Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3)

by Felix Bruckner

  “Marvellous, bloody marvellous,” enthused the patient. “Pain has vanished.” He beamed at Agatha and then at me. “Thundering good job ... and you're a damn fine surgeon, Dr Scott ... Damned if I don't tell the Captain ... Also tell my brother-in-law, Sir Hubert Pennington-Smythe ...” (My eyebrow rose fractionally.) “... Chairman of this shipping line ...”

  Wednesday, 27th July: It was warm and sunny on the Officers' Deck, and I was lying on a deck-chair, stripped to the waist, eyes half closed, drowsing like a lizard. I could sense a presence beside me, but I was too comfortable to care. Someone cleared his throat, but still I kept my eyes closed, ignoring the intrusion. Finally, I felt a soft touch on my arm; I opened my eyes; standing above me was Davey Goodenough, elegant in his full uniform whites, his cap at a jaunty angle on his head, an apologetic smile on his face:

  “Sorry to disturb you, Dr Scott ... er Edwin. We're having a small poker school in my cabin tomorrow evening, and I wondered whether you'd like to join us. Do you play?”

  My frown dissolved instantly, at the sight of this engaging, good-natured man. I moved to sit up straight.

  “Yes, I play a bit, but I'm afraid I'm very rusty.”

  “Draw or Stud?”

  “Unfortunately I have no experience of stud poker, so it would have to be draw ...”

  “Right then, Edwin, I'll look forward to seeing you in my cabin on the junior officers' deck at twenty-two hours tomorrow. It's right next door to Christopher McFee's.”

  With a cheery nod, he left me to my thoughts.

  Thursday, 28th July: “Your five, and I'll raise you twenty pounds ...”

  Davey's voice was low and pleasant; his face wore it's usual sunny smile, giving nothing away. Unlike the rest of us, he was still in full day uniform, his tie straight, the top button of his shirt collar buttoned up; from his left sleeve peeped a snowy silk handkerchief. His light brown hair, was perfectly groomed. He was tall, slim, with a languid air. The tip of his fat expensive-looking cigar glowed red.

  I glanced at my cards: a pair of aces and a pair of nines.

  “He's bluffing,” I thought, before throwing in my hand.

  Jamie Cameron was slightly flushed, but this could have been from the warmth of the room. He was playing well, though conservatively, and had already accumulated a small collection of notes and coins.

  “I fold.”

  Davey's small cabin was hazy with cigarette and cigar smoke, and the enamelled metal ashtray, embossed with a picture of the Koh-i-Noor, was half-filled with ash and cigarette buts, though we had been playing for only a little over an hour. (I was the only one not smoking.) The five of us sat around a square deal table, stained mahogany brown (standard junior ship's officer issue), chipped on one edge. We had tumblers of pink gin before us; a bottle of Booth's gin one quarter full perched precariously on a book-shelf, and a quart-bottle of Angostura bitters stood on the floor below. On other shelves, there was a selection of books, mostly leather-bound. On the wall above his bunk was a delicate framed water-colour painting of a nineteenth century tea-cutter in full sail. A door in the far wall led to the shower-room/loo. Two chairs had been brought in from Christopher's cabin next door. Our host was perched rather precariously on the edge of his bed, and the table was drawn up towards him. The rest of us sat on the wooden chairs placed around the table. Before taking my seat, I had caused some wry amusement by ostentatiously placing a cloth over the mirror behind it.

  “I'll see you ...” A crafty expression flitted over Danny's face and was gone; he was flushed, and his eyes sparkled with youthful excitement; although the central cabin light and that from the bedside lamp created only a soft subdued glow, I detected a sheen of perspiration on his brow and upper lip. He counted out five five-pound notes into the kitty in the centre of the table.

  There was a long pause while Christopher McFee examined his five cards carefully. (He had picked up only one card. Was he bluffing – perhaps with a busted flush?) He whistled to himself snatches of Danny Boy. His face remained impassive, giving nothing away.

  “I'll see your twenty five, and raise you another fifty.”

  His soft Irish accent intensified by a fraction. He settled back in his chair, and the lazy smile once more hovered around his lips; he tapped the ash from his black Turkish cigarette into the ash-tray; the tension in the cabin increased as the seconds ticked by.

  “I'll see you ...” Davey Goodenough allowed himself a tiny smile of satisfaction.

  “I fold ...” Danny Stone was now a picture of dejection, almost in tears.

  Christopher placed three fours face-up on the table.

  “Mine's a flush ...” Davey's voice remained even, but his expression was fleetingly triumphant, before it settled back to its normal languid state. He tabled his five hearts.

  Christopher slowly added the four of spades to his hand on the table: “Four of a kind ...”

  He scooped up his winnings with a flourish, and gave us all a polite nod. I was relieved I had dropped out early, on this hand. I was way out of my league.

  As the tension in the cabin unwound, I allowed my gaze to rove around the book-shelves once more: I saw Learn Bridge with Reese, and Poker – Game of Skill by Terence Reese and Anthony Watkins; I recognised Graham Greene's Brighton Rock, John Le Carre's The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, William Golding's Lord of the Flies, Robert Graves's I, Claudius, Feyodor Dostoyevski's Crime and Punishment, and the Barsetshire Chronicles of Anthony Trollope; there were also a couple of Ian Flemming's Bond books, From Russia with Love and Casino Royale, paper-backs, but in mint condition. Somehow, the books described the man.

  We settled down to another round; apart from Davey, we had all put off our jackets, which now hung on the back of our chairs, loosened our ties, and undone the top shirt button or two; Jamie had rolled up his sleeves to expose white almost hairless fore-arms. Our host dealt again. He looked cool, elegant, content, and had lost none of his polish. We all placed a pound note in the kitty, took a sip of our pink gins (Jamie and Danny replenishing their glasses), before picking up our five cards. Davey looked enquiringly at Danny Stone who checked his cards before opening the betting:

  “I'll start with another pound ...”

  We all followed with our pound notes.

  “Right ... How many cards, Danny?”

  “I'll take two ...” Danny had regained his composure.

  When the poker school broke up in the early hours of the morning, Christopher had won several hundred pounds. Only once had he been caught bluffing (a failed straight), when Jamie had seen him. Jamie himself was up by about fifty pounds. He had played steadily, bluffed rarely (if at all), and spoke only to place his bets and choose his cards. Danny and I were each about forty or fifty pounds down. The biggest loser was Davey Goodenough – two or three hundred pounds at least. He had been caught bluffing several times, and was betting more and more recklessly as the evening progressed. Yet, at the end of the game, he remained courteous, cool and immaculate – the perfect host! I wondered how he could afford to lose such sums of money, whether these poker sessions were a regular feature of life aboard the Koh-i-Noor.

  I made my way carefully back to my cabin through the deserted alley-ways, exhausted from the concentration, my head reeling from the alcohol. However, try as I might, I couldn't get to sleep. I lay undressed on my bunk in the dark cabin, gazing at the ceiling. I couldn't erase from my mind my cards, the faces and expressions of my new friends. Over and over I played in my head the hands that had been dealt me, the sums of money that had been wagered, that had been lost and won. As the wan light of dawn crept around my curtains, I fell finally into an uneasy sleep.

  Saturday, 30th July: After four days on the Bight, we arrived in Melbourne, the capital of the State of Victoria, founded in 1837 by settlers from Van Diemen's Island (Tasmania). During the gold-rush of the 1850's it was transformed into a frontier town, a boom town which rapidly became one of the world's largest and wealthiest cities.

 
I had largely recovered from my 'flu, when we docked at seven in the morning. After breakfast, I changed fifteen pounds into Australian dollars in the purser's office, in preparation for a trip ashore. My crew surgery was unusually busy, and kept me on board until eleven-thirty. A couple from my table, who were disembarking here, had offered to show me the town. Mr and Mrs Healey had kept a low profile at my First Class table, and had spoken very little to me during the voyage; so I had been quite surprised by their invitation at dinner on the previous evening. They were a middle-aged couple, bland but friendly, who had been visiting relatives in England, as part of their European Tour; now, after four months away, they were just happy to be home.

  They left their luggage with the purser, and we proceeded in a taxi to the Melbourne Royal Automobile Club, for lunch. We took the lift up to the top floor; the Roof Restaurant boasted an excellent self-service buffet: a sea-food platter, a variety of cold meats, an extensive choice of salads, fresh crispy bread or bread rolls; our meal was washed down with a chilled, surprisingly palatable, Australian white wine. On the outside terrace, the weather was comfortably warm, hazy sunshine peeping through nimbus cloud. I gazed with interest at the panoramic views of the townscape below me: the buildings seemed European, yet were subtly different; they were mostly modern, and the army of tall cranes testified to continuing construction. There was no sign of the Wild West town of my imagination.

  “We had the strangest experience this morning.” Mrs Healey interrupted my thoughts, her voice pitched high with excitement.

  “It was while you were still busy ... We decided to leave the ship for a short stroll, while we waited for you to finish. We had to pop through passport control, but they wouldn't let us pass without a policeman first taking our fingerprints. That's never happened to us before, not on all our travels ... The man quite cross-examined us – asked us several times if we had been in the wireless room of the Koh-i-Noor, on Monday 18th July ... I hardly knew what the wireless room was, let alone where ... And how should we remember where we were on the eighteenth of July – at sea, one day seems much the same as any other ... He was quite sharp, quite rude I thought, and I was quite upset ... Of course we never had, and I told him so ... But whatever was that all about, Dr Scott, do you know?”

  I debated whether to tell them about Parkin's murder; however, the captain had commanded us all to secrecy: he had been very emphatic on the subject; he didn't want panic among the passengers if the information leaked out, and it would only cause trouble if the press got hold of it. I smiled, shrugged my shoulders, and made non-committal negative noises, but privately I wondered how long the news could be kept from the public ... I continued with my meal.

  At the far end of the terrace sat two big men in short-sleeved shirts and shorts, fair haired, tanned, in their late twenties or early thirties. One had a scar running down his face from the corner of the left eye, across the cheek-bone almost to the upper lip. I recognised him immediately as John Smith, the passenger whose wound I had sutured a fortnight ago. The scar was still livid, but, from where I sat, appeared well-healed; I was happy to see there was no keloid formation. He looked me straight in the eye, but gave no sign of recognition; he held my gaze for a while, before turning back to his companion. I felt a momentary chill. Was their presence here merely a coincidence?

  In the background my hosts' voices droned gently on; I gave an occasional encouraging grunt or nod. Finally the tap had been turned on, and I became the receptacle of all the information they had so modestly withheld during the voyage. Interspersed with a travelogue on Melbourne, I heard about Mr Healey's elder brother and grown-up niece in Wensleydale in Yorkshire, his own life and work as a banker “in this great city”, their travels to the Swiss Alps, Vienna and Florence. I dozed happily, with only a faint sense of guilt, while trying valiantly to keep my eyes open. When I looked again, the two Tourist Class passengers had left.

  After lunch, the Healeys' cab took us along the banks of the Yarra River, to the Royal Melbourne Botanical Gardens. Here we wandered down winding paths, beside wide lawns and an ornamental lake, entertained by the singing of exotic birds. There were copses of the native gum trees – boles grey, cream, dark brown, even olive green, the bark peeling off in ribbons – allowing us to inhale the pleasant lemon scent; towering over us were Kauri conifers, and giant redwoods with trunks six feet across; we saw palms, blueberry ash, oaks from all around the world; the trees made a fitting backdrop to the massed exotic blooms, present even in mid-winter: the surprising variety of camelias, numerous white species (some wonderfully fragrant), but also pinks and golden yellows; there were rare orchids: white spider orchids, showy reds, purples. The rose garden was blossoming in myriad hues and intoxicating scents; I stopped briefly at the end of this garden: down its main axis was a spectacular view back towards the city.

  We appeared to have the park to ourselves, and walked for miles; the sun faded behind darkening clouds; an occasional ray illuminated a clearing like a search-light; from time to time I glimpsed another visitor in the distance, but our paths never crossed. The whole place inspired a feeling of rare tranquillity.

  We left the gardens, to stroll along a wide sandy beach, again empty save for a solitary seagull. Finally the first gentle drizzle enveloped us; as our feet crunched satisfyingly over the white sand, I gazed into the hazy distance, feeling as though I were poised on the edge of the world ...

  “A penny for your thoughts ...” Mrs Healey's pleasant contralto voice brought me back to the present.

  “I was just thinking what a lovely time I was having ... So beautiful, so restful ... Thank you both so much ...”

  The heavens opened, and we dashed sedately for the shelter of our waiting taxi; finally, after an extensive sub-marine journey (during which I saw nothing further of the sights), it deposited us back on the quay-side; at the top of the gangway, I bade my hosts farewell. While I made my way back to my cabin, I played back the events of the day: I had had a quiet relaxing time, enabling me, for the most part, to put to one side the horrors back on board the SS Koh-i-Noor. Though soaked to the skin, I felt at peace ...

  As I stepped out of my wet clothes, and prepared to shower, the phone rang; I picked up the receiver at the third ring:

  “Scott here ...”

  There was silence ... I thought I could hear breathing at the other end. After a few seconds the line went dead. I jiggled the receiver a couple of times, but there was no response from the operator. Only then did I remember that, while we were in port, a skeleton staff was left on board, and the switchboard frequently left unmanned. The call I had just received must have come from the switchboard, though made by an unauthorised person. Only someone with a knowledge of ship's protocol could manage this: the caller was likely to be a member of crew! But what was the purpose of the call? Was it connected with the murder? My mind still in a whirl, I stepped into the steaming shower ...

  The SS Koh-i-Noor departed Melbourne at five o'clock in the afternoon.

  Saturday, 30th July: This evening there was an officers' cocktail party in the Ward Room. We wore white mess-kit, as many of the junior engineers didn't possess the blue. At ten o'clock (after precisely one hour), when the canapés had run out, the captain and senior officers filed out. However, the white-gloved waiters continued to serve cocktails, the band played louder, more up-to-date music, and the party began to take off. I found myself standing yet again next to Danny Stone. He was flushed, hair tousled, speech slightly slurred, swaying gently; as usual he had overdone the drinks. He leaned confidentially towards me:

  “Don't tell anyone about this, doc: only the Captain and my boss, the chief radio officer, know. About three days ago, I received a most curious message on the telegraph: 'Out definitely not an option.' and it was signed 'Ramon'. We think it may have been an answer to the mysterious message in Graham Parkin's ashtray ...” He smiled to himself inanely, and then suddenly staggered off in the direction of the loo.

  At one in the morni
ng, when the cocktail party officially finished, we transferred to Christopher's cabin, where jackets and ties were discarded, cigarettes were lit, and the gin was brought out. There was no sign of Danny – he had probably had enough. Soon the gramophone was playing at maximum volume: Roy Orbison (“Pretty Woman”), the Mamas and Papas (“Monday, Monday”), and a succession of Beatles songs.

  “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah ...”

  Abruptly the music was switched off. Into the sudden silence came a burst of static, and then frenzied cheering from Christopher's radio.

  “Geoff Hurst has scored again in extra time,” the commentator was going wild. “England have beaten West Germany 4-2. England have won the World Cup!”

  The cheering spread to our small group ... glasses of pink gin were clinked together ... Christopher finally kicked us out at 3 am – he was on duty at eight next morning.

  Sunday, 31st July: “Planes and Boats and Trains ...”

  A jazz band was playing to welcome the Koh-i-Noor to Sydney. I had come on deck to watch her tie up. Although it was almost midnight, the air was mild; the sky was powdered with stars, and a bright, full moon competed with the lighting on the quayside; here, in spite of the late hour, a large crowd had gather to cheer us in. From my vantage point, I could see the whole of Sydney Harbour; the massive Harbour Bridge dwarfing the shipping, the multiple curves of the Opera House brightly illuminated (though still under construction). A sudden chill breeze caused me to shiver.

  I returned to the rather sedate party in Charlie Hardcastle's cabin.

  Monday, 1st August: This afternoon saw me in “civvies”, crossing the Bay in a ferry to Taronga Park Zoo, in the company of Christopher McFee , Danny Stone, and Joanne Flinders. With her hair blowing in the gentle breeze, face lightly made-up, cool and carefree in pink slacks, matching silk scarf and a white blouse, she looked remarkably attractive. She had taken up position next to me, and seemed content to leave conversation to others. Though it was winter in Australia, the sun blazed from a pale, cloudless sky, and, by the time the ferry had tied up, I was perspiring even in my shirt-sleeves.