by Jack Treby
My man Maurice was never far away from the facts of any case. His room was close to the scene of the crime, on the port side of the central corridor, and so I was not surprised – when I popped by his cabin in the early afternoon – to discover he knew all about it. The valet had just returned to the room after his own lunch in the canteen. There had, by all accounts, been plenty of idle speculation down there, despite Mr Griffith’s stern warning. The death of this second passenger was of far more interest than the first. I had done my duty, helping Miss Wellesley to get to grips with the affair, and now it was Maurice’s turn to sit and listen.
‘Mr Griffith doesn’t think it was an accident,’ I told him, scratching my head. The valet’s room was smaller than mine, without a private bathroom. There was little evidence of occupation, aside from a spare pair of shoes by the door and a biography of Florence Nightingale on the bedside table. Apart from a couple of shirts, everything else was neatly packed away. The shirts were laid out on an ironing board which Maurice had set up opposite the bed. Where he had got it from I had no idea. There was a perfectly decent laundry service onboard ship, but the valet preferred the personal touch. ‘It would be nice, just for once,’ I said, sitting back on the bed, ‘if I could travel somewhere without somebody dying like this. The gods really have it in for me.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Maurice pressed the iron into the collar of a shirt and smoothed it down.
I had already related to him the business of the undelivered letter in Mrs O’Neill’s handbag. ‘Miss Wellesley is utterly baffled. She finds it hard to accept that Mrs O’Neill would do such a thing.’
‘And you, Monsieur?’
‘Well, the evidence is pretty damning. I didn’t like the woman particularly, I admit, but she didn’t strike me as venal. A little vulgar, yes, and she talked far too much. And as for her dress sense...’ I grimaced, recalling the long parade of over-elaborate confections the woman had worn. ‘But I never got the impression there was anything twisted there, beneath the surface. At heart, she always struck me as a decent, well meaning sort.’
Maurice stowed the iron on the edge of the board and flipped over the shirt. ‘Appearances can sometimes be deceptive, Monsieur.’
‘Yes, I am aware of that, Morris.’
‘We all have the occasional unkind thought. The desire to strike down a friend or a family member.’ He smoothed out a sleeve and pressed down on it with the iron. ‘To do somebody down. Most of us would not dream of acting on such impulses. But if the desire persists and there is no outlet for it, an anonymous letter could grant a certain freedom...’
‘Helping them to get it out of their system, you mean?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. Giving them the ability to hurt people they know, but without any repercussions for themselves.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean. And in the case of Mrs O’Neill...well, the very first letters were directed at her husband, when he was still alive. And a wife might well have reason to dislike her other half, without wanting to challenge him publicly.’
‘Precisely, Monsieur.’
‘Although, to be honest, I rather had the impression it was a happy marriage. She always talked very warmly about him; and she wouldn’t be without those damned pearls he bought her. It’s funny.’ I expelled a breath. ‘All that hot air and constant chatter, but the woman wasn’t completely clueless. She had a notion that Harry was up to no good. But if she was behind all this, then why would she send letters to herself like that?’
‘As a means of diverting suspicion, Monsieur.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand that.’ I waved my hands irritably. ‘But the bomb hoax. The business in the restaurant, and then the note afterwards. That was a direct threat. And thinking about it, it was quite unlike the other letters. Much shorter and more to the point. More of a warning, really. And her distress, when I showed her the note; that was quite genuine. I’m sure of it.’
‘But the typewriter, Monsieur...’
‘Yes, that’s the one thing I can’t explain.’
Maurice turned over the sleeve. ‘You believe that someone may have been targeting Mrs O’Neil, in retaliation for her own letters?’
‘It must be a possibility. Perhaps someone got wind she was behind it all and decided to get their own back. Ah. But they would have had to have access to her typewriter.’
‘And the text you saw typed on the Olivetti?’
‘All those “W”s. Yes, that doesn’t really fit either.’ I pulled a face. ‘Maybe they weren’t sure it was her. Perhaps somebody merely suspected it was and wanted to examine the typewriter, like I did with the one in the Reynolds Suite. Yes, that might make sense. Perhaps they crept into her room to take a look at it, but she caught them doing it. And whoever it was crowned her and fled the scene.’
‘It is an explanation that fits the facts, Monsieur.’
The pencil was poised once again above the notebook, but this time it was Mr Griffith who was providing the detail. ‘Doctor Armstrong is of the opinion that the death of Mrs O’Neill was not an accident,’ he confirmed. It was a couple of hours later, and I had been summoned into the great man’s presence for the formal interview. The office of the head steward had been vacated, to give us a little privacy. Griffith sat behind a moulded desk, the ill-fitting cut of his uniform even more noticeable under the stark electric light. A trench coat would have suited the man better; but we were not here to discuss fashion tips. I was anxious to learn everything he had discovered.
‘Somebody hit her?’ I asked, leaning forward.
Griffith nodded seriously. ‘We believe so, sir. A blunt instrument, to the back of the neck.’
‘Lord.’ So I had been right about that. ‘What about the blood on the sink?’
‘We believe whoever killed Mrs O’Neill tried to make it look like an accident. After he struck her, he must have lifted her up and banged her head against the bowl, to make it look like that was the cause of her injuries. He – or she – then arranged the body at the base of the sink, to make it appear as if she had fallen. But the way the body came to rest isn’t consistent with a fall of that nature.’
‘It did look a bit odd,’ I agreed. ‘But if somebody hit her and then started dragging the body around, surely someone would have heard something?’
‘Unfortunately, the neighbours were away at the time. I’ve spoken to both of them.’
‘And there’s no sign of a murder weapon?’
‘No, sir. Nothing that I could find. We’ll keep looking, of course, but it’s possible they simply threw it overboard, whatever it was’
‘I see.’ The perfect crime. ‘What about the blood? If they were shifting the body about, they must have got some of it on their clothes.’ Mrs O’Neill had not been the slimmest of women.
‘Not if they were careful. But we will look into that, sir. In the meantime, the room has been sealed up, until the proper authorities can take a look at it.’
‘The police you mean?’ The real police, back in England.
‘That’s right, sir. We’ve radioed ahead.’ We were only a day or so out from Southampton. ‘The police will want to examine the scene as soon as they get here. They’re going to send a boat over ahead of time, before we dock.’
Oh lord, I thought. Another run in with the boys in blue. This was getting better and better. I sat back in my chair. ‘So you have no doubt whatever that this was murder?’ It was one thing to develop a theory; it was quite another to have it confirmed by the people in charge.
‘I’m afraid so, sir. By person or persons unknown.’ Griffith stared across at me, his penetrating blue eyes burrowing into me. Did he suspect me? I wondered. I had been close to the scene when the body was discovered.
‘Did you speak to the maid?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir, just before you. She’s made a full statement. At face value, it seems consistent with everything else we’ve seen. She only spent the one night in the room, of course. We’ll have to find her somewhere else to sleep th
is evening.’
The nocturnal arrangements of a servant were of no interest to me. There was only one question that I wanted the answer to. ‘What about Harry...?’
Griffith put down his pencil. ‘Well, that’s the thing, sir. Two deaths on one voyage is not unusual, but with the second one being an act of violence, and the connection between Mrs O’Neill and Mr Latimer, we cannot rule out foul play.’
‘You mean...with Harry’s death?’
‘Yes, sir. It is a possibility that we have to consider.’
‘But Doctor Armstrong...’
‘Doctor Armstrong is an accomplished surgeon. I’m sure he did a thorough job. But even a professional can overlook certain details. We are all capable of missing the obvious on occasions.’
‘So you think Harry may have been murdered too?’
Griffith was not prepared to be drawn. ‘It’s too early to say, sir. The doctor insists there was nothing suspicious about his death. Nothing to indicate anything other than a natural death.’
‘His heart was in a bad way, he said.’
‘Yes, sir. Let’s just say I am keeping an open mind. However, had I been aware of these malicious letters, I doubt I would have released the body for burial. It would have been helpful if I had been told about that when I was making my initial enquiries.’
‘Yes, I...I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t think it was relevant. And the family didn’t want their dirty laundry aired in public.’
‘I understand that, sir. Nevertheless, I ought to have been told. If we had kept Mr Latimer’s body on ice, a police pathologist could have performed a more detailed examination. As it is, we may never know precisely how he died.’
‘It’s all my fault,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think. But what if Harry was murdered? If someone killed him? How could it have been done? You saw the room, Mr Griffith. There was no sign of a struggle. Harry looked as peaceful as anything. And, besides, if there had been any sort of scuffle, my man would have heard it through the wall.’
‘Yes, sir. I think we can assume it was not a violent death. But there are ways of killing people that are not immediately obvious.’
‘I wondered at the time if...maybe some sort of poison?’
‘Doctor Armstrong found no evidence of that.’
‘But he’s not a police pathologist.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Suppose...’ I lifted a hand. ‘Suppose somebody interfered with his drink. Or the jug of water by the bed...’
‘We checked the water, sir. There was nothing wrong with it.’
‘But the glass next to it. The one he drank from. Did you analyse the contents of that?’
Griffith frowned. ‘The glass, sir?’
‘Yes, there was a glass next to his bed. A tumbler, by the water jug.’
‘I think you must be mistaken, sir.’ Griffith flicked back through his notebook. ‘No, there was no glass by the bed. There were two tumblers, upside down on the sink. They would have been placed there by the steward the previous day. As with all the rooms.’
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘One of them was by the bed. I remember it clearly. Harry must have grabbed it during the night. The amount he drunk, he would have needed a glass or two of water.’
‘That’s not what it says here, sir,’ Griffith told me. ‘I examined the room quite thoroughly, and there was no glass on the bedside table.’
I regarded the fellow in bewilderment. ‘But I saw it...’
‘It is easy to misremember things, sir. That’s why it’s helpful to keep detailed notes.’
‘I’m not misremembering. For heaven’s sake, it was there. I’m certain of it.’
‘Not when I arrived, sir,’ Griffith stated firmly. ‘Although I suppose it could have been moved before I got there. You didn’t touch anything in the room, before I arrived?’
‘No, of course not.’
Griffith consulted his notes once again. ‘Well, the only people to enter the room before me were yourself, the cabin boy, the head steward and Doctor Armstrong.’
‘And Mrs O’Neill,’ I added. The woman we now suspected was responsible for all these letters. Had she somehow doctored Harry’s drink and then fiddled with the glass afterwards? Maybe even refilled the jug? But no, that wasn’t possible. She had not gone anywhere near the body when I was in the room, let alone the bedside table; and we had left together. ‘She was the first one in there. I suppose she could have fiddled with the evidence before I arrived.’ The jug of water if not the actual glass.
‘When she was delivering the letter, you mean?’
‘Exactly. But then...’ I frowned. ‘Doctor Armstrong said Harry had been dead for a couple of hours...’ Mrs O’Neill could only have been in that room for a matter of minutes. Before that, she had been at breakfast with Miss Wellesley.
‘It is very peculiar, sir,’ Griffith admitted, flipping back to the current page in his notebook. ‘I’ll speak to the steward, and Doctor Armstrong. If there was a glass on the bedside table, perhaps it was cleared away inadvertently before I arrived. Or perhaps, as you say, Mrs O’Neill had reason to remove it. I suppose it is possible it was removed between the discovery of the body and my arrival.’
‘It must have been.’
‘But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, sir,’ Griffith said. He flipped to a fresh page. ‘We should return to the matter of Mrs O’Neill’s death.’ He looked up at me with that steely gaze of his. ‘Can you account for your movements between nine and eleven am this morning...?’
Never mind Mrs O’Neill, I thought. Try as I might, I could not get the image of that glass out of my head. My attention was now firmly back on the demise of Harry Latimer. The tumbler had been there on the bedside table. I was certain of it. And if someone had moved it over to the sink before Mr Griffith arrived then the evidence had been deliberately tampered with. Proof positive – so far as I was concerned – that Harry had been murdered.
Maurice had just returned from his regular afternoon lecture. Dressmaking, this time. The valet had worked in a draper’s shop as a young man, before entering service, so it was a topic he already knew a fair amount about. I had no interest in the specifics. It was the attention to detail he had learnt in that trade that I needed now; that and his razor sharp memory.
‘You were standing in the corridor outside Harry’s room,’ I said. ‘Who went in there, after I left?’
The valet considered. ‘There were three people, Monsieur. The cabin boy, Adam. He showed the doctor into the room. And then there was the head steward, Monsieur Dalton.’
‘But nobody else?’
‘No, Monsieur.’
‘And was anyone alone in there for any time?’
‘I believe the boy Adam was, for a brief moment. And, if I recall correctly, the doctor also, when the head steward came out to confer with the boy.’
‘So Doctor Armstrong was in there on his own?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. Although only for a moment or so.’
I grimaced. I didn’t like to cast aspersions on a ship’s doctor, but the question had to be asked: ‘Do you think he could be involved somehow?’
‘It seems unlikely, Monsieur.’ A ship’s doctor – like the captain – should be above suspicion.
‘He was the one who performed the autopsy, though. I suppose we only have his word about the cause of death.’
‘You think he may have lied, Monsieur?’
‘I don’t know.’ I scratched my head. ‘It does seem rather unlikely. So far as I’m aware, he didn’t even know Harry.’
Maurice had another idea. ‘Is it possible he may have been covering up for someone else?’
That was a thought. ‘Those two ruffians at the funeral, perhaps? Yes, that could be it. Maybe they killed Harry and then...and then the doctor covered up for them.’ A gangland hit and a doctor on the payroll? I bit my lip. It was a trifle outlandish. Armstrong had struck me as a decent, reliable sort. But then again, he had told me that Harry’s heart had been in a bad wa
y, and if Harry really had been murdered then that must logically have been an invention. ‘What do you know about the fellow? Any gossip below stairs?’
The valet’s eyelids flickered with distaste. ‘None that I am aware of, Monsieur.’
‘Ask around. See if you can find out anything. If something odd is going on, then it’s difficult to see how the ship’s doctor could have missed it.’
‘Yes, Monsieur. Although perhaps it would be better to ask him yourself.’
I scoffed. ‘What, accuse him of fiddling with the evidence? Don’t be daft, Morris. I’d need a lot more to go on before I could do that.’
‘Not an accusation, Monsieur. You could simply enquire about the glass in the stateroom. Was he sure he had not seen it?’
I pondered that suggestion for a moment. ‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Perhaps he moved it without thinking? Or the steward did.’ I rubbed my chin. ‘No harm in asking, I suppose. One other thing that’s troubling me, though.’
‘Monsieur?’
‘That note Harry received, over by the bar, the night before he died.’
‘Did you inform Monsieur Griffith about that?’
‘No. No, I didn’t think to. But look, if Mrs O’Neill was our poison pen enthusiast, she must have already typed up that note in her handbag, ready to deliver. Which means that the note Harry received at the bar, logically, that must have been from somebody else.’
‘Yes, Monsieur. We have discussed this already.’
‘I know, but...it occurs to me now, if Harry really was murdered...then perhaps that note wasn’t just a simple summons. Perhaps it was sent by the person who killed him.’
Doctor Armstrong’s surgery was tucked away a few floors down on E Deck. The elevator was clear of retired colonels, so I saved myself a long walk and descended by lift to the foyer. The surgery was on the port side of the deck, opposite the gymnasium and the swimming pool. Probably quite a sensible place for it, I thought, as I approached the door. An hour of physical jerks with the gym instructor would kill just about anybody off, and having a doctor on standby might save an awful lot of time. I strolled casually into the waiting room and was pleased to see there was no-one else about. Hopefully, I could get straight in to see him.