“Back on duty ...” Then the friends had disappeared up the gangway.
As Wendy and I followed slowly, we were overtaken by Mr Kipper. He was in communicative mood today, but concentrated his pearls on me:
“See you were caught in the downpour, Mr Scott ... Personally, I find it pleasantly cooling in these climes ...”
“See you later ...”
I felt a soft kiss on my neck, and barely registered the whisper in my ear; Wendy nodded, waved, and disappeared into the bowels of the ship. I took pictures of the lighthouse, the port and the island; and, nearer at hand, a big-game fishing-boat bobbing on the clear Caribbean waters. Stephen Kipper remained at the rail by my side, a friendly smile on his lips; he provided a commentary on the activities around us as the ship prepared to sail; he pointed out the sights, and regaled me with anecdotes of his Caribbean experiences. The words tumbled out, and his eyes lit up with enthusiasm; he was a new man. I hardly recognised him as the dour martinet of the early part of the voyage.
“What's that white thing in the sea?” he asked suddenly.
The Koh-i-Noor had cast off and was making good headway.
“Looks like a towel ...”
I finished another film, and prepared to return to my quarters.
“Wait for me, old chap, I'm going your way ...” and, still exuding amazing bonhomie, he accompanied me down the companionway. He remained with me until I reached my cabin.
“Hang on, Sir ... I can't get in. Something's blocking the door.”
The chief officer retraced his steps, and helped me push it open; I forced my way through the narrow gap, and gasped with shock. I absorbed the scene at a glance: the room had been ransacked, drawers were open, belongings scattered about; blocking the door was a female body – lying in a pool of liquid blood was Wendy, and her throat had been cut! I advanced into the cabin. A cursory examination showed that she was dead – recently dead (there was no heart beat, the body was still warm, and, as yet, there was no clotting of the blood). She had been attacked from behind, and the wound was a carbon copy of the one I had seen in the wireless cabin. As far as I could judge the killer had used the same knife – he had not discarded it after the previous murder! He must have been supremely self-confident or remarkably stupid, to have retained it.
“He heard Wendy open the outer door, and then her footsteps in my alleyway. He waited for her behind the inner door, and attacked her when she entered,” I muttered, almost to myself.
The port-hole was open and my towel was missing, presumably disposed of after the murderer had used it to wipe the blood off his hands.
Mr Kipper surveyed the scene of carnage:
“It's lucky I was with you all the time, Edwin. Otherwise you would be the prime suspect now ... Hang on, you'll have to replace your medical bag in its previous position – it's evidence.”
Using the phone in my cabin, he rang the duty ship's officer, briefly but succinctly explaining the situation. Within a couple of minutes, Christopher McFee had arrived, in full uniform.
“Don't touch the drawers,” I pointed out quickly. “There might be fingerprints ...”
“There'll certainly be my fingerprints,” retorted Christopher, tartly. “I've enjoyed many an excellent pour-out in the cabin during this voyage.”
The chief officer relieved me of my key, and locked the door. He asked McFee to put a permanent guard on site. The place would be left for forensic examination – when we reached Port Everglades in Florida tomorrow. In the meantime, I was allocated a room in the ship's hospital; Constanzio D'Cruze, my steward, found me some spare clothes, toilet utensils, and even an electric razor – until forensics had finished with my cabin. After what I had just witnessed, I was not sure I would want to move back, even then.
Friday, 2nd September: We arrived in Port Everglades at seven o'clock in the morning, but no-one was allowed off the ship; thus I missed the coach tour of Miami, Coconut Grove, Hollywood Beach and Carl Glades. I confessed myself not too disappointed.
I was asked to attend while the Miami forensic team, gowned and masked, systematically searched through my cabin; under supervision I checked the breast pocket of my uniform jacket – my diary was still there; we looked in the filing cabinet, and found the buff folder labelled “Watson, John”; as far as I could tell, the only thing missing was my towel. The corpse was bagged for dispatch to the UK by air.
Meanwhile the murder squad had begun the long tedious business of interviewing everyone on board – even the Captain. Ship's officers were seen in the ward-room, ratings in the leading hands recreation room, and passengers in the Purser's Office.
The big man in shirt sleeves had a ruddy face and a beer belly; he had introduced himself as Lieutenant Shaeffer of Homicide. Now, in spite of the air-conditioning, he was sweating profusely: there were beads of moisture on his forehead, and wet patches were spreading from his arm-pits. His partner, a small balding man, took copious notes (though the tape-recorder was whirring audibly), but uttered hardly a word.
I was cross-examined for two hours:
“Her throat was cut from behind by a right-handed assailant with a blunt knife, a carbon copy of the previous murder. The blood had not had time to coagulate, so the murder must have been committed within the previous thirty minutes – or at the most, sixty minutes ...”
No expression flickered across the lieutenant's face.
“Why did you examine her ... Why tamper with the body?”
“Because I'm a doctor.”
“I'm told you were the last person to see her alive ...”
I told them about her leaving me when we boarded the Koh-i-Noor, my taking photos as we sailed, seeing the towel floating by, and eventually finding the body in my cabin. They took me through my statement over and over again; I re-iterated that Stephen Kipper, our chief officer,had been with me all the time, and would be able to corroborate the story. Lieutenant Shaeffer remained impassive. Finally:
“I hear you're a Sherlock Holmes aficionado, Dr Scott ...” He allowed himself the faintest smile. “Me too ...”
I was dismissed.
Back in my temporary cabin, I sat down at a table with my fountain pen and a sheet of foolscap paper; I began a resume of the salient facts of the case, as I knew them: Parkin had been a member of a gang on board the Koh-i-Noor, possibly smuggling cocaine through Panama; there were extensive international connections, extending to Melbourne, Sydney, Tonga, Hawaii, San Francisco, Balboa. The killer was another member of the gang, probably one of the ship's crew, with access to strychnine (perhaps medical or paramedical staff). Charles Hardcastle had had to approve my shore leave, so would know where I was at virtually any time, and be able to arrange the assassination attempts on me. He knew I was ashore in Nassau, and may have felt that he had ample time to search my cabin. But, whoever the killer was, what was he seeking? And did he find it? Had he been searching for it when we were berthed in Los Angeles, and again in Acapulco? From the charred remnants of the note in the wireless cabin, it was evident that I was now suspected of being “the undercover agent”, presumably investigating the case. I knew I wasn't, so who was? (Unless it was mere paranoia by the gang.) What about Fiona Henderson Scott, the children's hostess: had she been a police agent? Was Wendy Alexander linked to the killer in some way, or was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Could she be the mysterious undercover agent; or was she another gang member? She had been killed within half an hour of our finding the body. The chief officer had been with me all that time, and a period before; so he was exonerated ... Black depression descended on me: they had killed Wendy because she had stepped into my life; how long before they finally eliminated me?
The SS Koh-i-Noor left Port Everglades at four o'clock in the afternoon, and headed into the Atlantic towards Bermuda.
Chapter Ten
The North Atlantic Ocean, 3rd to 10th September 1966
Saturday, 3rd September: We're down to about five hundred passengers now. The sun is n
ot quite so hot. The ship is rolling a little even though the sea seems quite calm.
I started on the crew medical reports this morning; in the afternoon, I sunbathed and swam in the First Class swimming pool – which was largely empty.
My hair was still a little wet and disarranged, as I made my way through the upper decks towards my cabin; although I carried my book and damp towel, I now wore my full navy-blue winter uniform and mandatory cap, and my appearance was by no means untidy.
At a table on the sun-deck, shaded by a parasol, I spied Mrs Hubbard with another woman and two men. In front of them was a silver tea set and a large dish of assorted cakes; the other lady was in the process of pouring tea for everyone. I recognised Mrs Hubbard's partner from the Mexican Evening (Gary Cooper/ Errol Flynn?); opposite them sat James Hemmingway and a mild, elegant, middle-aged lady whom I presumed to be his wife (and the Chairman's sister). My two ex-patients waved, Hemmingway brandishing his plaster cast. I had advised him to have his arm checked by an orthopaedic surgeon when we returned to the UK; and suggested that the cast might be removed after two months if the fracture had fully knitted by then.
“Come and have some tea with us,” invited Mr Hemmingway.
A waiter instantly drew up an extra chair, while a second had placed another cup, a fresh tea-pot, and another plate of cakes on the table before I had even replied. Somewhat reluctantly, I joined them.
“This is Mrs Hemmingway ... and this is my friend, Errol Flanders,” Muriel Hubbard was making the introductions. (Errol Flanders – I couldn't believe it!) “Mr Hemmingway you already know ...”
I shook hands all round, still astounded at the coincidence, and then took a seat between James Hemmingway and his wife. The latter busied herself pouring tea for me, enquiring about milk and sugar, and offering me the new plate of pastries. Mr Flanders volunteered, in a melodious bass voice, that he was a barrister, returning home from a couple of years in Christchurch, New Zealand. In due course, I enquired politely after the health of my two patients. Mrs Hubbard just smiled demurely.
“I'm fine, Dr Scott,” Hemmingway was positively beaming. “I've booked to see Sir Simon Spooner, my orthopaedic surgeon, when we get back to Knightsbridge ... We'll be staying there for a week or so before we have to move on ...”
“We're giving a party on our yacht in Monte Carlo at the end of September,” volunteered his wife. “Muriel and Errol have agreed to join us ... Would you care to come, Dr er Scott? After that we will be returning to our small castle in Argyle ...”
While her husband gazed modestly and silently into his tea, she informed the table that, in addition to his house in Wilton Place, his castle in Scotland, and his flat in Monte Carlo, he had a home on the Island of Mustique, a retreat in the Colombian jungle, and a ranch in Texas. He had made his money from shipping, but had diversified with Casinos in Las Vegas and Reno, and a small bank in Luxembourg. Mrs Hemmingway was now in full flight, her husband beginning to look a bit sheepish, a mite embarrassed.
“I'm Jimmy's third wife; unfortunately we have no children together (I was too old by the time we married), but he has four children by his first wife and two by his second, and I have two from my own first marriage ...” She must have realized that she was talking too much, and came to a sudden halt.
“Do come to Monte Carlo if you are free ...” she finished lamely.
“I've been thinking, Dr Scott,” mused Mr Hemmingway, almost to himself. “Perhaps you would care to become my personal physician. I was very impressed with my treatment; you're clearly a very good doctor. Your duties would hardly be onerous: looking after my family and me – we're all pretty healthy at the moment ... travelling around the world with me to our various homes and on my business trips; you might find it quite an education ... Take a little time to consider. Perhaps you could let me know by the end of the voyage ...”
This was not the first time I had been offered a job as some-one's private physician. My mind flew back to my first month on the Metabolic Unit at my teaching hospital.
Sir Reginald Spoor was the uncle of Princess Margaret's husband. He had been admitted as an urgent case under somewhat irregular circumstances, when my boss, Professor Gabriel Pudding, was away at a conference in Singapore. Spoor was desperately ill, barely conscious, dehydrated, with a thin thready pulse, low blood-pressure, but a normal temperature. He had been treated in a clinic in Switzerland for several months, first with homoeopathic medicines and then with Queen Bee jelly, having had a diagnosis of disseminated cancer. He had deteriorated progressively, becoming so weak that he couldn't get out of bed. Finally, his wife, a state registered nurse, had defied his family, brought him back to England, and had persuaded Matron at the London Hospital (where she had trained ) to arrange for Sir Reginald to be admitted under Professor Pudding.
When I had examined him, I noted that he had lost a considerable amount of weight, that he appeared tanned (in spite of having spent most of the past three months indoors and in bed), and that there was prominent pigmentation inside his mouth. Apart from the low blood pressure, his cardiovascular system, respiratory system , abdomen and central nervous system were all normal. I diagnosed Addison's Disease.
I sent blood for electrolytes, urea, base-line cortisol; I gave him an intravenous injection of Synacthen (ACTH), started an IV infusion of Normal Saline, and sent off a second blood sample for cortisol. While awaiting the blood test results, I commenced definitive treatment: intravenous hydrocortisone and intramuscular deoxycortone acetate. The test results came back showing a low serum sodium, elevated potassium and urea, barely detectable serum cortisol, and no rise after stimulation of the adrenal cortex with ACTH, confirming the diagnosis of adrenal insufficiency – Addison's Disease.
Within a few hours, the patient was beginning to improve; the nausea was abating, his eyes were open, he was moving about restlessly in bed, taking sips of water by mouth. His blood-pressure rose from 100/60 to 140/90.
I continued the hormone replacement therapy orally, once he was no longer feeling sick, and stopped the intravenous saline solution after forty-eight hours. X-rays of the abdomen showed no evidence of adrenal calcification, largely excluding tuberculosis. Thus we were left with autoimmune disease as the most likely cause. At any event, Sir Reginald would require life-long hormone replacement. By the time Professor Pudding returned from his conference, everything was more or less sorted. His eyebrow rose a fraction when he heard how the admission had been arranged; however, he appeared happy with the outcome, and the way I had handled the situation. He smiled – and I breathed again.
When the drip was taken down, we allowed the patient to sit out of bed, and start a light diet. For a few days he remained weak and extremely irritable. He was still having nightmares, and his family hired a private nurse to watch over him at nights. There was a furore, when the patient accused the nurse of stealing his gold watch, which, he insisted, was always kept on the bedside table; the nurse was summarily dismissed; a couple of days later, the watch was found at the bottom of Sir Reginald's toiletry bag in his locker.
Sir Reginald Spoor was aged sixty-three, a widower with two grown-up children; he had remarried, and had a son aged four from his second marriage. His second wife , Sally, was a nurse who had looked after his first wife at the same Swiss clinic, throughout the three year course of her terminal cancer, until her death six years ago. Not long after, she had caused a minor sensation by marrying the widower. She was now in her mid-thirties, a classic English rose: honey-coloured shoulder length hair, ruby lips, candid cornflower-blue eyes, regular features and a fair complexion. She visited almost every day, bringing Cordon Bleu food which she prepared at their home in Chelsea, and then heated up on the ward cooker. She was clearly devoted to her husband. Sir Reginald's sister, Lady Amelia, also visited frequently, occasionally taking in a rival menu to tempt her brother (the doctors and nurses would benefit from this rivalry – we would partake of the left-overs). She obviously disliked Sally, as apparently di
d the rest of the family – believing that she was nothing more than a gold digger. Sally was bitterly unhappy.
During my time on the Metabolic Ward, I lived out of the hospital. However, I had been placed on the London Hospital cardiac arrest rota; every Tuesday I was on call, and was allocated a tiny room in the doctors' quarters. On one of these evenings, I arranged for a friend to cover for me until ten-thirty, and asked Sally Spoor if she would like to go for a drink at one of the local pubs. Her eyes lit up, and she accepted instantly. I met her ten minutes later in the front hall of the hospital, and escorted her to the saloon bar of the Black Bull, across the road.
“This reminds me of the old days, when I was a student nurse – and you were probably still in nappies!”
“I'm older than I look, Lady Spoor ...”
“Please call me 'Sally' ...”
We found a corner table for two, before I went to the bar to order her sherry and my half-pint of best bitter. The pub was comfortably full, there was a decent volume of good-natured background chat; everyone seemed happy, and nobody gave us a second glance.
“I'm so miserable ...”
Sally's face creased into a frown, and I could see the tears, sparkling in her eyes, about to brim over.
“They all hate me ... and I'm afraid that sooner or later they will turn Reginald against me. Amelia is quite a kind person really; she adores our son, Henry, but she still thinks I'm only after Reginald's money ... what shall I do, Edwin?”
“You just stick it out, er Sally ... You are so obviously devoted to him ... He must realize that, and in the end the rest of the family will, too.”
We sipped our drinks. I gazed at her, a tragic figure with her lovely tear-stained face, her deep blue eyes magnified by some yet unshed tears. I felt my heart contract with pity; impulsively I placed my hand over hers; she gave mine a brief squeeze, and gazed at me gratefully from under her long lashes. We sat quietly for several minutes ...
Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3) Page 17