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

by Felix Bruckner

  “We meet again, same time next week,” called Mr Spivey, the music master, over the uproar; we streamed out of the school building, still deep in conversation.

  Outside, a momentary sheet of lightning illuminated the sky; the lowering clouds darkened and thickened; after half a minute came the rumble of thunder. I parted from my friends, and quickened my pace: the storm was approaching and I didn't want to get wet! I put down my briefcase and my violin case, while I buttoned up my raincoat; then I was on my way again – out of the school gates, over the main road, and heading across Clapham Common.

  I strode down the narrow path into the increasing gloom; an occasional gust of wind stirred the trees, but otherwise the silence was broken only by the sound of my own footsteps. I was startled out of a day-dream by the crackle of static electricity, as lightning zig-zagged across the firmament, followed five seconds later by a loud crash of thunder; yet still the rain held off. I was reminded vividly of a scene from the film The Spiral Staircase: The mute girl, caught in a storm, held up her umbrella against the downpour while she fumbled for her door key – which dropped in a puddle; as she searched in the dim light, the serial strangler hiding behind a large oak-tree prepared to pounce; unaware of her danger, she found the key, rushed to the door of the Gothic mansion, and let herself in ...

  I came out of my reverie: I had drawn to an uncertain standstill; there was a breathless hush, and the invisible thunder clouds made the air oppressive.

  A hyena's high-pitched laugh echoed mockingly in the darkness – and was abruptly cut short. Suddenly apprehensive, I began walking again, more briskly than before. Too late! As I emerged from the trees, three figures blocked my way; their faces remained obscured, though one shape was chillingly familiar; a cigarette glowed red, and the blade of a flick-knife glinted in the pale light.

  “Hand over the violin!” came the harsh familiar voice of Rory Harrison.

  “You're in serious trouble,” I told myself; yet I wasn't prepared to give in tamely: gripping the cases tightly, I launched myself through the gap between the three boys, catching them off guard; I heard a soft curse, and felt hands grasping at me; there was a sharp crack, and I experienced a jarring blow on my right thigh; then I was clear. The cases bumped against my side as I ran for my life. When I rounded Holy Trinity Church, I felt something wet on my cheek: “Blood,” I thought. However, it was only water – the rain had started. I continued running long after I was safe from pursuit ... By the time I got home, I was soaked to the skin.

  “Hello, dear,” called my mother. “I thought I heard you come in ... Good Grief, what's happened to your violin case?”

  There was an ugly dent in it ...

  After three hours of watching the non-stop pyrotechnic display from my cabin, I finally dropped off to sleep.

  Saturday, 27th August: I was perspiring briskly, as we returned to our table after an exhausting Charleston. Wendy looked gorgeous in a knee-length sequinned black dress with tassels around the hem, a plunging neckline and a chunky jet necklace. This was the Roaring Twenties Night in the Tourist Class Ballroom.

  Stewart, Barry, Diane and Colette were already seated, chatting briskly; they appeared cool and relaxed – their dancing had clearly been more sedate than ours. Their conversation stopped abruptly as we arrived, and I wondered whether they had been discussing me.

  “Can I get you all a drink, while I'm on my feet?” I asked, making my peace offering.

  “A pint of lager,” issued almost simultaneously from the two men; the ladies took longer to deliberate.

  Whilst I waited, I became aware of a presence at my shoulder: Stephen Kipper stood like a statue beside me, his deep-set eyes boring into me.

  “Duty calls, Mr Scott ... I'm afraid I have to drag you away from your friends. You're needed to make up the numbers for the Mexican Night in First Class ... I hope you'll excuse us, ladies and gentlemen ...”

  Before I could say a word, he had whisked me away.

  Mexican Night was in full swing, when the Chief Officer and I arrived in the Aztec Room. The air-conditioning had no trouble keeping the place cool. There were about fifty people in the opulent chamber with the Mexican motif; there seemed to be a deficiency in males (hence my call-up), and only a handful of couples were dancing. In the centre of the ballroom, I spied a radiant Muriel Hubbard in the arms of a new man; though in his fifties, he was undeniably handsome, perfectly groomed, immaculate in white dinner jacket, plum bow-tie and matching cummerbund. Could this one be Gary Cooper, or perhaps Errol Flynn, I wondered ...

  Chapter Eight

  Panama Canal and the Caribbean, 28th to 31st August 1966

  Sunday, 28th August: We arrived in Balboa, the entrance to the Panama Canal, at seven in the evening, just as I was heading to the ward-room for dinner with the junior officers.

  “Come ashore with us, Edwin,” offered Davey Goodenough, as I joined him at a table. “Christopher has kindly swapped his off-duty with me, so that I can show young Danny, here, some of the more depraved sights of the town: at one of the taverns they hold what are called 'exhibitions', where humans copulate with animals ... They're very popular with the tourists, and you have to arrive early to get a seat ... It is rumoured that on one occasion a woman performer had a stallion lowered onto her in a harness, in the manner of Catherine the Great ... Quite dangerous, I imagine ...”

  Charlie Hardcastle had gone ashore with the Port Health doctor for a convivial evening, so I was left aboard once again to “hold the fort”. I therefore declined the invitation, though without too much regret.

  “This place is a hell-hole,” continued Davey, wrinkling up his nose to convey his distaste. He paused to pour me a glass of a very pleasant Grand Cru Burgundy.

  “It's just a conglomeration of dilapidated brothels. You're well out of it really ... ”

  “Mrs Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkable lodger showed an irregularity in his life which must have sorely tried her patience ...”

  I lay on my bunk in my pyjamas trying to get to grips with The Adventure of the Dying Detective; the curtains were drawn, and the reading lamp cast its customary warm glow over my cabin. I had not yet become accustomed to the cessation of the ship's movement, and, despite the excellent dinner, felt on edge. The air conditioning was not functioning fully, and the atmosphere was hot and sultry. Through the open port-hole came subdued harbour noises. I was overcome by a feeling of lassitude, my eyes drooped. I turned over, switched off the light, and dropped into a restless sleep ...

  Suddenly I was wide awake. A noise had disturbed me; it was repeated, as my eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness; I watched, fascinated, as, slowly and stealthily, the door-handle turned. The small hairs at the back of my neck stood on end, and I had an intense feeling of deja vu. Had I remembered to lock the door? We had been warned that, despite a watch on the gangways, nefarious locals often managed to board; a rash of burglaries had taken place on previous visits to Balboa. Now, someone was pushing on my door, trying to open it; however, it didn't budge – thank God, it was indeed locked!

  As you know, I had my own short but private alleyway to the main corridor which led from First to Tourist Class; the door at the end of this alleyway was designed to give seclusion, but now merely added to my sense of vulnerability. What should I do? I would ring the duty ship's officer to send down an armed patrol. I lifted the handset from its cradle; the line was dead; belatedly I remembered that, when we were in port, there was frequently no-one to man the switchboard – only a skeleton crew was left on board to run the ship. None-the-less, I pretended that I was connected:

  “Duty Officer? Assistant surgeon here. Please send an armed patrol down to my cabin as quickly as possible – someone's trying to break in,” I called, raising my voice for the benefit of the intruder.

  The door-handle stopped turning. I hear
d a muted conversation in guttural Spanish; there appeared to be two of them, one just outside my door and another at the door to the main corridor – and they appeared to be arguing.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  It was the voice of Christopher McFee, and it was music to my ears. Just like the US Cavalry, he was arriving in the nick of time! He must be Duty Officer, but he appeared to be alone. I hoped he was armed. His speech changed to rapid Spanish (or was it Italian?); I caught only what sounded like “Parma cheese”, as he turned away; there was a scuttling sound, the outer door banged, and then there was silence, broken only by the pounding of my heart ...

  I was woken from a deep sleep by a further banging – and I thought that they were back; then I heard soft singing from the cabin next door. The senior surgeon had returned, and he sounded very drunk. Once more my mind went into overdrive: had this been another attempt on my life, or had it been just another burglary? Was the gang still after me? Hardcastle had certainly known that I would be aboard ... Was he truly as drunk as he appeared, or had he just been trying to establish an alibi ... I drifted back to sleep, and was only vaguely aware of the Koh-i-Noor casting off some time later.

  Monday, 29th August: Since early morning, we have been passing through the Panama Canal. Construction on this was started in 1880 by the Frenchman, Ferdinand Lesseps, I had read in my guide book; however it was abandoned by 1889 after the deaths of 22,000 workers from malaria and yellow fever. The US President, Theodore Roosevelt restarted the project in 1904, and it was finally completed in 1914.

  By mid-morning, it was as hot and humid as a Turkish bath on deck – the sort of comment I might expect from Sherlock Holmes himself! The canal is cut through dense jungle, and from on board I could hear the jungle sounds: the trilling of insects, the raucous cries of exotic birds; as I watched, an alligator splashed into the water, and followed the ship for a short time. We were held up for long periods at the three sets of locks – at one there was only a foot of clearance on either side; however, the canal pilot was very skilful, and we didn't touch.

  Towards the end of my crew surgery, I received a phone call from Charlie Hardcastle, asking me to pop next door to his cabin when I had finished. I found him stretched out on his bunk; a bloody bandage around his left hand concealed a nasty two-inch cut on the palm.

  “I was mugged coming back to the ship last night,” he confessed ruefully.

  I took him to the consulting area, sutured the wound, and helped him back to bed. As he seemed disinclined to enlighten me further, I left him, closing the door quietly behind me.

  Our journey through the canal lasted eleven long boring hours. Taken with the previous night's ordeal, the heat, humidity and tedium left me feeling drained. To cap it all, Hardcastle remained in bed for the rest of the day, and I had to take his four o'clock passengers' surgery – a miscellany of trivial complaints. I was too tired to proceed ashore at Colon (the east end of the Canal); I couldn't even summon the energy to go down to the ship's theatre for the Panamanian dancers, who had come aboard to entertain us.

  The citizens of Colon are fundamentally dishonest: several of our passengers had had their bags snatched ashore – while the police just watched; however, no-one was injured, and there was no extra work for the medical department.

  We left Colon at midnight. I wondered if we would encounter Hurricane Faith, which was just approaching the Bahamas.

  Tuesday, 30th August: Wendy had visited me in my cabin unexpectedly in the early afternoon: after a few perfunctory words, we had found ourselves in bed.

  Now, feeling spent but content, I lay naked in her arms. Sunlight filtered around the drawn curtains; apart from distant vibrations from the ship's engines, there was silence. She stroked my damp hair, and gently kissed my forehead.

  “You look lovely with your eyes closed.”

  I opened them, and found myself gazing up into hers – deep purple pools.

  “Have you got a girl-friend, or a wife, Edwin?”

  Taken by surprise, I told her of my broken engagement, that I still felt vulnerable.

  “I worked for my boy-friend before moving to Australia. He's a solicitor, and I was his secretary ... we corresponded a bit. Then out of the blue, he wrote asking me to marry him ... he's ten years older than me, but we used to get on well together, and he's quite rich ... So I was coming home to marry him ... Would be rather fun to see the other girls' expressions at the office ...”

  There was a lengthy pause. She had turned her face away from me. I wondered if I should say something. Then there was a long sigh and a choking sob.

  “I don't know if I can go through with it now, Edwin ... I love you ...” (A further long pause.) “Oh, now I've said it ... What am I to do?”

  I wondered whether the feeling I had for her was love – or something less elevating. Should I make a declaration? And what about Jo? I remained silent.

  “Will we see each other again after we reach Southampton?”

  “Certainly we will, Wendy, if you still want us to. But remember, ship-board romances often feel quite different – perhaps lose their magic – once we return home, and resume life on dry land.”

  It sounded to my own ears as though I was an old hand, with a long experience of ship-board romances behind me. She turned away fully, and I could feel her smooth back against my side. The silence was broken by the ringing of my telephone.

  “A rating has fallen down a ladder, and has cut his face,” I was informed crisply by Jo Flinders. “He's bleeding quite profusely; I've got him in the treatment room, and he will need at least half a dozen stitches.”

  “Thanks, Sister. I'll be over in ten minutes.” With a sense of relief, I rolled out of bed.

  “Will you be taking me around Nassau on Thursday, Edwin?”

  “I'll try to get the time off, but Charlie Hardcastle may want me to stay on board again, to hold the fort whilst he goes ashore himself ...”

  Wednesday, 31st August: The sea is a turquoise mill-pond, the sun warm from a washed blue sky with only a wisp of cloud: exactly what I had expected from the Caribbean. We have missed Hurricane Faith, which passed East of Florida and appears to be losing force.

  The Captain's cocktail party for First Class passengers was the usual splendid affair, but by now I was a seasoned performer, and mingled easily with the guests. Stephen Kipper waved, and positively beamed at me as we passed each other. Wonders would never cease! Towards the end of the proceedings, to my further surprise, I found Captain Butterworth himself at my elbow, a solemn expression on his ruddy face:

  “I'm worried about Dr Hardcastle,” he began without preamble. “He appears to be breaking up ... How are you coping with the workload, Doc?”

  “I'm fine, Sir ...”

  I told him about the senior surgeon's mugging and how he had needed five stitches in his hand. While I had the captain's attention, I brought up the subject of my would-be burglars when we were moored in Balboa, and how I had been rescued single-handed by the second officer. His face closed and became grim.

  “Don't mention this around – I don't want to alarm the passengers ...”

  And then he had moved on, all genial smiles again.

  Chapter Nine

  Caribbean Sea, 1st and 2nd September 1966

  Thursday, 1st September: We arrived in the Bahamas at seven in the morning, and the senior surgeon went ashore; when he returned for lunch, he allowed me to take the one-thirty launch in to Nassau. After the brilliant sunshine of the morning, the sky began to darken; purple-grey clouds contrasted with the clear turquoises and ultramarines of the sea. As we rounded the lighthouse I could smell land.

  On alighting, I set out to explore the town on my own – elegant white colonnaded houses with red-tiled roofs were fronted by neatly cropped lawns and regimented palm trees; while wide paved streets and red pillar-boxes were a reminder of its recent colonial past.

  I jumped at a loud toot behind me, just as I was passing the pink stucc
o buildings of the Bahamian Parliament: an open-topped Jeep had stopped, and Danny was waving frantically from the front passenger seat, while the others smiled broadly.

  “Want to come?” suggested Christopher, at the wheel. I assented, and joined Jamie and Davey in the back. My day was suddenly transformed.

  Wendy had taken the first launch to Nassau (with Charlie Hardcastle), but I hoped we would catch up with her. We did: at the Straw Market we almost ran over her – hardly recognisable in dark glasses and a large sun-hat.

  “Jump in,” commanded Christopher, and she squeezed into the back with us.

  There was a muted roar of thunder, and large drops of rain landed on our heads; we emitted a single cry of pure uninhibited joy; Christopher put his foot down, and the car leapt down the coast road and out of the small town. We drove around the island for a couple of hours, imbibing the brilliant blues, purples, whites and scarlets of the jacaranda and bougainvillaea, stopping to photograph the antique cannon that constituted the Nassau fortifications, and climbing up the derelict Blackbeard's Tower, from which the pirate, Edward Teach, made his sorties to attack the merchant shipping of the coast, in the early eighteenth century. Eventually, soaked to the skin but happy, Wendy and I were let off at Fisherman's Wharf, while the boys returned their rented vehicle.

  On the launch back to the Koh-i-Noor, my friends kept their distance, but Wendy stayed close; her arm encircled my waist, and I could feel the softness of her breast against my side. From the other end of the craft, I caught the eye of the chief officer, dressed in gaudy civvies just like the rest of us; to my surprise he winked, but nevertheless I disengaged myself.

  “Not in public, Wendy,” I murmured.

  By the time we had reached the ship, the sky was once again blue, the sun was sparkling on the water, and my clothes were almost dry. The launch tied up to the Koh-i-Noor. Jamie gave a smile, Davey transfixed me with an ironical look, and Christopher managed the ghost of a wave.