Murder on the Caronia (20 page)

“Keep out of this,” said Wright.

“Let’s go, son.”

“No, Wes. Stop treating me like a kid, will you?”

“My job is to keep you on the rails.”

“I seem to be in the way,” Genevieve said apologetically. “Please excuse me.”

“Wait!” exclaimed Wright, holding her wrist.

“Let the lady go, Wes,” ordered his coach. “This is between me and you.”

“It isn’t, Wes. It’s between me and Genevieve. So leave us alone.”

“Not when you’re in this state. Now, calm down.”

“This is private.”

Odell turned on Genevieve. “I blame you for this, Miss Masefield.”

“I’d rather not be involved at all,” she said, detaching her wrist from Wright’s grip. “We’re creating a scene here. That won’t benefit any of us.”

“Do as I said,” warned Odell. “Keep away from him.”

Wright was outraged. “You said
that
to Genevieve?”

“It was only for your own good, Theo.”

“You dared to tell her to keep away from me?”

“Look,” said Genevieve, “I’m caught in the middle here and
it’s not a pleasant place to be. I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve unwittingly caused but I do think it’s best if I leave. Good night.”

She walked purposefully away and was relieved that Wright did not follow her. He was too busy arguing loudly with his coach. Genevieve did not relish the idea of meeting either of them the next day. When she got back to her cabin, she closed the door behind her and sat down to reflect on the evening. An hour slipped by until she heard a knock on the door. Fearing that it might be Wright, she was a little nervous.

“Yes?” she called.

“It’s me,” said Dillman.

“Thank heaven!”

She let him in and kissed him gratefully on the cheek. He smiled warmly.

“What was that for, Genevieve?”

“Being you,” she said. “To be more exact, for
not
being someone else.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll tell you later, George. It’s personal. It can wait until we’ve got the important things out of the way. Take a seat.”

“Thanks,” he said, lowering himself onto a chair. She sat opposite him. “How did you get on with Carrie Peterson?”

“I can’t really say.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s something of an enigma,” replied Genevieve. “I believed most of what she told me because it was patently true, but I never felt she trusted me. It made her very defensive. She withdrew into herself.”

“That’s understandable, I suppose.”

“She’s obviously under immense strain.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Genevieve’s account was substantially the one she had given to Inspector Redfern but she added more comment this time. Dillman found it absorbing.

“What’s your feeling, Genevieve?” he asked. “Accomplice or victim?”

“I don’t see her as an accomplice somehow. And yet, I wouldn’t say she was a victim, either. According to her, John Heritage would have been quite incapable of committing murder. But then,” she added, “Carrie Peterson is so deeply in love with him that she’s blind to his faults.”

“Killing his wife constitutes rather more than a fault.”

“If he
was
responsible.”

“Daniel Webb assures me that he was.”

“The old man who came forward as a witness?”

“That’s the fellow, Genevieve.”

“Why did you ask his opinion?”

“I didn’t,” said Dillman. “He gave it voluntarily.”

It was his turn to talk about an interview with a prisoner. After describing what he had learned from Heritage, he explained why Daniel Webb, a seasoned criminal, had finished up in the adjoining cell. Dillman was rueful.

“It was so stupid of me to buy him that whisky,” he said.

“It did the trick, George. It gave us our first vital clue.”

“I do wish we had a more reliable witness than Webb.”

“Only a drunken man would have been foolish to go out on deck in that weather last night,” she pointed out. “That’s why the killer felt safe enough to knock Sergeant Mulcaster unconscious before pushing him over the side of the ship. He was banking on the fact that nobody was watching.”

“Quite.”

“What interests me is Daniel Webb’s assessment of the prisoner.”

“He was adamant that Heritage was guilty,” said Dillman. “How much weight we can attach to his opinion, I don’t know. He was still drunk when he talked to Heritage and he was desperate to curry favor with me so that I’d get him released. He’s a scheming devil, Genevieve. He may just have been telling me what he thought I wanted to hear.”

“You say he has a prison record?”

“Quite a long one, it seems. Minor offenses, for the most part, though he did take part in a bungled bank robbery. He claims that taught him a lesson. Deciding to turn over a new leaf, he sailed for New York.” Dillman pulled a face. “He was surprised when the immigration authorities didn’t feel that he’d be a model American citizen.”

“It was brave of him to try, at his age.”

“Yes, Genevieve. But it soured him against my countrymen. That’s why he swung the whisky bottle at Ben Miller. Webb attacked the Carver brothers as well. They’re only crime was being American. I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t attack me.”

“You were his guardian angel, George. You gave him the whisky.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“What will happen to him?”

“The purser is going to let him cool his heels in that cell overnight. Mr. Taggart will review the situation in the morning. We must do the same.”

Genevieve sighed. “There’s so much to review.”

“Two murder cases on the same ship.”

“Fortunately, one of the crimes took place on dry land. Strictly speaking, it’s not our responsibility,” she said, “but I have to admit, it intrigues me. The problem is that we’ve only seen the prisoners separately. I’d like to meet them together.”

“The inspector wouldn’t permit it. Putting all that aside,” Dillman resumed, “tell me why I was given such a lovely welcome when I came in here. You said it was a personal matter. That usually means an unwanted suitor.”

“Theo Wright.”

“Really? How serious is it?”

“Too serious, George.”

“Has he made any kind of declaration?”

“He sent me those flowers,” she said, indicating the vase. “There was no card. Theo hoped that I’d guess it was him at
once. He cornered me twice this evening to ask me, in effect, if I feel the same way about him. It was embarrassing.”

“Can I help in any way?”

“No, it’s something I must handle for myself. I’ve had a lot of practice at keeping other suitors at arm’s length, but it’s more awkward in Theo’s case. I like him. And I was insulted when that surly coach of his ordered me to stop bothering him.” Genevieve was angry. “He made it sound as if it was
my
fault.”

“Ignore him. Odell has no right to talk to you that way.”

“I made that very clear to him, George. What he doesn’t realize is that there’s another complication for Theo.” She looked him in the eye. “This is confidential, mind. Odell must never find out.”

“Find out what?”

“Theo is teaching Isadora Singleton to ride a bicycle.”

“One of his racing machines?”

“Apparently. Her parents would go berserk if they knew about it. They’re taking Isadora to England to dangle her like a carrot in front of the eyes of society.”

“I know. The girl is a dollar princess.”

“That’s what the parents may imagine but Isadora has other ideas. Theo Wright is not just giving her secret riding lessons,” said Genevieve. “Without knowing it, he’s made her fall in love with him.”

The bitter argument with his coach had left Theodore Wright feeling hurt and resentful. He had been forced to back down. Wes Odell had reminded him that his success as a professional cyclist was largely due to expert coaching, and that Theo Wright would never—left to himself—have been able to travel first-class on a Cunard liner. There was sufficient truth in the charge to wound the cyclist deeply, but what upset him even more was Odell’s claim that Genevieve Masefield was beyond Theo’s reach in every way. Theodore Wright refused to accept that he was socially inferior. In his view, his glittering career in the saddle gave him the credentials to consort with anyone, and he sensed
Genevieve appreciated that. Theo was enraged to hear that his coach had actually warned her to stay away from him, and he was anxious to apologize to her. It seemed to explain her guarded behavior toward him. The one shred of consolation he had drawn from it all was that Genevieve had been thrilled to receive his flowers. His romantic gesture had not been rebuffed.

That thought was uppermost in his mind as he rode around the boat deck with an almost manic dedication. The pedals turned with mechanical precision, the wheels whirred, and the tires whistled on the wooden slats. He was determined to prove to his coach that what he did in his private life would not impair his ability as a cyclist. As he shot past Odell for the fiftieth time, the coach was duly astonished by the speed Wright was maintaining. Fury had put more power into Wright’s legs. He was pushing himself as hard as he would in a race, albeit restricted by the limited space.

A handful of spectators had come to watch the training run. Scattered around the boat deck, they stood well out of the way so that Wright could ride unimpeded. One of them stayed alone in the shadows, so nobody could see her. Isadora Singleton was enthralled. She had never seen anyone ride a bicycle so fast or with such consummate skill. Wright picked his way past obstacles as if they were not even there. Isadora was also exhilarated by her own daring, having sneaked out of her cabin when her parents had retired to bed. It gave her an extra tingle of excitement. She stared in wonder at Wright every time he went past. In his vest and knee-length shorts, he was an arresting sight. She could see the muscles in his legs and shoulders. The combination of grace and strength was awe-inspiring. Isadora could have watched all night.

When the training session was over, Wright sat up in the saddle and freewheeled up to his coach. The cyclist was sweating profusely from his exertions.

“How was I?” he asked.

“Pretty good.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” replied Odell, glancing at his stopwatch. “You were terrific and you know it. You were the Theo Wright of old. Now, put this around you,” he went on, slipping a towel around the cyclist’s shoulders. “You mustn’t catch a chill.”

“We need to talk, Wes. About things.”

“In the morning.”

“This is important.”

“So is giving you your rubdown,” said Odell. “Come on. I’ve made some more of that ointment for you. That’s what you need now. Forget our differences for one night. It will all look very different in the morning.”

“Not to me,” said Wright.

When he left Genevieve Masefield’s cabin, Dillman did not return to his own. Instead he trawled casually through the lounges in every part of the ship. They were still quite full when he got there and he made sure he studied all the faces with care. One of them, he believed, might belong to the killer of Sergeant Mulcaster. Initially, he had ruled out third class and steerage because passengers there were confined to their own congested areas and unlikely to venture anywhere near the cabin occupied by the Scotland Yard detectives. His experience with Daniel Webb had compelled him to revise that judgment. The old man had shown himself capable of surprising violence; those younger and fitter than him could be lethal. Where better to hide on the
Caronia
than in one of the crowded lower decks? Someone with a grudge against Sergeant Mulcaster might well be traveling in the cheapest section of the vessel.

Dillman’s problem was that he stood out. In the first- and second-class lounges, a handsome man in evening dress was a common sight. Among steerage passengers, he was all too prominent and more than one sneering voice could be overheard complaining that he was a toff from first class who had come down to stare at them as if they were wild animals in a zoo. Dillman persisted nevertheless, getting a feel of the place and noting the privations they had to endure. His tour of inspection
was long and interesting but it yielded no positive results. It was past midnight when he made his way back up through the various levels, pausing on the promenade deck to gaze out at the sea. Illumined by a half-moon, the ocean was an eternity of restless whitecapped waves. Somewhere in that eternity was the man he had first seen boarding the ship with a shotgun under his arm. Sergeant Mulcaster would not require his weapon now.

Dillman stayed long enough to review what little evidence they had, then moved off in the direction of his cabin. As he turned into the long corridor, he heard a door opening at the far end and stepped smartly back around the corner and into a recess. Footsteps came toward him and, without even looking, he felt certain he knew their owner. It was Ramsey Leach. Carrying the same small case as before, he crept furtively along the corridor and turned left, not realizing that Dillman was lurking in a recess only a few yards behind him. After giving Leach time to reach the end of the passageway, the detective came out of his hiding place and gave pursuit. As soon as Leach went around the next corner, Dillman stretched his legs to increase speed. He reached the corner just in time. When he peered around it, he saw Leach disappearing swiftly into a cabin.

So much, Dillman thought, for the undertaker’s claim that he went early to bed. The impression he had given of being without any friends on the ship was also false. Someone had let him in as if he was expected. But the real question hung over the contents of the funeral casket stored below. Dillman wished he could take a closer look at it. Meanwhile he strolled quietly along the corridor until he came to the cabin Leach had entered. After memorizing its number, he went off to bed.

* * *

In spite of her late night, Isadora Singleton was up early to watch Theo in action once again. Blinking in the morning sunlight, she stood on the boat deck while he kept to his punishing
schedule. She could admire his lithe body and his sense of rhythm more easily now that she could see them properly. Isadora made sure she would not be spotted by Wes Odell, but her feelings for Wright were too strong to be denied. She wanted him to know that she was there to support him. Waiting until he approached yet again, she stepped out to give him a wave. Wright grinned in surprise and blew her a cheerful kiss as he surged past.