, “Miss Peterson did the wise thing.”

  He waited while the two suspects tried in vain to look at each other. A small wedge had been driven between them. Dillman exploited the situation.

  “Is Mr. Heritage normally a truthful man?” he asked.

  “Very truthful,” replied Carrie.

  “Have you ever known him to tell a lie?”

  “Never.”

  “But you’d know if he did?”

  She faltered slightly. “I think so, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Have you ever told Mr. Heritage a lie?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Carrie is as honest as the day is long,” affirmed Heritage.

  “One or both of you is lying to us now,” Dillman said calmly.

  “Yes,” agreed Genevieve. “I’m beginning to think that not everything was a joint decision, was it? How could it be? Until you ran away, you seem to have spent very little time alone together. You worked side by side at the pharmacy, but Mr. Duckham’s presence must have been very inhibiting. As soon as the shop closed, Mr. Heritage had to go straight home or he would have faced his wife’s ire.”

  Dillman took charge again. “What Miss Masefield is rightly pointing out is that neither of you really knew the other person all that well. Yes, I know”—he said, raising a hand to quell the protest that was about to come from both of them—“you were in love and that gives you deep insights into a person’s character. Miss Peterson tells us that Mr. Heritage was a truthful man, yet he deceived his wife and his partner. He also deceived Miss Peterson when he omitted to mention that he had rifled the pharmacy account to fund their escape. As for you,” he continued, turning to Carrie, “you just heard Mr. Heritage say that you were as honest as the day is long, yet you concealed from him the important fact that his wife had sent you poison-pen letters. Small lies on both sides, I grant you, but enough small lies can become a very big one.”