Curse of the Purple Pearl

by Adrian Speed

  *****

  A gunshot. I was sure it was a gunshot. The sound had hit my head like a hammer blow. A gunshot. I cursed as I pulled myself out of the mosquito netting and into a dressing-gown. A sort of high-pitched half-scream came from one of the cabins, the wheezing, rising panic of someone who has just seen something horrible happen.

  I was out of the door and across the hallway in seconds, holding my phone up as a torch and to hell with the timeline. One of the cabin doorways was open. I rushed inside and gasped.

  Thomas Peterson lay dead on the ground, a gunshot wound to his temple and blood pooling around him. A fur stole was trapped underneath him. Mrs Rothberg, standing over him, shaking, was the source of the half-scream. She held a smoking pistol in her hand.

  “He...he shot himself.”

  Chapter XXI

  I barely had time to compose myself. Peterson lay across the cabin, head by the door, blood soaking into the carpet, and Mrs Rothberg was holding the smoking pistol above him. The rank smell of cordite mingled with the sickly-sweet smell of blood. I looked around the room to note how it was before anyone disturbed it. It was almost identical to my own, save that in one corner there were some splinters of wood. I could guess what that had been.

  “What's going on?” Mr Rothberg and Albert appeared at the doorway.

  “He shot himself,” Mrs Rothberg repeated, as if in a dream.

  “Where's my trunk?” Albert leapt into the room and pushed Mrs Rothberg aside. “Where's my damn trunk?!” He searched frantically in one corner in case it was hidden, and fell to his knees on the splinters.

  “What trunk?” I asked, knowing already.

  “The pearl trunk! A blue trunk! Like a hat box...” Albert stopped searching. There was nowhere in this little room for it to be. He picked up a splinter from the floor. “The box...made from this wood.”

  “He shot himself.”

  “I say, someone opening champagne?” Mr Jones sauntered down the corridor. “What's the occasion? Captain Fairfax popped the question to Miss Delaronde, ha ha?” He laughed at his own joke as he appeared at the doorway. All the colour drained from his face. “Oh, I say.”

  “What’s going on?” The Captain and Parker appeared behind Mr Jones. “Oh, saints preserve us.” The Captain took off his cap in respect.

  “What the blasted bananas is going on out there?” Mr O'Connor ducked his head out of his door.

  “It's sunrise in four hours, we need sleep!” Mrs O'Connor called from inside her room.

  “Peterson–” Mr Jones's tongue stumbled over his words.

  “Is this some sort of box social? Why the devil is everyone clustering in the corridor?” Major Stoat stood in the hallway. This was the first time I’d seen him out of his chair. Compared to his expanded belly he had short stumpy little legs.

  “He shot himself,” Mrs Rothberg said. Silent tears were steaming out of her eyes.

  “Peterson's shot himself,” Mr Jones passed back, still struggling to get the words out.

  “What in heaven?”

  “Just what we need,” Parker pulled off his cap out of respect, but his face wasn't mournful, it was troubled. “We're going to have to report this when we get to Lokoja.”

  “Parker, arrest that woman!” Captain O'Hara demanded.

  “You can't arrest my wife!” Mr Rothberg started.

  “I'm the captain!”

  “Poor man,” Mr O'Connor shook his head. “He was a nervous fellow.”

  “This is all dashed nonsense!” Major Stoat yelled from a distance.

  My world was spinning out of control. No-one was taking command of the situation. Certainly, it seemed close cut; they had a woman holding a gun over the body. But where was the pearl? Any of them could be the thief.

  “Gentlemen,” I raised my hands for attention.

  “Mr Rothberg, I am Captain of this ship and am therefore an extension of the laws of Great Britain and the Colony of Nigeria!” O'Hara slurred.

  “And I say until we get to the police in Lokoja you're not laying a hand on my wife!” Mr Rothberg almost screamed.

  “Why would he do something like this?” Mr Jones ran his hands through his hair still thinking Peterson's death was suicide.

  “Troubled soul, not your fault.” Mr O'Connor patted Mr Jones on the shoulder. “I have brandy if you need it.”

  “I shouldn't have teased him like that.” Mr Jones shuddered with a chill only he could feel.

  “Wasn't your fault, old boy.”

  “Gentlemen,” I said more insistently.

  “He was just the sort of gentleman to do a daft thing like that,” Major Stoat's bark echoed down the corridor. No-one was talking to him, but he wanted to be heard. “Thoroughly lacking in gumption, that man.”

  “We need to sort this out, Mr Rothberg, we won't call it arrest, we'll call it...protection.” Parker stood between the two men who were on the verge of coming to blows.

  “Gentlemen!” I stamped my foot. No-one paid me any heed.

  “Gone,” Albert said from the floor. He had curled up cross-legged and was holding a piece of the broken box. “My last piece of Evelyn.”

  No-one was listening to me. No-one had even taken the gun out of Mrs Rothberg's hands. No-one on the ship seemed to care what the women-folk were doing. They just weren't taking me seriously. I looked around at them all, bickering and gossiping when a man was lying dead on the ground.

  In a single moment an idea crystalised.

  I snatched up a shard of the broken pearl trunk, a single piece of wood six inches long. With one hand I wrapped my long flowing hair into a bun and with the other I drove the shard through it to hold it in place.

  “All right! That is enough!” I tried to make my voice like Sir Reginald's, not loud, but cutting. Around me everyone fell silent and turned. “This is a crime scene. It needs to be treated as such. Mr Rothberg, Captain O'Hara, I suggest we escort Mrs Rothberg to her cabin where she will remain under guard. Everyone else into the wardroom! There has been a murder here and it needs proper investigation!”

  “If my wife says he shot himself,” Mr Rothberg's words fell like anvils. “He shot himself.”

  “And someone with knowledge of crime scenes needs to analyse this room to prove it one way or the other,” I said.

  “And that's you? Another thing they teach in Canadian high school?” Mr Jones laughed.

  “I...” I took a deep breath. Lies upon lies. “I am not an heiress to a Canadian mining firm.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I am a private detective from Canada, working out of London,” I said. This much at least was true. “I was hired anonymously to guard Albert Fairfax, and the valuable possession he carried.”

  “What?” Albert looked up and glared. “You were spying on me?”

  “There was more than one crime here,” I said. “Mr Peterson is dead, but also a pearl of extremely high value was stolen, one of the possessions of Mr Fairfax.” I tried to explain. “Whether connected or not, both must be investigated before we land at Lokoja.”

  “And you're the one to do it?” Mr Jones scoffed. “A new Shirley Holmes for the twenties?”

  “Captain,” I focused my attention on O'Hara. “You have no-one on board with crime scene experience but me. Do as I suggest or an innocent woman may go to the gallows and a thief shall escape.” I looked down at Peterson. He looked very calm, the first time I'd seen him that way. “Or, we find enough evidence to convict Mrs Rothberg. In either case, you need me.”

  Captain O'Hara nodded. “Agreed. Parker, go get some men to take Mrs Rothberg to her cabin.”

  “No, wait a minute, I don't agree!” snapped Mr Rothberg while Parker dashed away to yell at the crew.

  “Mr Rothberg, either your wife is innocent and you have nothing to fear,” I said patiently, “or she is a killer. Only a proper investigation will reveal innocence, if any. Please, this is the way it must be if you don't want your wife hanged when we reach port.” Mr Rothberg's eyes b
lazed but he stayed silent. “Now everyone go to the wardroom and stay there. Captain O'Hara, we need your crew to perform a thorough search of the ship – start with Mrs Rothberg's room. Then we can detain her there.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “The pearl,” I pointed to the matchwood at my feet. “Someone stole a very valuable pearl from Albert and it needs to be found. It has to be somewhere if our thief is still aboard. Now go!” There was a reluctant shuffle near the doorway. Nobody wanted to be the first to leave in case something interesting happened. The morbid curiosity of the Briton was hard to overcome. “Wardroom, gentlemen, or the last one to leave becomes my number one suspect!”

  Everyone shuffled out. After I'd taken the pistol out of her hand with a cloth and set it down on the nightstand, two sailors led the almost catatonic Mrs Rothberg away.

  “Not you, Albert,” I said as Albert stood up to go. “I need you here.”

  “Me? Why?” Albert sounded defeated, barely a trace of emotion in his voice.

  “Because I need an assistant. You haven't stolen the pearl from yourself, and I think Mr Peterson’s death and the theft of your pearl are linked,” I said. “You and I are the only people on this boat we know are not the killer.”

  “Except I didn't see you enter the room,” Albert said. “I arrived with you inside, so this crime could have been yours, with Mrs Rothberg taking the fall.”

  I smiled at him. “Now you're thinking like a detective.”

  *****

  Once the room was clear, I felt able to think clearly again. The chaos of the immediate aftermath could be replaced with the investigation, the pure logic of the situation. I searched my pockets and found my phone, a pencil and notebook, and a small amount of chalk. Using the phone was out of the question.

  “Here,” I thrust the pencil and notebook at Albert. “Write down everything I say.”

  “Everything?” Albert took the items gingerly and flipped the notebook open.

  “As close as you can,” I bent down and drew out the stub of chalk. “Mrs Rothberg was standing here.” I marked the spot of carpet with an X. “Wouldn't you say?”

  “Yes,” Albert nodded, and wrote it down.

  “So let's see…” I stood up where Mrs Rothberg had stood. In the tiny cabin it wasn't a very different perspective. “Let’s assume for a moment that Mrs Rothberg is not the killer.”

  “But—” Albert pointed to the body.

  “Shush-hush,” I insisted. “Mrs Rothberg sleeps in the next cabin over. She's the first to hear the gunshot, she rushes in and sees Mr Peterson dead on the ground. She panics. It'd be obvious he's dead. There's too much blood and he's lifeless. She then picks up the gun. Why?”

  “Because she's an idiot?” Albert said darkly.

  “Exactly,” I snapped my fingers. “She has no idea how to react to a crime scene. She picks up the gun out of instinct, just in time for me to rush in and see her holding the gun over the body.”

  “Why are we even entertaining this theory?” Albert let the notebook fall to his side.

  “Because there is no way Mrs Rothberg could have stolen the pearl and killed Mr Peterson at the same time, and I doubt two crimes like that could occur in your room on the same night and not be connected,” I pouted. “Still, it doesn't seem very plausible.”

  I looked at the way the blood had splattered on the walls and the way Peterson had fallen. It was obvious that, whatever had happened, he had been shot from the direction of where Mrs Rothberg had been standing. Whether it was suicide, Mrs Rothberg, or someone standing where the pearl trunk had been was impossible to say for certain, all I could tell was the direction of the bullet.

  “We have an accurate time of death, at least.” Albert knelt down and pointed to Peterson's watch. The face was smashed and the clock had stopped. He must have fallen hard against the nightstand. “Twelve thirty-seven, I make it.”

  “It could be faked,” I said. “Clues like a broken watch are easily faked.” I surreptitiously checked my phone's clock – just coming up to one o'clock. “It would time with the gunshot certainly.”

  I looked over Peterson’s body. Lying down he looked even more of a beanpole. Even through his shirt I could count every one of his ribs and encircle his wrist with my thumb and index finger.

  “He wasn't dressed for bed,” I noted.

  “He used to sit up at night reading,” Albert said. “Practising his Arabic.”

  “He seemed like the type,” I turned Peterson's head gently. It didn't seem right to disturb the poor man, but if we were to find who killed him, I had to. “Oh dear.”

  “What?” Albert looked up from the notebook.

  “Look around the wound here,” I pointed to the tiny patch of red where the bullet had entered the man's head. “There are no powder burns. Cordite burns so hot that if he had held the gun against the temple there would be burns all around here.” I circled his temple with my finger.

  “So that rules out suicide,” Albert said. “Mrs Rothberg did it.”

  “Unless he was strange enough to try to kill himself with hand outstretched, yes, it looks like that.” I sighed. It had never seemed likely but it would have been nice to believe Mrs Rothberg.

  I turned my attention to the rest of Peterson. He was lying on Mrs Rothberg's fox stole. That fact was beginning to bother me. However, I didn't know what to make of it, so turned my mind to the contents of Peterson's pockets instead.

  “A wallet, containing about fifteen pounds.” Albert whistled at the sight of what had to be the man's life savings. I flicked through it. “Along with his steamer ticket. Passport, of course.” I opened it up. The picture inside, dated only six months ago, showed a much happier, much younger Peterson than the dour, nervous man I'd known. “And a letter.” I opened it up and read it. “A love letter. Signed R.”

  “He didn't seem the sort to be in love,” Albert frowned.

  “It's a break-up letter,” I passed it to Albert. There was nothing in it so personal it would cause offence, and Albert was helping to solve his murder.

  “R could be for Rothberg,” Albert suggested, passing it back.

  “It's dated last December.” I tapped the letter top.

  “Doesn't stop it being Rothberg,” Albert continued his thought. “They could have fled together intending for her to elope to his mission.”

  “Possible,” I said, giving some thought. “But even in private they talked as if they were strangers.”

  “How do you know?”

  I coughed awkwardly. “I wasn't eavesdropping, you understand, but I did overhear...” I trailed away awkwardly.

  “You detectives are all the same, aren't you?” Albert glared. “It doesn't matter if it's a provost, a policeman or a private detective. You never stop listening out for crime.”

  “I received a tip-off someone was going to try to steal your pearl,” I glared back. “And low and behold I was right. Of course I tried to overhear every possible piece of evidence.”

  “You just said you weren't eavesdropping!” Albert hissed.

  “It doesn't matter now,” I said. “I am fairly sure they were not carrying on together,” I looked down at Peterson's body. Not the most handsome man, but not ugly either. He was a different league from old and dowdy Mrs Rothberg.

  “Who told you the pearl might be stolen?” Albert said.

  “I am not at liberty to say,” I replied, still looking down at Peterson.

  “The only person who knew I even had the pearl was the lawyer!” Albert snapped.

  “I said I was not at liberty to say, Albert.” I looked up into his eyes. “But you can trust me that it was not they who stole the pearl.”

  “Do you even understand what that pearl means to me?” Albert shouted. He didn't even seem to be aware of it. Rage exploded out of him like boiling milk.

  “Yes, I do,” I said and touched his arm. He was so tense his entire body felt like coiled wire under his skin. “I know exactly what it means to
you.”

  “How can you possibly know?” Albert slowly began to calm under my touch.

  “I am not at liberty to say,” I said softly. “But trust me, please, I do know what that pearl means to you and I will do everything I can to get it back to you.” Albert relaxed. I could see the tension release, muscle by muscle, from around my hand. “We're in the middle of nowhere in deepest Africa,” I assured him. “The pearl will still be on the boat and we’ll find it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But now,” I drew myself up. “I think Mr Peterson has told us all he can, poor man. It’s time to interview Mrs Rothberg and try to get the truth from her.”

  “Lead on, Hannah, lead on.”

  Chapter XXII

  Mrs Rothberg sat on her bed. Her cabin was just like all the others. She had personalised it a little with fresh flowers from the city in a vase, a photo on the nightstand and doileys on the pillow and the sheets.

  Two sailors stood outside Mrs Rothberg's room and the porthole had been locked shut. There was no way out of the room without permission – not a very harsh prison.

  Mrs Rothberg had composed herself somewhat. Gone was the dreamy, far-away look. She had replaced it with hard determination. I did not like it one bit.

  “Hello, Mrs Rothberg,” I said as Albert and I entered. “We'd like to ask you a few questions, if we may.”

  “Ask away.” Mrs Rothberg said in the same way she would order a firing squad.

  “Are you certain that Mr Peterson shot himself? Did you see the event?” I asked.

  “He didn't shoot himself.” Mrs Rothberg looked up and shot me a look of pure hatred. “I shot him.”

  “What?” Albert snapped the lead of the pencil.

  “I killed him, and I was glad to do it,” Mrs Rothberg said. “Do you know what kind of person he was, down in the bone?”

  “What?”