Murder on the Caronia (14 page)

“I’ll ask Genevieve to interview her.”

“Warn her beforehand. Carrie Peterson is a creature of moods.”

“I’ll see what I can get out of Mr. Heritage.”

“Don’t play chess with him, whatever you do. He destroyed me. Oh, and don’t mention what happened to Sergeant Mulcaster,” he ordered. “There’s no need for them to know. They’d only take pleasure from the information.”

“They’re bound to ask where he is, Inspector.”

“Fob them off as best you can.”

“It would be helpful to know more details of the case.”

The inspector’s eyes began to flicker. “Of course, Mr. Dillman,” he said drowsily. “You can’t work in the dark. There’s a dossier on the table in the other room.”

“I’ll find it. You get some sleep.”

“Wake me if there are any developments.”

Dillman was firm. “No, Inspector. There’s nothing you’d be able to do in that state. Thank you for trusting in us,” he said. “We’ll try not to let you down.”

“I could never ride anything like that!” exclaimed Isadora Singleton with a giggle.

“You can, if I hold you on.”

“It’s far too big, Theo.”

“The saddle is as low as it can get.”

“Yes,” she pointed out, “but even so, it’s not designed for a lady.”

“I’m sorry about that, Isadora,” said Wright. “It’s the one I use in races. I’m not likely to win any of those on a lady’s bicycle, am I?”

“I’d love to see you try!” she said, shaking with mirth.

Isadora had come for her first lesson with some misgivings. Excited by the idea of learning to ride, she wondered if it was too perilous a venture to undertake, and she was terrified that her parents would find out she was alone with a young man. At Wright’s suggestion, they met in the storeroom where his machines were kept. Both bicycles had triangular steel frames and large wheels with dozens of spokes in them. The pneumatic tires were the best available. What frightened Isadora most were the dropped handlebars. She did not believe she could ever guide the machine with them.

“It’s built for speed, strength, and lightness,” explained Wright, stroking the crossbar with pride. “When bicycles were first made, they were as heavy as lead. Nobody could have ridden one of those from Bordeaux to Paris. They’ve improved a great deal over the years. This one, as you see, is stripped down to essentials.”

“It’s not very pretty.”

“It’s not meant to be, Isadora.”

“Some of my friends have very pretty bicycles.”

“This one has a pretty rider,” he joked, cocking his leg over the back wheel and sitting in the saddle. “It’ll have an even prettier one when we get you on here.”

“I’d be afraid to fall off.”

“Not when I’m here to catch you. Watch me. Balance is the key to cycling.”

After twisting the front wheel at an angle, he put both feet on the pedals, keeping his balance by making minor adjustments with the handlebars. Isadora was so impressed that she clapped her hands with glee. She had never seen such a clever balancing act in so confined a space. Eventually Wright put one toe to the floor to steady himself.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said.

“I could never do that.”

“I’m not asking you to, Isadora. I just want you to see what it’s like to sit in the saddle. Come on,” he said, dismounting. “I’ll hold you on.”

Her face clouded. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that, Theo.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe this is not such a good idea.”

Doubts afflicted her. She was less worried about sitting on the bicycle than being held in position by someone whom, when she thought about it, she had only known for a very short time. Her parents would be horrified and all her social instincts told her to thank Wright for his offer then bring the private lesson to a close. At the same time, however, she felt the exhilaration of doing something bold and forbidden, something that she had never foreseen when she stepped aboard the ship. Isadora was also reassured by Wright’s friendly grin. His manner had been respectful throughout. She reminded herself that he was no ordinary cyclist. Isadora would be given her first tuition by no less a person than the American champion. It was an honor.

“Just for a second, then,” she consented.

“Swell!”

“You’ll have to turn round, Theo.”

“What?” He realized what she meant. “Oh, sure.”

Wright turned his back so that she could hitch up her long skirt with one hand. Holding the bicycle with the other, she cocked her leg over the machine and felt for the saddle. It was hard and uncomfortable.

“How are you doing, Isadora?” he asked.

“Not too well. See for yourself.”

He turned round and saw that her toes were fully extended to touch the floor. Even though it was stationary, she was very wary of the machine. He bent down to flip the hem of her long skirt away from the chain.

“You don’t want to get oil on that lovely dress.”

“Mother would never forgive me.”

“Now, hold still,” he advised.

“What are you going to do?”

“Prove something to you, Isadora.” He took a firm grip on the saddle and the handlebars before grinning at her. “Take your feet off the floor now.”

“I daren’t do that, Theo.”

“Go on. I’ve got a firm grip.”

“It won’t be safe.”

“Just try—that’s all I ask.”

Isadora lifted one foot off the ground and put it on a pedal. Feeling as stable as she had before, she experimented by lifting her other toe an inch off the ground. Wright held the machine so tightly that it did not budge. Isadora was encouraged enough to risk putting her other foot on a pedal. She let out a cry of triumph.

“I can ride!” she cried. “I’m riding a bicycle at last.”

Wright laughed. “There’s a little more to it than that,” he warned.

* * *

Genevieve Masefield had convinced herself that Dillman must have sent the flowers. Before she could thank him, however, she needed confirmation. There was no florist aboard but the
Caronia
did have a large supply of flowers to be used as decoration on the tables in the first- and second-class restaurants. Evidently, her bouquet must have come from that source. She went to find out who had ordered them. Her journey took her past the lounge. Genevieve paused at the door when she saw that one of her potential admirers was there. Listening earnestly to what Frank Openshaw was saying, Stanley Chase gave an understanding nod from time to time. He did not look in her direction and Genevieve decided that he did not need to do so. Something about him told her he was probably not the man she was after. At heart, she guessed, he was a shrewd businessman who would rather listen to an investment opportunity than take a romantic interest in a woman on a transatlantic voyage. Genevieve turned away. Before she could go off to track down
the person who did send the flowers, however, she was confronted by a smiling Cecilia Robart.

“Good afternoon, Miss Masefield,” she said.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Robart.”

“How many other crimes have you solved?”

“None so far,” said Genevieve, noting her gold earrings. “Fortunately, we’ve had no more reports of theft as yet.”

“I’m sorry that you got one from me. As you see, I’m wearing the earrings,” said Cecilia Robart, brushing one of them with a finger. “I’m so careful with them now.”

“Good.”

“Were you looking for someone in the lounge?”

“No, no, Mrs. Robart.”

“I wondered if you had colleagues aboard. I suppose that you work in a team.”

“If only we did,” said Genevieve, careful to give nothing away. “It would make my life easier. No, I work alone, I’m afraid. Luckily, there are not too many calls on my time. Most passengers are very law-abiding.”

“That’s what Sir Harry was saying last night.”

“Sir Harry?”

“Sir Harry Fox-Holroyd. I sat next to him and his wife at dinner. They were delightful company,” she said. “Very unassuming. Anyway, Sir Harry was talking about the essential honesty in the Anglo-Saxon character. I agreed with him. He made an interesting point.”

“Oh?”

“Well, he admitted freely that we do have our criminal element in England, but it’s not a large one. The question we ought to be asking, Sir Harry said, was not why the small minority turned to crime but why the vast majority would never dream of it in a million years.” Mrs. Robart laughed. “I know that I wouldn’t, and it’s not simply out of fear of the consequences. It just seems so, well, foreign to our nature. Sir Harry was right about that.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not foreign to everyone’s nature,” said Genevieve.

“Quite. Look at those two killers we have aboard.”

“They’re only suspects, Mrs. Robart.”

“Yes, I know,” said the other woman. “And I’m ashamed that I had such silly fears earlier on. When there are Scotland Yard detectives aboard, we’ve nothing at all to worry about. Sir Harry reassured us about that,” she went on. “He spoke very highly of Scotland Yard. Apparently they had a robbery at their London home and the villains were caught within a matter of weeks.”

“Was the stolen property recovered?”

“Oh, yes. The thieves hadn’t managed to sell the jewelry.” She laughed again. “Scotland Yard is almost as efficient as you, Miss Masefield. Except that theirs was a real crime, of course, and the one I reported was not. Oh, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you,” she continued, putting a hand on Genevieve’s arm. “I got so flustered when I thought I’d lost my precious earrings. You put my mind at rest.”

“Good.”

“I know you wouldn’t take any reward but I’ll find a way to thank you somehow.”

After gently squeezing her arm, Cecilia Robart walked into the lounge to join two other ladies for afternoon tea. Genevieve was forced to revise her judgment. She had to accept the possibility that the flowers had not, in fact, been sent by any of the three men she had considered. They might have been a gift from a woman. She could still feel the touch of Mrs. Robart’s hand on her arm. The thought that it was she who might be the anonymous sender was troubling.

Given permission to speak to the prisoners, Dillman did not waste any time. Instead of interviewing John Heritage in his cell, however, he borrowed the office used by the master-at-arms. After introducing himself, Dillman explained why he was there. Heritage was pleased by what he saw as more humane treatment.

“Thank you, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “I appreciate this.”

“That cell is rather cramped for two people at the same time.”

“Inspector Redfern didn’t think so.”

“I prefer to do things my way.”

“But why has he sent you and not Sergeant Mulcaster? Does the inspector think that you’ll be able to wheedle things out of me?”

“Not at all,” Dillman said easily. “For obvious reasons, I took a professional interest in the case and the inspector was kind enough to allow me to speak to you. I’m not here to interrogate you, Mr. Heritage. I’m like a doctor who’s been called in to offer a second opinion. And you’re under no compulsion to answer my questions,” he added. “If you’d rather go back to your cell, just say the word.”

“No, no, I’ll stay here.”

“It might be to your advantage.”

“In what way?”

“Well,” said Dillman, “I’m not as familiar with the details of the case as Inspector Redfern and Sergeant Mulcaster. On the basis of what they know, they have no doubts at all about your guilt.”

“What about you?”

“I prefer to keep an open mind.”

Heritage was skeptical. “You’re still on their side, though, aren’t you?”

“I’m on nobody’s side. If what you say convinces me that you’re guilty, then that’s what I’ll report. But if, on the other hand,” emphasized Dillman, “I come to believe in your innocence, I’ll tell the inspector why.”

“Is that what you’re pretending to be—a defense barrister?”

“I’m not pretending to be anything,” Dillman said earnestly. “I don’t blame you for being suspicious. I’d feel the same in your position. After all, I’m an American. I’m not too familiar with the British legal system. But I’m here to listen, Mr. Heritage. So,” he offered, spreading his arms, “take me or leave me.”

Heritage studied him for a moment. Dillman seemed intelligent
and personable. He had none of the faint menace that hung around Sergeant Mulcaster nor the tenacious formality of Inspector Redfern. Nothing could be lost by talking to him. While the prisoner was making up his mind, Dillman was able to appraise him in turn. Being in custody had made Heritage look older. His eyes were ringed with fatigue, his forehead more deeply etched, and his beard more salted with gray. There was little in his appearance to suggest why Carrie Peterson had been attracted to him.

“Very well,” said Heritage at length. “Ask what you will.”

“Thank you.”

“But before you ask the obvious question—no, we did not kill my wife.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to ask you,” said Dillman. “I’m more interested to know if you were surprised when the police followed you to Ireland.”

“Extremely surprised.”

“Why?”

“Because we’d been careful to leave no trail.”

“There’s always a trail of some kind, Mr. Heritage.”

“We thought they’d have no reason to follow us.”

“A dead body is fairly strong motivation,” argued Dillman, “even if you were not responsible for the murder. When a wife dies, it falls to the husband to identify the body. They were bound to come looking for you. Then, of course, there was the matter of the money that you stole from the pharmacy account.”

Heritage was bitter. “I was owed that, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “It was small recompense for all the misery I’d had to put up with from my partner. I had no qualms at all about raiding the account. I was fairly certain that Stephen had been dipping into it himself without telling me.”

“Did Miss Peterson know where the money came from?”

“That’s a private matter.”

“In other words, you didn’t tell her.”

“I’ve given you my answer.”

“Did you make all the travel arrangements?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you choose Ireland?”

“Carrie has relatives there.”

“That was a mistake, Mr. Heritage,” said Dillman. “Relatives constitute a trail. So do close friends. The police always start with them when they’re hunting missing persons. To come back to your wife,” he continued, watching the other man closely. “If you didn’t kill her, she must have been alive when you left the house.”