“I've wanted to do that for ages, lad ...” Her voice was husky, her Lancashire accent pronounced, and there was a twinkle in her eye. I had always thought her rather grim and hatchet-faced, but now her features had relaxed and softened, and she was really quite pretty. Her uniform jacket had been discarded, and, in her blouse and skirt, her figure was neat and trim.
“Can we do that again, Edwin ...” She had never called me that before. My knees buckled; through the throbbing in my ears I could hear muted ironic applause, and I realised we were the centre of attention. I must put a stop to this, I told myself.
“Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, tomorrow I'll miss you ...” sang the Beatles suddenly.
Someone had turned up the volume on the record player. As we sat down abruptly on the edge of my bed, I caught a glimpse of Jo Flinders leaving – gazing back at me with a mixture of longing and regret.
“Don't go!” I shouted. But it was only in my head: no words escaped my lips.
“I were only on t' Koh-i-Noor a year before you arrived ...” continued Sister Delaney, “ ... Before that I was lieutenant in QARANC like Agatha Pitrose ...”
The Queen Alexandra Royal Army Nursing Corps – that explained the hard-boiled look and the fondness for pink gins. Maureen poured out her heart to me. She was only a year older than I, but already thought of herself as a confirmed spinster. She was the youngest of the family; her older sister had died when she was ten; she had three brothers – one, a clerk in a solicitors' office, and two in the Royal Navy.
“My parents knew Agatha Pitrose, when I was a girl. We lived near each other in Preston, but I never played with her because she was that much older'n me. It were Agatha decided me to become a nurse. She'd been to t' School of Nursing at Manchester Royal Infirmary, and I followed her there ... A luvely place ... probably best years of me life ... Met her again a few years later ... Bumped into her in t' street in the West End of London ... I couldn't settle down to hospital nursing. Found it boring ... She told me about QARANC ... officer's commission ... see the world ... shed-loads of boys, take your pick ... So I followed her again – joined up! Just after I started with QARANC, Agatha left the Service, and joined t' Orient Line. So now here we both are ...”
Her voice was becoming more slurred; her head settled comfortably on my shoulder, her hand felt warm on my knee. “I love Preston – but only when I'm away from there ... That Dr Hardcastle is a rum-un, though ... Did you know he killed a man? Now, gimme another drink, luv ...”
I woke with the soft light of dawn breaking through my curtains. My head was splitting and my tongue felt like sandpaper. I was in bed, dressed in my pyjamas, but I couldn't remember how I had got there. Thank God I was alone!
I staggered to the bathroom, drank two full glasses of water, and staggered back to bed.
Thursday, 8th September: Bright sun-light flooded my cabin, as my steward drew the curtains. He had deposited the tray on an occasional table, and the aroma of toast and coffee wafted towards me. My hangover felt a lot easier, though I still had the remnants of a headache. Constanzio opened the port hole to let out the tobacco smell; he emptied the ashtrays into a bin, and also the cigarette buts that had been stubbed out on the canapé plates.
“You have breakfast, Doctor. I come back, clear up later.”
I got out of bed, and surveyed the scene: the room was a mess, but at least no-one had been sick; on the floor by the bed lay Sister Delaney's uniform jacket. I vaguely remembered her being half-carried out of my cabin by Jamie Cameron and Davey Goodenough. After that – nothing. I started my breakfast. As always, the strong black coffee cleared my head.
Something was not quite right; something nagged at the back of my mind, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Then it came to me – my Gladstone bag! I always left it under the examination couch. Now it was on top of the couch. Swiftly I checked its contents: my lovely Leica camera had gone. This must have been what they were after in Acapulco; this was probably why Wendy had been killed. Thank goodness I'd lost only a couple of Atlantic sunsets: I'd changed the film three days ago!
Again, I found my secret file, and removed the fountain-pen from the inside pocket of my uniform. I concentrated hard, trying to remember who had attended the party, as one of these was likely to be the killer:
There had been Wendy's friends, Barry, Stewart, Diane and Colette; the whole of the medical department – Charles Hardcastle, the three nursing sisters, Roy Slater and Joe Spall; Christopher McFee, Danny Stone, David Goodenough and Jamie Cameron; there had been another fifteen or sixteen junior officers, but I couldn't remember their names, and the drink had erased their faces. I suppose I shouldn't forget my cabin steward, Constanzio D'Cruze – but he had access to my cabin at all times, so I reckoned I could eliminate him.
The weather was colder, though the sun still sparkled on the grey-green ocean. For the first time since Vancouver I was back in my navy-blue uniform. I had completed all my paperwork – the crew's sickness records and immunisation status – and had started packing. We were due in Southampton in two days' time.
The phone rang in my cabin.
“Come to the Captain's cabin directly!” It was the chief officer's voice.
“Why? What's up?” But the phone had gone dead.
I glanced at the bedside clock: 2.45 pm.
The captain's state-room was on B deck, within easy access of the Bridge and the quarter-deck; it was flanked by those of the staff captain, chief officer, and the chief engineer. Like my quarters, it had its own alley-way, but there the resemblance ended: the corridor opened into a spacious L-shaped cabin, dominated by two windows with ocean views which almost filled one wall. Two brass candelabra hung from the ceiling, and there were three free-standing pedestal lamps, all blazing light. A rich Regency stripe green-and-gold paper covered the walls, similar to the style I had seen in his bedroom; in matching gold were full-length curtains and a deep wall-to-wall carpet, which extended into the bedroom. On the walls hung sea scenes in oils within heavy gold frames; one of these was hinged to the wall; it was swung open, revealing a massive steel wall safe, a key in the lock. In front of the windows were two three-seater settees in green leather, facing each other, and two matching easy chairs. There were three mahogany occasional tables and a glass-topped coffee table within easy reach of the seating. Against one wall stood a space age Bang and Olafsen music centre, with four large speakers in matt black dotted around the room. An open cocktail cabinet (its interior light on), displayed a varied selection of bottles and glasses; on one shelf stood two broad based cut-glass Rodney decanters for port and sherry. Below the cabinet was a small fridge.
There was a dining area, with a polished mahogany Georgian table and four Chippendale-style mahogany chairs. Adjacent to this was a study area, dominated by a wide writing desk with a green leather top – apart from a gold fountain pen and propelling pencil set, and a gold paper-knife, the surface was bare. In an antique Georgian glass-fronted book case I could see a few reference tomes on navigation (the bulk were probably kept on the bridge), some books on naval history, Lord Macaulay's History of England in four volumes, a collected set of the works of Thomas Hardy, Tolstoy's War and Peace in two volumes, and Nicholas Monsarrat's The Cruel Sea. I was mildly surprised to see on one shelf four of CS Forrester's Hornblower books (which I'd read in my teens). An open door led to the bedroom, from which opened the bathroom.
I had been here twice before, to treat the captain for sea-sickness, and to discuss my thoughts on the murders. Now the main cabin of the suite seemed crowded – I felt I had interrupted a conference. There was an atmosphere of crisis. Dominating the room was the chief officer, a harsh expression on his face, his eyes deep-set and unfathomable. Around him stood the navigator, the first officer, second officer McFee, and the senior surgeon. (The staff captain and another deck officer had replaced the duty officers on the bridge.) Between one settee and the coffee table lay Captain Horatio Butterworth, R.D., R.N.R.
�
�He's had an epileptic fit – he's dead alright ...” Charlie Hardcastle's voice was slurred; he was drunk even at this time of day. “Probably a cerebral haemorrhage. I've been treating him for hypertension for some time.”
Mr Kipper caught my eye, and nodded towards the body. I stooped down to perform my own examination. The captain's body seemed strangely deflated; there was no pulse, but he was still warm. I had no mirror, but I used a wine glass from the open cabinet, holding it near his mouth: there was no condensation of moisture – no evidence of breathing. From my Gladstone bag, I withdrew my ophthalmoscope, and examined his retinae. There was clear-cut cattle trucking of the retinal veins, confirming circulatory arrest. His face was pale rather than livid; the lips were drawn back in a snarl (“risus sardonicus”). The eyes were staring, head thrown back, fists clenched. There was no bruising, and no evidence of biting of the tongue. Could I smell almonds? I wasn't sure; in any case, I didn't consider this to be cyanide poisoning, so best not to mention it.
“This is not a fit,” I pronounced finally in my most authoritative manner. “This is strychnine poisoning.”
By the captain's side lay a brandy balloon, some moisture from the spilled contents on the carpet around it. However, the glass was empty, and appeared to have been wiped clean – doubtless to remove any fingerprints.
“I'm afraid I can't use an ordinary clinical thermometer to get an exact time of death,” I announced, but speaking more to myself than to the room. “It doesn't register low enough ... You'll have to narrow the time down by finding whoever saw him last.”
“Well, I saw him myself having an early lunch in the ward room. He dined alone,” volunteered the chief officer. “There must have been at least six other officers to corroborate that ... He left at twelve-thirty.”
Charles Hardcastle was shaking visibly; suddenly he collapsed at my feet. Was he faking? I suspected so. In the resulting pandemonium, I approached the chief officer.
“There's your man, Mr Kipper ...” I murmured softly. “I suggest you conduct a search of the ship for the strychnine ... but the best place to hide a tree is in a wood: so I would start with the pharmacy – Dr Hardcastle has a key.”
Too late, I remembered Uncle Tom's advice about my Sherlock Holmes moments. I could have bitten my tongue off.
“You go, Dr Scott. Take Mr McFee and Petty Officer Slater ... Report to me when you've done. In the meantime, we'll hold Dr Hardcastle in the cells; we'll get the ship's photographer to take shots of the captain's body before we bag him up and move him for storage to the cold room in the kitchens. He'll need a full forensic work up when we reach Southampton ...”
Christopher McFee had been on duty on the Bridge with the Navigation Officer, Mr Fordham. The Captain had been due to relieve the latter; when there was no sign of him by 14.20, they rang his cabin – no reply! Christopher had been sent down to investigate. Now he repeated to me what he had already told the chief officer.
“I found the corpse ... checked that he was dead, and immediately rang Mr Fordham on the Bridge ... The safe was open. When Mr Kipper arrived, he checked the contents ... The only things that seemed to be missing were the captain's cash, and the envelope with the burnt paper from the wireless cabin (the evidence from Parkin's death). The captain's own key was in the lock of the safe – but just about everyone on the Koh-i-Noor knew he kept it on the watch-chain in his waistcoat pocket ...”
All the pharmacy lights were blazing, and the three of us were making our way round, Roy Slater laboriously checking all the shelves and cupboards for any unauthorised bottles or packages. After almost three hours – nothing was found! Still, it's a big ship, I mused.
Back in my cabin, I took out the special buff folder, and resumed writing my deductions on a case, which was becoming more and more complicated. Why had the captain been murdered? Obviously, it was to remove the evidence found in the wireless cabin; more important than the message itself was the thumb-print – presumably belonging to the killer. As Christopher had said, it was general knowledge that the captain kept his keys on his fob-chain, which was easily accessible after his death. The loss of my camera now took on a new, more sinister perspective, as the original film would have (and still had) a copy of the thumb print! I hoped (indeed expected) that the killer had disposed of the camera without first developing the film. Perhaps the most puzzling question now was why had he used strychnine on the captain (and me), and not his knife. The answer came in a blinding flash: the slit throats were down to spur-of-the-moment decisions, the strychnine attempts were planned!
Chapter Eleven
Southampton, Saturday 11th September 1966
We arrived in Southampton at seven in the morning to a steely sky, a steady drizzle and the raucous cries of sea-gulls; yet I was overjoyed to be home again. To my surprise, I found a letter on my breakfast tray. Who could be writing to me so late in the voyage? The handwriting looked familiar: it was from my ex-fiancée, Barbara Clifton.
“Dearest Edwin,” it began, and alarm bells immediately rang in my head.
“I was such a fool to break off our engagement. Alistair has treated me shamefully ever since he took up his job as surgical registrar at Guy's Hospital. He refused to take me out more than once a week – said he was too busy at work. Eventually I found out that he was seeing another woman, his house surgeon at Guy's. I'm disappointed, heartbroken. I realize how lucky I am to have your love – remember how we had said that it would be forever? I want us to make it up and get back together. I have told Alistair that I don't wish to see him again. Can we arrange to meet as soon as the ship docks? Please write as soon as you receive this letter. All my love.
Yours ever,
Barbara.
xxx
I sat in my pyjamas and dressing-gown, lost in thought, while my coffee and toast grew cold. A few months ago, she had but to crook her little finger, and I would have come running. However, I had changed during the course of this fateful voyage. I was no longer the naïve and callow young man she had thrown over – on a whim. I no longer longed for her, I was no longer bewitched by her, I no longer loved her. Should I even reply to her letter? I would decide later, when I had had time to think things through ...
When I had showered, shaved and dressed, I entertained the Port Health Medical Officer in my cabin.
“I hear the senior surgeon is indisposed,” he remarked. I merely nodded.
After clearing the formalities, but before I could disembark, I had my fingerprints taken (again), and was directed by a uniformed police constable to the Purser's Office:
“Chief Inspector Pitt wonders if you could spare him a few moments before you leave the ship, sir.”
Wendy's friend Stew was leaving as I was about to enter the office. (Was he a suspect?)
Detective Chief Inspector Brian Pitt, a portly man in a three-piece charcoal pin-stripe suit, sat behind the desk.
“Take a seat over there, Edwin. Make yourself comfortable.”
He pointed with his unlit pipe. He had put on weight, and his thick curly hair was already beginning to recede.
When I had last seen him, he had been wearing the red peaked cap, Sam Browne belt and three stripes of a sergeant in the military police. However, we went back much further than that. We had been at school together. Although built like a tank, he had been gentle and softly-spoken in those days. The turning point in his life came when he was given the part of General Burgoyne in the school dramatic society's production of The Devil's Disciple; he had retained the brusque tough soldier's manner ever since, though I knew that underneath it all he remained the sweet-natured boy of before. He was one of my best friends; he joined Johnny East, Brian Thomas and me in the first intake to the Biology Sixth Form, and we became The Four Musketeers. He was made a prefect, and then School Captain; on leaving school, he gave up all ideas of a university education, in order to join up as a professional soldier. He managed to convince the Army of his tough nature, and was soon enrolled into the military police. B
rian was not stupid; he quickly found himself in Military Intelligence. When he was demobilised, after four years, he was taken on by New Scotland Yard, where he earned rapid promotion.
His speech now was slow, deliberate, still a trifle gruff:
“Just take your time ... tell me all you know about the murders on the SS Koh-i-Noor ... Oh, you remember D.S. Harrison ...” He nodded towards a burly man in shirtsleeves, perched on a chair in a corner of the room, preparing to take notes.
I gave him, Dear Reader, the story I have already recounted to you, together with my case-notes in the buff file labelled “Watson, John”. At the sight of the label on the folder, his eyebrow rose, and after a pause his face creased into a brief smile. Then he was all business again. He seemed especially interested in my account of the first radio officer's consultation with me on the day before his death. The urgency and confidentiality of the visit I had put down to his having pubic lice (“crabs”), which he hadn't wanted broadcast around the ship. However, during my examination of him, Parkin had commented on my newly-found reputation as a sleuth. I had told him of my interest in Sherlock Holmes and my admiration for his deductive reasoning in solving cases. I had even theorised that Fiona Henderson-Scott's death may not have been an accident – but murder! At this point Graham Parkin had become visibly perturbed.
Pitt also lingered over my account of the attempted break-in of my cabin in Balboa, and my rescue by Christopher McFee.
I mentioned the attempt to poison me, and produced from my pocket the screw-topped container with the remnants of gin, laced with what I suspected was strychnine.
“We'll have this analysed straight away.”
Finally, while his sergeant continued to scribble feverishly into his notebook (even though the tape recorder on the desk in front of me was taking down every word), the chief inspector cross-examined me about the events around the Captain's murder. I enumerated the points in my case against my senior colleague, Charles Hardcastle:
Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3) Page 19