All at Sea

by Liz Hedgecock

  ‘Are there no wealthy women who could help you?’ asked Maisie. ‘Perhaps one might act as your patron.’

  Miss Jeroboam laughed. ‘Most women regard me as unladylike, a hoyden or worse. That is one of the reasons why I was so cross at your treatment. I know what it feels like to have no right of reply.’ She sighed. ‘No, men will go on sitting in their clubs, deciding the fate of the world over their cigars and port, and agreeing that they’re doing a jolly good job of it.’ She looked ready to spit, and her grip on Maisie’s arm was ferocious. Then she glanced at Maisie’s face and her hand relaxed. ‘My dear, I am so sorry. I have gone off in a perfect rant, which is exactly the sort of thing that a man would condemn me for.’

  ‘There is no need to apologise,’ said Maisie. ‘Let us take another turn around the deck.’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ said Miss Jeroboam. ‘Perhaps that will walk off my ill-humour. I see yours has gone already.’ She scrutinised Maisie. ‘Indeed, I think you have gone into a trance. You look quite dazed!’

  ‘Do I?’ Maisie straightened up and did her best to appear alert. ‘It is probably the strain of being cooped up in the library while the inspector was ransacking my cabin.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Miss Jeroboam laughed. ‘I had almost forgotten.’

  They walked on, passing Mrs and Miss Jennings. Mr Merritt was sitting beside Miss Jennings, an open book in hand. A shy smile lit up his face.

  ‘Ah, our resident lovebirds,’ murmured Miss Jeroboam. ‘Mrs Jennings does not seem as averse to Mr Merritt as she once did.’

  ‘No,’ said Maisie. That is real, she thought, I know it is.

  Further on, near the bow, a game of deck quoits was in progress and Maisie paused to watch. Mr Randall, as usual, was in the thick of it and from what Maisie could see, playing well. He tossed his quoit, which fell neatly over the wooden peg. ‘There!’ he cried, grinning. ‘Game, set and match to me.’

  ‘A few lucky throws, Randall,’ said one of his opponents.

  ‘No such thing as luck,’ said Jasper Randall. ‘I have an eye for the game, and that’s all there is to it. Let’s face it, Starkey, I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back.’

  Starkey grinned. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Double or quits. Double quoits or quits, haha!’

  For a moment Mr Randall weighed up the odds, then his face cleared. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Someone fetch rope or string, and it’s game on!’

  Someone was dispatched for rope, and returned with a stout length. Starkey took the rope and Mr Randall’s right arm. ‘Hey!’ Mr Randall protested.

  ‘You didn’t say which hand,’ said Starkey, and secured the arm behind Mr Randall’s back.

  This game seemed much closer, and at one point it looked as if Starkey might seize victory. Mr Randall stepped forward, sized up the target, and launched his quoit. It looked as if it would skim the peg; but it caught the top, and slid over it.

  ‘Victory!’ crowed Mr Randall, lifting his left arm in a salute. ‘Double or quits, Starkey, I think you said?’

  Mr Starkey, grumbling, came to untie him, and Maisie heard the chink of metal. ‘The devil’s luck, Randall,’ he said, stepping back and throwing the rope onto the deck.

  ‘Temper, temper,’ chided Mr Randall, grinning. ‘Who’s next?’ He caught Maisie’s eye and grinned, and Maisie smiled back mechanically, but she did not feel like smiling at all. If anything, she felt like retiring to her cabin for a lie down.

  ***

  It doesn’t necessarily mean…

  Perhaps I am imagining things…

  Maisie closed her eyes, and a jumble of images pushed the darkness away; Mr Randall playing quoits with his left hand, taking money for the game, his enquiry as to her cheerfulness that morning at breakfast, after she had found a note pushed under her door —

  She sat up in bed, and then remembered that she had given the note to the inspector. Her eye fell on another envelope; the one containing a note from Miss Jeroboam. That had been pushed under her door, too —

  Don’t be silly, Maisie, she told herself. If Miss Jeroboam were to blackmail anybody, it would be a man. She drew the note from its envelope and reread it. ‘The handwriting is nothing like,’ she murmured. Miss Jeroboam’s hand was pretty, slanting, and surprisingly feminine. The letters were well-formed, but had a dash to them which suggested the letter had been written rapidly. She writes so many letters, Maisie thought. To her fans, and probably to societies, and committees. It is such a shame that she has to beg for money, considering her skills —

  The note fell on the dressing table. Maisie paid it no heed, and made for the door.

  Inspector Hamilton was not in the library, nor on the promenade deck, and a steward dispatched to the smoking room said that he was not there either. Maisie stood in the corridor, fuming. Trust him to go to ground when I want him, she thought, stamping her foot. ‘There is nothing for it,’ she said to herself, and made her way back to the cabins. There was no difficulty in finding the inspector’s —each cabin door bore its occupant’s name on a little card — but it still took Maisie some time to raise her hand and knock.

  ‘Come in…’ The inspector’s voice had a tentative edge to it. Maisie tried the handle, which opened, and peeped round the door.

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Inspector Hamilton. He was sitting at his writing desk, which was piled with papers. ‘Come in, quickly.’ Maisie did so, and he placed a chair. ‘Is there no space where I can find tranquillity?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Inspector,’ said Maisie.

  A puzzled frown replaced the inspector’s smile. ‘Are you quite well?’

  ‘I am very confused,’ said Maisie. ‘My mind is like a jigsaw puzzle, full of random pieces all shaken up and disordered, but I think —’ She looked up at the inspector. ‘I think I know.’

  Chapter 20

  Maisie checked her watch. Almost seven o’clock. She had heard people going past, and was reasonably sure that the coast was clear. She picked up the sealed envelope and put it into her bag.

  As she had expected, the library was deserted. Maisie scanned the shelves, looking for the familiar red binding of Debrett’s Peerage. There it was, slightly pulled out from the other books, as if someone had taken it out and replaced it carelessly. Maisie pulled the envelope from her bag and slipped it behind the book. There. She examined her hands, and hurried to dinner.

  She was not the last person to table, however; Mr Randall was absent, as was Inspector Hamilton. Maisie apologised for her lateness, and smiled in anticipation as a bowl of mulligatawny soup was put before her. It seemed a long time since she had last eaten.

  Mr Randall appeared perhaps ten minutes after Maisie, looking, for him, uncharacteristically out of temper. ‘Good evening,’ said Maisie, between spoonfuls of soup.

  ‘Good evening,’ he muttered, and began to eat in rather an untidy manner, dipping pieces of roll into his soup and popping them into his mouth.

  The inspector did not appear until the main course. ‘Good evening,’ he said with a half-bow. ‘I apologise for my lateness, but it was necessary.’

  ‘Making progress, are we?’ asked the colonel.

  ‘I believe so,’ the inspector replied composedly, and turned his attention to the lamb rogan josh which had just arrived.

  Maisie felt the want of congenial dinner companions; Colonel Fortescue still refused to acknowledge her presence, and Mr Randall seemed in no mood for conversation. The outlook was much brighter on the other side of the table, where Miss Jeroboam was chatting to the captain, and the Smythes were livelier than they had been for days. Even Mr Merritt seemed relatively cheerful, as did the Jenningses.

  Dessert was brought, and Captain Carstairs rose to make an announcement.

  ‘I am afraid that we have had to close the music room this evening,’ he said. ‘Of course the library, the smoking room, and the saloon are all available, and I hope this will not spoil your evening.’ He resumed his seat, and a buzz of chatter broke out on th
e other tables.

  ‘Is there a problem with the music room?’ asked Miss Jennings. ‘I hope it is not the piano.’

  ‘I can assure you that it is not the piano, Miss Jennings,’ replied the captain. ‘I would appreciate it if, when the others leave the dining room, you would all remain seated.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the colonel, point-blank.

  ‘Progress,’ said Inspector Hamilton.

  He said no more until, apart from their table, the room was empty. ‘If you would follow me.’ He led the way to the music room, with the captain bringing up the rear. ‘Please, sit down.’ Maisie took a seat on one of the sofas, and as she did so, she noticed Lieutenant Barry peep round the edge of the door and close it again. Below she could hear the sounds of the stewards clearing dinner away, and if she turned she could see their whisking forms through the gallery railing. Inspector Hamilton cleared his throat, and she faced the front.

  ‘You will all be aware,’ said the inspector, ‘of the disappearance of important papers from Mr Smythe’s cabin.’

  ‘Have you found them?’ asked Mrs Fortescue.

  ‘All in good time,’ said the inspector. ‘However, most of you — at least I hope most of you — will not be aware that there is a blackmailer among the group.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed the colonel, looking about him as if the person might have blackmailer written on their forehead.

  ‘And,’ the inspector added, ‘a case of what you could choose to regard as attempted murder.’

  Miss Jennings gasped, and Mrs Jennings reached for her hand and clasped it tight.

  The inspector’s eyes met Maisie’s. ‘Miss Frobisher, may I ask you to join me?’

  Maisie rose from her sofa, acutely aware that she was being watched by everyone in the room, and that some expressions were vastly friendlier than others.

  ‘Miss Frobisher,’ said the inspector, ‘would you tell the group of the matter which you brought to my attention?’

  Maisie cleared her throat. ‘Indeed I shall, Inspector,’ she said rather breathlessly. ‘I had noticed— disquiet on the part of two fellow-passengers, and I overheard a conversation between one of them and the captain. The passenger, whose name I shall not reveal, needed to obtain money quickly. My curiosity piqued, I am afraid that I then overheard a further conversation between the passengers which made it clear that they had been told to leave money in a particular place; the smoking room. I followed the passenger and attempted to retrieve the money once they had left, but unfortunately was surprised in the act by Colonel Fortescue. By the time Inspector Hamilton could search for the money, it had gone.’

  ‘We only have your word for this,’ said the colonel, frowning. ‘How do we know that you are telling the truth?’

  ‘This morning,’ said Maisie, ‘I woke to find a note had been pushed under my door. It was written in block capitals, and threatened to reveal certain things if I did not leave two hundred pounds for my correspondent.’ She opened her bag and produced the envelope. ‘Has anyone else had a letter in similar writing?’ she said, passing it to the nearest person.

  Maisie watched the envelope circulate. Mrs and Miss Jennings looked up at her, and quickly away, which she had expected; but Mr Merritt let out a cry. ‘This looks like my writing!’ He paused. ‘It isn’t me, of course the blackmailer isn’t me.’ He gazed at Miss Jennings, misery written all over his face. ‘You have to believe me.’

  ‘And you should believe him,’ said the inspector. ‘Some items in Mr Merritt’s cabin led me to suspect him; the pen he uses, his letters, in a not dissimilar hand — but luckily for him, Miss Frobisher here argued that such a thing was not in Mr Merritt’s nature. I cited the strength of the evidence against him, and set Miss Frobisher to prove it.’

  ‘Did you, Miss Frobisher?’ Miss Jennings’s eyes pleaded with her. ‘Please say that you did.’

  ‘I hope I did,’ said Maisie. ‘Of course, Mr Merritt is not alone in his cabin; it is also occupied by Mr Randall. Mr Randall, who talks frequently of betting, and whom I observed playing a game of quoits left-handed, having been challenged by another passenger to double or quits.’

  ‘That proves nothing,’ sneered Mr Randall; but that sneer changed the appearance of his handsome face, and Maisie wondered how she could ever have liked him.

  ‘I showed my letter to the inspector,’ she said, ‘and between us we cooked up a plan. I put an envelope in the agreed place minutes before dinner was due to be served tonight. Inside the envelope were several sheets of paper to give it bulk, and also a generous quantity of turmeric, which a steward kindly obtained for me from the kitchens. So if, as I suspect, the blackmailer reached into the envelope to check its enclosure, that person would be likely to have yellow-stained fingers.’

  Everyone looked at Jasper Randall’s hands. ‘He has, damn him!’ roared the colonel, charging across and gripping his wrist. ‘Look at that! Caught yellow-handed, you blackguard!’

  ‘Did you tell him about me?’ Miss Jennings asked Mr Merritt, quietly.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Merritt, his face pale. ‘It was a confidence, and I would never break a confidence.’

  ‘Then how…? Have you been listening at doors too, Randall?’ cried the colonel, not able to resist a glance at Maisie.

  ‘I keep a journal,’ said Mr Merritt. ‘I thought it was a secret journal, but … apparently not.’ He looked at Jasper Randall with disgust.

  ‘At Port Said I wired for information on you all,’ said the inspector. ‘Most of you have led irreproachable lives; but ten years ago Mr Randall was asked to leave Eton after what was described as a misunderstanding over money. I wonder whether Mr Randall’s kind offer to pay his friend’s passage was made with the intention of using him as cover, and a possible scapegoat.’

  ‘The cad!’ shouted the colonel. ‘Take him away! I suppose he stole the ambassador’s papers as well. And what about this attempted murder?’

  ‘I’m coming to that,’ said Inspector Hamilton. ‘As you know, an important document went missing from Mr Smythe’s cabin. After the theft of some inexpensive jewellery from the cabin, Mr and Mrs Smythe had been careful to keep it locked. However, someone broke in and stole the document. Even a search of all the suspects’ baggage failed to uncover it.’

  ‘That meant,’ said Maisie, ‘that it must be somewhere in the public spaces of the ship.’ Inspector Hamilton nodded. ‘And therefore open to anyone in first class. Was there a safe place where no one would think to look?’

  ‘Miss Frobisher mentioned that she often slipped letters and cards into books,’ said the inspector, ‘and we wondered whether the same might have happened to this document. So during afternoon tea today we went to the library and examined what we judged to be the dullest books. Eventually, on a high and almost inaccessible shelf, in an ancient volume of essays on the human condition, we found the document.’ He smiled. ‘It is now safely locked in the captain’s safe. And yes, we did inform the Smythes of its discovery as soon as we found it.’

  ‘But who took it?’ asked Mr Smythe. ‘You didn’t tell me that bit. And what about this murder?’

  ‘Attempted murder,’ said the inspector. ‘You may recall that a lady dressed as a Pierrot collapsed at the masked ball just before Aden. The doctor examined the young lady, and discovered that the cause of her collapse was a generous dose of chloral. When interviewed, the lady said that she had been brought a drink by a Harlequin before she lost consciousness; luckily, she did not finish it. As she does not use chloral or have it in her possession, we can draw a fairly obvious conclusion.’

  ‘So you know who the Pierrot was, Inspector?’ asked Mrs Jennings. ‘Was she a first-class passenger, or had she got in from somewhere else?’

  Maisie took a deep breath. ‘I was the Pierrot,’ she said. ‘The inspector had asked me to come back disguised in a different costume after the buffet, and observe my fellow-passengers. Unfortunately I was spotted, and put out of action. I suspect our plan was overheard.�
�

  ‘There were dozens of Harlequins,’ said Mr Smythe.

  ‘Yes, there were,’ said Maisie. ‘I knew it was not Mr Randall, nor indeed any of the men in this party, but I could not place who it was.’

  ‘Perhaps Randall had an accomplice,’ suggested the colonel, and Mr Randall gave him a pained look.

  ‘The Harlequin was young, tall, slim, clean-shaven and energetic, with a gruff voice,’ said the inspector. ‘Again, many people could fit that description.’

  ‘If we assumed that the Harlequin was the thief,’ said Maisie, ‘that gave us more to think about. The person could pick a lock; yet no lock-picking tools were found in anyone’s luggage. The person had also been able to get word to the mainland, since Mr Smythe received a telegram at Port Said which showed that somebody knew the document was gone. And the person would need a motive. That might be a sympathy or an antipathy towards one of the countries named in the document. Or it could just be plain money. But this was on a much larger scale than petty blackmail.’ She allowed herself a glance at Mr Randall, who glared back.

  ‘So tell us,’ said Miss Jeroboam.

  Maisie felt almost guilty as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘Miss Jeroboam, you have an ingenious way with a hairpin, as you demonstrated when you retrieved my earring earlier. In a subsequent conversation you spoke of your hatred of having to beg men for money to fund your expeditions, speaking of it as a necessary evil. You spent time on deck with a camera in the early mornings when we were heading along the coast to Port Said, and I suspect you used a mirror to send a heliograph to the mainland; specifically to whoever telegraphed Mr Smythe at Port Said. You are tall, slim, and a good dancer, and having pinned up your hair when I lent you a hairpin, I am prepared to swear that your ear is the same size and shape as that of the Harlequin who drugged me.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Miss Jeroboam, ‘but you would keep interfering.’

  ‘It was you?’ asked Mrs Smythe, incredulity spreading over her face. ‘You do not deny it?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Miss Jeroboam. ‘I was approached by someone in London who offered me a very generous sum of money to make sure that document got into the wrong hands. I have no particularly strong political feelings; but I have had enough of begging, particularly when I know my work is so valuable to the men who shut me out, and whom I despise. So I took the chance, and here I am.’ She stood, and surveyed the room. ‘Mystery solved,’ she said, applauding lightly. ‘Well done, both of you.’ Then she dashed to the gallery rail and vaulted over it.