Murder on the Caronia (23 page)

“At some length.”

“How is she?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“You make her sound as if she’s ill,” Heritage said anxiously. “Is she? What are her symptoms? I’ve got drugs in my case. If you let me have it, I’ll prescribe something for her. I know that she suffers from headaches.”

“Miss Peterson is not ill, I assure you.”

“That’s a relief.”

“She’s not enjoying the experience of being locked up, that’s all.”

“Neither am I, Inspector.”

“Then you shouldn’t have committed a crime.”

Heritage paused. “It was wrong of me to steal from the pharmacy account like that,” he said at length. “But it was only money that was owed to me. Stephen had been putting his hand in the till for years.”

“I’m not so much concerned with the financial irregularities at the pharmacy,” said Redfern. “It’s the murder of your wife I’m here to discuss.”

“For the hundredth time,” said Heritage, controlling his impatience, “I did not kill Winifred. So what is there to discuss?”

“The fact that you haven’t shown the slightest grief. You admit that you disliked Sergeant Mulcaster yet you managed to find some sympathy for him. Why is it so difficult to express remorse over the death of your wife?”

Heritage heaved a sigh. “Are you married, Inspector?”

“Very happily.”

“Any children?”

“Two.”

“Does your wife mind you being a policeman?”

“At times,” conceded the other. “She knows there are grave risks in this job. I’m not looking forward to telling her what happened to Sergeant Mulcaster, I know that. It will only alarm her. Mostly, however,” he went on, “my wife is proud of what I do.”

“Rightly so.”

“But we’re here to talk about your domestic life and not mine.”

“Yours is relevant,” argued Heritage, “because your experience may help you to understand mine. You have three things I lacked. A happy marriage, children, and a wife who respected your occupation. My marriage was a living hell, Inspector. It would have been cruel to bring children into that house. As for my work, Winifred spent our whole life together blaming me for not being a doctor or a hospital consultant. Being a pharmacist was not impressive enough for her, especially as I was the junior partner. My wife was the worst kind of snob,” he said. “She always wanted a bigger house, better clothes, and a higher status in life.”

“And she poured scorn on your place of work, you say?”

“Without cease.”

“All the more reason to get your revenge by using the resources of the pharmacy.”

“No, Inspector.”

“That poison was bought for a purpose.”

“I explained that. I contemplated suicide.”

“But you drew back at the last moment.”

“Yes,” said Heritage, troubled by the memory. “I wanted to escape and I wanted to hurt my wife, but I saw that wasn’t the right or just way to do it. Carrie—Miss Peterson—would have been desolate. She talked me out of it. That’s why I held back.”

“Yet you kept the poison in your house.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I wish I’d thrown it away.”

“I think you do know, Mr. Heritage. You were using it to kill your wife.”

“That’s simply not true, Inspector!”

“Then how did she come to die? Somebody murdered her.”

“Well, it wasn’t either of us.”

Redfern watched him in silence for a few moments. He was disappointed that he had been unable to break down the man’s resistance. Even after intense questioning over a number of days, the pharmacist clung to the same story.

“Do you know what Miss Peterson suggested?” he asked.

“What?”

“It was when she was interviewed the second time by Miss Masefield, the other detective on board. She works with Mr. Dillman. I hoped that a woman might be able to coax fresh information out of Miss Peterson.”

Heritage became wary. “And did she?”

“Oh, yes. A number of discrepancies came to light. But it was Miss Peterson’s theory that interested us the most. Even though it sounds more like a clever excuse to me. I’m surprised you haven’t suggested it yourself, Mr. Heritage.”

“Suggested what?”

“That nobody else was involved. In short,” said Redfern, “your wife was so eager to incriminate you both, that she used the poison to commit suicide in a way that would point to you and Miss Peterson as her killers.”

John Heritage looked stunned at first but he recovered quickly and even smiled.

“That’s it, Inspector,” he said, as if he’d just been absolved of the charge. “My wife must have found where I hid the poison. Winifred was always searching my things in the hope of finding letters from Miss Peterson. She’d have done anything to spoil our happiness. This explains it, doesn’t it? Winifred killed herself in order to get back at us.”

______

Genevieve Masefield had been frankly astonished at the task assigned to her by Dillman. Given the evidence, she was prepared to accept that the English undertaker merited investigation, but she found it impossible to believe Pamela Clyne could be connected with him in any way. The woman had been too shy even to speak to a man of her own accord, let alone invite one into her cabin. It seemed incredible. When Ramsey Leach had been pointed out to her, he was reclining in a chair on the boat deck, reading a book. It was easy to keep him under observation. Dillman walked casually past her some time later and she knew the search was complete. Her attention could now shift to the other suspect.

Pamela Clyne was taking tea in the lounge with Mrs. Cooney and Cecilia Robart. Sitting near the door, Genevieve glanced through a magazine while watching them out of the corner of her eye. Her earlier impression was confirmed. Everything about Pamela Clyne suggested a nervous spinster who found conversation difficult and the presence of strangers worrying. Mrs. Cooney was using vigorous gestures and Mrs. Robart was also animated as she spoke, but their companion sat there meekly in her seat and contributed little beyond nods, smiles, and the occasional affirmative remarks. Taken at face value, Pamela Clyne seemed as likely to be the accomplice of a drug smuggler as the ship’s cat. Genevieve did not, however, dismiss the notion. She had known women before who were capable of disguising their true character completely in order to evade detection. And as demure as she appeared, Pamela Clyne
had
found the courage to cross the Atlantic in both directions. Genevieve wondered what her two companions would think if they realized the reticent Miss Clyne was under suspicion.

Dillman walked past the door to glance into the lounge and Genevieve put her magazine down. It was the agreed-upon signal that she had the second suspect under surveillance. Dillman was free to search Pamela Clyne’s cabin. As soon as he went off, another familiar figure came hurrying into the room. Genevieve
braced herself when she saw that it was Theodore Wright. He waved cheerily and sat down beside her.

“You certainly like playing hide-and-seek, Genevieve,” he said.

“I’ve been busy, Theo.”

“Avoiding me, by the look of it.”

“Not at all.”

“Listen, I came to apologize for what happened yesterday,” he said, sitting forward on the edge of his chair. “I’m so sorry. Wes had no call to try to frighten you off like that. I’ll never forgive him.”

“He was only doing it to protect you,” she said.

“I’m a big boy, Genevieve. Old enough to look after myself.”

“Let’s just forget the whole thing, shall we?”

“But we haven’t had our talk yet.”

Genevieve was pleasant but firm. “I don’t think there’s anything more to say, is there?” she asked. “Circumstances are against us, Theo. I’m very fond of you and I was touched by the flowers you sent, but that’s it, I’m afraid. You have your world and I have mine. I’d rather see you as a good friend.”

“Oh,” he said, visibly disappointed. “That means there’s someone else.”

“Perhaps.”

“I thought there must be. Any guy in his right mind would want you.”

“I didn’t mean to be a distraction, Theo.”

“You haven’t been, honestly. You were simply the person who brightened up my day. I love cycling but I do like to relax from time to time. Meeting you was the best thing that’s happened to me since we’ve been on the
Caronia
.”

“Don’t tell Isadora. She prefers to think that she is.”

“Yes,” he said, rallying. “Izzy is my most devoted fan.”

“Is that what you call her? Izzy?”

“I gave her a proper riding lesson today.”

“How did it go?”

“Very well, until she fell off. Don’t worry. I caught her.”

“I should imagine she enjoyed that, Theo.”

“She wants to come and see me riding in France.”

“So do I, Theo,” said Stanley Chase, catching the last sentence. “Do excuse me for butting in, Miss Masefield,” he went on. “I just wanted to tell Theo how impressed I’ve been by the thoroughness of his preparations.”

Wright was pleased. “You’ve seen me, Mr. Chase?”

“Yes, I was on the boat deck at midnight. I wanted to take a closer look at my investment, you see?”

“ ‘Investment’?” echoed Genevieve.

“That’s right, Miss Masefield. I had a quiet word with Theo’s coach and he convinced me that Theo is more or less bound to win the Bordeaux-to-Paris race.”

“I am!” said Wright, tapping his chest.

“So,” continued Chase, “since I liked what I saw, I decided to place a bet on Theo. As it happens, I pass through Paris every May on my way to a cottage I own in the south of France. I can time it so I’m there when Theo comes bursting through the tape.” He turned to the rider. “While you’re getting your breath back, I’ll be collecting my winnings.”

“Thanks for your support, Mr. Chase.”

“It does have a selfish element in it, I’m afraid, but there was something else as well. What really convinced me to put my money on you was a chat I had with a Monsieur Fontaine.”

“I met that guy,” said Wright. “He reckoned that Gaston Vannier would beat me by miles. Boy, has he got a surprise coming!”

“That was my feeling,” agreed Chase, “so I had a gentlemanly wager with him. He lives near Paris. I won’t have far to go to get my money from him. Monsieur Fontaine was acting out of naked patriotism in backing this chap Vannier. I felt it was only right to support Theo in the interests of Anglo-American relations.”

“That’s terrific, Mr. Chase.”

Genevieve was doubly grateful for the arrival of Stanley Chase. He had cut short an uncomfortable conversation, and
so diverted the cyclist with his remarks that Wright seemed to have forgotten all about her. It was just as well. Pamela Clyne and her two companions were just getting up to leave. Genevieve had to delay them.

“Forgive me,” she said, rising to her feet. “I must speak to someone.”

* * *

Dillman subjected the second cabin to the same rigorous search. Nothing incriminating was found. Pamela Clyne’s personal possessions reflected their owner. Her clothes were dowdy and the outlay on them modest. She had several small souvenirs of her visit to America, all neatly tucked away in a case. The three books in the cabin were all romantic novels by Ouida. Dillman decided that
Held in Bondage
might give a mild thrill to a maiden lady but it was hardly standard reading for someone involved in smuggling drugs. After a final look around the room, he opened the door to slip away but someone was blocking his exit. Arms folded, the imposing figure of Mrs. Anstruther stood there.

“So
you’re
the devil who visits her cabin, are you?” she said.

Ramsey Leach finished another chapter before closing the book. After standing up and stretching himself, he elected to take a walk around the boat deck. It was busy this afternoon. Passengers were promenading or playing games or simply relaxing in the bright sunshine. Children were chasing each other. An old lady was exercising her dog. Leach strolled along until someone came out of a door and loomed over him.

“Hello, Mr. Leach,” said Frank Openshaw, clasping him by the shoulders. “Grand to see you again, my friend.”

“Yes,” Leach replied uneasily.

“My wife was talking about you earlier.”

“Was she?”

“Kitty suggested that we ask you to join us this evening.”

“I already have dinner companions, I’m afraid, Mr. Openshaw.”

“This would be for drinks
before
dinner,” the other said amiably. “We like to invite a different group of people in each day so that they can meet in more intimate surroundings. Shall we say, seven o’clock?”

“I may be busy at that time.”

“Kitty will be so disappointed if you don’t come.”

“Oh, I see.”

“That’s settled, then,” Openshaw said with a chuckle. “Goodbye.”

Frank Openshaw went striding off down the deck, leaving Leach to regret that he had accepted the invitation. Before he could continue his own stroll, he was approached by a steward. The man gave him a polite smile.

“Mr. Leach?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Ramsey Leach?”

“That’s me.”

“The purser sends his compliments and wondered if he could see you in his office. I’ll show you the way, if you wish.”

Leach was alarmed. He tried to hide his discomfort under a bland smile.

“Thank you,” he said. “I can manage on my own.”

* * *

After the pleasure of being alone with the man she loved, Isadora Singleton was condemned to spend an hour with her parents, taking afternoon tea with Lord and Lady Eddington in their cabin. She was on her best behavior, pleasing her mother and drawing smiles of approval from her hosts. Having been a diplomat, Lord Eddington was a seasoned traveler. When he talked about a posting he once had had to Paris, Isadora’s curiosity was aroused. She fed him with polite questions he was only too happy to answer.

Maria Singleton was delighted by the way her daughter was ingratiating herself. Isadora was truly a credit to both of them. It was only when they left the cabin that the problem arose. When they came to some steps, her parents let Isadora go up
first. Maria’s sharp eye saw something that had been invisible before. Along the hem of the girl’s dress at the back was a long, black, shiny mark.