The Widow's Cruise

by Nicholas Blake

  “When can I see her?”

  “Midday perhaps. She was suffering from severe shock last night. Mustn’t rush things.”

  A steward, standing by the door, made a sign to Nikki and put the passenger list under his arm. The cruise-manager rose to his feet, radiating an aura of confidence edged with sorrow.

  “The Captain has asked you to be present, ladies and gentlemen, and hopes you will all co-operate with Mr Strangeways, to whom he has entrusted the preliminary investigation of the unfortunate occurrences which have—er—occurred on his ship.”

  “He’s learnt that bit off by heart,” Mrs Hale murmured in Clare’s ear.

  “Mr Strangeways is connected with Scotland Yard,” proceeded Nikki, giving a sudden beam like a conjurer producing the rabbit. There was a stir of interest among the passengers, many of whom craned their necks to view the hitherto incognito celebrity.

  “You were right,” whispered Mrs Hale. “A lecture. Nikki forgot to say that our distinguished speaker needs no introduction.”

  Nigel Strangeways was standing up now. The untidy, tow-coloured hair, one lock hanging over his eye; the stoop; the furrowed face; the air of purposeful abstraction—all suggested a lecturer of the less orthodox academic type.

  “I have no official standing,” he began abruptly. “The Captain has asked me to do what I can. When we reach Athens, this affair will be in the hands of the Greek police. There’s no sort of compulsion on any of you to answer my questions or co-operate with me in any way. However, the more we can get done before we reach Athens, the sooner we shall be able to resume our cruise. Nikki is making arrangements for the cruise to be continued, even if it has to be a curtailed itinerary. There’s no reason—” Nigel’s pale blue eyes gazed non-committally at his audience— “there’s no reason why the innocent should suffer with the guilty. So it will pay you to co-operate: it will pay all but one of you.”

  Nigel paused to light a cigarette, face crumpled, eyes screwed up. His last phrase, delivered in the same dry, forthright manner as the rest, had tautened the whole audience.

  “Rather impressive,” commented Mrs Hale.

  “He’s a bit of an old show-off, really—can’t resist a touch of drama,” said Clare affectionately.

  “Last night, as you all know by now, Primrose Chalmers was murdered, and Miss Ianthe Ambrose disappeared. The most convenient theory would be that Miss Ambrose strangled the child and then jumped overboard. But I fear we must not lay this flattering unction to our souls. For reasons I won’t go into, the theory is barely tenable. In fact, it’s almost certain that the murderer is on the ship still—probably sitting at one of these tables.”

  Nigel paused for the uneasy stir to subside.

  “Miss Ambrose was last seen, so far as we know, leaving the lecture on the boat-deck at about 9.10 p.m., and Primrose was missed by her parents two minutes later. The first information we need is this: did anyone here see either of them after 9.10? Some of you probably didn’t know them, so we shall now hand round their passports with their photographs in them. The crew and the passengers of other nationalities have already been asked this question, with no result. While the passports are going round, will you please try to remember if you heard any suspicious sounds—those of you who were on or near the fo’c’s’le where the swimming-pool is—between 9.10 p.m. and the time when it was announced on the loud-speakers that Primrose was missing.”

  Nigel’s questions produced one piece of evidence. Several passengers identified Miss Ambrose from the passport photograph as a woman they had seen walking along the promenade-deck, from aft, at about the time in question. They had not particularly noticed her demeanour. One of the last passengers to look at the photo, a mousy woman with pince-nez, then rose to her feet, saying she had seen Primrose Chalmers catch up with Miss Ambrose on the promenade-deck, just before the latter had reached the doorway leading in towards the forward saloon.

  “What happened then?”

  “The child took hold of Miss Ambrose’s sleeve, as if to detain her. She spoke to Miss Ambrose—I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

  “This may be very important. Did Miss Ambrose seem surprised? impatient?”

  “Well, I thought she went sort of stiff—I wasn’t really paying much attention, though.”

  “Did they talk for long?”

  “Oh no. In fact, I don’t know if Miss Ambrose said anything. She tried—yes, I remember now—to pull her arm away, and I got the impression she wanted to go in off the deck—down to her cabin, I mean. But the child wouldn’t let go, and said something more. Then they walked away, together, towards the front end of the ship. It all happened, oh, in half a minute, or less.”

  “Anything strike you about the way they walked off? Furtive, either of them?”

  “It’s funny you should say that, Mr Strangeways. I remember thinking how quaint it was the little girl should be taking the lead—I thought perhaps it was some game she’d suggested. And Miss Ambrose sort of fell in with it, like you might humour a kid, though she hadn’t been keen at the start. But no, I wouldn’t say they were furtive.”

  As the woman spoke, an unpleasantly grotesque image formed in Clare’s mind—of Primrose decoying Ianthe Ambrose away and pushing her into the swimming-pool. She wondered if the same fantasy had occurred to Nigel. Oddly enough, it had.

  Nigel took this eye-witness’s name and cabin-number. Then he spoke again to the audience in general.

  “No one else any contribution? Right. Now this is going to be tiresome for you; but I want all of you to go away and write down your movements yesterday—where you were, and who was with you, from 9 p.m. till 10.30: make as detailed and accurate a timetable of your movements as possible, please. The police in Athens are bound to question all of us on this point, so we might as well have the answers ready for them. It would be helpful, too,” continued Nigel, with no change of tone or expression, “to know where everyone was from midday, say, while the ship was lying at Kalymnos.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot see the point of that,” remarked Jeremy Street, rather loudly. “Miss Ambrose was not murdered on——”

  “There may be no point in it. On the other hand, if we all think back hard over yesterday, something may be turned up which will provide a clue to the murderer. And of course, it goes without saying, if any of you had seen or heard anything during the cruise which you now feel may have some bearing on these crimes, come and tell me about it: first-hand evidence only, not hearsay. I shall be in the First Officer’s cabin, on the bridge-deck, from ten o’clock.”

  Mrs Hale muttered to Clare, “Is it permitted to ask the lecturer questions?”

  Clare grinned. “Try, and see.”

  Mrs Hale rose to her feet. “If we know about people who had motives for one of these crimes, do we tell you, or would that be considered idle gossip?”

  The audience froze into a deep silence.

  “By all means tell me. In private.” Nigel paused, eyeing the passengers meditatively. “There are several people on board who had strongish motives for killing Miss Ambrose. But this does not make them murderers. I must also tell you that there is a suspected professional blackmailer on board. Anyone who has suffered from this person’s attentions would be well advised to inform me.”

  Nigel bowed briefly to the Captain who raised his hand in a half salute, then strode out of the saloon, his departure starting a buzz of conversation.

  V

  Clare caught up with him, and led him to a quiet spot on the boat-deck.

  “That woman’s evidence was curious, wasn’t it?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Considering the way Ianthe flew out at Primrose yesterday morning, when we were queueing up at the gangway——”

  “Yes?”

  “One wonders what the child said to her last night, that made Ianthe go with her to—to wherever they went.”

  “One does.”

  Nigel appeared extremely distrait; but Clare could n
ever be sure that, behind even his glassiest-eyed look, his brain was not taking in what she said. So she went on:

  “I got a fantastic picture in my mind’s eye just now. I saw Primrose pushing Ianthe into the swimming-pool.”

  “Yes,” said Nigel, staring at the waves bustling and jostling past the ship’s white side. “So did I.”

  “Absurd, wasn’t it?”

  Nigel turned slowly and faced her, his back to the rail.

  “Why would you push someone into a swimming-pool?”

  “Because I was in a rage with her, perhaps,” Clare answered. “Primrose gave Ianthe a pretty lethal look yesterday morning.”

  “Or?”

  “Well, let me think. To see if she could swim?”

  Nigel’s pale eyes blazed. “Now there, my love, you have something.”

  “But we know Ianthe couldn’t swim.”

  “All we know is that she didn’t swim. The Bishop told me that, when she was a girl, she went through an athletic phase—trying to be a boy, to win her father’s love. It’d be surprising if she didn’t learn then.”

  “You can find out easily enough. Ask Faith Trubody. But I don’t see what——”

  “It’d explain the two splashes I heard. Primrose pushes Ianthe in. Ianthe swims a couple of strokes to the side of the bath, seizes Primrose’s ankles, drags her in (splash number two) and strangles her, holding her head under the water.”

  “I should have thought Primrose would run away after pushing her in.”

  “Not if she wanted to find out whether Ianthe could swim.”

  “But you wouldn’t strangle a child because—do you mean Ianthe suddenly went off her head with rage?”

  “That’s not the most important question.”

  “Well, what is?”

  “Why did Primrose want to know if Ianthe could swim?”

  “I see. But of course it’s all based on our flimsy notion that——”

  “You know, there’s something wrong with this case. It’s all too pat, somehow. Neurotic woman, pushed into bath by child, blows her top, drowns child, then in fit of revulsion throws herself overboard.”

  “I don’t see what’s so wrong with that.”

  “Ianthe has been threatening suicide for some time. She goes to the lecture, looking like death. Here’s another chance to show up the shortcomings of her bête noire, Jeremy Street. Instead, she gives a heavy sigh and slips out after ten minutes of it. What does this suggest?—that she can’t stand life any more, and is going to end it. But, if she was determined to kill herself then, why on earth should she allow herself to be side-tracked by Primrose? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes. Well, if she was murdered, we know one person at least who couldn’t have done it?”

  “Who?”

  “The bête noire. He was lecturing away till about 9.30, wasn’t he?”

  “To be sure. . . .”

  Peter and Faith were sitting on the sun-deck below the bridge, their backs against the bulwark. As Nigel approached, he got the impression of two young animals huddled together for warmth or comfort. Peter scrambled politely to his feet, but gave Nigel a look both defiant and wary.

  “Got the handcuffs ready?” he muttered.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I was heard threatening Miss Ambrose. Miss Ambrose disappears. Q.E.D.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Peter,” said Faith nervously.

  “In books,” the boy persisted, “the amateur detective always jumps to conclusions.”

  “We’re not in a book. Did you murder Miss Ambrose?”

  “Well, really!” Peter Trubody was once again the prefect, speaking in the shocked, superior tone of one who censures a breach of public-school etiquette.

  “If you didn’t, keep out of my hair. Miss Trubody, did Ianthe ever use the swimming-bath at school?”

  Faith’s lips fell open, showing the pointed incisors. “What an extraordinary—! No, she didn’t, as far as I know. Why?”

  “Think hard. You never had any reason to imagine she could swim?”

  “Why, no. Actually, she never took part in any of our games. Despised them, I suppose. She used to go on about the system trying to turn us into substitute-boys. I don’t know why she was so bitter about it. Sour grapes, I expect. Imagine the Bross trying to wield a hockey stick!”

  So that is it, thought Nigel. Ianthe, as a child, dismally failed to win her father’s heart by making herself good at sport, by becoming a “substitute-boy”. So then she reacted violently against games. But she could still have learnt to swim in those distant days. So we’re back where we started. . . Only, why should she have said to me, “I can’t swim”? Why not, “I don’t like swimming”? Another tiny, nagging, probably irrelevant question.

  Nigel’s reverie was broken by Faith, who whispered to her twin-brother, “Why don’t you tell him?”

  “What’s the point? It was obviously my mistake. After all, she went to the lecture—I saw her going up on to the boat-deck.”

  “But it was a very peculiar thing for Mrs Blaydon to do.”

  “Don’t be so potty, Faith. It only looked peculiar then. I was a long way off, remember. And I didn’t know then that she’d got sunstroke: that explains everything.”

  “Well, I still think——”

  Brother and sister were arguing in undertones, apparently oblivious of Nigel, who sensed that this argument had taken place before, with no agreement reached.

  “My hearing is preternaturally acute,” he remarked, smiling. “What is all this about?”

  Faith began to say, “I keep telling Peter that, in a criminal investigation, any fact may prove useful.”

  “Too true.”

  “And when it’s something so peculiar——”

  “Faith, I absolutely forbid you to——”

  “Oh, don’t be so stuffy and pompous!” exclaimed the girl, without acrimony.

  “I’ll tell you something about criminal investigations,” Peter continued. “The police are always having their time wasted by nitwits and busybodies who trot out absurd theories and irrelevant facts.”

  “That also is true,” said Nigel. “But only the chap in charge of the investigation can decide what’s relevant.”

  “What happened yesterday afternoon can’t possibly affect the case,” said Peter dogmatically. Then he flushed, looking suddenly much younger. “Besides, it’s not my secret alone. There are things a gentleman doesn’t talk about.”

  “Oh poof!” exclaimed Faith, giggling. “You told me.”

  “You’re different. You’re my tiresome, titivating, tumbledown twin.”

  The two began to roll about on the deck like puppies, tickling each other. Nigel left them to it, but made a mental note that Peter must be questioned later. For the present, there was the interview with the bereaved Mr Chalmers, which Nigel frankly dreaded.

  VI

  The discipline of his profession made Primrose’s father a good witness. At any rate, he kept his emotions distinct from his reason and seemed to have himself well under control. Unfortunately, so far as the events of the previous night were concerned, he had nothing to contribute. He had been a little surprised that Primrose should leave the lecture, for she was interested in Jeremy Street’s subject; but her parents had never subjected the child to unnatural regulations. It was understood that she would put herself to bed when she felt sleepy: however, when she did not rejoin them after the lecture, and was not to be found in the cabin, her mother had become a little anxious and they had looked for her along the decks, in the saloons and the reading-room.

  Nigel studied the man sitting opposite him in the First Officer’s cabin. A smallish man, with a smooth face and a brow that curved back baldly a long way towards the top of his head: the eyes had that mild, attentive yet somehow unfocused look which Nigel had noted before—the look of a man listening; listening, as the analyst must, for implications, overtones, buried voices, both in his patients and in himself.

&nb
sp; “At dinner, how did she strike you?” asked Nigel, groping as it were for a light-switch in the bewildering, disorientating darkness of this case. “Did she give any signs of apprehension, say, or excitement?”

  “I would say she had a secret,” Mr Chalmers brought out after a pause. “She had been thinking out something for herself; or making a plan. Yes, that would be my interpretation.”

  “You say ‘had been’ thinking something out. For some time?”

  Mr Chalmers smoothed his massive brow. “I observed that Primrose was unusually silent yesterday afternoon, after we had bathed.”

  “Could you tell me about this—all the detail you remember?”

  In his practised way, Mr Chalmers marshalled the facts. “We visited the Venetian castro, picnicked on a hill nearby, then rested for a while. My wife wanted to bathe, but we did not know just where the bathing beaches were situated. So we walked down to the port, and then at a venture took a track leading westwards out of the town, above the sea. Presently we came to a cove—about a mile from the port, I think. Miss Ambrose and her sister were sun-bathing amongst the rocks on the far side. It looked a good place for a bathe, but they told us it was infested with sea-urchins. So we went on farther.”

  “Which of them told you this?”

  “Miss Ambrose. I thought it might be an irrational phobia of hers, but my wife did not like Primrose to risk the sea-urchin possibility.”

  “Did Mrs Blaydon say anything?”

  “I do not think so. She waved when we left them. Her sister said there was a better beach farther on.”

  “What time was this meeting?”

  “I am always very vague about time.” Mr Chalmers’s thin lips stretched in a simulacrum of a smile. “It would be, perhaps, around three o’clock.”

  “And then?”

  “We moved on, about half a mile, till we found another beach. We bathed. Then Primrose wandered off by herself.”

  “Which way did she go?”

  “Back along the track we’d come by.”

  “How long was she absent?”

  “I have little idea. My wife and I were discussing a theory of Melanie Klein’s in relation to one of my patients.”