A Poison of Passengers

by Jack Treby

  ‘Mrs O’Neill’s house? In Boston?’ That was interesting. ‘Which suggests it could have been a member of the household.’

  Sir Richard inclined his head. ‘One of her people, we thought. Her late husband and I were in business together.’

  ‘He was in shoes, wasn’t he?’

  ‘After a fashion. That was one of the more profitable off-shoots of a company we acquired a few years back. We sold that one on for quite a hefty profit eventually. Actually.’ Sir Richard leaned in closely and lowered his voice. ‘My secretary wondered if it might not be Susan herself who was sending the letters.’

  ‘Mrs O’Neill?’ I did not try to hide my surprise at that suggestion.

  ‘There were some rather intimate details in there. Difficult to see how anyone else could have known.’

  ‘And the letters to her husband, when he was alive?’

  ‘The thought did cross my mind. But it was absolute poppycock, of course. They were devoted to each other. Susan wouldn’t demean herself in that way. And, of course, she’s received quite a few letters herself.’

  ‘So I understand. And she could hardly be responsible for sending that parcel bomb to herself. Not with her own name on the envelope.’

  ‘Well, quite. Over here!’ Sir Richard called out abruptly. The secretary, Mr Hopkins, was hovering at the far door. The man spotted us and lifted a hand. The sleeping colonel roused briefly, harrumphed at the sudden noise, and then closed his eyes again.

  Hopkins moved across to the alcove.

  ‘Good lord,’ I exclaimed, catching sight his face. ‘What happened to you?’ There were scratch marks across his left cheek.

  ‘Matilda,’ he confessed glumly.

  ‘That blasted cat.’ Sir Richard chuckled. ‘He found her down on C Deck. Put up a bit of a fight, didn’t she?’ Hopkins nodded.

  For the first time that day, I found myself chuckling too. ‘Bad luck!’

  ‘Jocelyn dotes on that damned cat. Can’t stand the thing myself. Much more of a dog person. You know where you are with a dog. Yes, what is it, Ernest?’

  To my surprise, it was me that the young man addressed. ‘I was sent to find you, Mr Buxton. One of the officers, a Mr Griffith, wishes to speak to you.’

  It took me a moment to place the name. ‘Oh, the security fellow, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  Sir Richard glowered. ‘He was talking to Mrs O’Neill just before lunch. Impertinent fellow. In my day, people like that knew their place.’

  ‘I’ll be along shortly,’ I said. ‘Once I’ve finished up my cigarette.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hopkins hovered for a moment, clearly wanting to join us but not sure whether it was appropriate.

  Sir Richard rolled his eyes. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘You’re probably due a break. You don’t mind if Ernest joins us?’

  ‘No.’ I would not begrudge anyone a shot of tobacco.

  Hopkins sat himself down and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He was in quite an awkward position on this trip. He was an employee but he wasn’t a servant. He existed in that netherworld – like a governess or a poor relation – someone who isn’t below stairs but who nevertheless lacks status. It was not a position I would like to find myself in. But the fellow seemed amiable enough.

  ‘We were just discussing those damn pen letters,’ Sir Richard explained.

  Hopkins hesitated as he lit his cigarette.

  ‘Mr Buxton knows all about them,’ Sir Richard declared. ‘No harm in filling in the details. You received a couple yourself, didn’t you?’

  Hopkins nodded carefully. ‘They weren’t very pleasant, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What did they say? If you don’t mind me asking?’

  The young man grimaced. I had the impression he would have preferred not to answer, but with Sir Richard there he could hardly refused. ‘They rather impugned my integrity, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Said he was cooking the books!’ Sir Richard roared. I had not heard him laugh before. He received a couple of disapproving looks from the Americans. Now who’s being too loud, I thought mischievously.

  ‘It was very hurtful, Mr Buxton. I have always been scrupulously honest.’

  ‘Of course you have. Absolute poppycock.’

  ‘We thought it must be a member of Mrs O’Neill’s household,’ Hopkins went on. ‘But now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘You’ve received another letter since we left New York?’

  ‘I haven’t, no, but I gather Lady Jocelyn has.’ Hopkins must have been the one that maid was talking to, when the steward overheard their conversation. What had he been doing in the servants’ canteen, I wondered.

  ‘Yesterday morning,’ Sir Richard confirmed. ‘It was slipped under the door, shortly after we arrived.’

  ‘And Mrs O’Neill has received one too,’ I said. ‘So whoever is behind all this, they must be onboard this ship.’

  ‘I did wonder if your man Latimer might have had something to do with it,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead. But he did appear out of nowhere somewhat.’

  ‘It’s not Harry’s style. He was like you, Sir Richard. If he had a problem with anyone, he’d confront them eye to eye. With raised fists if necessary.’ He had known how to handle himself, had Harry. ‘He wouldn’t send letters like that. No more than I would.’

  ‘Well, anyway, it looks like he died in his sleep,’ Sir Richard concluded, ‘so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to this detective chap about it all.’

  ‘The pen letters?’ I nodded. ‘No, Mrs O’Neill has already asked me not to mention them.’

  ‘Don’t want to muddy the waters. Mr Latimer didn’t receive anything of that sort, did he?’ Sir Richard asked.

  ‘No. At least...’

  ‘There you are then. And there’s no call to upset Susan any further.’

  ‘Or Lady Jocelyn,’ the secretary put in firmly. He reached a hand up to the cut on his cheek.

  Mr Griffith was a short, thickset man in his late forties, with greying hair and heavy sideburns. ‘It’s kind of you to see me, sir,’ he said, sitting back in the wicker chair and flipping open his notepad. ‘This won’t take long.’ He was in uniform – the standard dark jacket and peak cap, although the cap was resting now on the table between us – but the uniform did not sit well on him. Griffith had more of the air of a police sergeant than an officer. As the ship’s security man, that probably boded well. If there was anything untoward about Harry’s death, it was this fellow’s job to sniff it out. He pulled a pencil from his breast pocket and looked across at me. ‘I gather you knew Mr Latimer well. What kind of a man was he?’

  I sat back in my own chair, gazing out for a moment across the promenade. He had chosen a quiet spot on the port side for the interview, well away from prying ears. It was a little chilly out here, even with the windows closed. I scratched my ear briefly, wondering how I ought to reply to the question. If Griffith hadn’t already made contact with the authorities in New York, he would be doing so shortly, so there was no point in concealing the truth. ‘He was a...colourful character,’ I confessed tentatively. ‘Larger than life. Good humoured.’

  ‘Honest?’ Griffith met my eye; a sharp, penetrating gaze.

  I hesitated. ‘Not entirely.’ I had the impression Griffith already knew the answer to that question. ‘He...wasn’t one to play by the rules.’

  ‘So I gather. We found this in his suitcase.’ The man reached down to a bag at his side and pulled out a small wooden box, plain and unvarnished. He placed it on the table. I had not seen it before. Griffith opened it up and allowed me to view the contents. I had to work hard not to smile. Several dozen white pearls on a bed of cotton.

  ‘Pearls?’ I said, trying my best to sound surprised. Each pearl was loose but there were small holes on either side, through which a necklace could easily be threaded. I looked up. ‘Are they real?’

  ‘They’re paste,’ the officer said. ‘If they were re
al they would be worth an absolute fortune. Now why would a gentleman like Mr Latimer be carrying around a set of fake pearls?’ He met my eye again. It was another test. Griffith was no fool, it seemed. I hesitated a second time, not wanting to incriminate myself. ‘I notice Mrs O’Neill wears a rather fine set of pearls,’ he prompted. So he had guessed the truth already.

  I took a heavy breath. ‘Harry was not an honest man,’ I said. There was no point dissembling. This fellow was too clever by half. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but he didn’t always operate on the right side of the law.’

  ‘He was a crook?’

  ‘Er...well, yes. A petty crook. Not that I knew anything about it.’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’

  ‘But it’s possible that his acquaintance with Mrs O’Neill was not entirely innocent.’

  ‘He was after the jewels?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ I frowned, gazing down at the fakes. Griffith had said he had found them in his suitcase, but Harry had not brought them onboard himself. He had enlisted somebody – presumably a member of the crew or some grunt below decks – to slip them past the customs men. At some point, that person had obviously delivered his cargo and Harry had stashed the pearls away. But perhaps – it occurred to me now – they had not been delivered immediately. Maybe that was what the note had been about last night. Perhaps whoever it was had finally got into first class and was arranging to deliver the goods. That would explain why Harry had slipped away for twenty minutes. If the smuggler was not allowed on the upper decks – an ordinary seaman, perhaps – then meeting up late at night would be a good idea, when most of the guests and other staff were either in the ballroom or in their beds. That might also explain why Harry had been so reluctant to switch the pearls, a short while later, when we had put Mrs O’Neill to bed. If he had only just received the box, he might not have had time to properly prepare them. Yes, it all made sense. And that meant the whole business of the note might well be entirely benign, and certainly unrelated to anything going on in the Reynolds Suite.

  Mr Griffith coughed politely, startling me out of my reverie. I cleared my throat, to cover myself. ‘I should perhaps make it clear, Mr Griffith, that I hadn’t seen Harry in years. It was pure coincidence that we bumped into each other on this trip.’

  ‘I’m sure it was, sir.’ He closed up the box. ‘And how long had you known the gentleman?’

  I sat back in my chair. I felt like lighting another cigarette, but that would only serve to demonstrate how ill at ease I was. I did not want to provoke the man’s suspicions any further. ‘About ten or fifteen years, I think.’ I tried to make the reply sound casual. ‘We met just after the war. I was living in America then. I came back to Britain in the early twenties, and when he came to Europe we would meet up from time to time.’ In fact, the last time we had met, he had been selling guns to some rather dubious people in the South of France; but I was not about to tell Griffith that. ‘We never talked about his business,’ I lied. ‘I knew better than to ask.’

  ‘I see.’ Griffith scribbled in his notebook, not looking at me now. ‘And when was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Last night. Mrs O’Neill had had rather a lot to drink and we put her to bed. Then we went back to the dance floor. That would have been about half past twelve, one o’clock.’

  ‘And what did you do then?’

  ‘Well, I’d had quite a bit myself, so I had one for the road and then headed off to bed. I gather Harry went to bed at about two, or perhaps a little later.’

  Griffith looked up, his eyes narrowing. His ruddy complexion only served to accentuate those pale blue eyes. ‘And how would you know that?’

  ‘My valet, Maurice. He has the cabin next door. He heard them come in.’

  Griffith flipped back through his notebook. ‘Ah yes, a Monsieur Sauveterre.’

  ‘That’s the fellow. He heard Harry and Miss Wellesley saying goodnight. She must have been the last person to see him alive.’

  ‘Not quite the last, sir,’ Griffith said.

  ‘Oh?’ Who else had he been talking to?

  ‘One of the stewards saw Mr Latimer at about six o’clock, in his pyjamas. Coming back from the bathroom. At least, that’s how it appeared. Answering a call of nature.’

  ‘I see. One of the stewards?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A Mr Cooper. He was just coming on duty. Adam Cooper.’

  ‘Adam?’ That was my steward. ‘He kept that quiet.’

  ‘He didn’t recognise him at the time. Mr Cooper only has responsibility for the starboard rooms, not the midsection. It was only when he saw the body that he remembered the incident.’

  ‘And this was at six am?’

  ‘That’s right. You sound surprised, sir.’

  I hesitated. ‘It’s just that the doctor said the time of death was between seven and eight.’

  ‘That’s correct.’ An hour or two afterwards.

  ‘But if he was up and about just before that, answering a call of nature, then...’ I shuddered. ‘He might have been awake when he...when he had the heart attack.’ He might not have died in his sleep.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s possible, sir.’

  Lying in bed, dozing happily, and then a sudden, intense pain and his heart giving out, though whether through poison or bad luck remained to be seen. ‘God, poor Harry.’ It was not the way I would choose to go.

  ‘He might well have dropped back to sleep, sir. He might not have known anything about it.’

  ‘Lord, I hope not.’ There was a brief silence. Griffith was staring calmly at me. Like any good policeman, he knew when to speak and when to be silent. Doubtless he could see the cogs whirring away in my head. Finally, I asked the obvious question. ‘Do you think...do you think there was anything untoward about his death?’

  Griffith took a moment before replying. ‘It’s too early to say, sir. Do you have any reason to be suspicious?’

  ‘No. I mean, he consorted with all sorts of dubious people, but none of them would be here, onboard ship, would they? And there was no sign of any struggle?’

  ‘None at all. Apart from this box, there was nothing out of the ordinary in the room that I could determine. I will keep an open mind, but as things stand, there’s nothing to indicate any foul play. Sometimes, in my experience, the simplest explanations are often the right ones, sir.’

  That was not my experience at all, but I kept that thought to myself.

  ‘Mr Latimer was a crook,’ Griffith asserted bluntly, ‘but criminals are not immune to medical conditions. It is possible he simply had a heart attack. We will have to wait to hear the results of the post mortem. In the meantime, I have several other people to talk to.’ He flipped shut his notebook, returned his pencil to his breast pocket and rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Buxton.’ He held out his hand, and I rose up to shake it.

  ‘Not at all. If there’s anything else you want to know...’

  His eyes met mine firmly once again. ‘I know where to find you,’ he finished. And with that, he pottered off along the promenade in search of his next victim.

  I lingered for a moment, returning to my seat. The man had such an unnerving look. It seemed to pierce straight through you. What was it the doctor had said about him? A red cap in the Great War. I pitied any soldier who had tried to desert under his watch. But at least the investigation was in good hands. Whatever the truth of the situation, this man Griffith would get to the bottom of it.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘A lecture? On steam propulsion?’ I boggled.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Maurice was dusting down my evening jacket. It was a little after seven. ‘I had not fully appreciated the complexities involved.’

  ‘In steam propulsion?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. It was a most informative lecture.’ He brushed off the shoulders of my jacket with his usual expert eye. ‘The chief engineer had assembled a small array of models to demonstrate the principles involved.’

 
‘Did he now?’ I regarded the valet with some irritation. Maurice had always had an interest in obscure subjects, but this was taking the notion of an enquiring mind a little too far. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve had a productive afternoon,’ I grumbled. ‘For heaven’s sake, Morris. I know I told you to get out and stretch your legs...’ (I had been rather firm on that point, in fact. ‘Don’t stay in your cabin all day, wallowing in self pity,’ I had told him.) ‘But there’s a time and a place. A friend of mine’s just died.’ I glared at the man as he laid down his brush.

  ‘I am sorry, Monsieur. I did not think you would object.’

  I flopped back onto the bed. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ If attending a lecture or two helped take his mind off things, then I suppose I could not really object. ‘It’s just...I don’t know. It’s infuriating, everyone carrying on like this, as if nothing’s happened.’ Life on the Galitia was continuing serenely, without a care in the world. Nothing had been cancelled, not even the lectures. ‘Do people even know somebody’s died?’

  ‘I do not believe so, Monsieur.’

  Granted, there had been no formal announcement, but with Mr Griffith out and about interviewing people, I had thought the news might have spread by now. I pulled myself back up. I was supposed to be dressing for supper. Having skipped lunch, I was now starting to feel a little peckish. ‘Nobody was talking about it? At the lecture? Over tea and biscuits?’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  ‘What about below stairs? Has there been any gossip there?’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  ‘What, none at all?’

  ‘None that I am aware of, Monsieur.’ That surprised me. I thought at least the staff would have commented on a dead body in their midst. ‘A death onboard ship is not an unusual occurrence,’ the valet pointed out. ‘It would not normally be a subject for discussion.’

  ‘They were gossiping readily enough about the poison pen letters yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ When somebody had overheard the maid talking about it in the canteen. ‘But that was a rather more unusual affair.’