Black Ship (22 page)

“Be reasonable! Last night, not only did I not know Aidan was going; I didn’t even know there was a body in the bushes. This morning, Mrs. Jessup told me only a few minutes before Audrey left that she was departing, and that Aidan had already gone. But I still didn’t know the victim was an American, let alone that he was the Jessups’ mysterious visitor. I had no idea they were any more involved than any of the neighbours. If you’d shown me the passport right away, I could have chained myself to the bumper bar of Audrey’s taxi, like a suffragette. Not that I think for a moment that she had anything to do with whatsisname’s death.”

“Castellano,” Mackinnon put in, checking his notebook. Both he and Tom seemed to be enjoying the skirmish between Daisy and Alec. “Michele Castellano.”

“Italian-American,” Daisy exclaimed. “I knew it!”

“Knew what? What else haven’t you mentioned? And what the deuce do you mean, Mrs. Jessup told you about Aidan leaving? I wish for once you’d start at the beginning instead of dropping bits and pieces here and there.”

“It all goes back to Lambert’s arrival. And all I have are bits and pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle, half of them
pure speculation
you wouldn’t have wanted to hear. But the picture is beginning to come together.”

“Let’s have it.”

“Only it’s more like a jigsaw than a consecutive story, so starting at the beginning isn’t going to—”

“Great Scott, Daisy, start where you want, but let’s have the whole of it! Or as many damn bits and pieces as you have.”

“On the other hand, perhaps Lambert
is
the best place to
start,” Daisy said reflectively. Alec looked about to explode, so she hurried on. “No, actually, it was Tommy, not Lambert. Tommy Pearson. Do you remember, he said something about gangs of criminals in America being Irish, Italian, and Jewish? We were worried about the Irish because of their habit of blowing up policemen, but even though Mrs. Jessup is Irish, it looks as if it’s one of the Italians who’s ended up dead on our doorstep.”

“There are plenty of law-abiding Italians in America. Castellano may even be another Prohibition agent, sent to check up on Lambert.”

“I
said
a lot of my picture is speculation. The next bit is Lambert, of course, who came to England to find out who are the wicked Englishmen whose shipments of alcoholic beverages are corrupting the morals of America.”

“Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Tom. “I assume Lambert’s on the up-and-up, Chief? You checked his credentials? He couldn’t be a non-Irish, non-Italian, non-Jewish crook?”

“No,” Alec said regretfully. “It would have given me great pleasure to extradite him to America.”

“He lost his papers,” Daisy reminded Tom, “and it took forever to get them replaced, but he did. Which makes me wonder: You didn’t find similar papers in Castellano’s pockets, presumably. If he was an agent, he would have had them, and if his passport wasn’t stolen, it seems unlikely his credentials would have been.”

“Good point, Daisy. It doesn’t prove he was a gang member, however.”

“Don’t forget the shoulder holster, sir,” said Mackinnon.

“A shoulder holster!” said Daisy. “What else haven’t you told me?”

“You’re supposed to be telling us,” Alec reminded her. “You’re right, though, Mackinnon. With or without a gun in it, it’s significant. We’ll take it as a working hypothesis that Castellano was up to no good. Go on, please, Daisy.”

“Right-oh. Next was finding out we were moving in next to a wine merchant. Lambert was instantly on the qui vive. Asinine, because there must be hundreds of wine merchants in the country who have nothing to do with bootlegging, but these were convenient for him to keep a watch over. And—let me see—after that, I discovered the younger Jessup son was abroad, not with his father as always before, but on his own. I can’t remember what made me suspect he’d gone to America. No reason at all, really, just being mixed up with Lambert and his obsession.”

“Do you know now for a fact that Patrick was in the USA?”

“No, actually. That’s one thing that made me wonder: the way no one ever mentioned where he’d gone for such a long time. That and Mr. Irwin’s jitters at the prospect of a policeman moving in next door to the Jessups. Mr. Irwin is Audrey’s father, and a solicitor,” she explained to Tom and Mackinnon, “so it seemed probable something a bit fishy was going on.”

“Tom, did you by any chance ask Mrs. Jessup where Patrick had come home from?”

“‘Fraid not, Chief.”

“What I canna understand,” said Mackinnon, “is what Castellano was here in England for, assuming he was a gangster, if Mr. Patrick had gone over there on that verra same business of codes and such. It doesna make sense to me.”

“No, it’s odd,” Daisy agreed.

“We’ll be able to tell from Patrick’s passport if he was in the States,” Alec pointed out. “Daisy, let’s get back to your jigsaw puzzle.”

“Where were we?”

Mackinnon consulted his notebook. “Mr. Irwin,” he said.

“Oh yes, his having the wind up was a small piece. So was Mrs. Jessup’s anxiety. In general, she seems such a calm, practical person, but she worried about Patrick, and why should she if he was just across the Channel, where he’d been often before with his father? Then we have a murder in our quiet, secluded garden, followed by the news that Patrick came home
and Aidan went off the very evening it took place. And then”—she glowered at the three men—“
much
later, I’m shown a photograph of the victim and recognize him as … Well, you know that bit. There’s definitely a picture emerging, but it has too many holes left to make out what it is.”

“The one part that’s clear as a bell,” said Tom, “is that square in the middle of your picture are the Jessups.”

“However,” said Alec, “we’ve no proof that Daisy’s picture bears much relationship to reality. It’s made up of a few facts and a lot of inference and sheer guesswork. Tom, did Mrs. Jessup tell you anything you didn’t already get from the servants?”

“She explained Aidan’s rush to leave. Seems he usually visits some of their customers up north at this time of year. The customers expect him. In particular, one gentleman, a Mr. Dalton, rang up to say his shooting party had depleted his cellar. He wanted to place a big order but wouldn’t do it without the personal guidance of Aidan, on the spot. He telephoned several times and they were afraid he’d take his business elsewhere if Aidan didn’t get there pretty quick.”

“At least we know exactly where he went today, then.”

“Mrs. Jessup didn’t know the address. We’ll have to get the details from the shop.”

Alec looked at Daisy. “I don’t suppose …?”

“Of course I didn’t ask, darling. I didn’t want them to know who was calling, remember? Or that I had any connection with the police. In fact, I didn’t even know Mrs. Jessup hadn’t given Tom the information.”

Tom gave his rare rumbling laugh. “You see, Chief, it doesn’t pay to keep Mrs. Fletcher in the dark!”

“Mackinnon, go and ring the shop. This is official. You’re a police detective and you want to know the whereabouts of Mr. Aidan Jessup today and his planned itinerary. Make sure you speak to Mr. Jessup himself, though. There’s no need for his staff to know what’s up. While you’re about it, tell him I want—no, make that ‘would like’—to speak to him and to Mr.
Patrick at home.” Alec checked his wristwatch. “Half past six this evening. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. A command disguised as a polite request.”

“Exactly.”

Mackinnon went out.

“Tom, anything else from Mrs. Jessup?”

“I asked what time the gentlemen generally came home from work. She said it varies. The shop closes at eight. The Jessups generally leave at five-thirty or six, but quite a few of their better customers like a private appointment later on. Whichever of the Jessups stays on to deal with them sometimes goes in late or comes home early the next day, depending on how busy they are. Yesterday, though, both Mr. Jessup and Aidan came home earlier than usual because they were expecting young Patrick. Mr. Jessup went in early this morning to make up.”

So much for that hurrying figure that had so alarmed Daisy! She wasn’t going to tell them about that.

“They knew what time Patrick was coming home?” Alec asked.

“Not exactly. He sent a cable from the steamer as it approached the Liverpool docks—”

“Liverpool!” Daisy exclaimed. “So he
was
in America.”

“Or Ireland, Mrs. Fletcher. You said Mrs. Jessup was Irish. Patrick could have been visiting relatives, or maybe calling on breweries and distilleries.”

“Or talking to Irish Republicans about bombs,” she said darkly.

“Not impossible,” said Alec, “and I’ll keep it in mind, but I’m inclined to believe your original notion was right, Daisy.” He grinned at her look of triumph. “I think Patrick was in America, on business concerned with outwitting their forces of law and order. Tom, if he was still on board when he cabled, the Jessups didn’t know what train he’d catch?”

“No. The men came home about four o’clock, she said, which agrees with what the servants told me. Just in case Patrick
disembarked and got through Customs quickly, to be there to welcome him.”

“Or—I wonder—to meet Castellano? I’m assuming Castellano refused to go to the shop because he knew Prohibition agents were over here on the watch. Suppose Jessup had at last agreed to talk to him at home, to find out what he wanted? And when they found out, they didn’t like it.”

“But they wouldn’t
kill
him,” Daisy protested, “not deliberately.”

“Pending the autopsy report, I’m afraid we’re virtually certain he was killed deliberately. I’m not yet prepared to swear he was killed by one of the Jessups, but with the information we have, I have no choice but to work on that basis. I realise it’s no earthly use trying to tell you what to do, but I hope you’ll steer clear of the family, all of them, until we have this sorted out. And while we’re on the subject, how did you happen to be chatting to Mrs. Jessup this morning?”

Tom, who in the middle of this peroration had gazed up at the ceiling as if trying to pretend his considerable bulk was elsewhere, returned his attention to the proceedings.

“She came round,” said Daisy, feeling somewhat subdued but on the whole heartened that Alec seemed at last to have grasped that he couldn’t order her about. “She told me Audrey was just leaving to visit her sister, and before she went, she wanted to know what was going on in the garden.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I couldn’t enlighten her because you never tell me anything.”

A muffled snort emerged from the depths of Tom’s moustache.

Alec visibly relaxed. “Good. What did you make of her manner?”

Daisy thought back. “As far as I remember, she seemed perfectly relaxed. Or at least as relaxed as one can be with hordes of policemen quartering the neighbourhood. But don’t forget, darling, she was an actress.”

“Ah, was she now?” said Tom. “Then it’s no good reading anything into her reactions.”

“How did she seem to you, Tom?”

“Just the right amount of concern if there’s hordes of policemen quartering the neighbourhood and you don’t know what’s going on and one of them comes to ask you nosy questions about your family’s movements. And you can’t give satisfactory answers, and you have to admit you recognise the victim. I wish I’d seen her on the stage. She must have been pretty good.”

“Or else she doesn’t know what’s going on,” Daisy suggested.

“That’s always a possibility,” Alec agreed, “but I think I have enough to apply for search warrants for the house and shop. He looked around as Mackinnon came in. “Did you find out where Aidan is?” he asked.

“No such luck, sir. Apparently this chap Dalton lives in some godforsaken part of the country. Aidan’s the only member of the firm who’s ever been there. He has the address and telephone number in his address book—”

“Which he took with him.”

“Which he took with him. What’s more, he took the only list of the customers he has to call on, all of whose names and addresses are only to be found in his address book. All they know is that they’re scattered all over the North, including Scotland. He takes the train up and then hires a car and driver. Mr. Jessup said he could probably come up with a few names if he put his mind to it, but he can’t recall any with unusual names we might be able to run to earth.”

“They must have an order book with the names and addresses of people they ship stuff to.”

“Yes, but a lot of them just write with their orders; they dinna insist on a visit from a knowledgeable representative.”

“There should be letters in their files, Chief,” said Tom. “It may take a bit of digging, but we should be able to sort it out. Course, that won’t tell us where he’ll be on any particular day.”

“Search warrants,” said Alec crisply. “Tom, I’m leaving you to find a friendly magistrate. Mackinnon, you come with me to take notes. It’s about time I had a word with Mrs. Jessup for myself.”

Not five minutes after Alec went over to the Jessups, the doorbell rang. Daisy was still sitting in the dining room, writing down everything she had heard, which she hadn’t dared to do with Alec present. She ignored the bell, thanking heaven that Elsie had proved quite capable of dealing with nosy reporters. However, the parlour maid showed in DC Ross, who had returned from his errand.

“You’ve been quick,” said Daisy. “If I remember your instructions correctly, that means the Bennetts’ servants confirmed the existence of Miss Bennett’s old school chum. What a pity.”

“Is it?” Ross asked. “To tell the truth, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t feel I’ve really got the hang of this case, coming in on it late, so to speak. I don’t s’pose you’d be kind enough to explain what’s going on?”

“I’d be glad to. It would help get it straight in my own head.” About to add that she didn’t actually know everything, as Alec refused to tell her, she realised just in time that nothing could so effectively cut off future confidences from Ross. She told him all she had already told the others, as well as what she had learnt from them, adding to her notes as she spoke.

He had his notebook out, too, but unlike Ernie Piper, he didn’t have an endless supply of well-sharpened pencils. She had to wait while he shaved one into the fireplace. He did know shorthand, though, like Ernie, and unlike Daisy’s version of Pitman’s, his was probably legible to anyone who had studied the subject.