This little chat was clearing my brain. The other half was working out how Maria might have affected her revenge. It was cunning. The same brand of multi-vitamins was on sale in the small chemist’s shop that sold medications, toiletries and photographic equipment. Maybe she had seen George downing his daily boost with food. She bought an identical jar, doctored a pill, and somehow switched jars. It could be done. A casual conversation at table two, a dropped scarf, a deft hand. Maria would have had a lot of practice at that in her days of hiding out in France.
Richard Norton left. We were both at sea.
Mrs Foster was walking the Promenade Deck, quite alone. It seemed she wasn’t dressing for tonight’s dinner. She’d lost interest in clothes. Maybe she wasn’t going to eat.
‘I’m sorry if I’m intruding but I wanted to ask if I could be of any help when we return to Southampton. Obviously, there are family members who will need to know the sad news.’ My offer was genuine but it was not solely from my good nature.
‘Thank you, Miss Jones, but Helen, my sister, is going to come back with me. She’ll help me with all the arrangements.’
‘That’s good. I suppose Mr Foster’s parents are no longer alive?’
‘His mother died some years ago, but his father is still going strong at over ninety. He fought in the war, you know, was at Dunkirk. Medals and bars. Lots of decorations for bravery and a high rank. He didn’t quite make a general, but he was a brigadier. He doted on George, who was a war baby, you know.’
So it was confirmed. The bicycle thief was still alive and living on a good army pension. No doubt Maria had checked that. Her revenge was even more devastating.
Joan Foster turned to me. ‘I want to thank you for what you have done for Helen and me. I’m not sure how you engineered it, but I think you did and I’m really grateful. It was all very silly and such a long time ago. We need each other now.’
‘I’m glad, too,’ I said. ‘Amanda and your sister will be a real support. Are you dining with us tonight?’
‘In the Grill, I think. Some time later. Amanda is going to join me.’
‘I’ll leave you to your walk. This is the best time of the day.’
It had been a very long day. I could hardly remember when it had begun. Hours and hours ago and so much had changed since then. It was like the lovesick pirate, Frederick, who lived a year in an hour, a lifetime in a day, or something like that. My Gilbert and Sullivan is a bit shaky.
I changed into a cream silk tie blouse and matching trousers with an embroidered navy kimono jacket. It would be cool when the sun set and I was already feeling the cold. My flimsy long dresses could go back in store till the next Caribbean cruise. If I survived this one. I was beginning to have my doubts.
‘So is my gorgeous cruise director ready for her evening stint?’
It was Samuel Mallory, in full dress uniform, ready to preside at a party being thrown for some group. The POSH club perhaps.
‘Of course,’ I said, drinking in his quite dazzling appearance. George Clooney had better look to his laurels. And George Clooney was a dream. He was the sexiest man alive on the planet.
‘Care to join me later and we can swop emails from the security officer.’
‘Did you get one too?’
‘Don’t worry. I think everyone except the sauce chef got one. He’s panicking. And the nearer we get to Southampton, the more he’s panicking. The authorities will be down on him faster than a rifle shot.’
‘Don’t say that,’ I shuddered. ‘That’s one thing we haven’t had. Someone being shot. I’ll see you later then. You’ll find me somewhere.’
‘I’ll always be able to find you.’ It was a throwaway line.
He flicked me a quick smile. I floated away, superbly happy. No matter that Samuel didn’t really mean it. Simply that he said it was enough.
It was a Ray Roeder special this evening. A tribute to Frank Sinatra, all the standards, the favourites. The show was an absolute knock-out and his CDs sold faster than strawberries and cream at Wimbledon. I think he winked at me as I swept on to the stage.
Those old Sinatra songs still had the power to move me. He was long before my teenage time but Roeder had somehow captured the man’s voice. Close your eyes and Frankie was there.
I had decided between showering and washing my hair that I was not going to mention a word about reading Maria’s memoirs and the contents. No one would ever suspect her. It could remain an unsolved mystery how George Foster’s vitamin pills were laced with cyanide. It couldn’t be proved. As long as no one else was accused of the crime. As far as I was concerned, I knew nothing.
What would be the point of arresting Maria and taking her to court? She was over eighty, easily. She was a war heroine in her own right. No sane judge would send her to prison. Perhaps an ankle tag while staying at the Ritz would be suitable custody.
Samuel was waiting for me outside the Princess Lounge. He was as immaculate as ever, even if his hair was a little ruffled. Some wandering female hands?
‘I’ve been out on deck,’ he explained. ‘It got very hot.’
‘These parties often are.’
‘Have you had any supper?’
‘There wasn’t time.’
‘Up to the Grill, then. They can rustle up an omelette in minutes. You can’t exist all day without any food.’
‘I had a shrimp sandwich.’
‘So you think you can exist all day on a few shrimps? A seagull eats more than you do. This way.’
I followed Samuel to the lift up to the Lido Deck. The daytime Terrace café had undergone its evening transformation with tablecloths, candles, place settings with cutlery and glasses. Not a tray or disinfectant wipe in sight. I couldn’t see Mrs Foster and Amanda. Perhaps they had finished and left.
Samuel ordered two omelettes, one cheese and one mushroom, side salads and a bottle of Chardonnay. ‘You can decide which one you want when they arrive. I can see you are too tired to make decisions at the moment.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It’s been one of those days, lasting about a hundred years. So much has happened.’
‘Care to tell me about it?’ he said, pouring the wine. ‘Doctor confidentiality and all that.’
‘I can’t tell anyone.’
‘So you know who slipped a capsule of cyanide into George Foster’s jar of vitamins?’ He was making a lucky guess.
‘Yes, but I’m not sure and I’m never going to say.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Funnily enough, it’s very wise. Some pots are better never stirred.’
Samuel didn’t laugh though I knew he wanted to. The laughter only got as far as his eyes. Our omelettes arrived and I took the less calorific mushroom one. I ate enough cheese to sink a ship.
There was little conversation as I was eating against the clock. The second show would be starting soon and I had to be there to do the introduction.
‘Slow down. You’ll get indigestion. You’ve twelve more minutes. I’ll make sure you are there and get them to put the rest of the salad into a box to nibble in the wings.’
‘Would you? I don’t want to go on stage with omelette on my chin.’
‘No chance of that.’ Samuel leaned across the table and flicked a corner of his napkin across my chin. ‘All gone now, baby.’ He could be quite bewitching. Maybe it was pity on his part.
I was a stand-alone female who never seemed to have any leisure and was rarely surrounded by admiring male passengers. I could have pointed out that there were more than enough women onboard for the male contingent. They outnumbered the men four to one.
The second showing went spectacularly well. Ray Roeder came off, dripping with sweat. I handed him a towel. He nodded his thanks, mopping his forehead, no breath left. He went on again for a second round of applause.
I sailed on and described his performance in glowing terms. He took a third bow.
‘That’s enough,’ he said as he came off. ‘I need a drink.’ He also nee
ded a shower, fresh clothes and ten minutes with his feet up.
‘We’re selling your CDs in the foyer,’ I reminded him. ‘Sorry, you’re still on duty.’
‘Give me five minutes and I’ll be there to sign them.’
Dr Mallory was also there, surrounded by his usual blonde harem, lashes fluttering and listening to his every word. He gave me a slight acknowledgement which I could not decipher. Then he tapped his watch which could mean anything. Then he smiled and the look in his eyes told me that he’d see me later.
That was all I wanted to know.
I was almost asleep when he joined me in a corner of the Galaxy Lounge where I was listening to the dance music. He handed me a plastic box of salad, watercress and radishes and a glass of orange juice with ice.
‘I thought you might like to know that I have examined Reg Hawkin’s magic box. It’s quite likely that he could have shut himself in it and suffocated. It has a complicated set of locking devices and if he was crawling around inside, in the dark, he could easily have locked himself in.’
‘What about the scratches and cuts?’
‘They could have been caused as he tried to get out or attract attention. He had little space to move and there are traces of blood inside the box.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that his death could have been accidental, self-inflicted?’
He nodded. ‘Possibly.’
‘Two out of three, one to go,’ I said, munching through a mouthful of rocket. ‘We might arrive at Southampton with a clean slate at this rate.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Samuel. ‘Nigel Garten certainly didn’t throw himself overboard. That blow on the head wasn’t accidental.’
‘Could he have hit his head on the way down? Or been caught by a propeller?’
‘Totally different type of wounds. This was definitely a blow from behind with a heavy object, no grazing or slicing.’
I shuddered. It quite put me off the radishes. He took the box away from me. ‘Had enough?’
‘Yes, thank you. I think I’ve had enough of today too.’
‘I prescribe a walk round the deck in the fresh air before going to bed. No arguing. Doctor’s orders.’
So that’s how I came to be walking round the deck at midnight, under a dark and starry sky, with the most attractive man onboard who was lightly holding my hand. I suppose he thought I might throw myself overboard. Overwork can do funny things to the mind.
Thirty-One - At Sea
‘Susan! Good heavens! What on earth do you think you are doing?’
I had slept well for once, was up early for my morning mile, breakfasted in the Terrace café and was surprised to find Susan in the office before me. She was not known for punctuality.
She was standing by the shredder feeding paperwork into it. I caught sight of a familiar maroon cover.
‘Susan, that’s a passport. Are you crazy? We never shred a passport. What are you doing?’
She looked flustered. ‘I was just clearing out stuff. We accumulate such a lot of paper.’
‘Whose passport is that? Show me.’
She handed it to me reluctantly. Several pages had already been torn out and shredded.
It was the forged passport of Darin Jack. I had put all his paperwork together in a file to return to Head Office once we got to Southampton. They would be looking into his references and bank details, etc. But no longer it seemed. Susan had successfully destroyed most of the evidence. And it was one of those hi-tech shredders that went crossways as well as lengthways, so no glueing the bits back together.
‘I can’t believe this,’ I said, trying to contain my anger. ‘What do you think you were doing? We needed this evidence.’ I managed to stop myself saying things like you stupid girl, damned fool, brainless idiot and other choice phrases. Mutiny in the office wouldn’t help the situation. Susan’s lower lip dropped.
‘I thought I was being helpful,’ she said, in an effort to retrieve the situation.
‘What else have you destroyed?’
She looked terrified as well she might be. ‘It’s only a few bits and pieces.’
Her bits and pieces turned out to be the whole of the Reg Hawkins file and most of her own personal file. She went a biological shade of white.
‘Susan, have you gone totally out of your mind? This is gross incompetence. What did you think you were doing? There’d better be a damned good explanation.’ An unexpected spurt of anger scalded me. I was red hot, rage soaked, almost incandescent.
Was it gross incompetence or a deliberate act to destroy evidence? It could be either. My mind went into overdrive. Had a vital clue been loitering in my own office all the time? Something that I hadn’t noticed?
‘I’m very sorry, Casey, but I am feeling very unwell,’ Susan said, holding on to the edge of the desk. ‘I’d like to go to the surgery and see the doctor.’
‘Good idea, Susan,’ I said, changing my voice carefully into neutral. ‘You’ve obviously been overworking. Why not have the rest of the day off and take it easy? Sit on the deck and read a good book.’
‘Thank you, I will,’ she said, scrambling about and gathering her bag and escaping out of the office. She looked pretty awful. Drained and pasty.
As soon as I heard the outer door close, I was on the phone to Samuel. I didn’t care if it was morning surgery and he was in the middle of a consultation.
‘Sorry if I’m interrupting something,’ I said, before he could complain. ‘But Susan Brook is on her way down to you, feeling ill. I’ve just caught her shredding files. Important files belonging to Darin Jack, Reg Hawkins and her own.’
‘So?’ he said patiently. ‘Is that infectious?’
‘Can you give her an extra strong sedative or something? Something that will knock her out for the rest of the day while I make some enquiries?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Casey. Of course, I can’t knock her out. Phone me back when you have got a more sensible suggestion.’ I had interrupted something important.
He put the phone down. No help there. Richard Norton? Not after that email. The captain? Hardly the right person. Who could I turn to? There was no one. I was on my own for this one.
I began clearing up the documents Susan had removed from the filing cabinet. The name Tamara Fitzgibbons was typed on a cover. Where had Susan got that file from? Art gallery staff were not my responsibility. They were part of the marketing outlets. A totally different department on-shore and on-board.
I poured some black coffee to settle my nerves and settled back to read. They were starting to feel shredded. Ye Gods, I didn’t mean that kind of shredded. All we needed now was a fire drill.
This was the worst feeling ever. Being entirely alone. The world was an empty place. There was no one there but me, spinning in a universe entirely on my own. I remembered the same feelings when I was a small child and something awful was about to happen, and again when I fell on stage and I lost not only my career but also most of my friends. They went on to dance in other shows.
It’s always easier for men to join a new group of people. Their groups were always open to new members. Whereas it is different for a woman. Female groups tended to close ranks and they do not accept newcomers until they became acceptable. New friendships take time to nurture.
I was in that limbo time. I had made friends in my new job, but in truth I did not have a real friend.
Susan’s body language had always been guarded, ill at ease. She did not like meeting my eyes. So what was all this about?
My curiosity made me leaf through some of the papers left on the desk and I made an interesting discovery. I could not believe my eyes. Tamara and Susan had both once worked at Fine Arts, the Bond Street gallery where George Foster had been a director. They had kept that connection pretty quiet. It could be quite significant. There was a page of Susan’s CV still intact. She had detailed her school and A Level results. Susan had also written that she had been in the school netball team.
Big deal. But d
id that mean she had an eye for shooting a netball and scoring? Or a glass?
I gathered all the remaining papers off the floor and locked them in my desk drawer. There was no duplicate key. So this must be the reason why Susan was destroying everything. There was a link and it could be the missing painting. DJ was after the painting at the competition. Reg Hawkins was smuggling in the SEM. Tamara worked in the gallery where the fake painting was on show and for sale, but only to the right person. And both women had both worked at Fine Arts.
It was like a spider’s web. One fragile thread led to another and another, but they all hung together.
Mrs Foster had bought the painting and it was hanging on her stateroom wall or hidden under the bed. Her stateroom had earlier been ransacked and her husband’s briefcase stolen. What had the thief been expecting to find in the briefcase? Some specific details about the painting? Some clue to follow?
And what was Susan up to? Had she been told to destroy everything or was she the mastermind, a sort of Miss Jekyll and Ms Hyde?
My mobile rang. ‘Are you sure Susan said she was ill? She hasn’t turned up.’
‘I’ll check her cabin. Perhaps she has gone to lie down.’
‘Perhaps she’s shredding the sheets,’ said Samuel helpfully.
Her steward let me into her cabin, which was identical to mine only along the opposite corridor. I told him that I thought Miss Brook was ill and might be in need of a doctor.
‘I haven’t seen Miss Brook all morning,’ he said. ‘She was up very early.’
I bet.
Her cabin was in a shambles. She was in the middle of serious packing and half-filled suitcases and clothes were all over the place. It looked as if she was planning to disappear during our short stop at the Azores. That was tomorrow. There was a small airport on the main island, Sao Miguel. She could fly to anywhere.
If she had the painting, she could be in New York, selling it to the highest bidder before we even knew she had left the ship.
It all seemed very clever if only I could work out what was going on. Tamara and Susan knew each other. One had disappeared in Acapulco, the other was about to disappear in Ponta Delgada. Darin Jack was still hiding aboard somewhere, wasn’t he? Maybe Susan had been providing him with food and shelter and stolen clothes. Busy girl. No wonder she had been too tired to do her work properly.
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