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

by Felix Bruckner

  “Thank you for saving my husband's life. I'm sure he would have died if you hadn't acted so promptly, so decisively ...”

  “On the contrary, it was you who saved him when you brought him back to England, and got him admitted to the London Hospital ... How did you manage that without a doctor's referral letter, by the way?”

  She asked me about my career, and told me about life as the wife of a wealthy aristocrat, on the fringes of Royalty ... She was a fluent conversationalist, made me feel good about myself, was amusing, interesting, charming. We had a further drink each, and this time she insisted on paying, though she did allow me to collect them from the bar. Time passed swiftly ...

  “You've been so kind, Edwin ... Maybe we could do this again sometime, but I must get back home now ...” For the first time I saw her smiling, and her face was transformed.

  It was gone ten o'clock when we left; I accompanied her to her car, a maroon Mercedes sports, parked in front of the hospital. I watched her drive off in the direction of Chelsea, and turned to enter the hospital.

  I bleeped my friend to tell him that I was back, and proceeded immediately on a quick ward-round about the hospital to check on the sickest patients, the ones most likely to have a cardiac arrest. Before I turned in I decided I would see my own patients on Metabolic. Immediately I got out of the lift on the third floor, I knew something was amiss. It was eleven forty-five, but the usual atmosphere of tranquillity at that time was disturbed by a bustle of muted activity. A line of dark shadows waited on the landing outside the Metabolic Ward; as I drew abreast, I recognised all the night nurses drawn almost to attention; I attached myself to the end of the line and waited. Toward me moved a group of figures, among the entourage Night sister and Matron, both in their finery. I belatedly recognised Princess Margaret, at the front of the procession. The event had the trappings of a state visit, though everything was done silently; she shook hands along the line, murmuring words of thanks and encouragement as she passed, some of the nurses dropping curtsies.

  “Thank you, Dr Scott, for everything you have done. I hear you saved Sir Reginald's life ...”

  I was astounded! I held my breath until she had passed, hoping that she couldn't smell the alcohol.

  Next day I was called in to Sir Reginald's side room; he smiled meditatively as I entered.

  “I was thinking,” he said. “I will need a private physician, when I leave here ... You're familiar with my case, so I wondered whether you would be interested ...”

  The phone rang just as I was removing my uniform jacket, back in my cabin; to my surprise, it was the captain:

  “Could you come to my cabin, Dr Scott? Feeling a bit under the weather ... Come on your own, and no need to tell anyone ...”

  He was lying, fully dressed, on top of his king-sized bed. Horatio Butterworth showed no evidence of malaise. He was short and solidly built, with thick iron-grey hair and bushy eyebrows; his heavy, horn-rimmed glasses sat on the bedside table beside him.

  “What are your thoughts about these two murders, Scott?” he began without preamble. He jumped off the bed, and began pacing up and down the room in his stockinged feet.

  “You're the Sherlock Holmes of this vessel, the one with the reputation for deductive reasoning. Have you formed an opinion yet? Whom do you suspect?”

  “There may be three murders, not just two ...”

  I told the captain of my theories about the death of Fiona Henderson Scott, how the killer may have thought she was the police spy on board the SS Koh-i-Noor.

  “I've been worried for some time about the goings on in and around this lovely vessel ... Suspicious activities have been observed along the Panama Canal: increased movement of small craft alongside, and efforts made to board her in Balboa and Colon – I don't know how successfully. For some time I have suspected that we have been a target for drug smugglers, most likely cocaine from Colombia or Panama.”

  “It seems as though a large organisation is involved, Sir; an international organisation with at least one member on board (two if we count Graham Parkin, the murdered radio officer).”

  I had already informed him of the incident in Balboa. I now told him of the attempts on my life in Sydney and Hawaii, of the feeling of being followed in Melbourne, Auckland, Tonga and San Francisco.

  “I'm pretty certain that someone has tried to poison me – probably strychnine ...” and I detailed the attempt in my cabin, of the adulterated gin, my suspicions and my avoiding actions. I was certain that Costanzio was entirely blameless.

  “Good God, Edwin,” his florid red face turned a shade paler. “I believe someone is trying to poison me, as well ... There have been times when snacks or drinks in my cabin have tasted strange. Recently, I have been feeling nauseous; I have had diarrhoea, and occasional muscle twitches. I told the senior surgeon, but he didn't know what it could be, had no suggestions ... I trust Tomasso, my cabin steward, implicitly ... been with me for years, on a good few ships ... Still I daren't discuss anything with him; they all have a tendency to gossip below decks.”

  “It's not our stewards; so we have to consider the deck officers, Sir. They have access to the keys of all the cabins, even yours, I suspect.”

  “Of the passengers, I have had my eye on the group of four young Australian Tourist Class people, who were reported to be acting suspiciously along the Panama Canal and in Mexico. I note that you appear to have insinuated yourself with them – especially with the young blonde girl, Miss Alexander, who was subsequently murdered. Tell me, Edwin, did you attach yourself to her, or did she attach herself to you?”

  I side-stepped the question:

  “The real problem (as I see it) is, did Wendy and her killer search my cabin together, before he killed her, or did she disturb him in his search. In other words, was she a member of the gang, or was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Coming back to the attempted poisoning, who are the likeliest suspects? Obviously, those with the easiest access to strychnine ... I rule myself out! Next we have to consider the three nursing sisters (Sisters Pitrose, Delaney and Flinders), the hospital orderly (Joe Spall), and the ship's pharmacist (Roy Slater). However, the prime suspect must be Charles Hardcastle, the senior surgeon. He wanders the ship at night, his knowledge of medicine is pretty rusty, and I don't believe he is nearly as drunk as he pretends most of the time. Most significantly, he insisted – much against Slater's wishes – on having a duplicate key to the pharmacy ...”

  “Nonsense ... It's not Charlie. He may be a buffoon, but he's not a serious suspect in this case.”

  The captain's bushy eyebrows rose, threateningly. The subject was closed.

  That evening, they had a Caribbean Night in the Tourist Class Ballroom. I stayed about an hour, but couldn't summon up any enthusiasm. Wendy kept creeping into my thoughts, our trip around Nassau, and her corpse on the floor of my cabin.

  Barry and Stewart were leaving just as I arrived – neither seemed in festive mood.

  Sunday, 4th September: I was back in my own cabin. Constanzio had cleaned it up well: apart from a small rust-coloured stain on the carpet by the door (hardly visible), it was back to its pristine state; even the smell of blood had gone. I was pleased to be reunited with my belongings, though I still felt a little uncomfortable about sleeping here.

  “It was nine o'clock upon the second of August – the most terrible August in the history of the world. One might have thought already that God's curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for there was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy ...”

  I had retrieved my book of Sherlock Holmes short stories, and had just started on the final one: His Last Bow – an Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes.

  The phone sounded by my bedside, and I picked it up on the second ring.

  “Scott here.”

  “There's a dead man in the Tourist Class swimming pool, Sir ...”

  “I'm on my way!”

  I glanced at the bedside clock – one a.m.

 
I pulled on trousers and jumper over my pyjamas, slipped into my shoes, shoved a torch into my medical bag, and was out of the cabin at a brisk canter. Surely not another murder?

  The swimming pool was illuminated by the emergency lighting system, giving it a ghostly appearance. The body, which had been hauled out by a couple of ratings, lay on its back by the side of the pool in a puddle of water; against the crimson of his swimming trunks, the skin was curiously white with tattoos of dragons, naked ladies and anchors on his brawny arms; his lips were almost black.

  “It's Mr Smith, the head chef ... He seems to have fallen asleep in the water.”

  I rolled him into the recovery position, hooked his tongue forward with my index finger, and cleared the airway. I could hear no breath sounds, but he had a palpable carotid pulse. I began artificial respiration with rhythmic chest compressions over his scapulae; after half a dozen of these, he gave a cough, dislodging some muck and spewing out a quantity of water. Then he drew in a deep breath, coughed some more, and settled down to spontaneous respiration. His pulse was now of good volume; even in the ghastly light, the skin of his face appeared pinker and the lips less cyanosed. I became aware of the smell of alcohol on his breath. I covered him with a towel. He began to stir.

  “We must get him to the hospital,” I ordered.

  I now had half a dozen helpers, among whom I was pleased to see Jo Flinders in full sister's uniform (though without make-up, and with hair awry). As he was lifted onto the trolley which had magically appeared, Maurice Smith became obstreperous, swearing in a Bermondsey accent, and trying to pull away the hands that held him. However, after a few seconds, he again lapsed into unconsciousness, and his whole body rocked to loud snores.

  The hospital complex consisted of the operating theatre, a six-bedded ward, a single room adjacent to the theatre, an equipment room containing stores and our portable X-ray machine, and the cabins for our three nursing sisters (plus a spare, which I had used). In the six-bedded hospital ward which he had to himself, the head chef was cleaned up by Jo, dressed in pyjamas, and put into bed with a heat-pad to restore his core temperature. On the chart at the foot of the bed, temperature remained a little low, but initial readings of pulse, respiration and BP were all normal. However, I found evidence of mild consolidation at his right lung base, so I started him on a short course of intramuscular penicillin and streptomycin to prevent him developing a bacterial pneumonia. I judged he didn't need oxygen. I wrote up my notes, recorded the names of the witnesses for the captain's log, and then returned to my cabin and bed, leaving him to Jo's care.

  Monday, 5th September: I sat at my desk, writing reports. There was a knock on my door.

  “Come in!”

  Davey Goodenough entered, a sheepish smile on his face.

  “Sorry to bother you, Edwin, but if you're not too busy, could you have a look at this cut. I knocked it on a hand-rail yesterday evening.”

  It was ten-thirty, still half an hour before crew surgery. I confess I was irritated; yet, the glance he gave me was so full of contrition that I relented:

  “Oh, very well, Davey, let's see ...”

  There was a laceration on the back of his left hand, about one and a half inches long, superficial, straight, clean; there was no bruising, and any bleeding had long ceased; it looked to me as though it had been self-inflicted – probably a razor-blade cut.

  “I doubt that this will require any stitches,” I muttered more to myself than to him. With some strips of sterile sticking plaster from my equipment cupboard, I bound together the minimally gaping wound edges. When I had finished, I raised my eyes to his.

  “Now then ... Why are you here? What's really bothering you?”

  There was a long pause: Goodenough was uncomfortable; he appeared to have lost a little of his normal poise and panache.

  “I'm worried about Jamie ... Jamie Cameron. As you know, he's a bit of a loner, and I'm probably the closest thing to a friend he's got ... Recently he's seemed depressed, more withdrawn than usual ... He had a tough time at home as a boy – father was a drunk and a bully ... I think Jamie's really upset about the murders, more so than the rest of us ... What d'you think, doc? I know you've observed him, chatted to him ...” (Then a sudden change of subject.) “D'you have any theories about who could have carried out these deeds? You seem to have been looking into it all ...”

  The conversation was becoming bizarre; it brought back memories of my consultation with Graham Parkin. I reminded myself that Parkin had been a member of the gang ... And look what happened to him! This time I was determined to be discreet – not to divulge my thoughts. Nevertheless, it bothered me that it was taken for granted that I was in some way continuing on-board investigations into the crimes.

  “I'll have a word with Jamie some time ... I could give him some tablets for depression, but would rather avoid this if I can ...”

  There was a knock on my door.

  “There's my next patient ... You can remove the plaster strips in a week, Davey. Keep your hand out of water, in the meantime ...”

  When I had finished crew surgery, my mind returned to the conversation with Davey Goodenough. I found the buff folder, labelled “Watson, John”, picked up my pen, and resumed my seat at the desk. I added my latest thoughts about the deaths on the Koh-i-Noor. Firstly, what were Davey's real motives for seeking this consultation? Did his polish, his charm, his friendliness, conceal a more sinister personality? Did his frequent losses at poker require a source of income additional to his pay as a ship's second officer? Why had he hired the man with the scarred face to follow me in Melbourne and Auckland? And why was Jamie Cameron so upset? Was he somehow implicated?

  There had been at least three attempts to kill me on this voyage – the falling masonry in Sydney, the attack by the gang in Hawaii, the strychnine in my gin in Vancouver Harbour. Jamie Cameron had fought valiantly in my defence during the ambush in Hawaii, strong evidence against him being the murderer.

  Then there were the further four burglary attempts on my cabin, while we were docked in Los Angeles, Bilboa, Acapulco and Nassau. What was the thief after?

  I closed the folder, and returned it to the cabinet with the patient files under “W”. Best think of something else ... Time for lunch!

  Wednesday, 7th September: We still had glorious sunny weather, but it was distinctly cooler. The sea was smooth, of a deep gun-metal hue.

  After breakfast, I looked in at the hospital; Maurice Smith was ready to be discharged. However, far from being grateful that I had saved his life, the patient was furious with me: I had stated clearly in my report that, when he had fallen asleep in the swimming pool, he had been drunk!

  I had had a light crew surgery this morning, and was now busy with my paper-work in anticipation of our docking in Southampton next Saturday. A soft knock on my cabin door was a welcome relief from my labours. Christopher McFee entered, his cap under his arm, and a broad grin on his open face.

  “The boys are saying we need cheering up. We haven't had a pour-out for a while, and there's some muttering that it's your turn ... So, how's about it, Edwin? I'll bring the beer. All you need to provide is the gin, the glasses and some crisps ... Your steward – Constanzio, isn't it – will take it in his stride ...”

  I thought his comment a bit unfair, as I had held parties for the officers regularly, every three weeks, throughout the voyage; nevertheless, I agreed to host one last one in my cabin tonight, kicking off at ten o'clock, if he would spread the news.

  In the event, Constanzio and Christopher came up trumps. Constanzio provided bottle upon bottle of Booth's gin (on a sale-or-return basis), jumbo-sized containers of Angostura Bitters, ice by the bucketful, glasses, plates, linen napkins, and an endless supply of canapés from the kitchens. When I returned from dinner, Christopher was in residence, stacking the last of three dozen pint bottles of Young's Ale from a canvas bag onto a side table, sorting the collection of LP records he had brought, and checking his record-player, amplifier
and loud-speakers. I appeared to be largely redundant!

  The party got under way promptly at ten. One minute the cabin was empty, the next it was heaving with bodies, throbbing with sound, smoky and uncomfortably warm. I had invited Wendy's friends, Barry, Stew, Diane and Colette, but they had seemed overwhelmed, and left together after twenty minutes. Roy Slater, our pharmacist, said he would pop in later, and to my surprise all three nursing sisters came. Even Charlie Hardcastle, my next door neighbour, put in a short appearance. About twenty junior officers (deck staff, engineers and radio officer) arrived; soon everyone was busily disposing of the food and drink as fast as they could. Joe Spall, our hospital orderly, sat in a corner, watching the proceedings contentedly, and sipping his pint of ale, not at all fazed at being the only rating present before Slater's arrival.

  “Great party, doc ...” I found Danny Stone at my side, a happy smile on his face, his tie awry, his fair hair tousled. Speech already slightly slurred, his voice became confidential:

  “You'll never guess, though, what happened this morning ...” He stood for a full minute, lost in thought. Then he looked furtively around the cabin. “Somebody has sabotaged the radio-telephone ... Can't get a dicky-bird out of it ... totally useless ... Can't get it fixed 'till we reach Southampton ... But don't tell a soul, will you ... Now what I really need is another drink. Have you any beer left, doc?”

  I had just handed Danny his drink, when I was spun around violently. Strong arms seized me, and I was devoured in a long deep kiss: it was Maureen Delaney, the second sister. Her lips tasted sweet (with just the faintest trace of gin); I was enveloped in a musky perfume; her firm breast thrust into my chest. I found the whole experience surprisingly enjoyable. Finally, she broke off to take a deep breath.