Death by Water (32 page)

captain saw what he had steered through, he said that some other hand than his must have been on the helm.’

‘Very proper sentiments,’ approved Mrs Cahill.

‘Captain Rostron was a very fine officer,’ said Theodore Green. ‘We had everything ready by the time we caught up, and we got those lifeboats aboard as though it was a drill. But there weren’t many of them, and some of them weren’t full . . .’

‘And most of the survivors were from First Class,’ said Phryne.

‘Yes, Miss Fisher, and they were very shocked. Cold, scared, horrified. They said that the steerage passengers, when they finally gained the decks, ran like ants to the highest part of the wreck, and then . . .’

‘She sank,’ said Phryne.

‘Yes,’ said Professor Applegate. ‘Taking thousands of people with her. Criminal. That captain was sensible in deciding to go down with the ship.’

‘And they said that some of the stewards and sailors had barred the entrances to the decks so that the first class passengers could get away,’ said Mr Aubrey sternly.

‘Murderers,’ whispered Mr Singer.

‘Mr Singer, I know your secret,’ said Phryne to the man, who seemed about to cough or laugh.

‘Eh? My secret?’

‘You knew it wasn’t Jack Mason in the Death costume.’

‘Yes, yes, knew it was Thomas,’ said Mr Singer, and laughed again. ‘What of it? No reason to kill Thomas.’

‘Oh yes you had,’ said Phryne gently. ‘Wife and two children, was it, dead in some tragedy? Mrs Singer told us that much. What tragedy, Mr Singer? How did they die?’

‘They drowned. She was taking them to her sister and they drowned,’ said Mr Singer.

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‘On the
Titanic
?’ Phryne pressed.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Singer over Mr Singer’s escalating laughter.

‘I’ve seen the certificates. That’s where he got the capital to start his business. White Star paid out two hundred pounds for his wife and children. His name was Chant then, Jocelyn Chant. I never thought he cared about his family,’ she added, wonderingly.

‘She would have brought them back!’ screamed Mr Singer.

‘She’d left me before, she’d left me often, but she wrote me a letter and said, you can write to me at my sister’s, she would have come back to me, but they killed her.’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne in that same gentle, hypnotic voice. ‘You have been tracking them down, haven’t you? All of them that you can find. That’s why you always check the crew register.

The stewards who barred the way for the steerage passengers.

The ones who condemned your wife and children to drown in the dark recesses of the sinking ship. Someone like Thomas, perhaps.’

‘Like rats,’ mourned Mr Singer. ‘Like ants, they say, never saying, like women, like children. Thomas was there. Told me so. Told Jack Mason so. On the crew manifest for the
Titanic
.

I saw Mason go back to his cabin, he was drunk, then I saw Thomas come out. He had his patent leather shoes on. No one else wears them but him. I knew him. And I killed him,’ said Mr Singer. ‘Well, I had to, didn’t I? Put it to yourself,’ he said.

His wife cringed away from him. ‘And you know, I felt better,’

he told Detective Inspector Minton as he raised him to his feet and applied handcuffs to his wrists. ‘I felt much better after he was gone down to drown in the dark like my girls. I felt better every time. And I shall be well, quite well, when they are all dead!’

Minton gave Phryne a nod. She pointed to his table. On it, Pierre had just placed two glasses of cognac and a platter of pâté de campagne, toast and truffles.

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The policemen led Mr Singer away.

‘I think you should have another glass all around,’ said Phryne to the table at large. ‘That was very skilled, friends.’

‘Rather a good show,’ said Mr Aubrey. ‘But surely he won’t hang?’

‘No, he’s completely insane,’ said Phryne. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out of this, Mrs Singer. You shouldn’t have had to watch that performance.’

‘Yes, I should,’ she said. ‘Otherwise I might not have believed it. He talked about them sometimes, but I never thought he loved them, any more than he loved me.’

‘Since we are being so frank, I believe that love has nothing to do with it,’ said Mr Forrester. ‘It is all about power, influ-ence and ownership. You’re better off out of it,’ he added.

This was so clearly true that table three just nodded and went on with cheese and coffee. The Melody Makers came in and began to set up. Phryne did not feel like dancing at present.

She was suddenly very tired. However, she patted Mr Forrester’s thigh companionably. He had done very well for someone who was completely unrehearsed.

‘Imagine him following all those stewards,’ giggled Mrs West. ‘It’s creepy!’

‘Mrs West,’ Mrs Cahill began.

Phryne could tell that the tension was about to be released with a nice quarrel, in which Mrs Cahill would finally get to give Mrs West a piece of her mind, and though that would be very instructive for Mrs West and amusing for the rest of table three, it did not accord with Phryne’s plans.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ said Phryne. ‘Does anyone know anything about Christchurch? I need to do some souvenir shopping. Rather a lot, in fact. I believe Mr Aubrey mentioned dolls?’

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‘Oh yes, Miss Fisher, there is an excellent doll maker in Christchurch,’ he said, picking up the hint very quickly. ‘You will love his shop, Mrs West. Every possible sort of doll you can imagine.’

‘And books,’ said Phryne. ‘Possibly handicrafts? I already have a length of that beaten flax fabric.’

‘
Tukutuku
,’ said the professor. ‘It’s very fine. You might wait until we get further north, near Rotarua, for any more Maori things. But you must buy a few hand-knitted shawls in Christchurch,’ she said. ‘Perfect for anyone who feels the cold.

New Zealand wool is very fine,’ she said, then, deferring to Mr Cahill, ‘though not as fine as Australian wool, of course.’

He accepted the compliment. ‘Nice of you to say so,’ he said gruffly. ‘I reckon we might turn in. Been a real interesting evening, but,’ he said. He collected his wife and went away.

Mrs Cahill left him by the door and came back.

‘Mrs Singer, perhaps you’d like to come to our suite? The police will . . . er . . . probably be in yours for some time.’

‘Thanks,’ said Mrs Singer. ‘Very kind of you. But I’m sure the ship can find me a little place somewhere. I don’t want much. But I do want to be alone tonight,’ she said fervently.

‘I’ll make some arrangements,’ said Theodore Green, getting to his feet.

‘And I’m going to dance with Mr Forrester,’ said Mrs West, and dragged him away. Mr West scanned the table for a partner, struck out with Phryne and Margery Lemmon, and went to find suitable company.

The Melody Makers were playing ‘Romona’ when a familiar figure came in and was immediately enveloped in Margery Lemmon, who hugged him tight and then clipped him over the ear.

‘Oh, Jack Mason, I cried for you!’ she exclaimed wrathfully.

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‘Sorry about that, old girl,’ he said, rubbing his ear. ‘Is it all over?’

‘It’s all over,’ said Mr Aubrey. ‘Come and sit down, boy.

Might as well have some of that pâté and toast, maybe some more cheese, some cognac for us too, eh, Pierre? How are you, Jack?’

‘Bit confused,’ said Jack Mason. ‘But once Miss Fisher started sorting out my life, it all came good. You’re a miracle worker, Miss Fisher. I’m sorry you cried,’ said Jack to Margery Lemmon, who was proving that she had by doing it again. ‘Here, take my handkerchief. Never meant to make any lady cry,’ he added.

Margery took the handkerchief and slapped his hand.

‘Mrs Singer, there’s a nice little cabin ready for you.’

Theodore Green had come back with a steward. ‘Joanie here’s ready to take you to get your things and then she can show you where it is and get you all settled in.’

‘Do you want some company?’ asked Phryne. Mrs Singer bent suddenly and gave Phryne a fast, throttling hug.

‘No. I’m on my own,’ she said with a faint exultancy in her voice. ‘I’ll be fine now. Thank you for . . . finding him out. He would have kept on doing it. Now he won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore. I’ll come right now,’ she told Joanie, and they went out together.

‘Sit yourself down,’ said Mr Aubrey to Theodore Green.

‘And drink this glass of cognac, for which you will be forgiven, and tell us what is happening.’

‘Just this once, then. It’s not every day P&O carries a murderer. Well, the policemen have locked the prisoner in the punishment cell. There’s a crewman on guard outside. They’re on their way back, I believe. Say they owe Miss Fisher a drink.

The radio operator has sent a message on to Christchurch police and they will take custody of him.’

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‘Imagine that man brooding all his life about the death of his first family, and waiting sixteen years for his revenge!’ said Mr Aubrey.

‘He didn’t have anything else to think about,’ said Jack Mason. ‘No other children. Hated his wife, poor woman. Anyone could see that.’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne. ‘Did you know Thomas had been on the
Titanic
?’

‘Oh yes, he made no secret of it. Said it was a magnificent ship. Raved about its wines. Never told us how he got off it, though, when so many other crewmen drowned. Probably bashed someone over the head and dragged them out of their lifeboat. He wasn’t a nice man,’ concluded Jack Mason. ‘Just the sort of person my father would hire to keep an eye on me.

I’ll have to send the old man a telegraph tomorrow. I’m glad the ship hadn’t got around to telling him I was dead.’

‘Oh but we had,’ said Theodore Green, looking stricken.

‘Then perhaps he’ll be pleased that he doesn’t have to go to the expense of a funeral,’ said Jack Mason. ‘I say, this pâté is rather good.’

‘Isn’t it?’ said Miss Lemmon, and piled her toast high.

When Detective Inspector Minton and Detective Sergeant Peace returned to the diners, the party had become rather hilar-ious, partly with relief. Jack Mason was dancing with Margery Lemmon, who didn’t seem to be able to stop laughing. Mr Forrester, who had palmed Mrs West off on an unoccupied officer, was telling stories of Paris and artist’s models, and Phryne was retailing how she had once found herself entirely naked and freezing, the only blanket in the atelier being used to cover the artist’s pet wolfhound, and decided at that point that being a model was not as glamorous as she had been led to believe.

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‘Buy you a drink, Miss Fisher?’ asked Minton.

‘Only if you sit down and eat your pâté, toast and truffles, and drink your cognac,’ said Phryne.

‘For you,’ said the Detective Inspector, ‘I’d eat uncooked crow. That was a corker effort, Miss Fisher. You know that he’s done it before?’

‘I thought he might have,’ said Phryne. Detective Sergeant Peace picked up a piece of toast, truffle and pâté, nibbled dubiously, then ate the rest with relish.

‘This is real good, Boss,’ he urged. ‘Come on, Boss! Let down your hair a bit. You made a great pinch tonight.’

‘Yes,’ said Minton expansively. ‘So we did. Ladies, gentlemen, we made a great pinch. I hope the lot of you never take to a life of crime because you’d be bloody good at it. Gimme that glass, Peace, and don’t hog the truffles.’

Rachel Rosenbaum

Brooklyn, New York

Dear Sister

By now you will think that we are on the high seas on the way to
visit you, but you will be wrong. Why is this? Because Israel went
mad, it seems, we were all on the ship, all ready to go, they had
blown the going ashore siren, then suddenly, up comes Izzy, red,
puffing, grabs my arm, says come with me, bring the girls, you
aren’t sailing on this ship, well, I didn’t know what to say, but
people were looking so I went with him, anyway, he was dragging
me. I was so ashamed! And all our trunks gone with the ship, the
girls were crying, I asked him, Izzy, what are you doing? And all
he could say was that he had a dream and—there we were! We’re
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sailing tomorrow on another ship and we’ve all got new things so
I suppose it’s all right but he has me worried.

Do you think it could be true what that Maxie told us that
Izzy had an uncle who had to be put away somewhere nice and
quiet? And I never did get to the bottom of that family fuss about
his sister.

Puzzled,

Your sister Minnie

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Fair Cloe blush’d: Euphelia frown’d
I sung, and gazed: I play’d and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around

Remark’d, how ill we all dissembled.

Matthew Prior

‘An Ode’

Phryne danced, after all. There was an air of satisfaction about the ship, as though a large beast had sought attention from a tick bird which had found and removed an irritating parasite.

She thought about Mr Singer in his long revenge, hating until his soul was irremediably putrefied within him, blood flowing with the acid which rotted even his stomach. She shivered slightly and Mr Forrester held her tightly.

‘All right?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You know, I just don’t have the concentration to do what Mr Singer did. I forget about injuries soon enough.’

‘You have other things to think about,’ said Mr Forrester.