Black Ship

by Carola Dunn

  Reality intruded all too soon. From the end of the alley, Daisy saw DS Mackinnon and one of the detective constables coming down the steps of number 8. They turned down the hill, then ascended the steps of number 9.

  Number 9, the Ormonds, she thought. Inherited money; four children, all away at school; Mr. Ormond dabbled in painting and had turned up at the Jessups’ drinks party with longish hair and a flowing cravat; Mrs. Ormond, very smart, kept busy with the sort of committees that organised charity balls. Disappointed to learn that Daisy didn’t play bridge, she had attempted without success to co-opt her onto one of these committees. The lure she held out was the chance to hobnob with the aristocracy.

  Unlured, Daisy had been relieved that the Jessups had not revealed her own family background, though doubtless Mrs. Ormond would find out sooner or later. In the meantime, the Ormonds were pleasant enough neighbours, but she didn’t anticipate their becoming great friends.

  The same applied to all the residents of Constable Circle apart from the abominable Bennetts at one end of the scale and the Jessups at the other.

  Perhaps by now, Mackinnon had talked to the Jessups and they had given him satisfactory answers to all the questions Daisy hoped he had confronted them with. She wished she had had a chance to suggest exactly what questions ought to be posed.

  Or perhaps she didn’t. If there was something fishy about the Jessups’ conduct, she didn’t really want to be the one to draw it to the attention of the police. They would soon enough uncover it without her help. Wouldn’t they?

  Nor could she make up her mind whether she had rather talk to Alec, who would know at once if she prevaricated, or to one of the others, who might not notice.

  She wondered whether Mackinnon had already called at number 6 in her absence. She was tempted to wait for him to come out of the Ormonds’ house to ask if he had any questions for her. She nobly resisted temptation, the more easily because she was carrying Miranda, who was hanging on to her with a death grip.

  A few minutes ago on the Heath, when she had tried to put her daughter in the pushchair to give Oliver a turn in her arms, Miranda had produced an eldritch screech that turned all heads for a hundred yards. The audience included Mr. Bennett and his spaniels. Daisy was certain he would subsequently spread the word that she was cruel to her children. She only hoped he wouldn’t go so far as to report her to the NSPCC. Not likely, she thought. He and his wife preferred “insinuendo” to outright accusations that could be disproved.

  Thus, despite Nurse Gilpin’s protests about spoiling the child so that she would always expect to be carried in future, Daisy had Miranda on her hip when they reached the Circle. Somewhere in the back of her mind she could hear her mother rebuking her, saying she looked like a gypsy, carrying a baby on her hip, but it was quite the most comfortable way to do it.

  What with one thing and another, she simply hadn’t much attention to spare for a police investigation just at that moment.

  Even with three adults in attendance, steps up to the front door and down to the area door made getting two babies and a pushchair into the house a complicated matter. Daisy kept Miranda until they reached the front hall, by which time she was unhappy even in her mother’s arms.

  “She’s hungry, poor lamb,” said Nurse accusingly, taking her.

  Daisy felt as guilty as if she had deliberately withheld food from her child, in spite of knowing that was exactly what Mrs. Gilpin intended.

  “So’s Oliver,” said Bertha.

  “Well then,” snapped Mrs. Gilpin, “hurry and take him upstairs so you can come down for their lunch.”

  Lunch sounded like a good idea to Daisy, too, but the parlour maid was hovering at the rear of the hall, having obviously kept a lookout for their return.

  “Oh madam!” she exclaimed as the nursery party headed up the stairs.

  “What is it, Elsie?”

  “Oh madam, a policeman came by while you were out!”

  “As we expected,” Daisy pointed out reassuringly.

  “Yes’m.” The girl sounded as doubtful as if the possibility had never crossed her mind.

  “Come into the sitting room and tell me about it.”

  To the left of the stairs was a small sitting room that caught the afternoon sun. Daisy had furnished it with the chintzes and cheerful paintings of Paris scenes that Alec’s first wife had chosen to brighten the house in St. John’s Wood. Daisy and Alec used it far more than the formal drawing room at the front of the house.

  Daisy sank into a chair, glad that they were the kind of chairs one could sink into. “Sit down, Elsie.”

  “Oh madam, I didn’t ought!” She twisted the corner of her apron in agitated fingers. “It was the Scottish one, madam. Detective Sergeant Mackinnon, he calls himself. He wanted to know exackly what I saw and what I did, and I told him I already told the master, but he said I had to tell it all over again.”

  “So you did?”

  “Oh yes’m. And the other one, Detective Constable Warren, the one with his eyebrows burnt off—you know?—he wrote it all down. Like as if he thought I might tell it all different next time!”

  “Did you happen to think of anything you hadn’t already mentioned to me or to Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Oh no’m. I told you every single thing, just like it happened.”

  “Good. I’m sure Mr. Mackinnon didn’t mistrust you, Elsie. He was just doing his job, following the rules.”

  “Well, that’s as may be. It’s not very nice for a girl to have every word she speaks wrote down.”

  “No, it’s never nice being mixed up in a police case.” Not nice, Daisy thought, but always interesting. “Did he ask for me?”

  “No’m. I said did he want to see the mistress, because you’d gone for a walk, but he said he was sure you’d told the master all you knew. Like as if I hadn’t!”

  “I’m sure you did,” Daisy assured her, and the girl departed soothed.

  Daisy, however, was left quite indignant. She would have liked a chance to go over the whole affair with Mackinnon, or, better still, with Tom Tring. What she really wanted, she realised, was to be reassured that they knew all about the Jessups’ comings and goings and were certain they had nothing to do with the stranger’s death.

  In fact, she was not a little peeved at being ignored. On the other hand, as long as they didn’t want her contribution, she didn’t have to make up her mind what she really ought to reveal about the Jessups.

  Her next aim, she decided, must be to meet Patrick Jessup. Though it was his elder brother who had fled, if the family was somehow caught up in the murder in the garden, could Patrick’s return from America that very night have been pure coincidence, or had it set the affair in motion? Only by talking to him could she judge to her own satisfaction—if not that of the police—whether the fatal outcome was inadvertent or the result of malice aforethought.

  What was the cause of death? Ernie Piper might have had the decency to tell her!

  Mackinnon might be an easier mark. He didn’t know her as well, and besides, she would be very careful not to alarm him with a direct question. He must be tired and hungry by now, tramping up and down the hill and all those steps. She would invite him to lunch.

  THIRTEEN

  As soon as she stepped out of the front door, Daisy saw Tom Tring approaching the Jessups’ house. He and Mackinnon must have split the circle between them, she deduced.

  What was more, Ernie Piper was at his side. She had forgotten that when she saw Mackinnon, he’d had a DC accompanying him.

  She sighed. Tom wasn’t in the least likely to reveal any information he didn’t intend to, but even if he hadn’t been a dear friend, she couldn’t possibly invite Mackinnon to lunch without him, and Piper and the other chap. That made four detectives for lunch. She hoped Mrs. Dobson had plenty of eggs, cold meat, bread, and cheese on hand.

  Then after eating, she thought, cheering up, she would take Tom up to the nursery to see Oliver. Surely he couldn’t be so h
eartless as to refuse to pass on a tip or two to the mother of his godson.

  Piper saw her, waved, and pointed her out to Tom. She gestured to them to come over.

  “Tom, Mr. Piper, you must be hungry, and I’m about to sit down to a lonely meal. Won’t you and Sergeant Mackinnon join me? And DC Warren, of course.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Fletcher.” The twinkle in his eyes told her he was well aware of her ulterior motive. “I was just hoping to catch Mr. Mackinnon and Mr. Warren and suggest we go for a quick bite, rather than disturbing people at their lunches.”

  “Perfect! There they are now, just leaving number nine.”

  Mrs. Dobson, warned to expect a guest before Daisy went out to find Mackinnon, had refused adamantly to have her kitchen cluttered again with constabulary. “Once in one morning is enough, madam. I’ll never get a thing done today. It’ll have to be the dining room.”

  Leading her horde into the house, Daisy was afraid it would be awkward when they found the table set for two. But Elsie—a veritable paragon of a parlour maid!—had looked out of the window and seen them all arriving, as she told Daisy later. Five place settings welcomed them, and Elsie carried in laden platters, as well as several bottles of beer. Mrs. Dobson had done her proud. Signs of haste might have been apparent to the housewifely eye, but that was something Daisy had never claimed to possess. As far as she could tell, fussing about whether everything was perfect never caused anything but grief.

  Soon the sound of contented munching filled the room. Daisy was careful to ask no questions of more significance than “Another slice of bread, Mr. Mackinnon?”

  Her forbearance was rewarded when Warren, the first pangs of hunger assuaged, grumbled, “I hope you had better luck than we did, Mr. Tring.”

  “Not much!” said Piper. “Mostly, there was no one home but the servants, and not a one of them heard or saw anything out of the ordinary, nor recognised the photo.”

  Photo? No one had shown Daisy a photo. She managed not to voice her outrage, but Tom caught her eye and raised questioning eyebrows. She shook her head very slightly. He answered with an equally infinitesimal nod, perceptible only by the shifting sheen on the reflective dome of his head.

  “Same here with the photo,” Warren confirmed. “Leastways, there was a housemaid swore she’d seen him peeping in her bedroom window one night, but seeing she sleeps in the attic—”

  The others laughed.

  “And it was her mistress,” Warren continued, apparently forgetting Daisy’s presence, “who didn’t sleep a wink all night for the screams and groans. Sarge asked why she hadn’t reported the disturbance to us, and she said her husband was in such a temper at breakfast because his egg was boiled too long that it put everything else right out of her mind.”

  Daisy knew exactly whom he was talking about. She ought not to listen to their discussing her neighbours, but it was irresistible. What was more, Tom, who could have put a stop to it anytime, let them continue. Perhaps he hoped their talk might spark a useful idea or two in Daisy’s brain. After all, much as it pained Alec to admit it, she had occasionally been helpful in the past.

  However, nothing occurred to her. She simply didn’t know most of the neighbours well enough to have more than the most superficial impressions of them.

  Elsie brought in coffee.

  “Tom,” said Daisy, “would you like to bring yours up to the nursery to say hello to your godson?”

  “I would indeed, Mrs. Fletcher, thank you very much. Mr. Mackinnon, I shan’t be long. I’d appreciate a word with you before you finish up down the road. How is the little fellow?” he continued, following Daisy from the room with the light tread that revealed his mountainous bulk as mostly muscle.

  She closed the door. “I’d appreciate a word with you,” she echoed. “‘Word’ first or babies first?”

  His grin made his moustache wiggle. “Let’s get the word over with, so that I can enjoy the twins in peace.”

  “Come into the office.” She led the way through a door next to the foot of the stairs.

  The room had two desks, as she shared it with Alec. His had little on it besides an inkwell and blotter, since he did most of his paperwork at the Yard. Hers, a massive rosewood creation inherited from Mr. Walsall, was dominated by her aged, secondhand, but trusty Underwood typewriter. Around it were piles of paper and reference books. No one could have called the result tidy, but Daisy could generally find what she needed when she needed it.

  More books filled the shelves against the wall backing the stairs. When Belinda was home and young feet had thundered up and down those stairs, the books had muffled the noise. Under the window facing north onto the terraced garden stood the Georgian writing table, one of the few objects Daisy still possessed from her childhood home. She sat there to write personal letters, and sometimes just to think, when she was at the planning stage of future articles. Beside it, a glass-paned door led out onto the paved lowest terrace, where green-painted wrought-iron chairs awaited the return of summer.

  Daisy perched on the corner of her desk and waved Tom to a chair by Alec’s desk, one he had occupied before, talking police business with Alec.

  “Well?” she said severely. “Why haven’t I seen the photograph?”

  “I understand you were out when Mr. Mackinnon came to speak to your household. And, strictly between ourselves, Mrs. Fletcher, the Chief was most adamant that you shouldn’t be involved any more than absolutely necessary. It’s possible the lad took his words rather too much to heart. Or he felt the Chief should cope with you himself! Or both.”

  “So you do concede I ought to have a go at identifying the victim? Not that I exactly want to study a picture of a corpse, mind you, but in the interests of—”

  “Not to worry. It’s not a picture of a corpse we’re showing around.” Tom reached into the breast pocket of his green-and-maroon check jacket. He was wearing one of his more sober outfits today. “The deceased had a passport in his pocket, so we’re using the photo from that.”

  “A passport? British?”

  “Ah.” Tom pondered as he handed over the photo. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t know. American.”

  “Oh!” Dismayed, Daisy took a moment to focus on the face. Then, instantly, she recognised it. “Oh no!”

  “You’ve seen him before. You’re quite sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  She shook her head. “I just saw him in passing.”

  “Where?”

  Slipping down from the desk, she went over to the garden door and stood there staring out at the dank flower beds, tidy now but bleak. She couldn’t avoid telling Tom she had seen the American at the Jessups’, but need she report that he was dashing away after an acrimonious meeting with Mrs. Jessup? Did she have to reveal Aidan’s dismay on hearing of his visit? After all, the former was hearsay, not proper evidence, and the latter just her reading of Aidan’s emotion.

  She knew what Alec would say to that rationalisation!

  Turning, she found Tom regarding her with a steady gaze, part quizzical, part stern. “Where did you see him, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  With a sigh, she admitted, “At the Jessups’ house, number five, next door. Several weeks ago.” She made up her mind. “And I really think that’s all I can tell you, at least until you’ve talked to them yourself.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. They’re next on my list, the last. You didn’t react much to anything the others were saying over lunch. I take it there’s nothing to tell about the rest of the residents?”

  “Nothing I know of.” Daisy hesitated. “No one mentioned the Bennetts, at number ten.”

  “Number ten was last on Sergeant Mackinnon’s list, so he probably hasn’t got there yet. Why?”

  “I can’t help thinking that anyone who had talked to them would have had plenty to say on the subject.”

  “As you do?”

  “Just that you shouldn’t believe a word they sa
y. They’re the worst kind of gossips, avid for any breath of scandal even if they have to make it up themselves. If they have no meat for outright rumourmongering, they’re expert insinuators.”

  “I shall so advise Mr. Mackinnon,” Tom said gravely. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. Now we’d better go on up to the nursery before the others start wondering where we’ve got to.”

  At New Scotland Yard, with the Assistant Commissioner and Superintendent Crane pacified at least for the present, Alec returned to his office. An internal message form lay on his desk. Dr. Popkin had telephoned to say he’d be delighted to pop round and take a dekko at anything the chief inspector wished to set before him—the message Alec had left for him at the British Museum switchboard had been a model of discreet nonspecificity.

  Regarding the piles of paper still awaiting his attention, Alec decided he could, if forced to do so, justify going to the museum, rather than inviting the expert to come to him.

  Beside the message was a large manilla envelope with the photography department’s stamp in the corner. Inside were a dozen enlargements of the dead man’s passport photo, four of the entire passport, and the passport itself.

  Alec studied the photo with interest. They had blown it up to the point that it was just barely beginning to blur. While agreeing with Shakespeare that “There is no art to find the mind’s construction in the face,” he judged the subject of the portrait to be a tough man. His eyes were hard beneath dark slicked-back hair, and his thin-lipped mouth was a straight line with no sign of softness or humour. Not that that made him a criminal, of course. Besides, as well as the unreliability of features as a guide to character, passport photos were notoriously uncomplimentary.

  And regardless of the victim’s character, his murderer must be punished.

  He made arrangements for copies of the passport to be sent to the FBI and the New York police, to follow up his cables. He couldn’t expect a response for at least five days, probably longer. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to wait that long to find out the man’s name. If Dr. Popkin managed to read it, perhaps he’d have wrapped up the case by then. Slipping the passport into his pocket, he set off for Bloomsbury.