by Jack Treby
‘An incident, sir?’
I nodded. Before I could say another word, a third voice echoed from outside the lounge. Thomas McGilton was making his way along the central aisle from the dining hall. Stefan stepped back into the corridor and I followed him out.
‘We heard a scream,’ McGilton said. ‘Is everything all right?’ The Irishman had been delegated by the other diners to find out what was going on.
‘I’m afraid not,’ I replied. ‘Mr Finch is dead. He’s been stabbed in the back. In Miss Tanner’s cabin.’
That shut the fellow up.
‘I’ll fetch the captain,’ Stefan muttered, moving past us.
‘Dead?’ McGilton repeated numbly. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times but no sound came out.
‘Miss Hurst just found the body. Well, we both did.’
At the serving hatch, the head steward started issuing instructions to some of his underlings. One of them ran off towards the stairs.
‘Poor woman,’ McGilton said, at last. His eyes flicked down to the blood on my shirt and he frowned momentarily.
‘There was a lot of blood in there,’ I explained, somewhat hastily, as his gaze returned to my face. ‘I had to...make sure he was really dead.’
The Irishman nodded, accepting my explanation. ‘But what was Mr Finch doing in the girls’ bedroom?’
‘That I don’t know. Look, can you keep everyone quiet in the dining room until the captain gets here? We don’t want people clomping about all over the place.’
‘Consider it done. Oh. Should I send Lucy out, to look after Miss Hurst?’
I nodded. ‘Good idea.’ I would have enough on my plate, explaining things to the captain, without having to take charge of a distressed female.
‘This is going to put a bit of a downer on supper,’ McGilton commented dryly. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’
‘Not just now. Oh, wait a minute. You’ve got a camera, haven’t you?’
He hesitated. ‘In my cabin, yes.’
‘I might need to borrow that.’
‘Help yourself. It’s on the top bunk. The door’s not locked. Help yourself to a roll of film.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. The crime scene would have to be thoroughly documented. I was not a member of the Metropolitan Police, but I knew that much at least.
‘A dreadful business,’ McGilton breathed.
‘The worst,’ I said, taking a moment at last to close my eyes. ‘The very worst.’
Captain Albrecht peered through the door of the cabin, his face understandably grim. He had removed his cap, and his gently thinning hair, combined with an unusually sombre expression, added some years to the senior officer as he regarded the distressing scene.
Everything in the cabin was just how I had found it. ‘He was still alive when I got here. I tried to help him but...it was too late.’ I was standing back from the door, a little way along the corridor. The head steward was hovering between us. He would be able to provide at least some corroboration of my story.
Albrecht noticed the knife almost at once. I had replaced it carefully where I had found it. ‘He was stabbed in the back?’
‘It looks that way. He may not have seen his assailant.’ The knife had been abandoned when the murderer had fled the scene. Better that, I presumed, than carrying a blood stained weapon out into the corridors for everyone to see.
The captain pulled away from the door. ‘This is a bad business,’ he muttered. ‘I should never have let that man on board.’ He adjusted his cap. ‘But what’s done is done. There’ll be time for recriminations later.’
‘I suppose there’ll have to be an enquiry,’ I said. Finch had mentioned the possibility, before he had died, but that had been in relation to Walter Kendall. Now there would be two deaths to investigate. Or three, if it turned out Gerhard Schulz had been murdered as well. ‘You won’t be able to cover this up. It’s all gone too far.’ And Captain Albrecht, as the man in charge, would carry the can for everything. His career would be lucky to survive.
I lifted up McGilton’s camera and opened the back of it. ‘I’ve taken a few photographs of the crime scene. I thought it might be helpful for the American police when they come on board. Your head steward supervised me doing it.’ I didn’t want the captain to think I had tampered with anything before he had arrived. I handed over the roll of Kodak.
‘You photographed everything?’ Albrecht asked, turning the film over in his hand.
‘Yes. Not a pleasant task.’ I moved in and took another look around the room. ‘I got a couple of photos of the murder weapon, under the bed. I’m not sure how well they’ll come out.’ Conditions in the cabin were hardly ideal.
‘That looks like a steak knife,’ Captain Albrecht observed. He moved back into the corridor and gestured Stefan into the doorway.
‘That’s one of ours,’ the head steward confirmed. ‘We were a knife short after supper last night.’
I blinked in surprise. Not that they were a knife short but that Stefan was aware of the fact. ‘Didn’t you try to find it?’
The steward smiled apologetically. ‘Small items often go missing from the passenger decks. Cutlery. Salt cellars. Hand towels.’
‘What, you mean people steal them?’
‘It is not unusual,’ the steward confirmed, moving away from the door. ‘So long as it is nothing expensive, we “turn a blind eye”. I believe that is the expression?’
I nodded. It wasn’t really such a surprise. Anyone who could afford a ticket on the Richthofen could not be short of a bob or two, but the temptation to pocket a few souvenirs was something even the wealthiest of people found hard to resist. I had been guilty of that kind of petty pilfering myself. ‘It might equally well have been a member of staff, though.’
‘I can assure you, Mr Bland,’ Captain Albrecht responded firmly, ‘all our staff are scrupulously honest. Any theft among the crew would be dealt with most severely. Thank you, Stefan. That will be all.’ The steward bowed half-heartedly and left us be. ‘Some of the crew are saying this trip is cursed. I am beginning to believe they may have a point. And it is only our third flight. This is a dreadful business, Mr Bland.’
‘Dreadful,’ I agreed.
‘Do you know why Mr Finch was searching Miss Tanner’s cabin?’
‘I think so. Miss Hurst was one of the people on the flight out from Croydon. I presume Mr Finch told you about that?’
Albrecht inclined his head.
‘He wanted to have a look at their rooms. But I haven’t the foggiest idea why he chose to search this particular cabin just before dinner. Although he did say you’d given him permission to search the luggage.’
‘In the hold, yes. But that was not due to begin until tomorrow morning.’
‘Couldn’t wait, I suppose. He...received a telegram late this afternoon which might shed some light on the matter. I have a feeling it may be in his jacket pocket. Now we’ve documented everything, I wonder if I might take a look?’
The captain considered long and hard. He glanced down at my blood-spattered shirt. I could tell what he was thinking and I could hardly blame him. I had discovered the body. Who was to say I was not responsible for the death itself? ‘Mr Finch said that you were working with him and that you were a man to be trusted,’ he replied cautiously. ‘But I think I may need to have official confirmation of that.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ I agreed. I could hardly blame him for questioning my credentials. I would have done the same thing, in his position. I racked my brains quickly, thinking of who I could get in contact with. I didn’t have my code book with me, so I couldn’t get in touch with the Colonel or anyone at SIS. And Charles Lazenby was too far down the food chain to impress the likes of Captain Albrecht. ‘I’ll telegraph the people at Special Branch. They need to know about Finch anyway.’ Always assuming the captain would let me take possession of the code book.
He nodded curtly. ‘Very well.’
‘In the meantime...?�
��
‘In the meantime, you are welcome to take a look. It may be helpful to see this telegram.’
I moved forward, with the captain’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my dinner jacket, and squatted in front of the prone figure. I reached forward and extracted the code book from the inside of his coat. I flicked through the pages, making sure Albrecht could see everything I was doing, but the telegram was not inside. I slid a hand into his waist pocket instead. ‘Bingo!’ I exclaimed, pulling out two small slips of paper. One was the telegram, the other was Finch’s hastily scribbled translation.
Captain Albrecht coughed politely and extended a hand.
I hesitated for a moment. ‘This may contain confidential information,’ I said.
‘I am the legal authority on the Richthofen,’ he told me calmly. ‘A man has been murdered. If you please...?’
Reluctantly, I handed the papers across. Albrecht unfurled the two sheets and scanned them briefly. His expression was unreadable. The fellow might have been reading a course correction. Even in such dire circumstances as these, he had an air of unflappability that was immensely reassuring. ‘This first line...?’ He handed the translation back to me.
I looked at the decrypted message.
“NO PASSPORT ISSUED MATCHING AGE AND DESCRIPTION ANNABEL HURST STOP”
Hurst? ‘Good lord. That must be why he was searching her room.’ I scanned the line again. ‘He must have asked for passport checks on all the passengers. Those out of Croydon, anyway. And someone must have picked up an anomaly.’ I considered this for a moment. ‘Bit odd. No Annabel Hursts. It must be a common enough name.’
‘I allowed Mr Finch access to the passport details of all the passengers on board, as a courtesy. He would have known her date of birth and country of origin.’
‘But, according to this, no British passport has ever been issued to her. If it turns out she’s travelling on a fake passport, he would be bound to search her room.’ I shook my head in disbelief. ‘But why on earth would Miss Hurst be travelling incognito?’
‘A fugitive?’ Captain Albrecht guessed.
I laughed. ‘Miss Hurst!? Have you met the woman?’
‘It does seem unlikely,’ he conceded.
‘Perhaps she acted as a courier. Carried the stolen documents from Croydon to hand on to somebody. If she is involved in all this, I don’t think she can be at the centre of it.’
‘Nevertheless, she will need to be questioned,’ Albrecht said. ‘The second part of the telegram?’
I looked down again at Finch’s half-formed scribble.
“MICK DURRANT ARRESTED HOLYHEAD STOP WILL MOVE TO LONDON FOR INTERROGATION,” it read.
The captain looked to me for an explanation. ‘Mick Durrant. That was the name of the baggage handler.’ I remembered Finch telling me about him. ‘A former merchant navy man. He was the one who organised the theft in the first place. Under orders. It looks like they’ve got him under lock and key.’ In Holyhead. ‘He must have been trying to catch a ferry to Ireland. Perhaps he was going home.’
The other man regarded me blankly.
‘A name like “Mick”, he’s bound to be Irish. Perhaps he’s a Fenian.’ Irish republicans, I thought. They would certainly relish the prospect of damaging the British establishment, and the money from the American newspapers would keep them in dynamite for years. ‘Maybe that’s what all this is about. A republican plot.’ A sudden thought struck me. ‘McGilton’s an Irishman. And a Roman Catholic.’ I shook my head. I was reading far too much into just one name. ‘Ignore me,’ I said. ‘I’m clutching at straws.’ I glanced down at the paper again.
“WILL MOVE TO LONDON FOR INTERROGATION.”
‘At least they have the fellow under lock and key. He won’t last long when Special Branch get hold of him.’
The captain was perplexed. ‘“Last long”? They will hurt him?’
‘Good lord, no. We don’t torture people. We’re British.’ I chuckled at the very idea. ‘But he’ll crack soon enough under interrogation. They all do. With any luck, this time tomorrow we’ll know precisely who’s behind all this.’ I stared down at the sad, dead body of Jacob Finch. ‘And who exactly is responsible for that.’
Captain Albrecht shook his head wistfully. ‘Tomorrow may not be soon enough.’ There was a brief pause. ‘I will have to inform the other passengers.’
‘Yes. It will spoil their supper rather. But better to get it over with.’ To my surprise, I was beginning to feel somewhat blasé about the whole affair. But then, I had not really known Finch. ‘And with your permission, I’d like to question Miss Hurst?’ I didn’t really fancy myself assuming the policeman’s role, but if anyone had an inkling of what might be going on it would be Miss Annabel Hurst.
The captain was in two minds whether to permit it. He had not yet decided if he could trust me. ‘Under close supervision,’ he agreed, after a moment’s reflection. He met my eye with a half smile. ‘But first you must send your telegram to Scotland Yard.’
Maurice was an unexpected source of help. ‘You understand the principle?’ I asked him, in surprise, as he flicked through Finch’s copy of Alice In Wonderland. I had already written out a brief note to send to Special Branch but encrypting the message would take some time and Captain Albrecht had agreed with me on the urgency of questioning Miss Hurst. The valet flipped to the correct page of the book at once. Pin pricks beneath the letters of the third paragraph signalled the start of the relevant passage.
‘I understand, Monsieur,’ Maurice confirmed. ‘It is a simple poly-alphabetic substitution cypher.’
‘Good lord.’ I blinked. ‘How on earth...? No, don’t tell me.’ I waved my hands at him before he could offer an explanation. ‘Your father, as well as being a locksmith, was also a member of the French Secret Service.’ Nothing would surprise me now, when it came to Maurice.
The valet shook his head. ‘No, Monsieur. I read an article on the subject in a magazine last month.’
‘Oh. Right. Fair enough.’
I left him with the message and went through to the lounge area, where Lucy Tanner had been comforting Annabel Hurst. The latter looked up like a frightened rabbit as I appeared. Miss Tanner caught my eye and I moved away with her for a moment.
A steward hovered in the doorway, observing the two of us. Captain Albrecht had ordered one of the crew to stand watch at every junction of A Deck so there could be no repetition of the cabin incident. It was a sensible precaution. The captain himself was now in the dining hall, addressing the remaining passengers in a calm and concise manner. I could hear his voice droning in the background, as steady and reliable as the hum of the engines.
‘It’s so beastly,’ Miss Tanner breathed, echoing the cries of horror and alarm beginning to emerge from the other side of the deck, in response to the dreadful news. ‘That poor man. I was only speaking to him an hour ago. And one of us must have...’ She looked past me at the steward. I grimaced and she placed a hand on my shoulder by way of an apology. ‘Oh, I don’t believe you had anything to do with it. I know you’re on the side of the angels, Mr Bland.’ She smiled prettily. ‘You were helping Mr Finch with his enquiries.’
‘In a manner of speaking. So you knew he was a policeman?’
‘Yes. Thomas told me earlier this evening. I would never have believed it. Well, I didn’t believe it,’ she admitted, ‘so I asked him myself. I bumped into him outside his cabin while Annabel was changing for supper. I was on my way to see the head steward with a telegram.’
‘Your obituary for Mr Kendall?’
Her face fell. ‘Yes. I knew there was something not quite right about his death. When I saw Mr Finch, I thought, well, if he is a policeman, I should talk to him about it.’ I could just picture her grabbing him by the elbow and carting him off to some distant corner of the ship to interrogate the poor man, as she had done with me on more than one occasion. ‘As it turned out, he wanted to speak to me too. About Miss Hurst.’ She glanced over to the other wom
an, who was sitting numbly out of earshot, staring into the middle distance. Her pale face had become even paler in the aftermath of such a terrible shock. ‘He’d received information that she was travelling under a false passport and wanted to search her room.’
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve just found out.’
‘I’d already changed for dinner, while Annabel was having a wash, and he asked if I could draw her away from the cabin for a few minutes before supper so he could have a quick look around.’
‘And you agreed to it?’
‘He told me he had the full authority of the captain and I could see that there was something not quite right. But I can’t believe Annabel has anything to do with Walter’s death. And we were both downstairs at the bar when Mr Finch...well, when Mr Finch was searching our room.’
‘At the bar?’
‘It was all I could think of. We had a quick drink. It was just the two of us down there, and that sweetie pie, Max. Everyone else had returned to their cabins to change for supper.’
‘And you went straight from there to the dining hall when you heard the gong? Yes, of course you did,’ I answered for her. ‘I saw you in the corridor, coming up the stairs.’
‘And now Mr Finch is dead. It’s such a ghastly thing to happen. That poor man.’ She gulped. For all her bravado, she was not accustomed to this kind of horror. ‘I suppose you see this sort of thing a lot in your line of work?’
‘Not as often as you’d think,’ I said. ‘Thank the Lord. I'm not really a policeman. I’m...with the foreign office.’
‘Goodness!’ Her eyes lit up in excitement. ‘You’re not a spy, are you?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’ I allowed myself a gentle smirk. ‘Though if I were, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.’
‘Of course.’ She winked conspiratorially. ‘But you are going to interrogate Miss Hurst?’
I nodded. Circumstances had conspired to leave me with little alternative. ‘I’ll try to be as gentle as I can.’ I glanced across at the frightened woman, who was still clutching my whisky glass, though there was nothing in it now. ‘What do you make of the girl?’ I asked. ‘You’ve shared a room with her for a couple of days.’