by Conrad Allen
“That’s because you don’t know enough about it, Sergeant.”
“I know all I want to know,” returned Mulcaster, dropping his cigarette to the floor before grinding it under his sole. “Allan Pinkerton had a great reputation but he couldn’t save President Lincoln from being assassinated.”
“That’s true,” agreed Dillman. “It was a source of profound regret to him that he wasn’t at the theater that night to protect his friend. But it’s unfair to judge the agency on the strength of one isolated event. You obviously haven’t come across Mr. Pinkerton’s autobiography.”
“I’m not a reading man, Mr. Dillman.”
“You should acquire the habit. It might teach you something.”
“There’s not much I don’t know about this game,” Mulcaster boasted.
“I think you’d find there is, if you read Thirty Years a Detective. It was a revelation to me. I know that Mr. Pinkerton’s book deals with the past but most of his observations are still relevant today.”
“Such as?”
“Well, he does stress the value of going undercover,” Dillman said pointedly. “His operatives were trained to pass themselves off in various guises in order to get inside the criminal fraternity. That’s how the Molly Maguires were brought down. If a Pinkerton man hadn’t infiltrated them, their reign of terror would have gone on.”
“We have our own methods. As you’ve seen, they work.”
“All I saw were two frightened people being herded onto the ship like lambs to the slaughter. I’m surprised you didn’t have them in chains as well.”
Mulcaster was roused. “If it were left to me, I’d have handcuffed them.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“Killers deserve no quarter.”
“Their guilt has yet to be proved in a court of law.”
“What would you do, Mr. Dillman?” sneered Mulcaster. “Put them together in a first-class cabin so they could gloat over the way they murdered that woman?”
“No, Sergeant, but I would treat them as human beings.”
Mulcaster snorted. “You’d treat Jack the Ripper as a human being!”
“I would,” Dillman said easily. “A very bad example of the breed, but one of us nevertheless. And the next time you pour scorn on Allan Pinkerton for failing to save President Lincoln, you might recall your own record with regard to the gentleman we just mentioned. The assassin and his accomplices were all caught and punished. But with all its resources, Scotland Yard seems quite unable to find any credible evidence as to the identity of Jack the Ripper.” Dillman gave him a farewell smile. “As you say, Sergeant Mulcaster, you have your own methods.”
He walked away and left his companion fuming in silence. It had not been the happiest of strolls. In the course of his tour, Dillman had spoken to only two people but both had been disagreeable. The bluntness of Wes Odell was complemented by the gruff disdain of Sergeant Mulcaster. Neither man would qualify for a post that entailed tact and diplomacy. Dillman still hoped to spend more time with the amenable Inspector Redfern, but he promised himself that he would dodge Mulcaster whenever he could. After a look around the empty lower deck, he made his way back up through the ship, wondering if Theodore Wright was still cycling away above him. It seemed a strange way to enjoy a trip on a Cunard liner.
It was only when he reached his cabin that Dillman became conscious of how tired he was. Suppressing a yawn, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Before he could close the door behind him, however, he heard a noise farther down the corridor and paused. It was now well past midnight, an unlikely time for anyone to be about. Applying his eye to the crack between the door and the frame, he saw a man emerging furtively from a cabin with a small case in his hand. After glancing up and down, the man scurried along the corridor. Dillman saw the smile of elation on his face as he passed. Dillman was astounded. Earlier that evening, the same person had sat beside him throughout dinner with the lugubrious expression proper to his trade.
It was Ramsey Leach, the undertaker.
News of the first crime reached Genevieve Masefield as she was finishing her breakfast in the restaurant. A steward delivered a note from Paul Taggart. As soon as she had read it, she got up from the table. She met Isadora Singleton at the door.
“Oh,” said Isadora with disappointment, “are you going?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I was hoping to have breakfast with you. Mother and Father are having theirs in the cabin but I was sure that you’d be here. Must you leave?”
“I have an appointment with someone,” said Genevieve.
“That means I’ll miss you for two meals.”
“Two?”
“Yes, Genevieve. My parents are having lunch served in their cabin as well. They’ve invited some friends of theirs, the Van Wessels from New Haven—such dreary people! I begged them to include you in the party,” said Isadora, “but they told me that I wasn’t to bother you too much. I’m not bothering you, am I?”
Genevieve gave her a kind smile. “No, Isadora,” she said, “of course not. But I’d be out of place in a gathering of friends like that.”
“They’re not friends of mine,” the girl said mutinously. “I hate Nick Van Wessel. He’s sixteen years old and thinks that it entitles him to take liberties. He tried to kiss me at a party last month.” She pulled a face. “He’s disgusting. His breath smells.”
“I’m sure you’ll meet much nicer younger men aboard.”
“But I enjoy being with you.”
Grateful that she had escaped lunch with the Singletons, Genevieve assured Isadora they would meet again soon, then detached herself. The purser’s note had told her of a theft reported first thing that morning. Few details were given. Genevieve headed for the cabin of the victim. When she knocked on the door, it opened at once to reveal an attractive woman in her early thirties whose face was pitted with anxiety.
“Mrs. Robart?” asked Genevieve.
“Yes.”
“The purser asked me to call. My name is Genevieve Masefield and I work for Cunard. I understand that you had something stolen?”
“Yes, I did,” said the woman. “Please come in.”
When she stepped into the cabin, Genevieve saw that it was almost identical to her own. Cecilia Robart was its only occupant. Evidently she was untidy by nature. A dress lay over the back of one chair, a coat over another. The table was littered with items of all kinds. A case stood open on the floor.
“Excuse the mess,” Mrs. Robart apologized, “I haven’t settled in properly.”
“It takes time.”
“I didn’t realize there was a female detective aboard.”
“Few people do, Mrs. Robart. I’d like to keep it that way, for obvious reasons.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Miss Masefield. I understand. I won’t tell a soul.” She moved the dress off the back of one chair. “Do sit down. I’m not usually as chaotic as this.”
Lowering herself onto the seat, Genevieve took a pencil and pad from her purse so that she could make notes. Cecilia Robart tossed the coat onto the open case before taking the other seat. She gave a nervous smile. Genevieve noticed she was wearing too much powder on her face and surmised that she had put it on to hide the fact that she had been crying.
“I understand some earrings were taken,” said Genevieve.
“Gold earrings, Miss Masefield.”
“Could you give me a description of them, please?”
“I can do better than that,” said Mrs. Robart, searching among the items on the table. She found a slip of paper and handed it over. “Here’s a drawing of them. I’m not much of an artist but this will give you some idea of their size and shape.”
Genevieve glanced at the sketch. “Thank you, Mrs. Robart,” she said approvingly. “This will be very helpful.”
“I simply must have them back.”
“Can you tell me how much they cost?”
“It’s not the cost,” said the other woman,
“it’s the sentimental value. They were a birthday present from my late husband. Apart from my wedding ring and my engagement ring, there’s nothing I treasure more. I was distraught when I saw they were gone,” she went on with a sob. “David—my husband—bought the earrings in Bond Street.”
“How did you discover that they were missing?”
Cecilia Robart composed herself before speaking. Her account was drawn out by some more needless digressions about the importance of the jewelry to her. Genevieve made sure only the salient facts went into her pad. She was interested in the faint West Country burr in the woman’s voice. When she’d taken down all the details, she checked them for accuracy then looked up.
“Do you come from Gloucester, by any chance?” she wondered.
“Not far away,” replied the other. “I was brought up in Stroud. Is it that obvious?”
“Not at all, Mrs. Robart. I had relatives in Gloucester, that’s all. They had strong local accents. There were moments when I thought I heard the same telltale sounds.”
“Oh dear! I’ve tried so hard to shake off that accent.”
“You’ve succeeded admirably. Nobody else would notice.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes, Mrs. Robart,” said Genevieve, responding to the woman’s obvious need for reassurance. She rose to her feet. “Thank you for giving me your time. I’ll need to make inquiries elsewhere before I can start the hunt for the earrings. As long as you’re quite sure that you haven’t mislaid them….”
“I don’t think so—though that’s not impossible.” She looked around the cabin with dismay. “I know I had them last night because I was going to wear them to dinner but I just couldn’t find them at all this morning. Someone must have come in here.”
“Only a stewardess. I’ll start with her.”
“Good. Her name is Edith.” She got up to usher her visitor to the door then halted as a thought struck her. “Is it true we have two killers aboard?”
“Who told you that?”
“Someone was talking about it over dinner last night. He said that two detectives had boarded the ship at the last moment with a pair of desperate criminals. Apparently they’re being taken back to England.”
“That’s only partially correct, Mrs. Robart.”
“Is it?”
“The man and the woman in custody are only suspects. We’ve no means of knowing at this stage whether or not they’re guilty of their alleged crime.”
“But it was murder?”
“According to Inspector Redfern.”
“Is he from Scotland Yard?”
“Yes, Mrs. Robart. And so is Sergeant Mulcaster.”
“I wish they’d chosen another ship.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like the notion of traveling with a pair of murderers.”
“Murder suspects,” corrected Genevieve.
“It amounts to the same thing,” said Cecilia Robart, wringing her hands. “I hope they’re safely under lock and key. I know they have proper cells aboard. I’d hate the thought that they were being kept in the cabin next to me.”
“They’re not in the cells, as it happens, but there’s no danger. Inspector Redfern has them locked away in separate cabins in second class. He and Sergeant Mulcaster are in the cabin between them.” She raised a finger. “I must stress that this is confidential information.”
“I won’t breathe a word, I promise.”
“There are enough rumors flying around as it is. If people get to know where they are, some of the more ghoulish passengers will start hanging around outside their cabins in the hope of catching a glimpse of them.” Genevieve opened the door. “That’s the last thing we need.”
“I appreciate that, Miss Masefield.” Her eyebrows rose hopefully. “Is there any chance you’ll be able to find my earrings?”
“Most stolen property is usually recovered by the end of the voyage.”
“That’s a comfort. This experience has shaken me,” confided Mrs. Robart. “I’ve never had anything taken before. It’s so unsettling. I mean, it makes you wonder who you’re traveling with, doesn’t it?”
It was Ernest Redfern’s idea to borrow the chess set. During his visit to the scene of the crime, he had noticed that a board was set out with large ivory chess pieces. John Heritage was a man with a hobby. Unable to get any satisfactory answers out of his prisoner by intensive questioning, he opted for another method, believing that a game of chess would help Heritage to relax. The pair of them sat on either side of the table in the cabin where the prisoner was kept. Heritage had slept badly. There were dark circles under his eyes and deeper lines in his brow. As he pored over the chessboard, he knew exactly the game the inspector was playing and he went along with it.
“Did you enjoy your breakfast, Mr. Heritage?” Redfern asked.
“I ate it. I can’t say that I enjoyed it.”
“If you were on remand, you’d get nothing but bread and water.”
“Would I be able to play chess with a warder?”
“Not a chance!”
“Then I’d better make the most of it, hadn’t I?”
Heritage looked up with a glint in his eye. He was much more resilient than Carrie Peterson. The shock of their arrest had sent him into a brooding silence but he had now come out of that to reveal a sardonic humor. It was almost as if he was dueling with his captor. After a few moments, he decided on his next move.
“Are you a good Christian, Inspector?”
“I like to think so.”
“You believe in defending the faith?”
“Naturally,” said Redfern.
“Then you should protect your bishops more carefully,” said Heritage, using his queen to sweep a white bishop from the board. “Your move.”
Redfern pondered. “How often did you play this game?” he asked at length.
“Every evening.”
“With your wife?”
“No,” said the other. “Winifred never had the patience for chess. I had friends who came in on certain evenings.”
“Miss Peterson was one of them, I presume.”
“You presume wrongly.”
“Did the two of you never play chess together?”
“A word of warning, Inspector. Don’t expose your knight.”
“I asked you a question.”
“I gave you some free advice,” said Heritage, looking up with an enigmatic smile. “The truth is that some evenings, I had no partner. So I challenged myself.”
Redfern was skeptical. “You played chess with yourself?”
“It’s an excellent way to sharpen your wits. I did it properly, you see, moving from one chair to another as I took charge of the destinies of white and black. I set myself some teasing problems,” he continued softly. “The beauty of playing against yourself, of course, is that you always win.”
“You always lose as well, surely?”
“I learned to cope with defeat a long time ago.”
Redfern moved a knight to capture a black pawn. Heritage clicked his tongue.
“I did warn you, Inspector,” he said, using his rook to knock the inspector’s other knight out of the game. “You have to look over your shoulder all the time. Check.”
“You distracted me.”
“I thought that’s what you were trying to do to me.”
“I hoped this would be a slightly more pleasant way of passing the time than simply firing questions at you for the next five days.” He shifted his king to safety. “If you’d prefer to play with Sergeant Mulcaster, of course, I can ask him to step in here instead, but it won’t be chess. He’s essentially a draughts man.”
Heritage was waspish. “I’m surprised that he has the intelligence to play that.”
“The sergeant is a good policeman,” Redfern said defensively.
“Since when has that required intelligence?”
“You’re starting to annoy me, Mr. Heritage.”
“I wasn’t be
ing personal, Inspector,” said the other, striking a more conciliatory note. “You’ve treated us as decently as you can in the circumstances. The same can’t be said for that brute of a sergeant you brought along with you. I’ll never forgive him for the way he manhandled Miss Peterson.”
“He was only doing his duty.”
“He grabbed her with excessive force,” protested Heritage. “I daresay that she’s still got the bruises on her arms. It’s not as if either of us resisted arrest.”
“We weren’t to know that you were unarmed.”
Heritage laughed. “I’m a pharmacist, Inspector, not a professional criminal. What did you think I’d do—attack the two of you with a box of laxatives?”
“It’s no joking matter.”
“You don’t need to tell us that.” He lifted his head. “How is she?”
“Miss Peterson is as well as can be expected.”
“Has she eaten any food?”
“Not as yet.”
“The poor woman is still in a state of shock. Let me see her.”
“No, Mr. Heritage.”
“Let me talk to her for a few minutes, that’s all I ask.”
“It’s out of the question, I’m afraid.”
“You can be present throughout.”
“The two of you will never meet again until we reach England.”
“If anything happens to her …”
“Mr. Heritage,” Redfern said with growing exasperation, “it may have escaped your notice that you are in custody. It’s my job to determine the nature of that custody and I’ve already been far too lenient. If you make any more futile threats, I’ll ask the master-at-arms to lock you up in one of the cells. There’ll be no games of chess in there.”
“Pity,” said Heritage, moving his queen again.
“Why?”
“See for yourself, Inspector. Checkmate.”
Redfern looked down and saw that he had lost his third game in a row. Heritage turned the board around and began to set out the pieces for another game. Redfern stood up to signal that the session was at an end. He moved to the door.
“Can I at least write her a little note?” pleaded Heritage.
“Only if it’s a signed confession.”