Ransom at Sea (18 page)

“I see. How long would you say you and Brock were apart from Ms. Langstrom?”

“Not more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

“I understand Mr. Brock went to find her.”

“He's a class-A mama's boy! Got all worried about Muriel. Said we shouldn't have done it.”

“You didn't go with him.”

Driscoll swatted the air with his right hand. “By that time I was tired of the two of them. I thought I'd just stay on my own. What's this got to do with Marcella, anyway?”

“I just need to check where everyone was at the time of the murder.”

Some of the redness began to drain from Driscoll's face. “See? Like I said, I was off in the woods.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and took another drink.

“How long were you on your own?”

“No idea.”

“Did you check your watch at all?”

“My—?” He stopped, his expression creased with puzzlement. Then it lightened as he laughed. “Oh. No, I don't wear a watch. What I said before about checking to see that my watch was still there, that was just a figure of speech, as they say.”

“Um-hmm. Could you estimate how long you were on your own?”

“I'm … really bad at things like that.”

“Ten minutes? Fifteen? Twenty?”

“Oh, I'd say at least twenty, I guess.”

“Could it have been half an hour?”

“I suppose.”

Ransom pursed his lips reflectively. “Hmm.”

“What?” Driscoll asked apprehensively.

“Well, Mr. Brock did find Ms. Langstrom, so they can alibi each other—”

He went completely white. “Alibi!”

Ransom ignored the interruption and continued pointedly. “But what you're telling me is that you had possibly a half hour or more in between the time Brock last saw you and when you met Ms. Charters and Ms. Francis—which would be just after the murder—during which you can't account for yourself.”

Driscoll stammered, “But … but I was heading back to the boat when I ran into Emily.”

Ransom shrugged again. “Nothing could be easier than to go up the beach from the boat, then come back down the path by the road and appear to be just returning.”

The old man looked positively horrified. “You can't believe I'd do something like that!”

“It's a theory. Of course, I still have a lot of people to question before I come to any conclusions.”

Ransom slid off his stool and looked at Driscoll meaningfully. “It's really a shame you didn't stay with your friends.”

Pleased with himself, he left Driscoll gaping after him and went out through the starboard door of the dining room. Then he went down the stairs to the blue deck.

At the bottom he turned into the small vestibule between the passengers' and crews' cabins. He pulled aside the heavy curtain that closed off the section to his left and found the crew's quarters: two doors on each side, and one at the end of the brief hallway. He closed the curtain, turned around and went into the passenger's corridor.

Ransom opened the door to cabin 8 and was surprised to find Emily seated on the chair next to the nightstand, her hands patiently folded in the lap of her light blue dress, rather like a schoolmarm waiting for a tardy pupil. Ransom went into the room and closed the door.

“You took longer to get down here than I expected. Did something happen?”

“I ran into Mr. Driscoll in the lounge.”

“Ah, well, I wanted to show you how we found the body. She was here.” Emily gestured along the bed. “Her head was against this corner, and the lamp was on the pillow by her head—a lamp shaped like a compass, with a very heavy base. There's one like it in my room. I assume it was tossed there, since she certainly must've been struck down before she was strangled.”

“Hmm.”

There was a pause, then Emily asked, “What did Mr. Driscoll have to say for himself?”

“The same thing he told the sheriff. I left a rather large flea in his ear.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. I pointed out the fact that his little prank left him without an alibi.”

She broke into an amused grin. “I see.”

He sighed. “The trouble is, as much as I'd like to find him guilty of something other than being a clod, I don't think Mr. Driscoll works very well as a suspect.”

“How so?”

“The coincidence factor. If he planned to kill Marcella Hemsley, I could imagine him coming up with a reason to ditch his friends and making it seem like a spur-of-the-moment thing … even picking a fight with one of them and storming off would've done it. But this elaborate plan of ditching them?… Could he have counted on Jackson Brock to leave him to go looking for Miss Hemsley?”

“Well, of course I don't know Mr. Brock very well, but actually that's exactly what I would've expected him to do. He's the type of man who can be swept along in the moment, but who I think can be relied upon to feel remorse and try to set things right.”

Ransom shrugged. “You would know best.”

“There is one thing I'm sure of,” said Emily. “Mr. Driscoll did not expect Muriel to be accompanying them. She rather forced herself on them. In fact, he asked the rest of us if we would come along.”

“That seems to let Driscoll out.”

“Does it?” Emily said rather vaguely. “Hmm … I wonder…”

“What?”

“If it had been Mr. Driscoll's
plan,
I think it would've been fairly easy for him to lose Jackson Brock in the woods. Under most circumstances, it would've been far more difficult for him to disappear with a third person there to notice. But having Muriel's presence thrust upon him, don't you think it would be safer for him to have the rest of us? It would be far easier for him to lag behind and disappear from a group who were all chatting together.”

“Perhaps,” Ransom said doubtfully. “It would be taking an awful risk.”

“Yes, but Jeremy, I don't think anyone planned to kill Marcella—”

“Ruling out her niece.”

“Yes, ruling out Rebecca.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because nobody expected Marcella to be on the boat. She was supposed to be off on a hike.”

“Oh, of course.” He sighed again. “That being the case, the most logical scenario is that she came back to the boat and surprised someone in her cabin. And since you all had left the boat, except for Miss DuPree, who I could hardly imagine throttling anyone, the most likely people to suspect would be the crew, except that they were all gone as well, except for the cook.” He paused and a grin spread across his face.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Emily asked, noting the impish curl to his lips.

“I had a very brief word with David Douglas. He seems a very natural person to suspect.”

“Ah, yes,” she said with a nod. “Mr. Douglas strikes me as rather the lovable rogue; perhaps harmless, perhaps not, but I would say almost completely disingenuous. Although I think—” She stopped abruptly and her face lit with surprise, her right hand going absently to her cheek. “Oh, dear! I hadn't thought about that!”

“What?” Ransom said with some frustration when she didn't continue. It was a rare taste of the treatment he usually gave to Gerald.

“Something that I noticed without realizing that I'd noticed it. At our first meal on board—it was lunch, the day we left. It was the first time Marcella made something of a scene…”

“I'll never know unless you tell me, Emily,” Ransom said after a pause.

“Oh! I'm sorry. It's just—like so many things I've noticed, it might be nothing … and yet…” She suddenly shifted in her seat as if getting down to business. “Well, you see, David was moving among the tables serving drinks. After he'd left ours, I asked Rebecca what she thought of him—”

“You did?” Ransom said, raising his right eyebrow.

Emily went a bit pink. “Yes. Anyway, Marcella interrupted and said, ‘He's a tart,' I believe it was, and Rebecca attempted to shush her. But Marcella added something to the effect of ‘I know the type and I've seen them before.' I just happened to notice Mr. Douglas glancing at her from over his shoulder in a way that certainly didn't inspire confidence.”

She stopped and sat looking at him.

“Yes?”

“Oh! I forgot that you didn't know Marcella. She had a habit of talking in a rather countrified manner. What she actually said was, ‘I've seen
'em
before.”

After a pause, Ransom said, “I'm sorry, Emily, I'm still lost.”

“You see, I understood what Marcella was saying: I know his type, I've seen
them
before. But she abbreviated the word, and Mr. Douglas was overhearing it. It's possible he thought she said, ‘I've seen
him
before,' and that's what prompted the look.”

“Yes,” Ransom said doubtfully. “Or the look could've meant that he thought she was being a nuisance.”

Emily sighed. “Unfortunately, that is a very real possibility.”

“So what we're left with is the crew, only one of whom was onboard when Miss Hemsley returned, or Rebecca, who was at that point the only one we know of who went back to the boat.…”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” Emily said after pursing her lips for a moment. “Any of the passengers, with the possible exception of Muriel and Mr. Brock—unless they're in it together … I suppose the same would be true of the Millers—could've come back to the boat after the captain and crew left, and have been caught by Marcella.”

“Unseen?”

“It's possible.”

Ransom pursed his lips. “What does your little sentinel, Lily DuPree, have to say about the comings and goings aboard ship? I take it you managed to have your chat.”

“Actually, she confirmed that she was dozing, so didn't know anything for certain. She saw the captain and his wife leave, and Joaquin and David, but after that she doesn't know anything definite. She has some vague memory of hearing footsteps later, but that could easily be something she's imagined since the murder. Lily is the type who rather enjoys a scandal.”

Ransom sighed heavily, slowly shaking his head.

“What's the matter?” Emily asked.

“Whether or not someone was here when Marcella Hemsley returned, the idea of her walking in on someone doesn't explain why Rebecca didn't find her when she—”

He broke off suddenly at the sound of a light rap against the wall beside the bed. Both he and Emily froze in place, but the sound didn't repeat. Ransom sprang off the bed.

“Stay here,” he said to Emily.

He went out into the hallway. It was empty, but the door to cabin 6 was ajar. He went to it slowly and quietly, careful not to make any noise. He listened at the door for a moment and could hear movement within. Then with his hand on the door handle, he slowly pushed it open. A diminutive young man with black hair and a white uniform was bent over the bed, smoothing out the navy blue blanket.

“Excuse me,” said the detective.

The young man jumped sharply and wheeled around in a way so reminiscent of British farce that Ransom almost laughed.

“You must be the steward, Joaquin Vasquez?”

“Yes,” Hoke answered, nodding his head like a dashboard doll.

“I'm Detective Ransom. I'd like to speak with you.”

“You would? The sheriff already talked to me. I don't know anything.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Ransom came in to the room and gestured toward the bed. “Please, sit down.”

“There?” Hoke sounded as awestruck as if he'd just been asked to accede to a throne.

“Yes. It will be all right.”

There was a lengthy hesitation before Hoke complied, and even when he did he lowered himself onto the bed with a great deal of reticence. He sat on the edge with his back painfully straight and his hands on his knees. The fear was unmistakable behind his bright brown eyes.

“After the passengers left the boat yesterday,” Ransom asked, “what did you do?”

“What did I do? Why do you ask me that? I didn't do anything. I've never been in any trouble!”

Ransom couldn't help smiling. “I'm just trying to get a line on where everyone was at the time of the murder.”

“But—”

He raised a palm to stem the tide of protest. “And you can help me do that. Since you were on the boat after the passengers left, you may have seen or heard something important.”

“I didn't hear anything.”

“All right. What did you do after the passengers left?”

“Just what I do now. I clean the cabins and make up the beds.”

“Were you aware that Captain and Mrs. Farraday had left the boat?”

He nodded. “David tell me—told me.”

“And while you were still working, you didn't hear anyone come back to the boat?”

“No. I told the sheriff. No.”

“You didn't hear Miss Hemsley return?”

“No.”

“And since you were working down here, you would've heard her if she came back while you were still here?”

There was a hint of a smile on Hoke's face. “I think so. Unless she was sneaking.”

“Hmm?”

“She was kind of noisy, usually.”

Ransom returned the smile. “I see. I understand that you and David left the boat.”

“Yes. I was done with my work—for now. I mean, for then.”

“Did you go together?”

“No. David said he was going to go ashore. When I was through with the rooms, I looked for him, but he'd already gone. So I went.”

“What did you do when you were ashore?”

“Me? I didn't do anything,” Hoke said anxiously, as if he thought he were being accused of something.

“No, what I'm trying to find out is if you saw anyone while you were off the boat. Remember, I told you I'm trying to figure out where everyone
else
was at the time of the murder.” He had stressed the word in order to allay the steward's obvious fears, and hopefully enlist his aid.