by Conrad Allen
Isadora was overjoyed. Her face was still flushed with pleasure when she let herself into her cabin.
Hands on her hips, Maria Singleton was waiting for her. She glared at her daughter. “Where on earth have you been, Isadora?” she demanded.
“I went for a walk.”
“This early? It’s not even seven o’clock yet.”
“I couldn’t sleep, Mother.”
“Then you should have read a book or something.”
“I wasn’t in the mood.”
“We can’t have you wandering around the ship alone at this hour. You’re allowed far too much license. I’ll speak to your father about it.”
“Mother!” protested Isadora.
“What will people think about us?” Maria said in exasperation. “We have to create a good impression on people, don’t you understand? Lord and Lady Eddington have been kind enough to take an interest in us. We must do nothing to jeopardize that, Isadora. They have to be cultivated. They are our door into society.”
“I don’t need any door.”
“That’s foolish talk,” said Maria, turning on her heel. “Now, act your age.”
“You’ve never let me do that before,” her daughter murmured mutinously.
But her mother never heard the remark.
Isadora felt trapped. Desperate to speak to Genevieve Masefield, she was forced to wait for an hour until breakfast was served in her parents’ cabin, then spent a further forty-five minutes in their company. Isadora did her best to conceal her impatience. She did not wish to give her mother cause to restrict her movements even more. When the meal was over, Isadora asked politely if she could get down from the table.
“Where are you going?” asked her mother.
“To write some letters.”
“To whom?”
“To whom it may concern, my dear,” Waldo Singleton said easily. “Isadora is entitled to write to her friends. You don’t have to stand over her and guide the pen.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Isadora.
“Off you go.”
She scampered through the connecting door into the adjoining cabin and took out writing materials. Certain that her mother would look in on her, she took up the pen and pretended to compose a letter. A few minutes later, the head of Maria Singleton popped around the door. Satisfied that Isadora was doing what she should be doing, her mother withdrew. After waiting for a short while, Isadora leapt up, put her ear to the connecting door for sounds of movement then let herself quickly out into the passageway. She hurried off to the dining room and prayed that her parents would not become aware of her absence. At such a critical time in her life, she needed her freedom.
Isadora arrived as Genevieve was about to leave the room. Isadora was delighted to have caught her. Intercepting her friend, she took her aside for a hushed conversation.
“I’ll have to be quick, Genevieve,” she said. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Why not?”
“Mummy is on patrol.”
“Hasn’t she let you off the leash a little yet?”
“No—but that hasn’t stopped me sneaking out.” Isadora giggled. “I watched Theo in training last night and this morning. And what do you think he did?”
“I don’t know,” said Genevieve.
“He blew me a kiss.”
“That is an honor. I hope his coach didn’t see you, Isadora.”
“I made sure that he didn’t. There are two things I need to ask you, Genevieve,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “I’m sure you think it’s silly of me to have such intense feelings about someone I hardly know but I just can’t help it.”
“It’s not at all silly.”
“Theo is really not that much older than me. My problem is that I look and sound much younger than I really am. That’s Mother’s fault. She held me back.”
“She obviously hasn’t been able to do that now.”
“That brings me to my first question.” Isadora became serious. “You’re my friend, so give me an honest answer. Do you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“The fact that I love Theo?”
“Of course not.”
“I know you saw him first, Genevieve. And he dotes on you.”
“Believe me,” Genevieve said with feeling, “I have no claims on him at all.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“But I do have worries about you, Isadora. You’re already taking a big risk by letting him teach you to ride. Mr. Odell would take a very poor view of that—not to mention your parents.”
“It’s a risk worth taking.”
“I don’t want you to be hurt, that’s all.”
“But Theo likes me.”
“That’s not the point. There are other people involved here.”
“Not when we’re alone together in the storeroom.”
“Especially then,” warned Genevieve. “You have to be so careful what you do.”
“But I can tell him that I love him, can’t I?”
“I wouldn’t advise it.”
Isadora’s face fell. “Why not? I want him to know.”
“Have no fears on that score. Theo will know.”
“How?”
Genevieve smiled. “Young men have a way of spotting these things,” she said.
Dillman had paid enough visits to the second-class lounge to know his way about the room but he had never appeared before in his present guise. Dressed as a steward, he hovered near the door, angling himself so that he could look into a large gilt-framed mirror on one of the walls. In order to keep the place under surveillance he was missing lunch, but he felt it was a worthwhile sacrifice. Two people had been relieved of their wallets in the lounge. His task was to prevent a third passenger from being robbed. There was no guarantee the pickpocket would operate that afternoon. It was a chance Dillman was prepared to take. When lunch ended in the dining room, passengers began to drift into the room in small groups. Some ordered coffee, others called for brandy. Dillman did his share of serving the drinks so that he did not look as if he were keeping watch. Whenever he could, however, he moved back to his position beside the door.
He was not dealing with a common pickpocket, who insinuated himself into crowds in public. This man was selective, choosing his victims with care to ensure a good haul in each case. Instead of searching for the man himself, therefore, Dillman tried to single out a potential victim. Someone old and well dressed was the obvious target, the sort of person who would hardly notice if someone brushed past him and who might not even discover the theft until much later. The earlier victims had both fallen into that category. Surveying the room, Dillman could identify at least another half-dozen people who might tempt a pickpocket. There was no rush. If the man was waiting to strike, he was biding his time.
It was an hour before Dillman’s suspicions were aroused. Not far from him, a short, stubby man with horn-rimmed spectacles was entertaining a group of friends with anecdotes. Though they laughed obligingly, the only person who found the stories hilarious was the person who told them. Every so often he would let out a shrill laugh and gesticulate wildly. Dillman sensed that his mirth was manufactured rather than real. By keeping one eye on the mirror, he could watch the bespectacled man closely. At the far end of the room, two elderly gentlemen rose from their seats and strolled toward the exit. Almost immediately, a third man got up and ambled casually behind them. He was young, dark, and wore a bland smile. Still watching the mirror, Dillman also took a keen interest in the trio approaching him. At the moment when they passed the group near the door, the stubby man let out such a loud cackle that the two elderly gentlemen both stopped and turned their heads in his direction. Simultaneously, the man behind them appeared to bump accidentally into them. There was a flurry of apologies and all three went out of the room. It was over in seconds.
Dillman followed the younger man as he broke away from the others and made his way out on deck. Taking out a cigarette, he was about
to light it when a steward appeared at his side with a box of matches. Dillman lit the cigarette for him and the man pulled on it with satisfaction. He beamed at his companion.
“That’s what I call service!”
“I wonder if you could do something for me in return, sir?” said Dillman.
“What is it?”
“Would you give me the wallet that you just stole in the lounge?”
The man glared belligerently. “Damn you! That’s a foul accusation.”
“It also happens to be true,” Dillman said easily. “I saw it clearly. My name is George Dillman, sir, and I’m employed as a detective on the Caronia. Two wallets have already been stolen but I daresay we’ll find them in your cabin. Would you like to take me there now, sir?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I believe you do.”
“This is a disgusting allegation. I’ll report you to the purser.”
“Are you refusing to take me to your cabin?”
“I most certainly am.”
“Then I’ll have to ask you to accompany me to the master-at-arms so that he can lock you up while I search your cabin.” Dillman stepped in close and seized the man’s arm. “I’ll arrest your accomplice later when he’s finished telling those appalling anecdotes.”
Genevieve Masefield also missed her lunch because of the call of duty. Having sifted through what Carrie Peterson had told her, she was anxious to speak to the woman again and secured Inspector Redfern’s permission to do so. The interview had the bonus of keeping her away from the dining room and another embarrassing confrontation with Theodore Wright and his coach. Work came first. Talking to the prisoner had two possible advantages. She could either make the inspector’s task easier by drawing a confession out of Carrie Peterson or she could offer succor to an innocent woman who was being put through an intolerable ordeal. It was uncertain which result she would get and Genevieve feared she might achieve neither.
Carrie Peterson looked more worn and pathetic than ever. She expressed no pleasure when her visitor let herself in. She barely looked up from her chair.
“Hello, Miss Peterson,” said Genevieve. “May I speak to you again?”
“If you have to,” Carrie replied dully.
“The choice is yours.”
The woman gave a shrug of indifference.
Genevieve ignored it and sat down close to her. “How are you feeling now?”
“Trapped.”
“Inspector Redfern says that you still maintain your innocence.”
“He was in here for an hour this morning. I’ve told him the same things over and over again. But he’s already made his mind up.” She gave Genevieve a sidelong glance. “So have you, Miss Masefield.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I can see it in your face.”
“I’m trying to be as dispassionate as possible.”
“In some ways, that’s even worse.”
“Why?”
“Because it means you didn’t listen to what I said, either,” Carrie replied with a hurt expression. “You were in here for all that time yet you still can’t decide. I know where I stand with the inspector. He thinks I’m guilty. He makes no bones about that fact. Sergeant Mulcaster was the same. At least he hasn’t come in here.”
“He won’t be taking you to the bathroom again,” said Genevieve. “As you requested, I spoke to the inspector about that.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’m sorry you feel you failed to convince me.”
“I just want someone—anyone at all—to start believing me!”
“But I do believe you, Miss Peterson. Most of what you said tallies with the facts of the case, as I understand them. There are just one or two areas of doubt.”
Carrie Peterson fell silent. She went off into a private reverie that lasted so long, Genevieve wondered if she ought to withdraw. The prisoner was in a far less cooperative mood than on the previous occasion. Without warning, she suddenly turned her gaze to Genevieve and spoke in a low voice.
“Do you know what he told me?” she said, eyes filled with fear. “Do you know what Sergeant Mulcaster told me? He thought I ought to know what actually happened when a condemned person was hanged. It was gruesome. He told me about someone called James Berry who used to be the public hangman. One time, the sergeant said, Mr. Berry made a miscalculation. Instead of hanging the man, he let the body drop too far and severed the head from the shoulders.” She burst into tears. “That’s what I had to put up with, Miss Masefield,” she sobbed. “John, too. It would be bad enough if we were guilty, but we’re not. It was vile of him to go on like that.”
“You’ll be spared any more of that kind of thing,” promised Genevieve.
“Not if the sergeant has any say in the matter.”
“Inspector Redfern is in charge.”
“Is it true they’ve moved John back to his cabin?”
“Yes, Miss Peterson.”
“Could you? …” She hesitated, torn between hope and fear of rejection. “Could you take a message to him for me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Just a few words on a piece of paper.”
“I’m not allowed to do that.”
“It would mean so much to John—and to me. Please, Miss Masefield.”
Genevieve shook her head. “It’s impossible.”
Carrie took a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her eyes. She withdrew into her shell again.
Genevieve tried to get her talking once more. “I mentioned areas of doubt,” she said.
“Did you?” Carrie whispered.
“The chief one concerns the poison that Mr. Heritage bought. Remind me. Why do you think he purchased those particular items?”
“John told me that he was contemplating suicide.”
“Even though he had you?”
“It seemed impossible for us to be together at that point. Because of his wife.”
“You helped to stop him committing suicide,” said Genevieve. “You obviously love Mr. Heritage and feel very close to him, but has it ever occurred to you that he might have used that poison for another purpose without even telling you?”
“That’s out of the question.”
“You weren’t there.”
“John would never lie to me.”
“Can’t you see that you may be convicted of something he did alone?”
“Then I’ll willingly die beside him,” said Carrie, with a rush of anger. “Except that he didn’t—and couldn’t—kill his wife. Neither did I.”
“That leaves us with an unanswered question, then.”
“What’s that?”
“Mrs. Heritage was poisoned by somebody. That’s incontrovertible. If you and her husband were not responsible—then who was?”
“I’ve been thinking about that myself, Miss Masefield.”
“And?”
“There’s only one explanation.”
“Go on.”
“Winifred Heritage was the most wicked human being I’ve ever met,” Carrie said with venom. “She never forgave John and me for finding some happiness together. He certainly had none inside that house. I can imagine how furious she would have been when she discovered we’d escaped her clutches at last. There’s your answer,” she said with unshakable certainty. “It was her only way of getting back at us. I believe that she poisoned herself and made it look as if it was a case of murder.”
THIRTEEN
George Porter Dillman was pleased to be able to give the purser some good news at last. After all the setbacks they had suffered on the Caronia, Paul Taggart was delighted to hear of the successful capture of the pickpocket and his accomplice. It was a good omen. Taggart reached across his desk to shake Dillman’s hand.
“Congratulations!” he said. “How did you do it?”
“I posed as a steward in the lounge and kept my eyes open.”
“And you say there were two of them?”
> “Pickpockets often work in tandem,” explained Dillman. “One diverts attention while the other goes to work. The couple I arrested on the Saxonia were husband and wife. The lady was very attractive and she certainly knew how to distract someone. In this case, of course, we had two men.”
Taggart picked up a pen. “What are their names?”
“Hugo Drew and Peter Harrendorf. An Anglo-American partnership.”
“Just like you and Genevieve Masefield.”
“Except that our job is to safeguard people’s pockets,” said Dillman, “not to empty them. Drew is a suave young Englishman who looks completely above suspicion and Harrendorf is one of those gregarious characters who gathers people around him.”
“Where are they now?” asked Taggart, writing their names into his book.
“Keeping company with Daniel Webb.”
“Did they admit their guilt?”
Dillman smiled. “Eventually,” he said. “I had to use a little persuasion. Anyway, I marched them off to the master-at-arms and he’s keeping them out of harm’s way.”
“Did you speak to Webb while you were there?”
“Yes, Mr. Taggart. He begged me to let him out.”
“No chance of that. He’s too dangerous on the loose.”
“He told me he’d finally seen the error of his ways.”
“I wonder how many times he’s said that?” the purser asked cynically.
“Too many.”
“I’ll peep in on the old reprobate when I visit the cells. I want to take a look at Drew and Harrendorf in case I recognize them. They may have worked undetected on the Caronia before. I’ll make sure they never set foot on the ship again.”
“They’ll be relieved to see you, Mr. Taggart,” said Dillman. “By now, I suspect, they’ll have grown weary of listening to Daniel Webb. We put them into cells on either side of him so they could both enjoy the benefit of his conversation.”
Taggart laughed. “You should have put all three in together.” He became serious. “Thanks again. This has cheered me up. What we really need to do, of course, is to make progress in solving the other crimes. The murder of Sergeant Mulcaster must obviously take precedence. It’s an established fact. The drug smuggling is an alleged crime. We can’t be absolutely certain that it’s taking place.”