Dying For a Cruise

by Joyce Cato

  Rycroft sighed, fighting back the urge to scream. Loudly.

  ‘We’ve already established that nobody had an alibi for every moment of that afternoon, Miss Starling. I think we can agree that anyone could have done it.’

  Sergeant Graves shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘What exactly are you getting at, Miss Starling? Are you saying that Mr Olney wasn’t drowned on the port deck?’

  Jenny shook her head, more in sorrow than in denial. ‘I’m just pointing out how impossibly risky the whole thing must have been, if the evidence is to be believed,’ she explained patiently. ‘And haven’t you asked yourself why Gabriel Olney was put in my cupboard? If the killer did heave him over the side, tied by one foot to a rope to ensure that he drowned, why didn’t the killer then simply undo the rope and let Gabriel’s corpse float down the river? In due course, he’d be noted as missing, we’d quickly set up a hue and cry, and his body would be found somewhere on the Thames. The police would conclude, with no bumps or signs of violence on the body, that he’d simply fallen overboard and drowned. Even if you did suspect foul play,’ she cut in quickly, as Rycroft opened his mouth to hotly deny that they’d come to such a conclusion so quickly, ‘what proof would you have? You might suspect that there was something rotten going on, but you’d be more likely to drop it and label it an accident after a diligent investigation, if Olney had been found floating face down by some innocent bystander walking their dog. But by putting the corpse in my cupboard, it was like advertising the fact that it was murder. Why?’

  Rycroft was beginning to get a headache.

  ‘Do you know why?’ he asked hopefully.

  But Jenny shook her head. ‘It seems to make no sense. But then so many things about this case don’t make sense. Haven’t you noticed how … messy things are?’ she demanded, beginning to sound thoroughly exasperated herself now. ‘Hasn’t it struck you how muddled up everything is? Brian O’Keefe searches the Olneys’ room, but somebody sends a note to Mrs Olney that sends her upstairs, and so she almost catches Brian out, forcing him to flee down the balcony. David Leigh forges a suicide note, but the killer goes out of his way to make sure everyone knows it was murder. Everyone seems to be falling over everyone else’s feet.’

  ‘Coincidence?’ Graves murmured. ‘Or something else?’

  ‘If it’s something else,’ Jenny said gloomily, ‘then a whole lot of them are in on it together. But it’s too messy for that. Too uncoordinated. If it was a conspiracy, you could expect them to make a better job of it. As it is, it’s been like a comedy of errors from start to finish. And yet the murder itself must have been very clever. The rope, the boot, the plastic sheet … the incredible timing. You just can’t put it all down to luck on the killer’s part.’

  Rycroft got briskly to his feet. ‘Sergeant, I want you to go to the village and ring up the medical examiner.’ It was just his luck his mobile had a dead battery. ‘Tell him I want a toxicology test run on Olney immediately. Wait around and keep chivvying them if you have to, but make sure they get on with it, and then bring the results back with you. At least we can clear up the question of whether or not he was drugged.’

  Graves nodded and left.

  When he was gone, Rycroft looked at the cook thoughtfully. ‘I think you’ll find, you know,’ he said slowly, ‘that Olney was drugged. If, as you say, he wasn’t knocked on the head, then how did the killer get him to meekly agree to having a rope tied around his leg? Not to mention allow himself to be tossed overboard without so much as raising a shout?’ Rycroft shook his ugly head. ‘No. If somebody was trying to drown me, I’d scream blue bloody murder.’

  Jenny nodded. It was a good point.

  ‘But nobody heard anything,’ Rycroft continued. Really, it was amazing how talking things through with the big, handsome woman helped him to see things more clearly. ‘And on a boat this size, surely somebody, somewhere, would hear a man cry out? No, Olney must have been drugged.’

  But Jenny didn’t think so. Jenny, in fact, was pretty sure she knew exactly how Olney had died, and it was not in the way the killer wanted them to think.

  But that still didn’t get her any further forward in finding out who the killer was.

  She only knew that the killer was clever.

  That the killer had been desperate.

  That the killer had either been very lucky or very confident.

  And that thought, for some reason, made the cook feel deeply unhappy.

  THIRTEEN

  Jenny put back the last bag of mixed vegetables into the cooler and checked off her list of ingredients. It wasn’t anywhere near as long as she’d have liked it to be, but she could still do enough with it to be able to hold her head up high, come the next mealtime. She sighed, put down the pen and pad of paper, and stepped out of the galley.

  Luckily, the others must have decided to stay on and lunch at the pub in Carswell Marsh, so she’d only had to prepare lunch for herself and Inspector Rycroft, which would help eke out the meagre rations. Sergeant Graves had not yet returned. It was still only 2.30, however, and she expected him back in time for dinner.

  She wondered if he’d think to bring more supplies with him, but doubted it. Men tended to think good food appeared out of thin air. Unless they lived alone, of course, in which case most of them seemed to think it came from a pizza box.

  She found Rycroft on the rear deck, staring gloomily at the paddle wheels.

  ‘Inspector,’ she said quietly. ‘If you want us to spend another night on board, I’m really going to have to get some more food in.’

  The inspector sighed but nodded. ‘Make out a list. I’ll have one of the constables go into the nearest town for it,’ he said, still staring at the elegant blades.

  Jenny nodded, was about to return to the galley, then hesitated.

  Rycroft was looking slump-shouldered and miserable. ‘It’ll be all right, you know, Inspector,’ she said softly, but with rather more confidence than she actually felt.

  The policeman turned to give her his usual, all-purpose raised-eyebrow look. The cook sighed and left him to it. No doubt he was under pressure from his superiors to clear up this murder quickly. It was not his fault that this particular case was proving to be a very frustrating, not to mention very oddly executed crime. She only hoped that when Sergeant Graves returned, he brought with him some helpful information.

  As it happened, she didn’t have long to wait.

  She’d just finished writing out a full list of the supplies she’d need, and had already set about making a savoury beef stew for dinner, when she heard the roar of the motorbike returning. She stepped outside to see what was afoot.

  Rycroft was still on the rear deck, but now his eyes were avidly following the progress of his sergeant. Graves leapt on board and nodded to his superior. ‘Sir.’

  Jenny coughed, just to announce her presence, but neither policeman seemed inclined towards privacy.

  ‘You have the test results?’ Rycroft asked abruptly.

  Graves nodded. ‘But only because they sent down some relief from the John Radcliffe and the doc was able to start work on our Mr Olney last night. He confirms there was no knock on the head, and, by the way, he did detail several broken fingernails and some – but not much – bruising of the knuckles on both of Olney’s hands.’

  Rycroft rather angrily waved away the confirmation of the cook’s sharp eyes. ‘Was he drugged?’ he demanded impatiently.

  Graves shook his head. ‘Not that the doc can tell. Of course, not all the tests are in yet, but we can say that Olney certainly wasn’t drugged with any of the usual, easily available drugs.’

  ‘And nobody on board has expert medical knowledge, or access to anything more exotic to make a do-it-yourself Mickey Finn,’ Rycroft murmured to himself. So that would also seem to confirm Miss Starling’s hunch, he admitted to himself grimly.

  So how the hell had the killer managed to drown Olney without the beggar putting up a fight? He shot the large woman an angry lo
ok.

  As if it’s my fault, Jenny thought wryly, but had better sense than to let even the ghost of a smile cross her face.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ Graves said, and from his voluminous breast pocket began to pull out several official-looking police reports. ‘Our lads have been busy. And the stuff they’ve got on David Leigh is quite something.’

  By unspoken mutual consent, the three of them walked back into the main salon and spread the papers on the table. The others still weren’t back from the village, but Rycroft wasn’t worried about that. He’d sent several constables with them to keep an eye out, just in case somebody made a bolt for it.

  Now, though, he had other things on his mind.

  ‘First, the handwriting experts confirm that the suicide note was a forgery. It’s definitely not Gabriel Olney’s handwriting, although the boffin at Brasenose that we use said that it was a very competent, but not, in his experience, a professional job.’

  Rycroft nodded. ‘So we’re dealing with a gifted amateur.’

  ‘We also showed him copies of David Leigh’s handwriting, and he gave us the thumbs up. In his opinion, it’s likely that Leigh was the forger.’

  ‘In his opinion, it’s likely, is it?’ His lips twisted sardonically. ‘They don’t like to commit themselves, do they?’

  Graves smiled. ‘But it gets better, sir. Do you remember Gimsole? The constable who worked on that fraud case over in Banbury?’

  The inspector nodded. ‘A good man to have on old-fashioned paperwork – especially when it comes to nosing out records that aren’t on computer yet. He has a nose for it, I think his superiors said.’

  ‘Right. Well, we had a spot of good luck there. Gimsole was put onto tracking down David Leigh’s past doings. Any other PC might have missed it. But Gimsole’s a thorough little nerd,’ he said affectionately. ‘Now, it appears that some old retired general or other had retained Leigh to look into some past military records for him. He was writing his memoirs, or something, and he had friends at the War Office and at the local branches of ex-soldiers’ clubs—’

  ‘Get on with it, Graves,’ Rycroft snapped. He was obviously not in the mood to appreciate the finer details.

  Graves nodded, not a whit put out by his superior officer’s crabbiness. ‘Right, sir. It appears that when he was doing this rather sensitive digging for the general, Leigh stumbled onto something that hit rather closer to home. Gimsole was able to follow the paper trail Leigh left behind, although he’d tried to cover his tracks. Gimsole was really very clever….’

  ‘Graves,’ Rycroft gritted. Nor was he in the mood to appreciate Glimsole’s famous ‘nose’ either, it seemed.

  ‘Sir,’ Graves said apologetically. ‘It seems that the memoirs-writing general, our Colonel Gabriel Olney, and a Lieutenant Arnold Leigh – David Leigh’s father – were all involved in the same regiment. As you know, a lot of local lads were part of the—’

  ‘Graves,’ Rycroft positively growled now.

  Which in itself was some feat, Jenny thought in startled appreciation, given the fact that the inspector’s natural voice was practically falsetto.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Graves said yet again, obviously wondering what had happened to put his superior in such a bad mood. ‘The upshot is,’ he carried on, pretending not to notice Rycroft roll his eyes in relief, ‘that Gabriel Olney was in the Falklands conflict, and in charge of a group of men which included Arnold Leigh. It seems that Gabriel sent Leigh off on a suicide mission. He later told his superior officers that he needed to get a written message through the lines as he believed the usual channels had been compromised, but no message was found on Leigh’s body when he was picked up by the medical team. He died in the ambulance before he could be got to the military field hospital by the way. Anyway, nothing was done about it immediately. Olney was not the only colonel by a long shot to make a mistake and get one of his people killed.’

  Rycroft had begun to look interested now, as had Jenny.

  ‘You say that David Leigh uncovered all this?’

  ‘Glimsole says that he did. Oh, he started off chasing down proof of the general’s daring deeds, but when he came across the reports on Arnold Leigh, his own father, he abandoned his client’s interests to satisfy his own curiosity. Apparently, the official version of his father’s death had differed somewhat from what the family had been told,’ he added dryly.

  ‘Understandable,’ Rycroft said shortly. ‘But I have a feeling there’s more to this than meets the eye.’

  Graves nodded. ‘There is,’ he confirmed, his voice going a tone harder now.

  Jenny shifted uncomfortably on her seat, already sensing that something very nasty was about to rear its ugly head.

  ‘A sergeant … one …’ Graves quickly checked the report. ‘Watt Gingridge, who was a friend of Arnold Leigh’s, wrote to a friend back home saying that Gabriel Olney had deliberately sent Leigh off on the mission, knowing that he’d get killed, and that he lied when he said he’d given Leigh important papers to carry. He further wrote that Arnold Leigh had told him that he’d seen Olney desert the platoon earlier that day, when the firing was most intense.’

  Rycroft scowled. ‘There were some nasty skirmishes in the Falklands,’ he recalled, his voice grim.

  Graves ignored the interruption. ‘He also told Gingridge that he believed that Olney knew that Leigh had seen him run away, and was afraid that Leigh would report his cowardice to the general. This Watt Gingridge alleged that Arnold Leigh had come to him after Olney had given him the orders to try and get through enemy lines, and told Gingridge that Olney was deliberately sending him to his death to keep him quiet. He wanted Gingridge to give a sort of “goodbye” letter to his wife. Apparently, though, he never told her of his suspicions in the letter. Perhaps he was scared that if he did, and she went after Olney in the courts, they’d give her a hard time. You know how the army likes to keep their disgraces strictly on the Q.T. Anyway, Gingridge took the letter and duly sent it to Leigh’s widow when Arnold had been confirmed missing and then killed in action.’

  Rycroft swallowed hard. ‘What a bastard,’ he said quietly. But there was such a wealth of feeling behind the simple sentence that it made a cold shiver sneak across the cook’s spine.

  Graves nodded. ‘But it didn’t end there. The friend that Gingridge wrote to had another friend in the War Office and he passed the letter on. Unfortunately, by that time, Gingridge himself was reported killed, and although the MPs had Olney in and questioned him, they could prove nothing. Besides, the powers-that-be had troop morale to think of, not to mention the kind of bad reaction that would follow in the press if it ever came out. And it seemed that once Olney had been given the requisite short sharp shock, he apparently knuckled under and acquitted himself reasonably well until the fighting was over.’

  ‘Unless he fled under fire again, and this time there was no poor sod to see him do it,’ Rycroft grunted. ‘Once a coward, always a coward, I say.’

  Graves nodded. ‘Anyway, Leigh uncovered the original Gingridge letter, and the notes of the interview between the tribunal and Olney. Like I said, the old general who’d hired him to help with the memoirs had clout, and since it was his lads and his regiment in the first place, Leigh got access to stuff they normally keep under very close lock and key. Of course the general whose memoirs Leigh was helping to research knew nothing about what Leigh was up to, or he’d have put a stop to it. And I daresay Leigh wouldn’t have been in any hurry to bring it to the general’s attention either. I reckon he didn’t want it to get official or become public any more than the army did. He obviously decided he was going to go about things very differently,’ Graves concluded flatly.

  It was impossible to tell from either his face or his tone of voice whether he approved of David Leigh’s desire for personal revenge or not.

  ‘So David Leigh knew that Olney was a coward who’d deliberately killed his father?’ Rycroft sighed. ‘No wonder he wanted to take matters into his own h
ands.’

  ‘Just think of it,’ Jenny said softly, her voice thick with compassion. ‘David Leigh would have been spent years thinking that his father was a war hero. That he’d willingly sacrificed his life for his country and comrades. That his death had been tragic but heroic, and most of all, accidental. Other men died in the Falklands, after all, and his father had just happened to be one of the unlucky ones. But then to suddenly find out that it had not been fate, nor an accident or bad luck after all, but a deliberate act by his commanding officer….’ She let her voice trail off.

  She felt, in fact, rather sick. And she was obviously not the only one to feel that way.

  ‘Olney deserved what he got,’ Graves suddenly said. ‘My granddad was a fighting man too, in the last war. He told me what it was like out there in the thick of it. You had to rely on your officers. You had to keep faith with your mates and trust that the bigwigs knew what they were doing.’

  Rycroft shook his head. ‘Olney abused his power,’ he grunted. ‘No two ways about it.’

  ‘Couldn’t Arnold Leigh have refused to go?’ Jenny suddenly asked. ‘If Olney didn’t give him any papers, but just ordered him across the lines….’ She trailed off as both men looked across at her. It was not a scornful look they gave her, but rather a sad one.

  ‘Olney could have had him court-martialled for disobeying orders.’ Rycroft took it upon himself to educate her.

  ‘Or had up on charges of cowardice,’ Graves added. ‘And that would have haunted him for the rest of his life. No, poor Arnold Leigh was finished whatever he did. In the end he did the only thing he could. The thing that I would have done if I’d been in his place.’ Graves shook his head, with infinite pity for the dead soldier. ‘He told a good mate what was happening, and wrote a letter home.’