Curse of the Purple Pearl

by Adrian Speed

  “You see, this is how I know you didn't kill Mr Peterson,” I replaced the bottle on the table. “At twelve thirty-five you had a cup of coffee delivered to your door. You had just enough time to stir in a drop of strychnine before you heard the gunshot next door. You replaced the bottle in your carpet bag–” I pointed to the modest bag by the port-hole. “And then you rushed to Mr Peterson's aid. You found him dead, with a wound to his temple. You already had suicide on your mind. You immediately put two and two together and assumed he had also committed suicide. You are both nervous, troubled souls. You thought you understood him and he you. It made sense to say he shot himself. Even though, I am afraid to say, the evidence disagrees.”

  “No,” Mrs Rothberg said, firmness building up as she said it. “No, I shot him!”

  “No lies, Mrs Rothberg, please,” I snapped. “You changed your story because you wanted to save him from a terrible fate, being buried in unconsecrated ground. A murder victim, even a murder victim of Mr Peterson's persuasion would be welcome in any church-ground under the sun. But a suicide would be lucky to be welcome anywhere, let alone a church.”

  “He...he–”

  “And then you still got your wish,” I stopped her. “You drank the coffee the moment you were returned to your room. You drank it, taking the poison with it. You assumed if you both died tonight you’d both gain Christian burials. If you lived you’d be hanged by the court and then probably returned to England and buried by your husband. There was no losing from your perspective, was there Mrs Rothberg?”

  “I–”

  “And I think you took a bit of pleasure knowing your husband would suffer in London if his wife was a murderess,” I sighed.

  “But that doesn't explain why she was holding the gun over his body, or the stole that was under his body,” Albert frowned.

  “The stole’s simple. Mrs Rothberg told us most of the truth. He asked to borrow her stole because he had caught a chill sitting up on the top deck in the rain,” I explained. “As to why Mrs Rothberg was holding the gun above his body? Well, that is unfortunately also very simple. Mrs Rothberg was an idiot and did it without thinking.”

  “What?”

  “Initially perhaps to try and dispose of it,” I suggested. “To hide the evidence of suicide. Or possibly just out of idiocy.”

  “I just wanted him to be at peace,” Mrs Rothberg said softly. “He was such a poor, nervous man.”

  “And now, Mrs Rothberg you have a choice,” I said. “You drank the poisoned coffee half an hour ago. If you're very lucky it will not have reached your blood stream yet.” I reached into my pocket and drew out another bottle. “This is ipecac,” I placed the bottle on the nightstand. “It will make you vomit up everything in your body. If you’re lucky, you’ll live.” I looked at Mrs Rothberg. She looked small, almost like a child. “It’s your choice, although I strongly advise you take the ipecac.” Mrs Rothberg closed her eyes. “I know you feel unloved and no-one in the world cares, but if you saw how your husband was acting when I interviewed him, how worried he was for you, I think you'd want to live.”

  I motioned to Albert and he made to leave.

  “If nothing else,” I added one final thing as I closed the door, “you can always buy more strychnine. It's difficult to buy more life.”

  *****

  “We shouldn't have done that,” Albert frowned as we stood out in the corridor. I had my eyes shut and seemed to almost be shivering. The two guarding the door ignored the detectives. “We should have made her take the emetic.”

  “It’s her life, her choice,” I said, trying to suppress my own desire to run inside and shove the entire bottle of ipecac down Mrs Rothberg's throat. “And even if she takes it, it’s possibly it’s too late to stop the poison. Strychnine is absorbed quite fast.”

  “Millions of people died in the last five years! Even more are dying of Spanish influenza! She has a duty to those people to live life to the fullest!” Albert's voice started to rise.

  “Does she?” I fixed him with a questioning look.

  “We all do!” Albert shouted. “Those men are not allowed to have died for nothing!”

  “If you say so, Albert.” I patted him on the arm. “We have a few more things to clear up before this is over. Come with me.”

  Albert and I walked to the wardroom. Both Mrs and Mr O'Connor had fallen asleep this time, and Major Stoat was dozing with a pipe between his lips. Mr Jones was still awake in the corner.

  “Mr Rothberg,” I said once we were inside. “If you’d like to talk to your wife, you may. I have everything I need from her.”

  “At last,” Mr Rothberg shot out of his chair like a cork, crossing the room in two strides. He paused though, as he passed Albert. “There was something more,” he said. “When I was passing the time here with you, I saw what I thought was a lightning flash outside. I assumed it was the storm. It was at about twelve thirty. I checked my watch as I had meant to count the thunder.”

  “That was after the rain stopped,” Albert said.

  “Yes, that is why I thought I'd mention it. At the time I thought nothing of it, but when I was left to think about things...” Mr Rothberg trailed off. He was blinking and avoiding eye contact with either of us. He shook his head and left.

  “Seven minutes before the gunshot,” Albert said to me. “It could have been a muzzle flash from a silenced gun.”

  “If the watch broke when he fell, and the time wasn't altered afterwards,” I said and put my thumbnail against my lip. “And silenced weapons are louder than that. We'd have heard it.” Lightning, I mused. “Ignore that for now.” I turned away from Albert. “Mr Jones?” David Jones tilted his head up from the depths of introspection.

  “Yes?”

  “Can we have a talk in private, please?” I asked, indicating the cabins behind me. Mr Jones shrugged, pulled himself upright and across the room. I led him to one of the empty cabins.

  “What do you need?” Mr Jones said, throwing himself down on the unmade bed and lounging on it.

  “I have been looking over your passport, Mr Jones,” I said. There was a spark from Mr Jones.

  “Bloody stupid business,” Mr Jones snarled and spoke quickly. “Before the war no-one had passports except government officials. If a man wanted to go to France or Germany or darkest Africa he just booked passage. There was a measure of trust. Now they won't let me in the country unless I have had my photograph stared at, as if that could stop a determined spy.”

  “You don't like passports?” I said in surprise.

  “Why would I? It's unnecessary bureaucracy.”

  “Well that might explain why yours is a fake,” I said with a smile. Mr Jones's eyes flared.

  “How dare you—”

  “The ink, you see,” I reached for Albert’s passport document and compared it to Mr Jones's. “It's very good, very similar. Even the ink, I think, is the same. Someone put a lot of effort into making the letters match those of an official government clerk, but they forgot one detail. At the government offices they are still using dip pens. This passport, your passport, is written with a modern fountain pen. The lines never go as thick, and there is never a sign it is running out of ink.”

  “Why on earth would I have a forged passport?” Mr Jones glared at me in disbelief. “I'm as English as they come.”

  “Are you?” I tapped the passport. “Born in the village of Grove, Berkshire, I note.”

  “And?” Mr Jones pressed me.

  “Well, you hardly have a Berkshire accent, Mr Jones,” I said.

  “A high quality education removes all trace of a vulgar accent, Miss Delaronde,” Mr Jones frowned. “I didn't grow up in Berkshire in any case. My mother gave birth there, that is all.”

  “So where did you grow up, Jones?” Albert pressed the matter.

  “School, mostly,” Mr Jones smiled. His witticism failed to help.

  “Which school, Jones?” Albert demanded.

  Mr Jones licked his lips and
looked from Albert to me warily. With a nervous eye twitch he spoke.

  “Ruthin, if you must know,” Mr Jones said.

  “Ruthin?” I looked to Albert.

  “Damned if I know it,” Albert shrugged.

  “It's in Denbighshire,” Mr Jones spoke as if he was reading is own death sentence. They still looked blank. “Wales.”

  “Why did you go to school in Wales?”

  “Because I'm a Welshman, all right?” Mr Jones shot up and paced the length of the tiny cabin. “And I work very hard, day and night, to make sure people don't know that. A passport would have announced to the entire world that I was Welsh.”

  “You don't want to be Welsh?” I looked surprised. Mr Jones looked as though I'd asked if he wanted a nail driven through each fingertip.

  “Of course I don't!” Mr Jones shouted. “I plan to put in an application to Queens' College next year! Do you think those Cambridge dons will let in a man who talks like he still has coal under his fingers?”

  “Surely they wouldn't discriminate against—” I started but Albert cut me off.

  “So where were you born, Mr Jones?” Albert said. “Where was so damning that you had to forge your passport?”

  “I was born in Chester,” Mr Jones said. His energy was winding down. The confession had drawn all the rage out of him. “But that's not the damning part.”

  “Then what is?”

  “My name is Dafydd, not David,” Mr Jones sighed. “Dafydd Jones, son of Dai and Myfanwy Jones. Son of a mining engineer, grandson of a coal miner.”

  “There's no reason to be ashamed of your heritage,” I said, my twenty-first-century perspective shining through. “You can't change who your parents were.”

  “We can't all be Canadian, Miss Delaronde,” Mr Jones fixed me with an envious eye. “To be Canadian or American is to be exotic, and strange. Beloved, perhaps, simply by being what you are. To be a Welshman in England is to be pitied at best or despised at worst. The best clubs would bar me. The best colleges would refuse to admit me. Even if I walk like them, talk like them and act like them, they'll call me a popinjay. If instead I say I am one of the Berkshire Joneses, with a small family estate tucked away in the Berkshire Downs no-one will question it. They won't even bother to look me up. I hide in plain sight, Miss Delaronde, as you did, pretending to be an heiress.”

  “There will be a time when the Welsh can be proud of who they are,” I said softly. “And when that comes you will either be despised as a traitor who threw away your heritage to become an Englishman, or you could be a hero to your people as one of their first great novelists of the twentieth century.”

  “I think not,” Mr Jones collapsed onto the bed. “Now is there something else or did you just want to rake me over the coals?”

  “We didn't want to rake you over the coals, but we had to be sure,” I said. “We had to get to the truth.”

  “In case I was an international jewel thief and murderer?” Mr Jones said darkly. “Are my skills as an actor really that strong? Should I saunter up to the Old Vic and demand a part when I return to England?”

  “The greatest of criminals are often the greatest of actors, Mr Jones,” I glared back. “And if you're so skilled at hiding your Welshhood, perhaps you should.”

  “I would rather write for the stage than appear on it. The words only have to be right once.”

  “Well, that will be all Mr Jones, you can return to the wardroom until the sailors have completed their search.” I opened the door to the cabin. Mr Jones left gratefully, pausing after going through it.

  “You won't tell anyone, will you?”

  “Only if I deem it necessary to the case,” I assured him and closed the door.

  “You think he could be the thief?” asked Albert when he was sure Mr Jones would be out of earshot.

  “I am not sure anyone on board could be the thief at this point,” I said slowly. “We must wait until we have the results of the search.” I could feel a wave of tiredness rush through me like a dark fog. Communication with the extremities was getting harder. “At least we cleared Mrs Rothberg.”

  “You look like you could do with some sleep,” Albert said, watching me sway. “I can hold the fort.”

  “Are you sure?” I tried to ignore another wave of exhaustion.

  “Since the war I rarely sleep when I don't need it,” Albert insisted. “Go, I'll wake you if there are any developments, or when the search is finished.”

  “Thank you,” I reached for the scrap of wood holding my bun in place, pulled it out and shook it loose. It felt like a great weight had been lifted from my scalp.

  “You know, I rather like you with your hair up,” Albert said. “The way your fringe stays loose, it's, er, very fetching.”

  “Well, I prefer it down,” I said, shaking my hair again to get it loose around my shoulders. I prodded him in the chest with the wood scrap. “And that's what matters.”

  Albert nodded, looking embarrassed. “Well, I'll see you in a few hours then.”

  “Good night, Albert.” I said, and left the room. I didn't remember hitting the pillow, I didn't even remember getting to my cabin. I just entered a swift, dreamless, dark sleep.

  Chapter XXIV

  “Nowhere?” I slapped my hand against the doorframe. Albert had woken me five minutes before. “You're telling me you can't find it anywhere?”

  “Sorry Miss Delaronde,” Parker turned his hat in his hands. “No blue wooden trunk. No purple pearl. Nothing.”

  “It can't have disappeared off the ship, man!” I shouted. “We're in the middle of darkest Africa!”

  “Well, Miss, I've been having a think about that,” Parker said slowly. “It’s not unfeasible a local canoe could, er, get quite close to the ship without us noticing.”

  “How close?”

  “Well on the night watch there's only one look-out,” Parker smiled with his eyes. “A small canoe in the dark would be hard to spot, and even one trunk would make a local man his fortune.” Parker coughed. “We are insured against theft to the value of two hundred thousand pounds.”

  “This pearl was worth much more than that,” I glowered at him. “Search the ship again.”

  “I just sent the lads to bed, miss.”

  “Then wake them and search again,” I demanded through gritted teeth. “There must be some nook or cranny you overlooked. I want every crevice on this boat ripped open and examined. Every single one.”

  Parker wobbled from foot to foot, weighing the options in his mind.

  “Yes miss, I'll get the day watch to do another search,” Parker wedged the cap on his head and left with a troubled expression.

  I checked my phone as Albert watched Parker leave; 05:13 a.m. I had had less than three hours sleep, but now I was too worked up to sleep again. I was tired of sitting below decks with the stench of murder and suspicion lingering in the hull.

  “Let's go up top,” I suggested. Dark shadows were forming under Albert's eyes, but he didn't seem nearly as sombre as when we had first been introduced.

  “Certainly,” Albert said, and nodded that I should lead on.

  Above decks the sky faded from grey to blue where the sun hid just behind the horizon. The river here was as wide as the Thames estuary. Islands dotted the centre. In the distance, towards the sunrise, the world rose into knobbly hills all coated with trees. Behind them the river disappeared towards the horizon, flat and beautiful as if an artist had taken a brush laden with cerulean and dragged it through thick black paint.

  “It could have been a local,” Albert said, walking along the gunwales. A village came in sight of the boat. It had a wooden jetty, and houses of mud and straw. If it had been painted white, with some black beams, it would not have seemed unlike the Tudor hovels that dotted the United Kingdom. “There's nothing stopping a local having a gun.”

  “There’s no evidence it was a local thief,” I said, irritated. “No witnesses, no sign of forced entry, no physical evidence left behind.�
�

  “There's also no evidence it was anyone else.” We were passing the ship’s command tower and smoking chimneys. “And there's no sign of the pearl anywhere on board.”

  “It has to be here.” I walked behind Albert as we approached the aft. “Why would a local thief go for your room? Why not the closest entry point?”

  “It’s possible it was the only unlocked room, considering Peterson was inside and awake. Or he looked through them all and thought my case was the most valuable.”

  “Then why the shards of the broken trunk?” I rested my hand on the gunwales above the propeller. The thrumming, churning waters beneath me blurred out all sounds of the early morning. “Those shards were someone trying to break the lock. They wanted to get inside the trunk, not just steal the whole thing. They wanted your pearl.” I frowned. “Mr Peterson was either in his room, asleep, or came in from outside, and found someone trying to break open your trunk. Mr Peterson reached for the pistol he had received from Mr O'Connor and before Mr Peterson could pull the trigger he was shot by the thief.”

  “Is there a way we can be certain the bullet that killed Peterson wasn't from his own gun?” asked Albert.

  “If you can find a doctor competent enough to perform a post-mortem,” I said dryly. “There is one thing that puzzles me, whether the thief was on board or not.” I slumped over the railings. “How did the wound enter Mr Peterson's temple, and not his forehead?”

  “I guess he could have been looking away,” Albert said. “He was a nervous chap.”

  “I can't accept that, Albert, I just can't.” I hid beneath my hair.

  “I think I can,” Albert turned away from me and faced the prow of the ship, leaning back and resting on the rails. “If it is someone on board we have no way of knowing anymore, and a local, unknown thief is as good an answer as any in those circumstances.”

  “But—”

  “I used to think the pearl was my last piece of Evelyn, but now it's gone.” Albert took a deep breath. “I know there is a piece of her that will never leave me. She and her idiot husband might be gone from the physical world but she's not gone from me.” I raised my head to look at Albert just as the sun burst over the distant hills. Light cascaded across the world like golden syrup. “It's time to focus on the future.” Albert's face lit up, first with sunlight, then with a smile. It was the same smile I'd seen when I met him in 1928.