by Jack Treby
‘More unusual than a passenger dying? Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ I wondered idly if Lady Jocelyn was aware that her maid had been gossiping about her, even if it was just with Sir Richard’s secretary. ‘Oh, did I tell you? Sir Richard showed me another one of those letters. He’s been receiving them too, apparently. It was a nasty piece of work.’ I leaned forward and pulled Mrs O’Neill’s note out of my jacket, which was now hanging on the chair. ‘Not dissimilar to this one. Typewritten, capital letters. Longer, though. More specific. And sent through the mail.’
Maurice looked up. ‘And the typeface was the same?’
‘Well, it was typed, if that’s what you mean. But they all look pretty much the same, don’t they? Typewriters.’
‘No, Monsieur. There are significant differences.’
‘What, between models, you mean?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. But also between the individual machines. Each typewriter has its own unique characteristics.’
‘Does it?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. The alignment of the keys can vary significantly from one machine to another. No two typewriters will ever be exactly the same.’
‘I’ll take your word for that.’ There was no end, it seemed, to the obscure subjects my valet knew all about. Typewriters, for goodness sake.
Maurice reached into his pocket to pull out his reading glasses. ‘If I may?’ He gestured to the note. I shrugged and handed it over. The valet took a moment to examine it. ‘You see, Monsieur. The letter “W” here, in the word “WILL”.’ He held the note so I could see it and indicated the letter in question. ‘The top of the “W” is slightly higher than the top of the “I” or the top of the “T” in the previous word.’
I regarded the note dubiously. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. You see? I noticed it when I examined the letter before.’ That was typical of Maurice. He had always had a good eye for detail. But I was struggling to see the relevance of it.
‘How on earth does having a misplaced “W” help us at all?’
‘It would not, Monsieur, if we had only the one letter to examine.’ Which was presumably why he had not mentioned it before. ‘But if you were to compare this to the letter Sir Richard showed you, you would be able to see if they were typed on the same typewriter.’
‘Well, of course they were typed on the same typewriter. There’s only one person sending these damned letters. This isn’t helping, Morris.’
‘No, Monsieur. But knowing the idiosyncrasies involved could help us to identify the typewriter concerned, and thus the person responsible for sending these letters.’
I sat back for a moment. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. But there must be dozens of typewriters aboard ship. Every time I pass through the writing room, there are half a dozen people clacking away. We can’t check them all.’
‘No, Monsieur. We would need to find some way to narrow the possibilities. But if Sir Richard’s letter was sent through the post, before he left America, and it was typed on the same typewriter as this one, then that might prove a useful starting point.’
‘I suppose so. The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes has a typewriter,’ I recalled. ‘No, wait a minute. He said he borrowed it from Sir Richard. And presumably they would have had that with them when they were staying at Mrs O’Neill’s place.’ I scratched an ear hole. ‘So anyone might have had access to it.’
‘Yes, Monsieur. If that was the machine that was used.’
I took the note back from Maurice and pocketed it; then reached for my fob watch and checked the hour. ‘I ought to start getting dressed,’ I said.
‘Yes, Monsieur.’ The valet removed his reading glasses and stowed them away.
I pulled off my shirt and handed it to him, scratching irritably at the bandages underneath. They always started to chafe a little against my chest as the day progressed. ‘I can’t see how it helps us, though. I can’t very well go nosing about the Reynolds Suite on the off chance. And to be honest, Morris, I’m not altogether sure these pen letters are worth the trouble. I’m pretty sure they have nothing to do with Harry’s death.’
‘You believe he may have died naturally after all?’
‘Mr Griffith seems to think so. And he’s no fool.’
‘He is an intelligent man,’ Maurice agreed.
‘Too clever by half, if you ask me. We’ll have to wait for the autopsy, but I’m trying to keep an open mind. I didn’t say anything to him about the letters.’
‘Monsieur?’
‘Mrs O’Neill asked me to keep quiet. And anyway, if Harry was killed, I’m pretty sure it must have been the result of some criminal activity or other. Some mad scheme Harry got himself into. He must have bitten off more than he could chew.’
‘There is another possibility, Monsieur.’
‘Oh?’ I peered across at the valet. What had he thought of that I had not considered?
‘Monsieur Latimer worked for the intelligence services during the war, did he not?’
‘Yes. What of it?’ I had sketched out Harry’s dubious past and Maurice knew all about my own secret service connections. ‘That was years ago.’
‘And those same intelligence services asked you to keep an eye on him on this trip.’
‘Yes, but purely as a matter of routine. Harry did some important work for them during the war. Don’t ask me what it was. He’s never talked about it.’
‘Perhaps it was something that the British government would not wish to enter the public domain.’
I stared at the fellow suspiciously. ‘What exactly are you suggesting, Morris?’
‘It could be that someone in authority wished to make sure that he did not speak about his experiences, whatever they might be.’
I regarded the man in horror. ‘An assassination, you mean? Morris, that’s ridiculous.’ I snorted. ‘I don’t know how you Frogs behave, but the British secret service does not kill people.’
‘Perhaps not. But there are always rogue elements, Monsieur...’
‘Yes, but...look, that was all years ago. During the war, before I even met him. However, I do know quite a few of the people he worked with. Decent, honourable men, who’ve been keeping a fatherly eye on him for years. Protecting him. Why would that change now?’
‘I do not know, Monsieur.’
‘No, it’s absolute rubbish, Morris. You do talk drivel, sometimes.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘You mark my words, if it was murder, then it’s a criminal gang of some sort. Maybe somebody else after the pearls.’
‘Pearls, Monsieur?’
‘Er...never mind.’ That was one bit of the story I had not discussed with Maurice. My valet had an irritatingly firm moral compass and I knew he would not approve. ‘I don’t wish to discuss it any further.’
‘No, Monsieur.’ He helped me into a fresh shirt and we dressed quietly for the next few minutes. The silence lingered, however, and in the end it was I who broke it. ‘So if they’re not talking about Harry below stairs, what are they talking about?’
Maurice buttoned up the front of my waistcoat. ‘I believe the main topic of conversation today has been Lady Jocelyn’s cat.’
‘What, Matilda?’ I laughed.
‘Yes, Monsieur.’ He removed a fleck of dust from the front of the waistcoat. ‘I understand there is some irritation that the animal should be allowed to wander freely across the decks. I believe representations have been made to the head steward.’
I sniggered again, my mood improving by the second. ‘Oh, lord. He’s going to speak to Lady Jocelyn?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘That won’t go down well.’
‘No, Monsieur. But if the animal is not kept within the confines of the Reynolds Suite, it will have to be confined to the hold.’
‘What, in a cat box?’ I chuckled. This was getting better and better. ‘I’d pay good money to see Lady Jocelyn’s face when they tell her that.’ I stood up and pulled back my arms as Maurice helped me into my din
ner jacket. There is nothing quite as enjoyable as watching a member of the British aristocracy losing her rag. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if that’s all people have got to worry about, then perhaps it was natural causes after all.’
It could sometimes be a little chilly on the promenade, so I was grateful the following morning to settle myself a little way back from it, in the Long Gallery, as I awaited the arrival of Doctor Armstrong. I had ordered a pot of tea and settled myself into a comfortable armchair opposite the sash windows looking out onto the port side promenade. I had supposed the gallery, connecting the Palladian Lounge with the Carolean Smoking Room, would be one of the quieter places to talk, but even here a steady stream of people were making their way up and down, admiring the many works of art lining the mahogany panelled walls. The message I had received, via Adam, was that the doctor would meet me here at eleven o’clock. I had questioned the young steward about Harry and he had confirmed what Mr Griffith had told me about seeing him when he came on shift, though Adam was unable to provide any further information. And now, the results of the autopsy were about to be revealed. I sat nervously and poured myself out a small cup of tea. Just for once, I resisted the temptation to add a tot of whisky.
I had arrived some minutes early for the appointment, with a copy of the Cunard Bulletin to hand. Whenever anyone wandered past, I could bury myself in the news sheet, to discourage them from starting a conversation. The damnable informality of an ocean liner was proving a particularly onerous burden just now. There was little news to read, however. The Bulletin was mostly advertisements and notices about activities onboard ship. Today’s lecture, apparently, was on the subject of “Cordon Bleu” cooking, whatever that was, delivered by the head chef. I hoped Maurice would not get any ideas. He had far too much of an enquiring mind for my taste. Three lectures in three days. The first, apparently, had been on the subject of “Human Anatomy”. And the man who had delivered that lecture was, I now saw, hurrying towards me along the gallery.
‘Mr Buxton.’ Doctor Armstrong raised a hand in greeting. ‘I’m sorry to keep you. A couple of last minute patients.’
I rose up to greet him. ‘That’s quite all right. Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘No, no, just the usual scrapes and bruises.’
‘The work of a doctor is never done.’ I gestured for him to take the armchair on the opposite side of the table. ‘I appreciate you taking the time to see me.’
Armstrong removed his cap and sat himself down. ‘That’s quite all right. All part of the service.’ He was a smartly dressed fellow with broad shoulders and a mop of wavy blond hair. His face was a little bland, with pin holes for eyes and a stub of a nose, and the less said about his ears the better, but he held himself with a quiet confidence that was immensely reassuring. I have never much liked doctors – for obvious reasons – but Armstrong struck me as one of the better sort.
‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’ I asked. ‘The pot’s still warm.’ I folded up my paper and reached for the china.
‘No, thank you. I won’t.’ He settled into his chair, as I poured myself out another cup. ‘How have you been?’ he asked. ‘This must have been a trying time for you.’
‘Yes. I’ve been in a bit of a fog, to be honest.’ I reached for the sugar. ‘You’ve...er...you’ve completed the autopsy, I understand.’
Armstrong nodded gravely. ‘Yes, last night. I’ve been typing up the results, in between patients. It can take a while.’
‘Do you have lots of patients on a voyage like this?’
‘A few. Usually nothing too serious. The occasional bruised limb, when people don’t mind their step.’
I sat back in my chair and took a slurp of tea. ‘But not too many deaths? Generally speaking?’
‘It’s more common than you might think, on a voyage of this kind. But it’s usually older passengers. The change in routine can sometimes...well, bring things to a head.’
I nodded. ‘And Harry?’ I was anxious to get to the point.
Armstrong looked down. ‘The same, I’m afraid.’
‘So it was natural causes?’
‘I’m afraid so. Mr Latimer’s heart was in a bad way. He must have been aware of it. He would have been in some pain, the last few days.’
‘He never gave any indication of that.’
‘No. Some people have a way of concealing these things. It’s odd, but sometimes they even manage to hide it from themselves. There is one crumb of comfort, though: it looks like he did die in his sleep. So at least he wouldn’t have suffered unduly.’
‘That’s a mercy,’ I agreed. ‘You’ll forgive me for asking, but...you’re absolutely certain there was no possibility of foul play?’ I couldn’t help but pose the question. My mind had been so alive with theories of late that I couldn’t quite let the idea go. That’s the problem with having been involved in so many murder investigations: you always assume the worst.
‘I examined the contents of his stomach,’ Armstrong reassured me. ‘There was nothing untoward there. A fair amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, but no more than you’d expect after a heavy evening.’
‘A lot less than some,’ I ventured.
‘And no signs of any other toxins. No drugs or poisonous substances. Although to be honest, Mr Buxton, if you’d seen the state of his heart, you might not have bothered to look.’
‘The poor bastard,’ I muttered, unable to moderate my language.
‘Well, quite.’
There was an awkward pause. I put my tea cup down on the table. So it was true. Harry Latimer really had died of a heart attack. I slumped back into my chair. Poor Harry. ‘So what happens now?’
‘Well, Mr Griffith is completing his enquiries. He’s been in contact with the authorities in New York. Mr Latimer was apparently known to the police there. He even had some connections with the local mafia. A colourful figure, by all accounts.’
‘That’s the polite way of phrasing it.’
‘According to Mr Griffith, he has been wanted in connection with various historic felonies in other states, but nothing recent that they were aware of. There was no outstanding warrant for his arrest in New York. Mr Griffith has examined the stateroom and spoken to everyone onboard who knew him. With that and the results of the post mortem, he agrees that there is no reason to suppose there was anything suspicious about his death.’
I nodded. It wasn’t quite what I had expected to hear, but it was a relief nonetheless. ‘What will happen to...to his body?’
Armstrong gazed across at the windows. ‘Well, there are two options. We can keep him on ice and arrange a funeral in Southampton. Or we can arrange a burial at sea. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to trace any living relatives to ask how they would like us to proceed.’
‘Harry wouldn’t care either way,’ I thought. ‘He wasn’t sentimental like that. Best just to get it over with, I would think.’
‘That will probably be my recommendation. The captain’s not too keen on sea burials – he thinks it unsettles the other passengers – but I can probably bring him round to it. Just a quiet affair in a day or two, once we’ve completed all the paperwork.’
I nodded again. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Doctor Armstrong.’
‘Just doing my job, sir.’ Armstrong smiled sadly. ‘Just doing my job.’
Chapter Eight
Mrs Hamilton-Baynes was not wearing a bathing suit and neither was I. Even if it had been practical for me to do so – which, given my peculiar lifestyle, it certainly was not – I had no desire to put my body on public display. There were plenty of other people assembled at the swimming pool on E Deck who felt differently, however. I had not expected to find myself among such a crowd this afternoon. I had planned for an altogether quieter time, in the aftermath of my conversation with Doctor Armstrong. A poker game somewhere, perhaps, to take my mind off things. There was a regular game over in the garden lounge each afternoon.
Unfortunately, Mrs O’Neill had other ideas. ‘Oh, He
nry!’ she exclaimed to me, in the restaurant at lunchtime. ‘We mustn’t allow ourselves to be maudlin.’ This was as we were mopping up the dessert. I had passed on the results of the autopsy and Mrs O’Neill had had several courses over which to ponder her response. ‘We must put on a brave face,’ she decided, her arms folded implacably across her bosom. And for her, that meant – of all things – a swimming competition.
The crew of the Galitia were running a series of events to celebrate the forthcoming Olympics in Los Angeles. A respectable crowd had gathered around the pool. Thankfully I would only be expected to observe and not to participate in the competition. Mrs O’Neill had dragged me down here to offer moral support to the Reverend Hamilton-Baynes. The vicar had cancelled his boxing match the previous afternoon, as a gesture of respect, but today there would be no stopping him. The sight of the man in his striped knee length bathing suit enthusiastically warming up at the side of the pool was enough to provoke a smile from even the most jaded of spectators.
‘He’s very athletic, your husband,’ I observed, to Mrs Hamilton-Baynes. With his voluminous black and grey beard and the pale white skull cap, the poor fellow looked more like a cleaning implement than an Olympic swimmer. He was already at the far end of the pool, preparing for the first event: the over forties short swim. From the look of the competition, it would be a walkover. Despite the unfortunate attire, the vicar was easily in the best shape. ‘I’d put money on him,’ I said, with a slight shake of my head. The more I saw of the man, the more he surprised me. A boxer, a preacher and now a swimmer. Was there no end to his talents? He had even promised to give Miss Wellesley a lesson in shuffleboard, after the young woman had confessed she had never played the game. Despite his advancing years, the vicar was a walking dynamo.
‘You’re very kind,’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes said, returning my smile. She was a short, slender woman in her early fifties, with a pleasant open face and dark, neatly pinned hair. I had joined her at the far end of the pool, well away from Mrs O’Neill, who was standing midway along, to better observe the swimmers. ‘I shouldn’t put any money on him, though,’ the vicar’s wife advised, with a touch of humour. ‘He wouldn’t want you to lose out.’