Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1)

by Jolie Beaumont

  Travers made no comment, so Carroll continued. “After Mabel got out of jail, she tracked down Mrs. Hardwick and got this job being her companion. Mabel’s original plan, she told me, was first to butter up the old lady and then reveal her true identity and appeal to Mrs. Hardwick’s kind heart.”

  “Mrs. Hardwick hadn’t met her before?”

  “I don’t think so. But even if she had, Mabel looked entirely different after she got out of jail. Even I didn’t recognize her until she told me who she was. She used to be a blonde and slim and sassy. Now she was a brunette—I suppose that was her natural hair color—and she looked much older.”

  Travers could believe that. Few people emerged from prison unchanged—and the change wasn’t for the better.

  “Anyway, Mabel caught on quick that her plan wasn’t going to work. Mabel discovered that she couldn’t appeal to Mrs. Hardwick’s kind heart because the old battle-axe didn’t have a heart. After that, the two got along like oil and water.”

  Travers smiled, in spite of himself. While he didn’t believe that Mrs. Hardwick was totally heartless, he didn’t imagine she would be susceptible to a sob story.

  “One thing Mabel did discover,” Carroll continued, “which she thought would work to her advantage, was that Mrs. Hardwick was a snob. She desperately wanted to be invited into the Lambton-Keene circle. So Mabel came to me and asked me to make the introduction. Then I was supposed to get my wife or Lady Lambton-Keene to talk to Mrs. Hardwick about giving Mabel some of the insurance money. Mabel thought the old witch would agree to make Mabel a gift to impress the Lambton-Keenes. It wasn’t an entirely unreasonable scheme, but I told Mabel I couldn’t get involved. You may have noticed, Inspector, that my marriage isn’t exactly blissful. The Lambton-Keenes tolerate me, for Margaret’s sake, so there won’t be a scandal, but I have no influence over them. I tried to explain this to Mabel, but she got angry and wouldn’t listen.”

  “Is that when she accused you of visiting Honey Lynde’s cabin?”

  Carroll looked puzzled. “I don’t recall her doing that.”

  “Do you deny you were in the duchess’s cabin the night she was murdered?”

  Carroll threw his hands up in the air, in a sham show of defeat. “I give up, Inspector. Honey and I were lovers. We met during one of her shows—“

  “Belle of Broadway?”

  Carroll looked impressed. “Yes, that was it. You’re probably one of the few people on earth who remember it. The show had a short run, but we were madly in love and …” Carroll noted the cynical look on the inspector’s face, and the blood began to rush to his own. “You didn’t know Honey, Inspector. That’s why you don’t understand a thing about her. You think she was just a gold-digging show girl without a single redeeming quality. But Honey wasn’t like that. Not the Honey I knew. She was kind and funny and she had this way of—when we didn’t have much money, we’d go to a corner diner and order scrambled eggs on toast and it was as if we were the two richest, happiest people in the world. She could make life beautiful, magical.”

  “Was it her idea for you to marry Lady Margaret, so you could continue your affair?”

  Carroll sighed. “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. Tell me what happened the night the duchess was murdered, after you went to her cabin.”

  “How do you know I went to her cabin?”

  Travers didn’t deign to reply.

  “All right, I did go. But I didn’t stay. Honey was frantic about those pearls, and she asked me to find them. The only thing I could think of was to search the music room. When I saw they weren’t there, I wandered around the ship like a lost soul.”

  “Did Mabel Watson know about you and Honey?”

  “I suppose she did. Her brother was also in the show. We’d all go out together sometimes, after rehearsals. But Mabel wouldn’t threaten to blackmail me about that. She liked people in show business, and she accepted us we were. She did accuse me of forgetting about old friends, now that I was one of the nobs. That stung. So I told Mabel I had an idea that might help her.”

  “And what was this idea?”

  “Detecting is your business and not mine, Inspector, but from the beginning I had a hunch that the disappearance of the pearls was unrelated to Honey’s murder. That meant we had both a murderer and a jewel thief on this ship. I told Mabel to take some of Mrs. Hardwick’s jewels out of her safe—Mabel had the combination—and make it look like the jewel thief had struck again. After Mrs. Hardwick raised the alarm, Mabel could pretend she had found the jewels and return them. And after she had saved the day, she could ask for her reward—some of that insurance money.”

  “So it was Mabel who stole the emeralds?”

  “That’s right. But she dropped them in the corridor, before she could hide them for a while. I guess she was in too much of a hurry to notice.”

  “And afraid she’d go back to jail if she was caught,” added Travers.

  “Then Miss Garnett found the jewels and returned them before Mrs. Hardwick even noticed they were gone. The whole scheme was a colossal flop.”

  At least another of the mysteries had been cleared up, Travers muttered under his breath as he waited for Lady Margaret to appear. The disappearance of the pearls and the emeralds had been accounted for; it was cold comfort, though, because he had wasted precious time in trying to solve them, while the more important crime still remained unsolved. Yes, all he needed to do now was discover who had murdered the two women.

  Peter Carroll had stepped into the role of most likely suspect, despite the young man’s glib answers to all his questions. He was the one who had both motive and opportunity. More than one man had killed the woman he loved while in a drunken rage. And Mabel Watson was no longer alive to confirm that her part of the tale had been told accurately, therefore, Carroll could say whatever he liked. The most damning evidence was that syringe, which definitely needed explaining. Much would depend upon the testimony of Lady Margaret.

  That lady entered the cabin a few minutes after being summoned. She glanced from Travers to her husband. It was not a friendly glance.

  “What trouble have you gotten into now, Peter?” she asked.

  “I think the inspector wants to be the one asking the questions, dear.”

  “Well?” she said, turning to Travers.

  “Lady Margaret, have you seen these things before?” Travers showed her the syringe and bottle of potassium chloride.

  “Of course I have. They’re mine.” She eyed him coldly. “It’s not a narcotic, Inspector. It’s for my potassium deficiency, and it’s perfectly legal to possess. You may send a wire to my physician in London, if you don’t believe me.”

  CHAPTER 21

  A DETECTIVE HAD to think quickly when he was on the job—and live with his decisions, even if they later proved to be wrong, sometimes fatally. A detective who made too many bad decisions didn’t last on the job for long, and Travers knew his record for being right was better than most. All his instincts were telling him that Peter Carroll had murdered those two women, but Travers knew he didn’t have a shred of evidence that would hold up in court. Even if Carroll’s fingerprints were found on the syringe, it would prove nothing. What could be more natural than a husband putting away his wife’s medicine? It would be odd if Carroll’s fingerprints weren’t on the syringe or bottle.

  Travers therefore had no right to detain the young man in the cabin any longer, let alone lock him up in a makeshift jail until they reached England. He therefore said, “All right, Carroll, you can go. You may go too, Lady Margaret. Just don’t talk to the others, until we let you know that all the cabins have been searched.”

  Peter walked to the door and held it open for his wife. “Coming, Margaret?”

  “I’d like to use the powder room, if I may, Inspector.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Don’t wait, Peter. I can find my way back to the library.”

  Carroll hesitated. It was only after Lady Margaret di
sappeared through the door to the bedroom that he said, “Well, good luck with your investigation, Inspector.”

  The door closed. Inspector Travers turned and happened to glance into a mirror. In the reflection he saw Lady Margaret standing in the doorway. She looked incredibly pale and fragile.

  “I’m afraid, Inspector. I couldn’t say anything before, with Peter in the room.”

  “You’re afraid of your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I … You’ll think I’m a monster. A wife is supposed to stand by her husband no matter what, isn’t that right?”

  “I would say there are times when a wife might be obligated to tell what she knows, murder being one of those times.”

  “I wouldn’t have to testify in court, would I? It’s true, isn’t it, that a woman can’t testify against her husband?”

  “The court can’t compel her to testify, but she may if she wishes.”

  Lady Margaret reentered the sitting room and sat down by the writing table. Her hand moved restlessly about the tabletop, until her fingers alighted upon a letter holder, which she picked up and began to turn between her two hands. It was only after several moments that she realized what she was holding and gave a short gasp, flinging the knife-like implement to the side.

  “My husband killed those two women. I know it.”

  “How do you know, Lady Margaret?”

  “The night my stepmother was … murdered … I remained in my room, as I told you. My husband said he was going to have some dinner and then go to the music room to work on his symphony. But I knew where he was really going to spend the evening—in my stepmother’s cabin. They were lovers. Apparently, they had been lovers for a long time. That’s why he married me, so he could stay close to her.”

  For a moment, Travers thought she was going to burst into tears. If he pushed too hard too quickly, he was reasonably certain he would have a hysterical young woman on his hands. But he had to find out if she had any solid evidence about the murder or if this was just her imagination.

  “How can you be sure he went to the duchess’s cabin?” He was using his most gentle tone of voice.

  “After he left me, I got out of bed and opened the door to our cabin. I didn’t look out, because I didn’t want them to see me. But I heard their voices. Then I heard the door to my stepmother’s cabin close and the corridor was silent. When I returned to bed, I couldn’t read. I couldn’t concentrate. But I was too upset to go to sleep. I went to the bathroom to get a sleeping draught, and that’s when I noticed the case with my hypodermic syringe wasn’t in its usual place. It was slightly to the right of the potassium chloride bottle, and I keep it on the left side. There’s no reason, but I do and I was puzzled. I opened the case and the syringe and needle were missing.”

  “What were your thoughts when you saw the empty case, Lady Margaret?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know what to think. I knew I hadn’t lent it out to anyone. I supposed Peter might have done it, if someone—like Mrs. Hardwick—needed an injection of some sort right away.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more reasonable to assume Mrs. Hardwick or her companion would have called for the ship’s doctor?”

  “Of course, you’re right, Inspector. I was upset. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I put the case back in the medicine cabinet, took my sleeping draught and went to bed. I intended to ask Peter about it in the morning. But then there was the awful news about my stepmother, and I was afraid to ask any questions. I was afraid of what Peter might say, or do.”

  “There is something I don’t understand, Lady Margaret. If your husband and the duchess were in love, why would he murder her?”

  “I’ve asked myself that same question a thousand times. Perhaps she was growing tired of him, and she’d found someone new, and he was jealous. I don’t know.”

  “Did you hear your husband come in later that night?”

  “No, as I said, I was fast asleep. In the morning, when I went to take my bath, I opened the case. The syringe and needle were back inside.”

  Travers made a few notes in his notebook. The last one was just a question mark.

  “What about Mabel Watson? Did you see your husband speaking with her on this ship at any time?”

  “She came to our cabin yesterday. I was in bed resting—supposedly sleeping.”

  “About what time was that?”

  “Lunchtime. Perhaps a bit after.”

  That might explain why Miss Watson hadn’t been in the dining room for lunch, Travers noted.

  “She and Peter got into an argument, a terrible argument.”

  “What was said?”

  “She accused Peter of murdering my stepmother.”

  “Did she give a reason?”

  “Yes. She said she had been in Mrs. Hardwick’s cabin the night of the murder—Mrs. Hardwick has the cabin between mine and my stepmother’s. Watson told Peter she had been getting the cabin ready for when Mrs. Hardwick retired for the night. There is an air vent that connects Mrs. Hardwick’s cabin and my stepmother’s, apparently, and Watson said she heard my stepmother arguing with a man. She also said she distinctly heard the duchess say the word ‘Peter.’ After we found out about the murder, Watson came to the same conclusion I did—and she threatened to blackmail my husband.”

  “You heard her ask him for money?”

  “Yes. She said if he didn’t pay up, she’d go to you, Inspector, and she’d tell you everything she heard through the air vent.”

  Lady Margaret took out a handkerchief and wiped off a few beads of perspiration that had formed above her upper lip. In the process, she smeared some of her lipstick and she looked in horror at the red stain on the white piece of linen. Then she glanced up at Inspector Travers with pleading eyes. “I know I should have gone to you and told you what I’d overheard. But I didn’t want to believe … We didn’t have a happy marriage. I suppose everyone knew that. But I didn’t want to believe that Peter had murdered …”

  Travers had to fight his instinct to comfort the woman—and to believe too completely in her story, which contradicted that of her husband in so many ways. His job required that he let her continue to speak, at her own pace, and just listen. Later, he would pull both stories apart and try to sift the truth from the half-truths and the outright lies. He therefore waited patiently until Lady Margaret regained some control of her emotions, which she did a few minutes later, after she had thrust the soiled handkerchief back into her pocket.

  “If I had come to you, Inspector, you would have arrested Peter and Watson wouldn’t be dead. That makes me an accessory to the crime, doesn’t it, my keeping silent to protect my husband?”

  “You didn’t know your husband was going to kill the woman.”

  “I knew he might. If he had killed my stepmother, he could kill again.”

  “Did the syringe go missing again?”

  “It must have, but I didn’t miss it. He must have taken it and killed her while I lying here …”

  Once again Lady Margaret looked like she was going to burst into tears. But once again she checked her tears before they began to flow.

  Travers put his notebook into his pocket and rose to go. “Thank you, Lady Margaret. I’ll have another talk with your husband.”

  “Will he have to know that I’m the one who told you these things?”

  “He may realize it without being told.”

  “I suppose then I’ll be next—and this time he’ll succeed.”

  Travers stared at her. “He has attempted to take your life?”

  “I’m almost positive.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday. The same day I heard Peter arguing with Mabel Watson. The same day she was killed. He must have suspected I had overheard the conversation.”

  “What exactly happened, Lady Margaret?”

  “My stomach had been upset in the morning, but Peter insisted I try to eat something, to get back some of my strength. Th
e steward delivered a tray. I don’t know what time it was. I only know I felt even worse afterward. Peter said it was the lobster salad. Perhaps it was. I was very ill, which meant my potassium levels were even lower and my blood pressure was very high. Peter thought I needed an injection, which is more powerful and acts quicker than the powders. I was too sick to argue. He prepared the injection and gave it to me. I’m not sure what happened next. When I awoke several hours later, I felt dizzy and confused, but the worst of the symptoms had passed. I got dressed and thought I might go down to tea. I fainted in the lobby. Later on I was all right.”

  “Are you saying you think your husband deliberately gave you an overdose, Lady Margaret?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know, I tell you! I’m just so afraid.”

  When Travers left Lady Margaret’s cabin, he was surprisingly calm. Earlier in his career, he would get angry when confronted with a witness who was lying—and he was certain that either Lady Margaret or Peter Carroll had to be lying through their teeth. Now, though, he accepted that lying and conflicting testimony were part-and-parcel of his profession. But with Watson, the key witness, dead, how could he ever know for sure who was telling the truth?

  He knew that a good barrister would tear Lady Margaret’s evidence to shreds in minutes: She was a neurotic, jealous woman, prone to taking sleeping draughts and unable to separate reality from a drug-induced haze. No one else had seen the empty hypodermic case or seen Peter Carroll enter the duchess’s cabin. As for the conversation with Mabel Watson that took place in their cabin, it was Lady Margaret’s word against the word of her husband.

  Peter Carroll’s testimony suffered from similar holes. Who really knew what had gone in Honey Holdendale’s cabin the night of the murder? The only two people were the murderer and Honey, and she was dead.