by Jack Treby
I poured out two glasses of whisky. ‘Water?’ Mrs O’Neill nodded and I added a quick splash from the jug before handing it across. She received the glass gratefully. Maurice had gone off in search of the doctor and we had retreated to my cabin. Mrs O’Neill had been starting to feel a little faint. It might have been better to wait at the scene until the doctor arrived, but my room was only a short distance away and it was better not to clutter up the place unnecessarily. Luckily, the cabin boy Adam had come by as Mrs O’Neill and I moved out into the corridor. I told him what had happened and asked him to keep an eye on the room.
‘Make sure no-one goes in there until the doctor arrives.’
‘Of course, sir.’ He would let me know the moment he turned up.
I downed my glass and poured myself a second. A shell-shocked Mrs O’Neill was seated in the chair opposite me. She sipped her whisky gently, her hands shaking as she held the glass. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead. Really dead.’
I sat down on the bed and knocked back the second glass. ‘Dear God,’ I muttered, dropping the tumbler to my lap. It was still not sinking in. I had seen so much death of late, but most of the people who had died had been strangers to me, or at least casual acquaintances. The devastation I had witnessed in British Honduras had unnerved me like nothing else – all those bodies piled up in the streets – but even then they were a formless mass, unknown and unidentified. I pitied them, but I could not grieve for them as individuals. The same was not true of Harry Latimer.
‘He seemed so full of life,’ Mrs O’Neill gushed. ‘So charming and so handsome. Life can be so cruel sometimes.’
‘I thought he’d see me out,’ I admitted, revolving the tumbler in my hand. ‘He played fast and loose, but he...he always came out on top.’
Mrs O’Neill placed her glass on the floor and wiped her eyes. ‘He was a good friend to you, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, I...’ A wave of despair bubbled up inside me but I fought it back as best I could. ‘Yes, he was.’
‘You must have known him for a long time.’
‘I...yes.’ I righted the tumbler and looked up. ‘You guessed?’
‘You were on first name terms, almost from the moment I introduced him to you,’ she said. ‘I thought...I thought perhaps you must have met before.’
I closed my eyes. There was no point in concealing the truth any longer. ‘Actually, I’ve known him for years. I’m sorry. It wasn’t our intention to deceive you. We met purely by chance. Harry...’ I tried to think how to phrase the matter delicately. ‘Look. You’re probably going to find this out at some point anyway, but Harry...he was not all that he seemed. He...er...he didn’t always act from the purest of motives.’
Mrs O’Neill nodded again. ‘I suspected as much. I’ve never been particularly bright, Mr Buxton, but when a handsome man some years younger than me pays me that kind of attention, I know it isn’t because he enjoys my company. I’ve never been a beautiful woman...’
I made the appropriate noises of disagreement but Mrs O’Neill waved them away. The woman was not quite as deluded as I had first supposed.
‘I’m a rich woman and men often show an interest in me. I know their motives are not pure. But it can be lonely on your own. And it is still flattering when a man pays you attention.’
‘He did like you, I’m sure, in his own way.’
‘He was far more interested in Miss Wellesley.’ Her face erupted in a sudden panic. ‘Oh, Mr Buxton, what are we going to tell Cynthia? She’ll be so upset. She was forming quite an attachment to him. Whatever am I going to tell her?’
‘The truth,’ I said, with a gentle shrug. ‘That’s all we can do. He liked her and now he’s dead.’ I suppressed a shudder at the finality of that thought.
‘I was watching them together, last night. They seemed made for each other. I thought...I thought, well Mr Latimer could court Cynthia and you and I could...could...’ Her face fell. ‘Well, now is not the time for that.’ She started to cry again, this time uncontrollably. I reached down to my jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. The last thing I needed was waterworks in my cabin. Mrs O’Neill took the cloth gratefully. I have never been at ease, comforting distressed women and, truth to tell, this time I was not sure who was the more distressed. ‘Life is so unfair. Anyone I ever care for...’ She gave the handkerchief a good blow and I placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. All at once, she flung her arms around me and buried her head in my chest. I did my best not to flinch – I have never liked hugging – but the hard, racking sobs of Mrs Susan O’Neill were an echo of my own feelings.
‘Is the doctor inside?’ I asked.
‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Maurice was hovering in the corridor, his expression grim. It was probably unfair of me, sending him off like that across the decks to fetch a doctor, but he had done his duty, in surprisingly brisk order. There is nothing like a tragedy to bring out the best in people. ‘He arrived some minutes ago. How is the Madame?’
‘Upset, as you’d expect. A stewardess is looking after her.’ Adam had popped his head around the door to tell me that the doctor had arrived. I had left Mrs O’Neill – with my handkerchief and a second glass of whisky – in the capable hands of the laundry woman. ‘It’s hit her hard,’ I said. ‘And me too.’ I heaved myself up against the wall next to the valet, staring at the closed door of the cabin. The doctor was inside, with the head steward, examining the scene. ‘My God. Harry of all people.’
‘I am very sorry, Monsieur.’
‘So am I, Morris. So am I. I was supposed to be keeping an eye on him. Making sure he didn’t get into any trouble. And now this...’ Lord. What was I going to tell London?
‘You knew Monsieur Latimer for a long time?’
‘Pretty much forever.’ I sighed. ‘Since the war anyway.’
‘And you believe he died in his sleep?’
‘I don’t know. It looks that way. But he was younger than me. In better shape, too.’
‘Outward appearances can be deceptive, Monsieur.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that, Morris. But this...’ I waved a hand. ‘It doesn’t feel right, somehow.’
‘You suspect foul play?’
‘Lord, I hope not.’ Just for once, I thought, it would be nice if someone could die of completely natural causes. ‘There was certainly no sign of a forced entry. No struggle. No blood. He looked so peaceful, lying there. I suppose it could have been natural causes. There’s a first time for everything.’ My eyes began to film over. ‘But if anything untoward did happen, Morris. If some blackguard...’ I was beginning to shake once again, the rage boiling up inside me. ‘If someone killed him, then I swear to you, Morris, I’ll have them. I’ll have them on the end of a rope, no matter what it takes.’ My body was shuddering now, some sort of delayed shock kicking in. I had the unaccountable urge to thump somebody very hard. I have never been a violent woman. I have always been content to leave it to the other fellow to deliver the killing blow. But some things are simply beyond the pale. And a world without Harry Latimer was unconscionable. I banged my fist against the wall at my back. A lavatory flushed and there was an embarrassed harrumph from some oaf on the other side. That’s the terrible thing about death; the way that life carries on regardless, not even pausing. Harry was lying dead and someone not fifteen feet away was attending to his toilette, completely oblivious. It was like a painting I had once seen, The Fall Of Icarus. There the poor fellow was, his wings melting from the heat of the sun, plunging to his death, and there everyone else was, getting on with their lives, not even noticing.
My melancholy was cut short by the door handle in front of me, which twisted around as the door opened. A man popped his head out. ‘Mr Buxton?’ This was the doctor, a tall, youngish man in a smart officers’ uniform. ‘Bartholomew Armstrong.’ He thrust out a hand. I had seen the fellow about on deck, but I had not realised he was a doctor. That uniform was deceptive. ‘You were a friend of the deceased?’ he asked.
‘Yes, yes
I was.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss. It’s always very upsetting when somebody dies suddenly like this.’ The doctor’s face exuded calm regret, a professional but sincere manner. He was not a handsome man – his eyes were too small and far too close together, and his ears stuck out rather – but he had a dignified bearing. Behind him, through the door, I could see the head steward, standing soberly at the end of the bed. A sheet had been pulled over Harry’s head.
‘Yes, indeed. Oh, this is my man Morris.’
‘We’ve met. I understand it was you who discovered the gentleman?’
‘Me? No, it was Mrs O’Neill. A friend of his,’ I babbled. ‘Harry wasn’t at breakfast, and she came to see if he was all right. He had a bit of a late night last night.’
Doctor Armstrong nodded. ‘Yes, so I understand.’
I cut straight to the point. ‘What...when did he die?’
‘Judging by the state of the body, I would say about three hours ago. Perhaps between seven and eight o’clock in the morning.’
‘And is there any indication...?’ My voice trailed off. Was there any indication of how he had died?
‘I’m afraid it’s too early to say. I’ve conducted a brief examination, but I’ll have to perform a post mortem to determine the specific cause of death. Tell me, did he have a heart condition at all?’
I frowned. ‘Not that I’m aware of. He certainly never talked of it. Although, to be honest, I hadn’t seen him for a year or two before this trip. He certainly wasn’t complaining about anything. Why, do you think that’s what may have...done for him?’
‘There are some indicators of heart trauma.’
‘A heart attack?’
‘It’s a significant possibility. Most likely, it would have happened in his sleep. He wouldn’t have suffered unduly.’ There was the bedside manner on display, the gentle reassurance. ‘I’m afraid there will have to be an enquiry. A death onboard ship, particularly a man in his middle years, there are procedures to a follow. It’s all quite routine.’
‘You...don’t think there was anything suspicious about his death?’ I had to pose the question at least.
‘No, not at all, but we have to be thorough. It’s purely a matter of routine. We have a security officer onboard, a Mr Griffith, who’ll examine the scene. He’ll probably want to speak to you at some point. He’s a good man. A red cap during the war.’ A member of the military police force. ‘He’ll need to speak to you and Mrs...O’Neill was it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And anyone else who might have known Mr Latimer or associated with him. Any next of kin we should know about?’
‘I don’t think so. There’s a girl...Miss Wellesley. Cynthia Wellesley. She was quite taken with him. She’ll have to be informed.’
‘Of course.’
‘She may well have been the last person to see him alive.’
‘I have the room next door, Monsieur,’ Maurice volunteered. ‘I believe the two of them returned here in the early hours. Perhaps two am.’ The valet was a light sleeper, so it was not surprising that he had overheard them out in the corridor.
‘I see. And was there...?’ The doctor hesitated. ‘Forgive the indelicate question...were you aware of any intimacy between them? It could have a bearing.’
‘There was no intimacy, Monsieur.’
‘But an awful lot of dancing before they went to bed,’ I chipped in.
‘I see. And did you happen to hear anything else, during the night?’
‘No, Monsieur. Nothing at all.’
‘Well, thank you for your help, both of you. The head steward and I will take things from here.’
‘What will happen to...to the body?’
‘He’ll be taken down to the surgery so I can begin the post mortem. And the room will be locked up, until Mr Griffith has a chance to look at it.’
‘Will you...let me know what you find? The results of the post mortem, I mean.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Armstrong smiled politely. ‘It may not be for a day or so, I’m afraid, but I will let you know.’
‘Thank you, doctor.’
The steward was coming out of the room. Armstrong waited patiently as the man locked up the door, then gave us a quick nod and the two of them went on their way. The officials were taking charge of the situation and there was nothing more I could do.
Nothing more, except to break the news to Miss Wellesley. Never volunteer for anything, that is what the army people say, and I have always found it a good rule to live by. Unfortunately, more often than not, one finds oneself volunteered by default. ‘Oh, Mr Buxton, what can I say to her?’ Mrs O’Neill had lamented, between sobs, in my cabin. ‘She’s so young. She’s seen so little of life. You and I, Mr Buxton, we’ve known death, but that poor girl...’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’ I offered, somewhat reluctantly.
‘Oh, would you?’ In the circumstances, I did not really have a choice. ‘That would make it so much easier. You’re such a kind man, Mr Buxton.’
‘Call me Henry,’ I said. Having already spent some minutes in the woman’s crushing embrace, we could probably dispense with the formalities.
‘Henry.’ She smiled bleakly.
We met up with Miss Wellesley in the garden lounge on A Deck. She was sitting in one of the boxy wicker armchairs there, amid the colourful potted flowers, with a pot of tea on a table, engrossed in a book. The garden lounge was moderately busy, the sea visible through the large windows lining the starboard side of the ship. A group of men at the far end were engaged in a game of cards. I envied them. Breaking bad news is never a happy duty, especially when you haven’t fully come to terms with the matter yourself. Miss Wellesley smiled at the sight of us and closed up her book. ‘You were a long time, Mrs O’Neill,’ she said, rising up politely as we arrived at the table. ‘I’m afraid the tea will be cold now.’ Cynthia Wellesley was a slender, pretty girl in her mid twenties. She was dressed demurely but her eyes flashed a lively greeting. ‘Good morning, Mr Buxton. Is everything all right?’ In that one look, she had observed our sombre expressions.
‘I’m afraid not,’ I said, as we took our seats around the small, square table.
‘What’s happened?’ Miss Wellesley returned to her chair, her voice flecked with concern.
‘It’s Mr Latimer.’
‘Harry? What’s wrong?’
‘Something terrible has happened,’ Mrs O’Neill said, unable to hold herself back.
And so we broke the news. I have to say, the girl took it remarkably well. There were no tears, no histrionics. That is the difference, of course, between the American and the British constitution. We grieve, but we do so in private. There was no doubt, however, at the shock Miss Wellesley felt at this unwelcome news. ‘I was only speaking to him last night,’ she breathed. ‘We said goodnight. He seemed in such good spirits.’
‘The doctor seems to think it might have been a heart attack,’ I said. ‘He didn’t mention any pain to you? Any discomfort?’
Miss Wellesley shook her head vehemently. ‘No, none at all. I can scarcely believe it. I’ve never met such a healthy man. So kind and courteous.’ She stared down at the tea pot on the table. ‘A little forward, perhaps, but that was just his way.’
‘He was always fond of the ladies, was Harry,’ I said.
‘Mr Buxton has known Mr Latimer a little longer than either of them admitted to us,’ Mrs O’Neill explained.
‘Yes, I thought that might be the case. He spoke very fondly of you, Mr Buxton.’
‘But he didn’t seem out of sorts at all, last night?’ I asked.
‘Well....’ The young woman considered for a moment. ‘He did seem a little distracted, now I come to think of it. He disappeared for a short while, about an hour or two after supper. He said he needed to freshen up.’
‘He went to the bathroom?’
‘I imagine so. I was still on the dance floor, with the Reverend Hamilton-Baynes, but thinking bac
k, he was gone rather a long time.’ Her brow furrowed again. ‘It might have been twenty minutes, almost. But then he came back and we danced again.’
‘This was before we put Mrs O’Neill to bed?’
The American woman blushed at the reminder of her inebriated state.
‘Yes, about eleven thirty, I would think,’ Miss Wellesley said.
A steward had delivered a note to Harry at around that time, I recalled. ‘You don’t remember him receiving a piece of paper do you? A note, over by the bar?’
‘I don’t think so. A note?’
‘Yes, I saw somebody hand it to him. One of the stewards. That must have been about eleven thirty.’
‘I don’t recall.’
‘And it must have been shortly after that that he went off.’
Mrs O’Neill was alarmed. ‘Oh, Mr Buxton...Henry. You don’t think there might have been...have been something untoward about his death?’
‘No, no, no,’ I assured the woman hastily. ‘I’m sure there wasn’t.’ There was no point distressing her any further. ‘The doctor was pretty firm about that. Almost certainly a heart attack, he said. The poor devil. But I have been hearing some odd things recently, about letters being received. Typewritten notes of a distasteful nature.’ I exchanged a meaningful glance with Miss Wellesley. She had the decency to blush. ‘And I wondered whether the note he received might have been something of that sort.’
‘Oh, Mr Buxton. You’ve heard then? About the pen letters? The poison pen letters.’
‘A little. I don’t know the details.’
‘Pen letters?’ Miss Wellesley stared at her employer in surprise. ‘You’ve been receiving poison pen letters?’ The girl may have discovered the note back at the hotel but that was as far as her knowledge of the matter went, it seemed.
‘Yes, I have. Oh, Cynthia, it’s been so awful. I didn’t want to burden you with it. But surely none of that can have anything to do with Mr Latimer. We only met a couple of days ago.’
‘It might not be connected,’ I said. After all, the note Harry had received had been hand delivered, not shoved anonymously under a door. ‘But I think it might help if you explained a little.’