by Jack Treby
There was a reception desk along one side of the waiting room, but no receptionist in residence. I doubted there would be enough customers to merit it. There were two internal doors. One was labelled “SURGERY”, the other “DOCTOR B.S. ARMSTRONG”. From this second room I could hear a low hum of conversation. It sounded like the doctor did have a patient after all. I sat myself down to wait. There were a couple of magazines on the coffee table. One was a woman’s journal, the other a six week old copy of The Sporting Times.
Idly, I gazed around the room. It was clean, if a trifle cluttered. The electric lights were dim, but a last minute flicker of sunlight was sneaking in from a couple of small windows on the port side. There was a map of the world behind the reception desk, with notes on various tropical diseases and their relative distribution. A few other medical posters adorned the near wall, human anatomy and so forth, as well as various animals. A spider and a toad. Hardly reassuring fare for a doctor’s surgery. A shelf containing several medical books stood beside a rather functional coat hook. On the far side of the room was a small box of children’s toys.
I was just on the verge of pulling out my pocket watch, when the door to the consulting room opened and a tall, heavily suited man stepped out. He did not glance at me but instead swept through the waiting room and out into the foyer. Doctor Armstrong appeared at the door and caught sight of me on the bench. But I was looking at the man who had just left.
I couldn’t be sure, but I had a horrible feeling he had been one of the uninvited guests at Harry’s funeral.
Chapter Twelve
‘Mr Buxton.’ Doctor Armstrong greeted me with some surprise. He was looking a little flustered, his large ears seeming to flap as he moved towards me; but the professional manner quickly reasserted itself. ‘What can I do for you?’ He managed a quick smile.
‘I just wanted to have a quiet word,’ I said. ‘That fellow.’ I gestured to the far door, where the brute had now departed. ‘Wasn’t he at Harry’s funeral yesterday?’
Doctor Armstrong followed my gaze. He was smartly dressed, with a mop of wavy blond hair overshadowing his small blue eyes. The hair, it struck me at that moment, was a little on the long side for an officer. ‘Was he? I don’t recall.’
‘Him and another fellow. Turned up at the last minute.’
Doctor Armstrong considered for a moment. ‘Oh yes. You’re right. I do remember that, now you come to mention it. It’s funny. I wouldn’t have placed him, if you hadn’t said.’ He smiled again, but this time the expression felt a little forced. ‘It’s been rather a long day.’
‘Was it a...medical consultation?’ I asked, peering at the man thoughtfully.
‘Er...yes.’ Again, a small hesitation.
‘He didn’t look ill to me.’
‘No, he was just after a bit of advice. But please, come inside.’ Armstrong gestured to the door. I could not put my finger on it, but there was something not quite right in his manner. It was the first time I had seen the man even a little out of sorts and it worried me. I wanted to believe he was above reproach but his hesitant response to my questions was something short of reassuring. If I didn’t know better, I would have said that the man who had just left had put the wind up him.
‘So how have you been?’ Doctor Armstrong enquired, settling himself behind a modest wooden desk.
I seated myself on the chair opposite. ‘I’m surviving. Trying to make sense of everything that’s happened.’
‘Yes, it’s been horrendous hasn’t it?’ Armstrong regarded me sympathetically, his bedside manner clicking back into gear. ‘And talking these things through is always helpful.’ The uncertainty of a moment ago had disappeared, as he settled into the familiar role. ‘If there’s anything I can do to set your mind at rest,’ he said.
It was my turn to hesitate. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Mrs O’Neill. Mr Griffith told me you’d completed the autopsy.’
‘Yes.’ Armstrong’s expression darkened. ‘I examined her this afternoon. The poor woman. There was no doubt as to the cause of death. A severe head trauma.’
‘Somebody hit her?’
The doctor nodded gravely. ‘I’m afraid so. With a blunt instrument, to the back of the head. It would have been quite quick.’
‘And the blood on the sink?’ I had been over this with Mr Griffith, but I wanted to get the facts absolutely clear.
‘A second blow, of considerably less power. Post mortem. She would already have been dead by then.’
‘Do you have any idea what sort of weapon was used?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. It would have been something fairly hefty, I think.’
‘And where is...Mrs O’Neill now?’
‘In the cold store. We have a small refrigerated area, for food storage. On this deck, actually. There’s a locker off to the side that we use for anyone who...well, who passes away, during the trip. It’s not an unusual occurrence, sadly.’
‘The odd death, maybe,’ I said. ‘But not murder.’
‘No, not murder,’ Armstrong agreed, with a gentle shudder. ‘I’ve never been involved in anything like this. Frankly, it’s been a bit of a shock.’
‘For all of us.’ I glanced around the room. Unlike the waiting area, there was very little clutter in here. The desk was mercifully free of paperwork. There was a small cabinet to one side and various items of medical equipment. The simpler tools of the trade, thankfully. No knives or scalpels here. ‘Where did you perform the autopsy, if you don’t mind me asking? Was it in the cold store?’
‘No, no, it was just through there, in the surgery.’ He indicated the adjacent room. There was an intervening door, which was currently locked up. ‘But a police pathologist will take another look at her when we reach port. I don’t think he will disagree with my diagnosis. It was pretty clear what happened.’
‘Was there a struggle, do you think? Did she try to defend herself?’
Armstrong could not say for certain. ‘There were no indications of a struggle. The blow was to the back of the head, so it’s possible she was taken unawares. Beyond that, I couldn’t really say. Mr Griffith has examined the room. He might be able to tell you a little more.’ The doctor frowned. ‘A murder, onboard ship. In all my years...I can scarcely believe it.’
‘And he’s still out there, somewhere, whoever he is. The murderer.’
Armstrong shuddered again. ‘Yes, it doesn’t bear thinking about. The captain’s not at all happy.’
‘Not good publicity for the liner, I should imagine, when this gets out.’
‘No, I suppose not. But it’s the safety of the passengers that’s our principle concern. That’s why we’re trying to keep things quiet for now. To avoid a panic. But the purser has instituted a special regime, on the orders of the captain. There’ll be someone patrolling the decks day and night, just to be one the safe side. And Mr Griffith is very thorough. He’ll bring the fellow to book, whoever he is.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ I said, scratching the side of my face.
‘I gather from Mr Griffith that you had some concerns in respect of your friend Mr Latimer?’
I looked across in surprise. I had not expected the doctor to be the one to raise the matter. ‘Er...yes, that’s right. It was just...well, in the light of Mrs O’Neill’s death at the hands of...whoever this scoundrel is, I couldn’t help but think...couldn’t help but worry that something similar might have happened to Harry.’
‘That’s an understandable concern,’ Armstrong said. This time his manner was rock solid. I could not detect any sign of dissembling. ‘All I can do is reiterate what I told you the other morning. I found no evidence of foul play. His heart was in a bad way. It was a text book case, I’m afraid. I did a full toxicological analysis and there were no unexpected toxins in his blood.’
‘But you’re not a pathologist.’
‘No, but I did study for a year at the London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine, as part of my training. I know the signs to look for.’
I pushed back in my chair. ‘You have to admit, though, it’s a hell of a coincidence. He’s mixed up with Mrs O’Neill. She may or may not have been about to send him one of her letters. You know about the pen letters?’
‘Yes, Mr Griffith told me.’
‘Then he dies and she discovers the body.’
‘And you think she may have killed him?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’ I gazed at the fellow keenly now. I wanted to believe he was innocent, but the interview so far had been less than reassuring; and I owed it to Harry to find out the truth. ‘I do know that there was an empty tumbler by the side of his bed when I entered the room.’
Doctor Armstrong nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Griffith told me there was some confusion about that.’ He shrugged. ‘I can only repeat what I told him. I didn’t see a glass on the bedside table when I arrived in the room. And as I was up close, examining the body, I’m sure I would have seen it, if it had been there.’
‘And the water jug? There’s no chance that someone could have slipped something into that and then refilled it afterwards?’
‘I don’t see how. We did examine the water.’
‘Could Harry have taken a tablet or two, without knowing what they were?’
‘We didn’t find any medicine in the room. Any tablets or bottles. That was the one thing that did surprise me,’ Armstrong admitted. ‘If Mr Latimer had been aware of his condition, he would have taken something for it, if only to relieve the pain. The fact that he didn’t implies that he really didn’t know what kind of condition he was in. It must have come out of the blue for him, as much as it did for the rest of us. He must have ignored all the warning signs.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘People do have a remarkable capacity for ignoring their own bodies. It’s human nature, I’m afraid. Rationalising things, putting the pain down to indigestion or heartburn, or something like that, until it is too late.’
‘Maybe it’s better not to know,’ I thought, ‘if there’s nothing to be done.’
‘Perhaps.’ Armstrong rested his hands on the edge of the desk. ‘I understand how difficult this is for you, Mr Buxton. Mr Latimer was a good friend of yours. But in all honesty, I don’t believe there was anything suspicious about his death. It is an extraordinary coincidence, I grant you, but I don’t think these two deaths are connected in any way whatsoever.’
I met the man’s eye once again. He had such a reliable air to him, despite those pinhole eyes and the ridiculous flappy ears. He might well be speaking sincerely. But he had had years to develop his bedside manner; and the flustered response to that previous patient had given a brief glimpse of something awkward, lurking beneath the surface.
Oh yes, the manner was plausible, but I was not altogether sure that I believed it.
It might have been just me at the supper table that evening, had I not been joined at the last minute by Ernest Hopkins and Mrs Hamilton-Baynes. The Louis XVI was buzzing as the evening session progressed. The restaurant was spread out like a grand hall down on D Deck, stretching the entire width of the Galitia. It was a two storey affair, with a long winding gallery overlooking the diners; the kind of space one could easily get lost in. Waiters whirled around us like spinning tops amid the colourful painted splendour of a French court. Light chamber music wafted down from the upper levels. My regular table was on the port side just beneath the overhanging gallery, with a good view of the fountain amidships. It was common practise on ocean liners to be allocated a specific table – and a waiter – for the duration of the voyage. On the first night out, I had shared with Mrs O’Neill, Miss Wellesley and Harry Latimer. Two of those people were now dead and the third had understandably decided to take her supper on a tray in the Reynolds Suite. I could easily have done the same, but I did not wish to sit in my cabin brooding. Neither am I the sort of person who frets about dining alone in a public space. I was not unduly surprised, however, when Mrs Hamilton-Baynes stepped across to my table, with a rather reluctant Ernest Hopkins in tow.
‘Jocelyn thought you might appreciate a little company,’ the vicar’s wife explained with a twinkle, as the two of them came over. ‘Unless you’d rather be alone?’
‘No, no,’ I said. I gestured to the empty chairs. ‘Please do.’
The good graces of Lady Jocelyn Wingfield did not extend to joining me herself, of course. She remained with her brother and the Reverend Hamilton-Baynes over by the windows. I raised my glass in ritual gratitude and Lady Jocelyn dipped her head. Sending across the cousin and the secretary was the bare minimum that politeness dictated and it did not surprise me that her ladyship went that far but no further. Ordinarily, I have nothing but admiration for aloof, aristocratic women – in many ways, they are the backbone of England – but there was something about Lady Jocelyn that I found eminently dislikeable. I could not tell you what it was.
The presence of Mrs Hamilton-Baynes and Sir Richard’s secretary did at least have the intended function of mitigating the furtive stares of the other diners. The whole ship, by now, had heard about the death of Mrs O’Neill, a woman whose hideously bright clothes and shamelessness on the dance floor would doubtless have imprinted itself on the mind of even the most inattentive passenger. People had been staring quietly at me as soon as I arrived in the restaurant. Had we been dining in second or – God forbid – tourist third class, I daresay the stares would have been even more direct. Thankfully, here in first class, despite the busy atmosphere, people had the decency to at least pretend that they were not interested.
The table’s regular waiter, Jennings, a monstrous behemoth of a man with a toupee as absurd as his girth, had by now served the opening course and my new companions had settled themselves down. Mrs Hamilton-Baynes tapped the edge of the melons glace with her spoon.
‘How have you both been coping?’ I asked, pushing back my own plate after a token nibble. I had come for the main course: a saddle of English mutton. I had no particular interest in the starter.
‘It’s been a little fraught,’ Mr Hopkins responded.
I was not the only one to have undergone a detailed interrogation this afternoon. ‘Jocelyn’s just finished talking to Mr Griffith,’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes said. The officer had conducted a full set of interviews, as he had in the aftermath of Harry Latimer’s death. The results of the autopsy were being kept strictly under wraps, however. I had only been told the truth because I had seen the body and had advanced my own theories on the matter.
‘How did she manage? Lady Jocelyn?’ I enquired. Griffith’s questions would not have been restricted to the ordinary comings and goings of the Reynolds Suite this time around. Now there was also the matter of the poison pen letters.
‘Not too well, I’m afraid,’ the vicar’s wife admitted. As a rule, Mrs Hamilton-Baynes was a cheerful woman – the perfect foil for a lively man of the cloth – but she was looking somewhat subdued this evening. The events of the day had taken their toll on her, though her first concern was for her cousin, Lady Jocelyn. ‘She came straight back to her room to change. She didn’t say a word.’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes kept her voice low, for fear of being overheard, though the hum of the restaurant was sufficiently loud that her words were unlikely to carry.
‘Is the maid still looking after her?’ I asked.
‘No, she won’t have Jenny near her now. I’ve been helping her to change for the last day or so.’ That was a bit much, I thought. A woman of Lady Jocelyn’s standing would not want to be without a maid, but co-opting her cousin into the role was a little unfair. ‘Well, we’ve been helping each other,’ she clarified. ‘It must have been very difficult for her, to be interviewed like that. She’s not used to confiding in strangers. Even a professional man like Mr Griffith.’
‘With all that’s happened, I suppose it was unavoidable. Any death onboard ship has to be investigated, even if it is just someone slipping on the mat.’
‘Yes, of course. It’s been dreadful, though. Poor, dear Susan. That
this should happen to her.’ By all accounts, Mrs Hamilton-Baynes had been rather fond of the American woman. I wondered what had shocked her more: the fact of her death or the revelation that she had been behind the letters.
‘It’s hit the family very hard, Mr Buxton,’ Hopkins told me frankly. He put down his cutlery and pushed his plate away. He was not looking too enamoured of the melons glace either. I had a sneaking suspicion that Sir Richard had given him a bit of a dressing down, for disappearing off with the maid at lunch time. Sending him over here to babysit me was probably part of the penance.
Mrs Hamilton-Baynes struggled manfully to finish off the starter and the waiter then came across to remove the plates.
‘Still, it’s all over with now,’ I said, anxious not to let the conversation drift. I turned to the secretary. ‘How was he with you?’
‘He was very thorough,’ Hopkins said. ‘He knows his job, I think.’
‘And did he...?’ I peered across at Mrs Hamilton-Baynes. ‘Did Lady Jocelyn give him an indication of the contents of the letters that she received?’
The vicar’s wife flushed. ‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘They spoke to them together,’ Hopkins explained. ‘Lady Jocelyn and Sir Richard. A bit of moral support. I think it was easier for her ladyship with Sir Richard there.’
‘It would have been very distressing for her, to have to talk about these things on her own,’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes put in.
I could not imagine a woman like Lady Jocelyn being distressed at anything. ‘Sounds like the letters must have been particularly nasty.’
‘They were, Mr Buxton.’ She shuddered. ‘How people could say such things!’
‘Was it a personal attack?’ I asked, out of curiosity. The vicar’s wife, it seemed, was familiar with the contents of the letters. ‘Somebody dredging up something from her past?’