‘Thank you, Mr Wellesley. Could you please take this man, Mr Evans, down to E-131 and stand guard outside the door until I give you further instructions.’
‘What’s in E-131?’ asked Jim, half-standing. The smell of sweat had got stronger.
‘It’s the ship’s cell,’ said Guy. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay there until we reach the shore. It’s not the last you’ve seen of me, however. I will need to interview you again about what happened last night, but there are other things I need to attend to straightaway.’ He turned to Wellesley. ‘Take him now. Either I or First Officer Logan will be down to see you later.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Wellesley. He leaned towards Guy and spoke in a low voice. ‘Do I need handcuffs, sir? Only I’m not sure there are any.’
‘No,’ said Guy. ‘Keep him walking beside you. He’s under arrest and there’s no land in sight. I’d say he’d be a fool to run, wouldn’t you?’ But he raised his eyebrow warningly at Jim as he said this.
With Wellesley and Jim gone, Guy hurried back to B-17 to see Ella Fowler. The atmosphere in the ship was very different to that which he had first felt on arriving the day before. The high ceilings and gilt that decorated the rooms on the first-class decks had intimidated him less than twenty-four hours ago. Now they seemed like cheap movie sets, nothing more than a tawdry mask for the base traits of human nature. All he wanted was to spend time with his wife. It was depressing to realise that, even out on the deep blue sea, the failings of men and women would interrupt his plans as much as they did on the streets of London. And yet, he couldn’t deny the part of himself that found this work satisfying, too.
It was almost luncheon; his stomach was rumbling, but he couldn’t stop. As he rounded a corner he spotted the welcome and lovely sight of Louisa, walking ahead with Unity Mitford. There was someone else with them, too, a tall, blond man. Guy double-stepped his pace and caught up with them.
‘Guy,’ said Louisa, caught by surprise. All four stopped walking. They were halfway across a foyer, the hub that led to various entertainments for the first-class guests – the tennis courts, shuffleboard, table tennis and so on. It was not busy today, but most of the guests walking through were dressed in jaunty sports outfits. Unity, big-boned in her green skirt and cream sweater, did not fit in with the others. The man, however, had the look of someone who had swum fifty miles every day for the last year, with broad shoulders and a tan that set off his slicked blond hair.
‘Miss Mitford,’ said Guy, acknowledging Unity.
‘Hello, Mr Sullivan. This is Herr von Bohlen.’
The man put out his hand for Guy to shake.
‘Good day to you, Mr Sullivan.’
‘Mr Sullivan is Louisa’s husband; he’s a policeman in London,’ said Unity to von Bohlen. ‘It’s the most extraordinary good fortune that he happened to be on the ship, for poor Mr and Mrs Fowler, you see.’
‘Ja, I do see.’ Wolfgang gave Guy a thin-lipped smile.
‘I’m not sure about luck today. I’m sorry to say that Mr Fowler has died,’ said Guy.
Louisa’s hand went to her mouth. ‘That means…’
‘Murder.’
The German blanched beneath his tan.
Unity’s face betrayed confusion. ‘Are you sure, Mr Sullivan? That seems awfully dramatic.’
‘I’m very sure,’ said Guy. Louisa was right, these people lived in another sphere. ‘In fact, while you are here, perhaps I might ask: were you at dinner in the same dining saloon as Mr and Mrs Fowler last night?’
‘Yes,’ said Unity. She arched her back slightly, and gave Wolfgang a sidelong glance.
‘Did you happen to notice their conversation at all?’
‘Yes, their table is not too distant from ours. They were frosty, from what I could see. I wasn’t surprised, given the earlier altercation in the Blue Bar.’
‘Hmm.’ Guy nodded. ‘Thank you. That at least confirms what another witness has told me.’
‘Where were you going?’ asked Louisa.
‘I need to see if Mrs Fowler knows yet, and if not I will have to tell her. What about you?’
‘We were just on our way to luncheon,’ answered Unity, though the question had not been directed at her. ‘Wolfgang – that is, Herr von Bohlen – is hoping to join us. I want Mrs Guinness to hear about his fascinating work for the Kraft durch Freude.’
‘Please, Fräulein Mitford, it is not so fascinating for everyone.’
‘Oh, but it is. Mr Sullivan, you would appreciate this, I’m sure. Kraft durch Freude means “Strength Through Joy”. It’s another of Hitler’s brilliant ideas: holiday camps for the German workers. All those millions of people who have been through the terrible Depression, which he has lifted them out of, can now be rewarded through holidays. And Herr von Bohlen is on this ship taking notes because there’s going to be a Kraft durch Freude cruise ship and Hitler wants to know how to make it a really good one. Imagine!’
Guy looked properly at von Bohlen. ‘You know Hitler?’
The German frowned. ‘Not so well – a little. He is a busy man. My father knows him better. It is how I received the commission.’
‘I see,’ said Guy, not knowing quite how to follow this up. He knew who Hitler was, of course, and knew the dissension in the newspapers – an antipathy he shared. There was a general feeling that Hitler was an aggressive leader, but was the better choice when no one wanted the Communists to take over Germany. Fascism was a price everyone was willing to pay. That was the measure of what he understood, but there was probably more to it than that. Unity, at least, seemed very sure what she thought about it all.
‘Will you be joining them for luncheon?’ Guy asked Louisa.
‘No. I will take Unity to the dining room, then I have an errand. After that, I can come and find you. I’ll come to Mrs Fowler’s, shall I?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Guy thought his wife impressive and beautiful at times like this, an oasis in the desert where kindness was as rare as water. He was not looking forward to his next task, but he had better not delay it a minute longer.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
In the dining room, the tables were packed with guests, in spite of it being only a quarter to one. The men wore cream linen suits, with several sunburned necks glowing red above the collars, while the women were in pastel-coloured cotton dresses with belts to cinch in their narrow waists. Waiters darted in the aisles and the sun shone blithely through the vast plate-glass windows. Light bounced from polished silver knives to pearls that hung heavily in the creased bosoms of the Princess Alice’s most favoured guests.
Lady Redesdale remained seated as she saw Unity approach, but there was no mistaking her disturbance at her daughter being accompanied by a man. Louisa had a small speech prepared to explain why Wolfgang had joined them, but it wasn’t necessary. He stepped smartly before the matriarch, seated like a queen on a throne, and executed a neat bow with his head.
‘Lady Redesdale, I hope you can forgive the intrusion. I was to dine alone today and your daughter kindly suggested that it might be possible for me to join you instead.’ He seemed to pause briefly, in case Lady Redesdale sought to jump in with declarations that that would be an excellent idea. She did not. He continued, ‘Naturally, it is rather out of the order of things, but it seems today is, in so many ways.’
Still, there was no response. Even Diana was looking at her mother now, as if wondering whether she had turned into a pillar of salt.
Wolfgang took a step backwards. ‘I understand it is an imposition. Forgive me.’ He started to turn away when Lady Redesdale finally spoke.
‘No, stay. We shall ask them to lay another place.’ She raised a hand and a waiter came running over. The instructions were given and, like a conjuror’s trick, another chair was found, the places adjusted, a napkin and cutlery laid on Lady Redesdale’s right.
Unity took her seat opposite her mother, between Diana and Wolfgang. She could not keep herself from smiling, even when Lady Re
desdale gave her a severe look.
‘Louisa, I find I am missing my glasses. Would you please fetch them for me?’
‘Certainly,’ said Louisa, trapped in the request.
At least Lady Redesdale’s cabin was not so far from the dining room; she would make the trip as quickly as possible. Guy would not be with Mrs Fowler for very long, she assumed, and she still had to find Third Officer Wellesley, whoever he was.
She fetched Lady Redesdale’s reading glasses – they’d been left lying on the desk beside the passenger list – and returned to the Mitfords in under ten minutes, panting slightly. The guests in the dining room were now settled, the first measures of wine had been poured, and hungry faces were largely hidden behind the menus. When sailing, luncheon and dinner took on the seriousness and timing of a religious ritual. The choosing and eating of the several courses was not something to be undertaken lightly, but with careful consideration and appreciation. There wasn’t much else to do during those long hours at sea.
Lady Redesdale and her daughters, however, were not choosing their consommés or dithering between lamb chops or lobster but listening intently to Wolfgang. Louisa approached the table slowly, not wishing to rush past the guests deep in thought but also wondering what he could be saying to hold all three of them in such rapt attention. Unity and Diana looked pale and concerned; Lady Redesdale, as usual, revealed little of her inner thoughts.
‘… marvellous for Sir Oswald Mosley to have the company of his late wife’s younger sister on the motoring trip around France. Not to say her love and admiration, which is said to be extensive.’ His eyebrow, which Louisa could have sworn was plucked, arched with amusement.
‘Her love?’ Diana said, faintly.
‘Of course, you are a good friend of Sir Oswald’s, are you not? I presume you knew his late wife, Lady Cynthia?’
‘Not as such, no. We met a few times.’ Diana’s voice was in danger of disappearing into the air like smoke.
‘Ah, well. She was a fine woman, I am told, and I should think it is quite the right thing to keep it all in the family. The late Lady Cynthia was a Curzon, as you know. This is a prestigious noble family, great lineage, ja? It is absolutely correct to ensure this line continues if he is to become the next leader of your marvellous country.’
Louisa could slow her walk no more. She approached the table and laid the glasses on Lady Redesdale’s left. Diana’s eyes were blurred with tears, though none had dropped onto her cheek.
Unity’s reaction was typically direct. ‘But the Leader’s sister-in-law, the younger one, that’s Baba Metcalfe, isn’t it? Fruity’s wife? I mean to say, she’s married. They can’t possibly be carrying on. Did you say they were on a motoring trip? Diana, did you know about this?’
Wolfgang held his hands up. ‘Please forgive me if I have said anything untoward about your good friend. This is simply something I was told. I meant only a little light conversation.’ He gave an apologetic laugh.
‘Who told you?’ demanded Lady Redesdale.
‘I could not say for absolutely certain. It is one of those things one hears, you know. There are mutual friends we have in common, between Sir Oswald and his British Union of Fascists, so much admired by many of my colleagues in the Nazi Party.’ His face was one of conciliatory agreeableness. ‘I have spoken out of the line. Let us talk of other things.’
Lady Redesdale snatched up her glasses without acknowledging Louisa. ‘Yes, I think we had better choose our luncheon.’
* * *
Back outside the dining room, Louisa wondered what all that had been about. Was Wolfgang trying to gain favour with Diana and Unity, implying he knew people who were admirers of Sir Oswald, close to him, even? Was it possible he knew of Diana and the Leader’s love affair? Though intimate friends and family were aware, it had been kept a secret as far as possible and nothing was in the newspapers. Of course, the attack on Diana that morning showed that rumours had leaked. Louisa couldn’t feel sorry for Diana either way. Sir Oswald was not a man Louisa could find any compassion for, in either his politics or his private life. Diana had to be a blind idiot to get involved with a man like that.
More pressingly, all of this meant that Louisa didn’t have enough time now to find Third Officer Wellesley. She needed to go to B-17 and see if Guy was there. Ella might now know of her husband’s death. The question was: had she caused it?
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Guy hurried down to Mrs Fowler’s cabin. Starving, he snatched some bread rolls off a trolley in the hall. It looked as if someone’s breakfast had been cleared away, so he hoped he hadn’t technically stolen off another’s plate – a fine predicament for a policeman – but he couldn’t see himself sitting down to a leisurely lunch today. At the door of B-17, the crumbs brushed off his suit, he knocked gently, then stepped inside. Things looked as he had left them not so long ago. The muddied bloodstain on the carpet was more disturbing now that the man who had bled was no longer.
He was about to walk through the doorway to Ella’s bedroom when Blythe came in. She looked grey and wrung out; hardly surprising, given her lack of sleep. Guy knew he wouldn’t look any better himself. Even so, he was surprised: he was sure Louisa had told him that Blythe had been sent away, with the doctor arranging for a nurse to sit with Mrs Fowler.
‘She’s asleep,’ said Blythe, before Guy could even ask the question.
‘Right.’ Guy could feel his brain slowing down, in need of rest. ‘I think I had better wake her up, I’m afraid.’
Blythe perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t.’
‘More morphia?’
Blythe nodded.
‘Has the doctor been here?’
Blythe didn’t reply to this, only looked at the floor.
‘Miss North, do you mean to say that Mrs Fowler has self-administered morphia?’
Blythe kept her eyes down.
‘I see.’ Guy put his hands in his pockets and exhaled loudly. He walked over to the French balcony door and put his face in the sun. The warmth and the light was almost as good as the bread he’d snatched earlier. ‘Why are you still here?’ Guy asked.
‘I don’t understand … I thought she wasn’t to be left alone?’
‘Mrs Sullivan requested that you get some rest; either the housekeeper or the doctor was going to send a replacement.’
Blythe shifted on her feet. ‘Mrs Fowler knows me – I thought she’d be less alarmed if she woke to find me here.’ There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘Do you have news of Mr Fowler?’ asked Blythe quietly.
Guy turned to face her. ‘I’m afraid so. He died, about an hour ago.’
‘Did he ever say anything, before he died? Say what happened, I mean?’
‘I don’t think so, but I haven’t spoken to the doctor. Possibly he did.’
Blythe thought about this and then stood up. She walked across to Guy, carefully avoiding the marks on the carpet. ‘This means you’re investigating a murder, doesn’t it?’
‘It does, Miss North. Are you able to help me with my inquiries?’
Blythe looked behind her, as if checking that Ella was not about to burst through the door. But there was no noise beyond the low hum of the ship’s movement in the water.
‘She did it.’
Guy felt Blythe too close to him; her breath was hot and stale. He did not want to step away, but he pulled himself up straighter.
‘What did she do?’
‘Mrs Fowler, she killed her husband. She did it with Sir Clive Montague because they want to run off together.’
‘Did you see them kill Mr Fowler?’
Blythe’s shoulders hunched in. ‘No, but I know they did it.’
‘Did you hear them plan to kill Mr Fowler?’
‘No, sir. I didn’t. But I’ve heard Sir Clive talking about how he loves Mrs Fowler and would do anything for her. He said it to Mr Fowler. I was in Sir Clive’s bathroom, cleaning it, and he probably forgot I was even there.’ Her
face was sullen.
‘Go on.’
‘She’ll say Jim did it, but he didn’t. He had nothing to do with it. I know he’s been … with her in the past. She seduced him, with her money and her promises. But he’s with me now and he wouldn’t do anything to ruin that. We’ve got plans. We’re not going to be stuck on this ship, we’re not going to be cleaning cabins and waiting on people all our lives. There are opportunities out there and I mean to make the most of them.’
‘Slow down, Miss North.’ Guy put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should take a seat.’
‘No, I don’t want to. I want you to believe me that Jim didn’t do it.’
‘That’s all very well, but I’m a policeman. It’s not a question of what I believe, it’s a question of evidence. If you can give me any evidence that Sir Clive and Mrs Fowler plotted to kill her husband, then we can talk.’
Blythe’s breathing had become ragged, but she stayed quiet.
‘Can I trust you to go back to your cabin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Off you go, then.’
Blythe left, and Guy judged from the heaviness of her movements that she would sleep at last. After a telephone call to the doctor’s office requesting a nurse to come and sit with Ella, Guy went through to see her.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the high sun, and the air was stuffy. Ella was no more than a shape beneath the covers, with slight movement to prove life. There was a stool beside the bed, which Blythe must have been sitting on, and various clothes draped over a chair in the corner. Shoes had been kicked off beside it, and an evening clutch bag lay on the bed, some of its contents out beside it: a cigarette box, a book of matches, a pocket diary. Guy picked it up and tried to read its contents, but the tiny writing, the dim light and his bad eyesight made it impossible. On the bedside table was a novel, Lost Horizon, three bottles of pills, a jar of face cream, a glass of clear liquid and a packet of mints. But these weren’t what held Guy’s attention – a single-use syringe did, and a tiny dark brown bottle with a metal lid that had been pierced. Morphia. That would account for Ella’s deep sleep, but had she given it to herself, or had Blythe injected her? Once again, Ella could not be told of her husband’s death, or her part in it. He would have to wait for her to waken to make the arrest.
The Mitford Trial Page 19