Black Ship (32 page)

Alec did not need another complication such as shell shock. He wondered what Aidan had done during the War. He’d have to find out, but he didn’t seriously consider the porter’s theory. A jarring of the spine such as he had described would be quite enough to set off the aftereffects of a concussion.

That, however, brought him no nearer to understanding the crime.

After scarcely three hours’ sleep, Alec was picked up at the hotel by the police car and the detective constable he had requested. In a wet, grey dawn, they drove to the Royal Infirmary.

The hospital smelt of disinfectant. Alec supposed it was better than the other smells it undoubtedly disguised. He tried to breathe shallowly.

A long wait ensued before Alec was at last permitted to speak to a doctor. The young man who then appeared looked as somnolent as Alec felt, and nowhere near old enough to have earned his white coat and stethoscope. Dr. Gibson was old enough and awake enough, however, to be adamant that on no account was Aidan Jessup to be disturbed.

“Not even by the police.”

“His brother?”

“No one will be allowed to visit him.” After many hours of two eminent consultants disagreeing as to whether the patient needed an operation to relieve pressure on the brain, he had at
last fallen into natural sleep. “Left to sleep until he rouses naturally, he has an excellent chance of waking as his normal self. He’s even been given a private room to reduce the risk of premature awakening. And,” said Dr. Gibson with a tired grimace, “his clothes and his hotel suggested he’d be able to pay for it.”

“He can. Excellent,” said Alec. “I’ll be able to leave DC Peters in his room without exciting undue interest or inviting questions.”

“Can he sit still and silent for as long as need be?” the doctor asked sceptically.

From the corner of his eye, Alec saw Peters about to burst a blood vessel. Smoothly, he forestalled an outburst that would have seriously undermined their credibility. “It’s a skill every detective has to master. He can sit outside the door if you insist, but you must see that people will wonder what’s going on.”

Not to mention that he wanted Aidan’s very first words captured, and wanted to be informed at once when he came round. He hated to badger a sick man, but it would be best to catch him before he had time to come up with an explanation of his plight, and, with luck, before Patrick tried to see him. The story the brothers had agreed upon had very likely been wiped out by Aidan’s concussion, always supposing he had taken it in in the first place.

Dr. Gibson capitulated. “Oh, very well.”

DC Peters had already been given his instructions. He melted away unobtrusively to take up his post.

“Thank you. I have one more question. Is it possible to tell when the patient received the injury to his head?”

“You’ll have to ask the consultant.”

“You didn’t hear him offer an opinion? I’m not asking you to give evidence, just to give me an indication.”

“I wasn’t on duty yesterday morning. According to the patient’s chart, at the time when Mr. Jessup was brought in, Dr. Penstone considered the degree of healing of the external injury suggested that twelve to eighteen hours had passed since it
was inflicted. Now, if you can possibly spare me, I
do
have other patients to take care of.”

Alec thanked him absently. Here was unwelcome, though anticipated, confirmation of his guess. Aidan Jessup had been injured the very evening that Castellano had died; another strand in the rope that might hang his next-door neighbour’s son.

He went to find a telephone. No doubt he ought to report to Superintendent Crane, but three hours’ sleep was not sufficient to enable him to tackle his irascible superior. Whatever the Home Secretary’s complaint involved, he’d rather not know.

He asked the operator for Whitehall 1212 all the same. It was still early and Tom Tring might have gone in to the Yard before setting about the various enquiries left for him—the Bennetts’ tale, Lambert’s whereabouts, Whitcomb’s evidence. One might suppose that Whitcomb would have come forward already if he had seen anything. In Alec’s experience, however, businessmen were prone to negligence in matters where no profit was to be made. At the very least, finding out the time he had walked through the garden might be helpful.

The connection to London took forever, and when at last Alec got through to the Yard, he was told DS Tring had not come in. Quickly, before the operator lost the London connection, he asked for his own home number. Daisy might have news of Tom. If not, there was a good chance she would see him at some point during the day, and she could pass on the doctor’s report on Aidan Jessup. Besides, as always when he was out of town, he just wanted to hear her voice.

Elsie answered the phone. “Oh dear, sir, I’m ever so sorry. She’s already gone.”

“Gone where?”

“To Lincolnshire, sir. Mr. Irwin picked her up in a motorcar. I think they went to see Mrs. Aidan.”

So he just wanted to hear her voice, did he? Now he realised that what he had really wanted was to make sure she wasn’t meddling in the investigation.

And he didn’t like the answer.

By the
time they left the Great North Road at Norman Cross, Daisy was heartily wishing she hadn’t come. A couple of hours confined with Mr. Irwin, even in the luxurious comfort of a chauffeured Lanchester, was enough to convince her that her first impressions, gained when he showed her around Alec’s great-uncle Walsall’s house, were accurate. He was a fussbox, and an incredibly boring one.

After she had assured him four or five times that she was perfectly comfortable and quite warm enough, he started fretting about the unfortunate state of affairs that was taking them to Lincolnshire. His concern was natural. Daisy had no quarrel with that. But she felt he should be more worried about his daughter and grandchildren than about the effect on his standing with the Law Society of having a son-in-law arrested for murder.

Nor did she see why she should be forced to listen to a lengthy diatribe on his advice to Maurice Jessup not to engage in shipping alcoholic beverages to America. He went into great detail about the laws and treaties involved, all of which passed over Daisy’s head.

She had been trying for some time to shut out his droning voice when it dawned on her that his words were addressed not to her but to Alec, through her. Though she was accustomed to people giving her information they wanted to convey to the police without actually having to speak to the police, she considered it most improper in a lawyer.

He didn’t even have the excuse of being a suspect. She listened with increasing indignation as he explained how he couldn’t possibly be held to blame for the consequences if his clients chose to disregard his advice.

“I’m sorry, I must have missed something,” she said. “Are you saying you advised the Jessups not to bump off Castellano? Because if so, surely it was your duty, not just as a lawyer but as a citizen, to warn the police that they were contemplating murder?”

Irwin stared at her aghast. “Oh, no, no, no!” He took out a linen handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Oh no, my dear Mrs. Fletcher, you misunderstand me entirely! I knew nothing of their plans in advance, I assure you.”

“They didn’t tell you till afterwards?”

“No, no, they never breathed a word to me, neither before nor after.”

“Then why do you think you could be held responsible?”

“Well, I did know about the … er … the ‘bootlegging,’ and since that led to the murder—”

“So you believe they did it, do you? Aidan or Patrick, or the two together?”

“Not Aidan! No!” he said violently. “Aidan is a very steady and responsible young man, or I should never have let Audrey marry him. But who knows what sort of criminals Patrick consorted with in America? The … victim was American, I gather.”

“Did you know Patrick had gone to America?”

“I was not told. I guessed. Had I been consulted, I should have advised very strongly against it, and with reason. Look what has come of it!”

Mr. Irwin had clearly persuaded himself that Patrick was guilty. Daisy could only be glad he was not her solicitor.

Did he have a reason for that belief, beyond his determination not to suspect Aidan? Did he know something Daisy did not? And if Patrick was the murderer, why had Aidan fled?

As an afterthought, what had happened to Lambert?

Beyond Peterborough, the land was dead flat, crisscrossed by ditches draining the fens. There were pastures dotted with cattle, but much of it was rich arable land. Here and there, a windmill loomed, great sails slowly turning. Daisy’s thoughts turned to Audrey’s sister’s farm.

Audrey had talked about her sister occasionally, saying Vivien had married a farmer. Daisy had no idea what to expect—it could be anything from a cottage to a mansion. The inhabitant of either might be described as a farmer, from a cowman to a gentleman who never went nearer the fields than his bailiff’s office. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine Mr. Irwin permitting a daughter of his to meet a cowman, let alone marry one; and if she had married into the aristocracy, or even the gentry, the family wouldn’t refer to him as a farmer.

No doubt he was something in between. Daisy realised she didn’t know his name, either, but she decided not to ask Mr. Irwin, who had mercifully fallen silent at last. She didn’t want to incite another peroration. Sooner or later, she would find out.

The driver stopped in Boston to ask the way to Butterwick, and in Butterwick to ask the way to West Dyke Farm. The end of the long trek was in sight.

Farm
turned out to be a modest term for a substantial house. Architecture was not Daisy’s strong point, but she thought the original brick farmhouse must have been enlarged as long ago as the eighteenth century to make a pleasant manor. The green-and-brown-striped fields extended right up to the gardens, with no extravagant park intervening. Perhaps a park had been ploughed under during the War. Or perhaps the family—what was their name?—that continued to call their home “Farm”
when it might have aspired to a grander title, had seen no sense in wasting valuable cropland.

As the chauffeur pulled up the Lanchester in front of the house, Daisy realised that for all his talk, Irwin had said nothing constructive about the purpose of their trip.

“Are you going to tell Audrey about Aidan privately?” she asked him. “I mean, are you going to try to keep it from her sister?”

“I?” he exclaimed. “But that’s what you came for, Mrs. Fletcher, to break the news to Audrey.”

“No, I most certainly did not,” Daisy said crossly. “I came to support her, to hold her hand, and to accompany her to Manchester if she decides to go.”

“But
I
can’t tell her. She’ll very likely cry!”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. That’s why I’ll be there to hold her hand and make soothing noises.”

“You know much more than I do about what’s happened. You’ll be far better able to reassure her.”

“Nothing I know is in the least likely to be reassuring,” said Daisy, her tone uncompromising.

“Oh dear! I thought I’d keep Vivien occupied while you—”

“So you don’t want her and her husband to be told?”

“That is entirely up to Audrey,” Irwin said with some dignity. “But even if she’s willing for her sister to hear the whole, she may well not want Bessemer in the picture.”

Bessemer—at least Daisy had a name now. She recognised that she was losing the argument, though. What chance had she against a lawyer, trained to keep a dispute running for years? Just look at
Bleak House!

“All right,” she said crossly, “but you’ll have to explain why I want to speak to Audrey privately. You can’t expect me to barge into the house of people I’ve never met and drag their guest away from whatever she’s doing.”

Even a lawyer could scarcely argue with that.

Daisy hadn’t realised how stiff she was till she stepped out of the car, nor how cold and hungry she was until she stepped into
the warm house and smelled lunch. The Bessemers and Audrey were, in fact, in the middle of their midday meal. The newcomers were welcomed without overt curiosity, and places were quickly set for them.

Vivien Bessemer and her husband indeed seemed genuinely incurious about the reason for the unexpected arrival of her father and her sister’s friend. Audrey, however, was very much on edge, and she pushed her food around her plate without, as far as Daisy could see, eating more than the odd morsel. Daisy ate well, not so much to postpone the distasteful task she’d landed herself with as to fortify herself for it.

At last, she and Audrey were settled in a small parlour with their coffee.

“What’s wrong?” Audrey asked at once, leaning forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “What’s happened?”

At least Daisy didn’t have to announce the fact of bad news. Audrey was obviously expecting it.

“I’m afraid Aidan has been injured—”

“I know that much. I thought he was all right, though, just a bit of a headache. The policeman who came this morning, that Scotsman, didn’t mention anything else.”

“There have been some aftereffects,” Daisy said vaguely. “He’s being properly taken care of. Don’t worry. Why don’t you tell me about that evening, the evening before you left, so that I don’t go repeating what you already know.”

“I already told the policeman.”

“It’s not for the police I want to know, Audrey. I came as your friend, to try to help. It’ll be easier if I have a better idea of what happened, and DS Mackinnon’s not likely to tell me.”

“Oh, right-oh. Everyone was excited about Patrick coming home. They’re a very close family, you see. Usually, I feel very much a part of it. I wouldn’t want you to think they shut me out in any way. No one could have a dearer mother-in-law than Mama Moira. But … I suppose—I’m afraid, looking back, I was a little jealous. I didn’t tell Mr. Mackinnon that. I’m so ashamed of it.”

“It seems to me perfectly understandable, and none of the police’s business.”

“It’s not that I don’t like Patrick, but they were making such a fuss about his return.”