Murder on the Caronia (26 page)

Cecilia Robart had a friend who was a heavy smoker.

Michel Fontaine was a charming companion. He flirted gently with Genevieve without making her feel in any way threatened or offended. She was sorry she had to leave the table early but the cry for help from Isadora Singleton could not be ignored. Excusing herself from the table, she looked around for Cecilia Robart. Positioned between Sir Harry Fox-Holroyd and Frank Openshaw, looking completely at ease, she seemed to be keeping up simultaneous conversations with the two men. Genevieve walked past them. When she left the room, she saw Theodore Wright chatting to one of the stewards. He broke away when he saw her.

“You see?” he said with a grin. “I’ve got a fan, after all.”

“You’ve got lots of fans, Theo.”

“That guy has actually seen me race. Comes from Baltimore. He saw me win a big race down there last year and has been dying for the chance to speak to me. What about that, eh?” he asked. “I may not impress the passengers on the
Caronia
but I’m a hit with the stewards.”

“You impress us all, believe me.”

“No, I don’t, Genevieve.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Singleton thinks I’ve crawled out from under a stone. I don’t reckon that he’ll be in the crowd in Paris to cheer me past that winning line. He found out I’d been giving Izzy—Isadora—some riding lessons. Almost bit my ear off.”

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why Isadora isn’t here this evening. I have to go, Theo,” she said. “Before I do, promise me you’ll definitely win that race in Paris.”

“It’s in the bag, Genevieve.”

“Good. That’s what I told Monsieur Fontaine. Don’t let me down.”

She gave him a farewell smile then hurried off to her cabin to collect a book. From there she went to the Singletons’ suite. As she approached, a steward was taking some empty plates away on a tray. The family obviously had dined in private and their meal was over. Genevieve felt able to knock. Waldo Singleton opened the door.

“Oh, good evening, Miss Masefield,” he said.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Singleton,” she said, “but I’d rather hoped to catch you in the dining room. I have something for Isadora.”

“Is that you, Genevieve?” asked an excited voice from inside.

Waldo opened the door wide. “Perhaps you’d better come in.”

Genevieve went in and saw the table set for three. Although they were dining in their own suite, the Singletons had dressed
for the occasion. Waldo was in his white tie and tails and Maria had produced a turquoise-colored gown with a draped bodice and long sleeves. Around her hair was a pink bandeau. She smiled graciously. Isadora sat beside her mother with a look of gratitude in her eyes.

“I brought that book I promised to give you, Isadora.”

“Oh, thank you!” said the girl, recognizing the excuse for what it was. “I’ve been waiting for that. May I talk to Genevieve in the other room, please, Mother?”

Maria hesitated. “What is the book?” she asked.

“It’s a novel by Edith Wharton,” said Genevieve. “I bought it in New York.”

“No harm in that,” remarked Singleton, with heavy-handed humor. “It’s not as if you’re trying to corrupt our daughter with an English author.”

“Don’t be fatuous, Waldo,” said Maria.

“No, dear.”

“Off you go, Isadora.”

“Thank you!” said Isadora, leaping from her seat.

She took Genevieve through the connecting door to her own cabin then closed it behind her. As soon as they were alone, she burst into tears.

Genevieve held her in her arms and tried to soothe her. “Theo told me what happened,” she said.

“It was dreadful. Father went off to put him in his place.”

“Well, I don’t think he succeeded, Isadora. When I saw Theo a few minutes ago, he was as lively as ever. Nothing can dampen those high spirits of his.”

“I do hope not. I felt so guilty for landing him in the situation.”

“He knew the risks.”

“We both did, Genevieve. Oh, I could kick myself for giving the game away like that!” said Isadora. “I let the hem of my dress touch the bicycle chain and it picked up some oil. Mother saw it at once. They’ve banned me from talking to Theo.” She crossed to the door that opened onto the passageway and
turned the handle. “You see?” she said. “It doesn’t open. They’ve locked me in.”

“They can’t do that for the rest of the voyage.”

“Mother says I’m to stay close to them at all times.”

“Won’t they even let you talk to me?”

“You’re the only exception to the rule.”

“That’s a relief,” said Genevieve.

“Will you help us? Theo and me, I mean?”

“In what way?”

“I’ve written him a letter,” said Isadora, opening a drawer to take out an envelope. “I managed to smuggle out that note to you because the stewardess likes me, but I didn’t want to risk letting this fall into the wrong hands.” She gave Genevieve the letter. “It’s an apology to Theo for the trouble I caused him. An apology and a promise.”

“ ‘Promise’?”

“Two days after we land in England, I celebrate my twenty-first birthday. I’ll be able to do what I want to do then. Mother and Father will complain, of course, but they can’t really stop me from going.”

“Where?”

“To France, I hope,” Isadora said excitedly. “I’ve got money of my own. I want to be in Paris when Theo wins that race.”

There was a sharp tap on the door. Maria’s voice was peremptory.

“Don’t be too long in there, Isadora,” she said. “You need an early night.”

“I’m just leaving, Mrs. Singleton,” called Genevieve, slipping the letter into her purse. She handed the book to Isadora. “You’d better take this.”

“What’s it called?”

“
The House of Mirth
.”

Isadora giggled. “It’s not about
my
family, then!”

Throughout dinner, Dillman had studied Cecilia Robart, wondering if she really was a legitimate suspect and, if so, who her
accomplice was. It could hardly be Sir Harry Fox-Holroyd, yet he was the man with whom she talked most. When dinner was over, Mrs. Robart went off to the lounge with her companions. Dillman got up and drifted into the smoking room. Several people were enjoying a postprandial cigar or cigarette. The majority of them were men but a few women were there as well, using long cigarette-holders, as much for affectation as for any other reason. Dillman scanned the faces, recognizing a number of them.

The man who interested him most was talking animatedly to two friends. Short, smart, and with a dark complexion, he was one of the few men who preferred a cigarette. Most of them, including Frank Openshaw, pulled on Havana cigars, filling the room with a pungent odor. The short individual was clearly a heavy smoker. Finishing one cigarette, he stubbed it into an ashtray and immediately lit another before continuing his conversation. Dillman counted three discarded butts before he slipped out of the room to escape the stink of smoke.

He loitered nearby until the man he had been watching came out. He gave Dillman a nod as he went past. The detective responded with a smile before moving casually into the smoking room again. Strolling across to the ashtray into which the cigarettes had been stubbed out, he waited until nobody was looking before he picked up some of the butts. A glance told him they were the same brand as those found in Cecilia Robart’s cabin. Dillman dropped the butts back into the ashtray and went off to the lounge. The man had now joined a group that consisted largely of ladies. He was making them all titter with amusement. Frank Openshaw ambled into the room.

“Good evening, Mr. Dillman,” he said, crossing to him. “We must talk more about those yachts of yours sometime. I’ve always wanted to be skipper of my own craft.”

“That’s what you are on the
Caronia
, to some extent, Mr. Openshaw,” observed Dillman. “You’re far more of a presence among the passengers than Captain Warr.”

Openshaw chuckled. “I like to get around.”

“Then you’ll probably recognize that gentleman over there.” Dillman pointed. “The one who’s diverting all those ladies.”

“Oh, him! Yes, he joined us for drinks this evening.”

“What’s his name?”

“Michel Fontaine,” said Openshaw. “He’s a mad Frenchman.”

* * *

Theodore Wright was troubled. The letter Genevieve had delivered to him had been both delightful and worrying. He was pleased to hear that Isadora Singleton planned to support him in France and was touched by the affection that ran through her letter. At the same time, he was alarmed to hear she had been confined to her cabin that evening as a result of something he had done. Isadora blamed herself for unwittingly revealing their secret and she apologized profusely for anything her father might have said to him. Wright was tempted to go to their cabin and confront her parents, but he saw that that might only embarrass his young friend. Instead he rested on his bunk until it was time to get back in the saddle. Even when he was cycling around the boat deck, he was still brooding about Isadora Singleton, desperately searching for a way to alleviate her suffering. He saw a parallel in his own situation. Wes Odell was watching him as closely as the Singletons watched their daughter. It was a shared problem.

Something else troubled Wright. He felt tired. He was putting his usual effort into the training ride but maintaining nothing like his usual speed. The sequence of late nights and early mornings was affecting him. He always took care to have a long nap in the afternoons but it was not the same as continuous sleep. Because they could only use the deck at certain times, they had been forced to adopt a testing schedule. Wright thought enviously of his French rival. Gaston Vannier would be practicing on the very route that would be taken during the Bordeaux-to-Paris race. It was a huge advantage. Stung by the remembrance, Wright put more power into the thrust of his legs and surged forward.

When he finally came to a halt, however, his coach had no
words of praise. Odell jabbed a finger at his stopwatch. “What’s wrong with you, Theo?” he demanded.

“Sorry, Wes. I’m tired.”

“Your mind is not on your cycling.”

“I need more sleep.”

“What you need is more practice,” said the coach, taking a small tin from his pocket. “Get back in the saddle for another quarter of an hour.”

“I’ve had enough for one night.”

“Do as you’re told. Open up.”

“What?”

“Open your mouth. I want to give you something.”

“Why?”

“Because it will wake you up, that’s why. Come on.”

Wright opened his mouth and Odell took some flakes from the tin to place on his tongue. The rider swallowed them uneasily. He looked worried.

“Off you go,” said Odell. “You’ve got to ride for twenty-four hours in France, remember. We’ve must get those miles in your legs, Theo. Show me what you can do.”

Wright set off again and was soon cycling with a new vigor.

Inspector Redfern decided to follow Dillman’s advice and arrange a joint interview with his two prisoners. The session was scheduled for the following morning. On their way to the cabin, Genevieve Masefield met up with Dillman.

“I was thinking over what you told me last night, George.”

“And?”

“I don’t think Michel Fontaine is implicated,” she said. “I sat next to him at dinner last night. He’s an inveterate flirt but I didn’t get the feeling he was a criminal.”

“I’m going on the evidence of those cigarette butts.”

“It’s a popular French brand. Other people smoke them.”

“True.”

“It may not even have been a man in Cecilia Robart’s cabin. Those cigarettes could have been smoked by a woman.”

“I considered that,” said Dillman, “but most women use cigarette-holders. The ends of the butts would have been squeezed to fit into them. I’m not saying that Monsieur Fontaine is our man, but we need to keep an eye on him.”

They reached the cabin and were let in. Redfern explained the way he wanted to conduct the interview before going out. He returned first with John Heritage, who was surprised to see Genevieve there. Dillman introduced her. Redfern went off to fetch the other suspect. When she was brought in, Carrie Peterson did not even notice the others at first. Her eyes were fixed on her lover. She tried to run to him but Redfern held her back.

“I warned you, Miss Peterson,” he said. “Any impulsive behavior and you go straight back to your cabin. That goes for you as well, Mr. Heritage.”

“Of course,” said Heritage. “We’re just pleased to see each other again.”

Carrie was trembling. “How are you, John?”

“I’m fine, Carrie. And you?”

“Much better.”

Her words were contradicted by her appearance. She looked strained and wan. During the days aboard the ship, she seemed to have aged visibly. But there was still a hint of defiance in her gaze, and her spirits were clearly lifted by the sight of her lover. After introducing Dillman to her, Redfern made her sit on one side of him while Heritage was on the other. The inspector explained what was going to happen and reiterated his warning that the suspects would be returned to their cabins if they misbehaved in any way. Grateful to be in the same room again, both promised to cooperate. Dillman and Genevieve sat directly in front of them so they could watch their reactions.

“Let’s start with the discrepancies, shall we?” said Redfern, consulting his notebook. “There are several details that don’t seem to match up. Perhaps you can explain why.”

He listed some of the new facts Dillman and Genevieve had elicited from the suspects and asked them to explain why there
were slight differences between their individual accounts. Heritage answered with a degree of confidence, giving plausible answers that were also signals to Carrie Peterson to corroborate his testimony. She was more guarded in her replies, agreeing with most of what he said but correcting him on some points. Genevieve had the impression the woman was being slightly more honest. Dillman, too, came round to the view that Heritage was hiding more than his mistress. He was also trying to shield her from their questions by drawing attention to himself. When the Cunard detectives were invited to participate, both of them turned toward Carrie Peterson.