by Jack Treby
‘You came down together, did you?’
‘Yes. Ernest is in the gymnasium.’ The vicar gestured to the opposite side of the stairs. ‘He thought she might have slipped in there. We didn’t see her under the chair here. Naughty puss! I suppose I ought to go and tell him.’ He glanced down at the carpet and then across at me. ‘And what brings you here at this time in the evening?’ He smiled. ‘I’d have thought you’d be in bed at this hour.’ There was no edge to the question, but in light of what Harry had told me I could not help but interpret it in a sinister manner.
‘Er...just having a word with Doctor Armstrong,’ I lied. ‘He’s retired for the night now, though.’
‘As will we all soon enough, God willing. We do need our beauty sleep.’
‘No dancing this evening?’
‘Sadly not.’ It was the last night of the voyage and, despite the death of Mrs O’Neill, a dance had been organised at the Palladian on A Deck. ‘We popped up for a coffee after supper, but it wouldn’t have been right to join in. Not on a day like this.’
‘No, of course not,’ I agreed. Try as I might, I could detect nothing sinister in the man’s demeanour. He was as lively and cheerful as ever. I did not doubt that Harry had seen him leaving the hotel that morning, but it was difficult to accept that this beaming vicar could possibly be a cold-blooded murderer. Perhaps he had just been out for a morning run after all. Nevertheless, I did not wish to tarry here any longer than I needed to. ‘Shall I fetch Mr Hopkins? He might have more luck, getting Matilda under control.’
‘That’s a splendid idea,’ the vicar agreed. ‘I’ll keep an eye on her in the meantime.’
‘He’s in the gymnasium, you say?’
‘Yes, just across...’ Hamilton-Baynes stopped.
There were footsteps clomping down the stairs from the deck above; rather loud footsteps. A group of three figures came into view. One of them was Mr Griffith. He was looking particularly dishevelled. He was flanked by two solid and rather burly crewmen. ‘Stay where you are!’ he ordered, in a surprisingly aggressive tone.
‘Mr Griffith?’ The reverend stepped backwards in surprise. It was clear the security officer was addressing him rather than me.
Griffith reached the bottom of the stairs. His two companions spread out.
‘Reverend Joshua Hamilton-Baynes. I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’
The vicar regarded the fellow in astonishment. ‘Murder? I...I don’t understand...’
One of the crewmen grabbed him from behind, and pinned his arms behind his back.
The security officer was grim faced. ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Margaret Hamilton-Baynes.’
Chapter Fifteen
For a moment, I thought I must have misheard him. ‘You mean Susan O’Neill?’
Mr Griffith shook his head emphatically. ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’ The security officer spoke with dark authority. ‘Mrs Hamilton-Baynes was discovered dead in her bedroom some twenty minutes ago. She was battered to death.’
‘Dead?’ I breathed, in disbelief. ‘Mrs Hamilton-Baynes?’
The vicar was equally incredulous. ‘Maggie? No, that can’t be...’
‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ Griffith confirmed. ‘She was struck from behind by a blunt instrument, sometime within the last hour.’
The vicar let out a cry of horror.
‘My God,’ I said. Another murder.
‘With a metal disk from a shuffle board set,’ Griffith added. ‘We believe the same instrument was used to murder Mrs O’Neill this morning.’
‘Good grief.’ It was difficult to take in. Margaret Hamilton-Baynes dead. I had only been dining with the woman a couple of hours ago. While I had been getting to grips with Harry Latimer’s unexpected resurrection, events appeared to have moved on elsewhere. It was something of a rarity for me to learn of an event like this second hand. I was so used to being close to the scene of a crime. ‘And you think the reverend here...?’
Hamilton-Baynes was refusing to accept the truth. ‘It’s not possible,’ he cried. ‘Maggie. She can’t...she can’t be dead...’ His face was deflating like a soufflé beneath that heavy beard. ‘I only just...no. Oh, God, no. Not Maggie.’ The vicar staggered suddenly and the crewmen had to keep a firm grip on him to make sure he did not collapse. At a nod from Griffith, they manoeuvred him over to a chair. ‘Not Maggie. My darling Maggie. She...she’s really dead?’ Hamilton-Baynes stared up at the security officer, his whole body trembling.
‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ Griffith confirmed. ‘But I have reason to believe you were already aware of that fact.’
‘But...but...no. I...I would never hurt her.’ The vicar’s eyes were now wet with tears. ‘I would never hurt my darling Maggie. I would never hurt anyone. It can’t be true. It simply can’t.’ In less than thirty seconds, the Reverend Hamilton-Baynes had become a gibbering wreck. Could he really have killed his wife, not half an hour ago?
Mr Griffith, at least, was in no doubt that he had got his man. ‘We have a prima facie case against you, sir. It’ll be up to the courts to determine the truth. But in the meantime...’ He gestured to his men. ‘We’re going to take you down to the hold.’
Hamilton-Baynes was barely listening. His eyes were flicking randomly left and right. ‘Maggie....my sweet Maggie. I must go to her. I must see her.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment, sir. The crime scene cannot be disturbed.’
‘But I must...I must...She can’t be...’
Griffith gestured again to the crewmen. ‘Lift him up.’
The vicar was helped shakily to his feet, his arms once more held behind his back. The security officer produced a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and handed them to one of his underlings. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve had any use for these,’ he confessed, catching my eye. Hamilton-Baynes was weeping loudly now, great wracking sobs, as tears flopped down onto his grey-black beard. ‘Get him down to the brig,’ Griffith said. He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I’ll be along shortly. The formal interview might have to wait until morning.’
The vicar was led slowly away, through one of the out-of-bounds doors, and down into the bowels of the ship. I watched him go with some consternation. Minutes earlier, the man had been as right as rain. Could he really have held himself together like that, shortly after bludgeoning his wife to death?
‘This is a queer business,’ Griffith asserted. ‘I’ve never known anything like it.’
‘You really think the Reverend Hamilton-Baynes killed his wife? A man of the cloth like that?’
‘He’s human, like anyone else.’
‘But what possible motive could he have? He adored his wife.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ the officer said. ‘We think she may have discovered what he did to Mrs O’Neill.’
I boggled. ‘You mean, he murdered her too?’
‘We believe so. He must have realised she was behind the poison pen letters. He was verifying the truth when she found him in her stateroom. He probably didn’t intend to kill her.’
‘But he struck her? With this...shuffleboard disk?’
‘It seems likely, sir. Mrs O’Neill’s stateroom contained a few items of sporting equipment borrowed from the gymnasium.’
‘Yes.’ I remembered seeing them there. ‘The reverend was planning to give Miss Wellesley a lesson or two.’
‘We believe he grabbed the disk from the shelf, struck Mrs O’Neill with it, then fixed up the body to make it look like an accident. He then hid the disk in his bedroom.’
‘Why didn’t he just throw it overboard?’
‘He probably didn’t have time to get out on deck, sir. People don’t often think logically in these situations.’
‘But you searched the rooms, didn’t you? This afternoon?’
‘Yes, but not as extensively as we should have. It was the clothes we were looking at, for signs of any blood, not the gym equipment.’
‘And Mrs Hamilton-Baynes?�
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‘We believe she must have found the disk. It’s got a slight dent, perhaps from the first blow. Easy to miss at a glance but not up close. She may well have suspected her husband before that, but the disk confirmed it. She knew what he had done and she confronted him.’
‘When she came back to the room after supper?’
‘That’s right, sir. She must have threatened to tell the police. In a panic, he battered her to death.’
I puffed out my cheeks. It was a hell of a story. I was not altogether sure I believed it.
‘Sir Richard stuck his head around the door, to say goodnight. He discovered her, lying there in a pool of blood. He raised the alarm and I was on the scene a couple of minutes later. It wasn’t at all pretty, sir. Lady Jocelyn confirmed that the reverend was the last person to speak to his wife. Her cat had got out onto the deck again and she asked him to help Mr Hopkins find her. Apparently, the reverend made a display of talking to his wife as he closed up the bedroom door, saying he wouldn’t be long and not to wait up. All an act to disguise what he had done. Doubtless he was hoping that no-one would look in on the scene until he got back. Your valet confirms that the two of them left together.’
‘Yes, I sent him there to tell them about Matilda.’
‘And what were you doing down here, Mr Buxton? Not searching for the cat.’
‘No, I...wanted another word with Doctor Armstrong. Then I saw Matilda and thought I’d better wait here until someone came to retrieve her.’ I was quite pleased at how plausible that sounded. I was getting better these days at thinking on my feet. ‘But look here, Mr Griffith, are you absolutely sure you’ve got the right man?’ Despite what I had learnt from Harry, the reactions of the Reverend Hamilton-Baynes did not strike me as those of a guilty man.
‘I’m as sure as I can be, sir. I’ll need to take a statement from you and the others, but that can wait until morning. I’ll see the vicar settled in, make sure he’s properly locked up. We may have to leave the body in situ for now. Wait for the arrival of the police tomorrow. I’ll have to talk to the captain about that.’ He grimaced, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘He’s not going to be at all happy.’
‘Lord, no. Three deaths on one trip.’
‘The press will have a field day. It won’t be pretty. You should get back to your cabin, sir. Best not have anybody wandering around. Get some sleep, if you can.’
‘What about the cat?’
Griffith almost smiled. ‘She’s the least of our concerns.’ He made to leave, but stopped himself briefly. ‘Did you say Mr Hopkins was down here somewhere?’
‘Er...yes, in the gymnasium. At least, according to the reverend. Lord, he won’t know anything about any of this. Do you want me to fetch him?’
‘If you would, sir. I’d feel more comfortable if everyone was back in their rooms.’
The sky was dark as pitch through the windows on the starboard side and a handful of shipboard lights did little to alleviate the gloom. The gymnasium was an eerie place after dark, the wall bars and mounted horses casting strange shadows across the room. ‘Mr Hopkins?’ I called out, but there was no response. Where the devil was he? It couldn’t have taken the fellow this long to have a look around; but there was no sign of him. Perhaps he had gone through to the swimming pool.
The adjoining door was shut up but not locked. I grabbed the handle and entered. The swimming pool seemed larger than before, without a crowd of spectators lining the edge. The changing cubicles were curtained off, but the under pool lighting was switched on and the crystal water glistened in the half light. A couple of dim lamps were also in evidence, and it was these which served to illuminate the figure of Ernest Hopkins. He was sitting halfway along, not on a chair but perched on the edge of the swimming pool, his legs dangling over the side. I stopped for a moment, surprised to see him there. ‘Mr Hopkins?’ I called out again. By the look of it, he had not even rolled up his trousers, plunging his socks and shoes straight into the water. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked, stepping forward in concern. ‘What are you doing in the dark?’
Hopkins did not look round. He was staring at the gently lapping water, the lower half of his trousers completely submerged. It was most peculiar. His tone, when he spoke, was entirely matter-of-fact. ‘I was trying to decide whether to throw myself in,’ he said. ‘Or to give myself up.’
I did not understand. ‘Give yourself up?’ Good grief. What was the fellow blathering about?
‘I’ve been such a fool, Mr Buxton.’ He turned his head then, to look at me. His eyes were alive with bitterness and regret. ‘I should never have listened to that...to that man.’
‘Look, Mr Hopkins...’ I had no time for theatrics. I had important news to impart. ‘There’s been a development. You need to come away now.’
‘A development?’ The man frowned, not understanding.
‘Another murder,’ I said.
That got his attention. ‘A murder?’ He stared up at me, a sudden spasm of alarm flickering across his freckled face. I could perhaps have broken the news a little more delicately. His peculiar manner had disconcerted me somewhat.
‘I’m afraid so. Mrs Hamilton-Baynes.’
His eyes widened in shock. ‘Margaret?’
‘Not half an hour ago. I’m so sorry.’
‘But...how did...?’
‘Bludgeoned to death, just like Mrs O’Neill.’
‘My God.’ Again, I could perhaps have chosen the words a little more carefully. ‘He did it then?’ Hopkins muttered, in disbelief. ‘He really did it.’ The young man let out a sudden low howl and clutched his face in despair. ‘It’s all my fault. I should never have listened to him. I should never have...Oh, please God, no. Not Margaret, of all people.’ His hands dropped to his lap and his eyes scanned the water in front of him. ‘It’s my fault. I told him, you see. I told him I knew what he had done. I didn’t think...I didn’t think for a minute...’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I didn’t know, Mr Buxton.’ This time, the bitter note had returned to his voice. ‘I didn’t realise before today. I didn’t realise it was him. And now...oh God in heaven, he’s killed Margaret.’
I was struggling to keep up. ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself for,’ I assured him. The fellow was babbling somewhat. ‘You can’t be held responsible for anything the Reverend Hamilton-Baynes has done.’
The secretary threw me a puzzled look. ‘The reverend? What do you mean?’
‘Well, he...’ I coughed. ‘I’m afraid he was responsible for the death of Mrs Hamilton-Baynes. At least, according to Mr Griffith. He’s been arrested for her murder.’
‘But that’s...’ Hopkins shook his head vehemently. ‘Joshua didn’t kill her. He adored his wife. He wouldn’t lay a finger on her.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Anger flashed across the young man’s face. ‘Oh, he’s clever. Mr Buxton. You’ve no idea how clever. But you’ve got it all wrong. Don’t you see? The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes wouldn’t have killed his wife. He has nothing to do with any of this.’
‘But...if not him then who?’
‘I only found out the truth today. Oh, if only I’d known. Mr Buxton, it’s not the reverend who killed her. It was Sir Richard.’
I regarded the secretary in astonishment. ‘Sir Richard? Sir Richard Villiers? You think he killed Mrs Hamilton-Baynes?’
‘I’m certain of it. It’s all my fault. I told him, you see.’
‘You told him?’ A dim light was beginning to flicker in my mind. ‘You mean, about...?’
‘I told him what Margaret...what Mrs Hamilton-Baynes told us at supper. About...about him and her ladyship.’
‘Good grief.’
‘I was so angry, don’t you see? I’d trusted him. I’d believed in him. And the things I’d done.’ He shuddered. ‘But now I saw the truth of it. The sort of man he really is.’ Hopkins lips curled up in disgust, the same look I had seen on his face when we had left the restaurant together that evening. ‘And I knew I had to get m
yself away from him.’
‘You confronted him? About...?’
‘I told him exactly what I thought of him. What I knew about him. He was behind it all, Mr Buxton. Don’t you see? Those stupid letters. He tried to blame it on Mrs O’Neill, but she had nothing to do with it. It was all him. The pen letters. Everything.’
‘Wait a minute, you’re saying he was the letter writer?’
Hopkins nodded vigorously. ‘He admitted it to me, when I challenged him. He even crowed about it.’
‘Good lord.’
‘He’s deranged, Mr Buxton. He must be. The man has no shame at all.’
‘And you think he murdered Mrs Hamilton-Baynes?’
‘I’m sure of it. Oh God...’ Hopkins let out another sob. ‘It really is my fault. I should never have spoken to him like that...’
‘And Susan? Mrs O’Neill?’ Had Sir Richard been responsible for her death too?
Hopkins looked down. ‘No. He didn’t lay a finger on her. But he might just as well have done.’ The bitter tone had returned.
‘If not him then who?’ I asked, still utterly confused. ‘Who killed Mrs O’Neill?’
Hopkins buried his head in his hands. ‘God forgive me,’ he said, his body convulsing in despair. ‘It was me.’
Chapter Sixteen
As a general rule, I try to avoid cosy pool-side chats with self confessed murderers. Far safer to remove oneself from the potential source of danger. Better yet, one should summon the forces of law and order, and have them restrained. It was clear to me, however, that Ernest Hopkins was no threat to anyone. He was a wretched figure, with tears now staining his cheeks.
I slipped off my socks and shoes and sat myself down on the tiled floor next to him, rolling up my trousers and swinging my legs into the cool blue water. The freckled secretary was staring numbly over the edge. Whatever had driven him to such an act – to murder, no less – it had not been an easy journey. I regarded the fellow with some confusion. In the short time I had known him, Hopkins had always displayed a calm and business like demeanour. He had kept his emotions in check; not just with me but in front of everyone. Only the occasional run in with Matilda the cat had dented his professional veneer, and then only slightly. Those scars were healing now, but it appeared there were other scars, buried far beneath the surface, which were finally bursting out in a wave of anger and despair. Ernest Hopkins was a broken man; and, so far as I could tell, it was Sir Richard Villiers who had broken him.