CHAPTER THREE

Nobody could accuse Frank Openshaw of hiding his light under a bushel. It blazed before him like a small bonfire. He was a big man in every way. The large body with the wide shoulders and the huge paunch was matched by a loud voice that carried his North Country vowels well beyond the ears of his companions. Nearing sixty, Openshaw had the energy and brio of someone much younger. Since he found himself sitting opposite the ebullient Yorkshireman, Dillman soon heard the story of his life. Sitting back in his chair, Openshaw scratched at one of his muttonchop whiskers and held forth.

‘When I were a lad,’ he said with a wistful smile, ‘I thought a financier was a fella that kept pigeons. I’d no idea what he really did and I never thought for a moment I’d end up as one myself. Happen I’d be a chimney sweep like my dad, I thought, or go down pit like two of my uncles.’ He laughed throatily. ‘There’s not much call for financial know-how in jobs like that. Any rate, my elder brother, Bert, helped Dad to sweep chimneys so there was no place for me there, and, when one of my uncles was killed in a pit explosion, I lost all interest in being a miner.’

‘So what did you do?’ asked Dillman.

‘Became a bricklayer.’ He displayed two massive hands. ‘These have done their share of hard work, I can promise you. Covered in cuts and blisters, they were, for the first three months in the trade. Then they hardened off. So did I.’

‘Tell them about the house, Frank,’ prompted his wife.

‘I was just about to, Kitty.’

‘He built our first house all by himself,’ she announced proudly. ‘Except that we didn’t know we’d live there because we hadn’t even met then. Properly, I mean.’

‘We’d seen each other,’ said her husband. ‘That was enough for me.’

He gave another throaty laugh and pulled his waistcoat down over his paunch. Dillman was interested to see the way the couple behaved towards each other. After almost forty years of marriage, there was still a visible spark of romance between them. Kitty Openshaw was a short, roly-poly woman with a chubby face that gleamed with pleasure. There was a touching humility about her. She had never quite got used to the idea that her husband was a millionaire, and a look of amazement – Is this really happening to me? – occasionally came into her eye.

‘Tell them about the house,’ she repeated, nudging Openshaw.

‘I built a house not far from Bradford,’ he said. ‘Singlehanded. Well, that’s what I tell everyone but I used both hands, really. Took me ages. I couldn’t afford the bricks, you see, so I built it up room by room. It were my hobby at first, then I thought, “Hey, wait a minute, Frank Openshaw, there’s a chance to make some brass here.” So that’s what I did. When the place was only half-built, I rented out the bit that had a roof, then used that money to buy more materials. So it went on. By the time I’d finished, I’d rented out two more rooms. Just think on it. I were nowt but a struggling young bricklayer yet I were a landlord as well.’

‘Then he met me,’ said Kitty with a coy smile. ‘Properly, I mean.’

‘We soon needed the house to ourselves then.’

‘Frank always had plans. That’s what I liked about him.’

‘Never settle for less,’ boomed Openshaw. ‘That’s my motto.’

Dinner on the first evening afloat was a relatively informal affair but many of the ladies wore full-length gowns and a few of the men opted for white tie and tails. Dillman, like Openshaw, wore a smart three-piece suit. The first-class restaurant was a large room with elaborate decoration and an abiding sense of opulence. As in all public rooms aboard, skylights and a domed ceiling were used to add more light and to create an impression of space. Long tables were set parallel to each other and the upholstered chairs, revolving for convenience, were fixed securely to the floor. Dillman sat directly opposite Kitty Openshaw To his right, facing Openshaw himself, was a man named Ramsey Leach, a diffident individual who seemed to be overwhelmed by the buoyant Yorkshireman and who had completely withdrawn into his shell. Leach was a thin, nervous, balding man in his late thirties. He was returning to England after his first visit to New York but was reluctant to talk about the trip. Dillman felt sorry for him and tried in vain to draw him into the conversation. Leach preferred to remain silent, concentrating on his food, and throwing a glance over his shoulder from time to time. Dillman had a feeling the man would make sure he never sat in the shadow of Frank Openshaw again.

‘And that’s how I realised I had a gift,’ said Openshaw, coming to the end of another chapter of his autobiography. ‘I had this knack of seeing an opening and going through it. That’s all it was. The guts to take a chance.’ He paused to allow a waiter to remove his plate. ‘What line are you in, Mr Leach?’

‘I inherited the family business in Tunbridge Wells,’ Leach mumbled.

‘Have you got a factory or something?’

‘Not exactly, Mr Openshaw.’

‘What do you make, then?’

‘Nothing.’ Leach squirmed in his seat before revealing his profession. ‘I’m a funeral director,’ he said. ‘An undertaker.’

‘I’d call you a fool,’ teased Openshaw with a loud guffaw. ‘Get yourself out of that trade, lad. It’s a dead-end job.’

Leach gave the weary smile of a man who had heard the gibe a thousand times. He was grateful when Openshaw turned his attention to Dillman. After waiting until the next course was served, Openshaw gave another tug on his waistcoat then raised an eyebrow.

‘What about you, Mr Dillman?’ he asked. ‘How do you earn a crust?’

‘Not as a financier, alas,’ replied Dillman. ‘I’m like Mr Leach. I went into the family business in Boston.’

‘Burying the dead?’

‘Quite the reverse, Mr Openshaw. We try to bring excitement to the living. We design and build oceangoing yachts. They’re tiny by comparison with a vessel like the Caronia, of course, but they have a definite market.’

‘I know. Kitty and I have had a cruise or two on private yachts.’

‘We went all round the Mediterranean,’ she added. ‘It were grand.’

‘Yachts, eh? How d’you start designing a thing like that, Mr Dillman?’

‘It’s a question of trial and error,’ said Dillman.

He talked knowledgeably about his former profession, throwing in enough information to interest them but taking care not to confuse them with technicalities. What he did not tell them was that he had disappointed his father by leaving the firm, then outraged him by trying to make a living on the stage. For the purposes of the voyage, Dillman was content to be identified as someone employed in the nautical world. It was a useful disguise. While he liked to talk, Openshaw could also listen. He and his wife were fascinated by what they learned. Leach, too, took an interest in what Dillman told them. The undertaker was sufficiently engaged to venture a remark.

‘So,’ he noted, ‘we have a sailor in our midst, do we?’

‘A yachtsman,’ said Dillman. ‘Someone who sails for pleasure rather than for pay.’

‘There’s money to be made in pleasure,’ argued Openshaw. ‘And I don’t mean the sordid kind, either. I’ll have nowt to do with that. Back in England, I own two theatres and a music hall. Aye, and I’ve a hotel in Scarborough and another in Blackpool. Holiday resorts, both of them. Invest in pleasure and there’s no limit to what you can do.’

‘Frank proved that,’ said his adoring wife.

‘I did, Kitty, even though I say so myself. ‘Frank by name and frank by nature,’ that’s me. I may blow my own trumpet but you’ve got to admit that it’s a damn good instrument. Trust,’ he declared. ‘That’s been my watchword. My whole career has been built on trust. In all this time, I’ve never once had a complaint from a business associate or an investor. We trust each other. What about you, Mr Leach?’ he said, switching his gaze to the funeral director. ‘I bet that none of your clients have ever complained, have they? Hardly in a position to do so, six feet under the ground.’

Dillman could feel his neighbour wincing with embarrassment.

Genevieve Masefield had a problem. The more she got to know Isadora Singleton, the more she liked her. The girl had a blend of intelligence and naivete that was endearing. But she was quickly forming a dependency on Genevieve that was worrying, turning to her for advice and using her as a legitimate means to escape the vigilance of her parents. Seated beside her in the restaurant, Genevieve was able to further her acquaintance with the whole family. Opposite her were Waldo and Maria Singleton, a couple who looked so irrevocably married that it was difficult to believe they ever spent an hour apart. Waldo Singleton was a tall, stooping man with wispy red hair curling around the edges of a domed forehead. He had made a fortune out of selling real estate to rich clients but Genevieve caught the whiff of Old Money as well. Only the most expensive tailor could have made his suit. His wife, too, advertised their wealth in subtle ways. Her beauty had faded slightly and her midriff had thickened but she was still a handsome woman. What Genevieve objected to was the woman’s blatant snobbery.

‘We should have travelled on the Lusitania,’ said Maria Singleton. ‘That’s the finest of the Cunarders.’

‘The Mauretania is supposed to be marginally faster, my dear,’ said Singleton.

‘It’s not the speed that concerns me, Waldo, but the food. This meal is pleasant enough in its own way but it lacks character. It needs more individuality. The Ferridays sailed on the Lusitania earlier this year and said that the cuisine was beyond compare. They talked about nothing else for weeks. Haddon Ferriday was so impressed that he gave the chef a hundred-dollar tip at the end of both crossings.’

‘Haddon always was ridiculously extravagant.’

‘The Lusitania has so much more class, Waldo.’

‘Yes,’ said Isadora impulsively, ‘but the Caronia has something even better. It has Genevieve on board and she’s worth more than a hundred chefs.’

‘Thank you,’ said Genevieve, discomfited by the comment. ‘As long as you don’t ask me to cook. My skills in the kitchen are very limited, I’m afraid.’

‘Mine are non-existent,’ Maria proclaimed, as if it were an achievement. ‘And so they should be. Why toil at the stove when you have servants? Our cook is the best in the neighbourhood.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Why didn’t we sail on the Lusitania?’

‘I was unable to book passages on her, my dear.’

‘She’s a very popular ship,’ Genevieve confirmed. ‘And rightly so. I was fortunate enough to sail on her maiden voyage and it was a wondrous experience.’

Isadora was excited. ‘I bet it was. Tell us about it.’

‘Yes,’ encouraged Singleton. ‘Is she really all she’s cracked up to be?’

‘According to the Ferridays, she is,’ said Maria. ‘They were enchanted. And not only by the meals. Haddon Ferriday said it was like sailing in a luxury hotel.’

‘Is that how it was, Genevieve?’ pressed Isadora. ‘Do tell us.’

‘How does it compare with the Caronia,’ asked her father.

Genevieve took a deep breath and weighed her words carefully before answering. In fact she had sailed on the Lusitania a number of times but she did not wish to give the impression of being too familiar with it. As far as the Singletons were concerned, she had been visiting America to stay with friends. They must never be allowed to suspect that she had a professional connection with the Cunard Line. The Lusitania would always hold a special place in her affections because it was on the ship’s maiden voyage that Genevieve first met Dillman, an encounter that was to alter the whole direction of her life. That fact, too, would be concealed from the Singletons, though it gave her a warm glow simply to remember the event. A smile touched her lips.

‘It’s difficult to know where to begin,’ she said.

She described the vessel as best she could and talked about the unique atmosphere of a maiden voyage. Isadora was enthralled, Singleton was intrigued, and Maria kept saying she wished they had been sailing on the Lusitania. The trouble was that Genevieve was distracted slightly by a conversation going on to her left. While giving her own brief lecture, she also tried to listen to what was being said elsewhere. Two men and a woman, all American, were involved in a breathless conversation.

‘Who told you that, Harvey?’ asked one man.

‘I saw them being escorted onto the ship,’ replied the other. ‘They looked as guilty as anything. And they were obviously dangerous. There were two cops and a detective with a shotgun.’

The woman was shocked. ‘What can they possibly have done?’

‘My guess is that they’re killers.’

‘Harvey!’

‘What else can they be, Millicent?’ Harvey said knowingly. ‘They wouldn’t get that kind of treatment for simply failing to pay a hotel bill. I mean, why are they being taken to England?’

‘Because they’re wanted by the cops over there,’ the other man decided.

‘Exactly, Douglas. And they wouldn’t send two detectives all this way for nothing. There must be a high price on their heads.’

‘I’d love to know the details,’ said Douglas.

‘Well, l wouldn’t,’ protested Millicent. ‘I don’t want to cross the Atlantic in the company of a pair of murderers. And you say that one of them was a woman?’

‘Yes,’ replied Harvey. ‘She was about your age, Millicent. But she had the hard-bitten look of a criminal. So did he. I’d believe anything of those two.’

Their talk turned to another subject and Genevieve was able to close her ears to them. She concluded her account of her crossing on the Lusitania then fielded a number of questions from the Singletons. But her mind kept straying back to what she had just overheard. In common with Dillman, she had been impressed by Inspector Redfern and troubled by Sergeant Mulcaster. Genevieve did not envy anyone who was kept in custody by the man with the walrus moustache. He would be a stern jailer. If the pair were guilty of their alleged crime, she wanted them to pay for it. That did not, however, prevent her from having a lingering sympathy for them, especially for the woman.

‘What was the food like on the Lusitania?’ asked Maria Singleton.

‘Almost as delicious as this,’ said Genevieve, before addressing herself to her rib of beef. ‘I couldn’t fault it, Mrs Singleton.’

Carrie Peterson had a different opinion of the cuisine on board. The meal that had been specially prepared for her stood untouched on the tray All she consented to do was to drink the glass of water that accompanied it. Inspector Redfern was concerned.

‘You have to eat, Miss Peterson,’ he said gently.

‘I’m not hungry,’ she murmured.

‘It’s good food. We had exactly the same ourselves.’

‘Very tasty,’ said Sergeant Mulcaster, licking his lips. ‘Try it.’

‘No, thank you,’ she whispered.

‘It’s for your own good,’ coaxed Redfern. ‘When did you last eat?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does, Miss Peterson. We have to look after you.’

‘There’s such a thing as forcible feeding,’ warned Mulcaster.

Redfern shot him a look of reproof. ‘It won’t come to that, Sergeant.’

‘We can’t have her playing games with us, Inspector.’

‘This is not a game.’

Carrie Peterson’s face had been drained so completely of colour that it had lost all its prettiness and definition. She looked utterly dejected. She was too frightened even to look at Mulcaster. His manner was threatening. She hoped that she would never be left alone with him in her cabin. When Mulcaster glared at her through his angry brown eyes, she felt as if his rough hands were molesting her. Arms wrapped protectively around her body, she sat on a chair while the men stood on either side of her. Redfern gave an unseen signal and his companion let himself out of the cabin. A wave of relief passed over her. The inspector lowered himself onto the other chair.

‘Have you thought over what we told you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Well?’

‘I’ve nothing more to say.’

‘Then you’re being very stubborn. Stubborn and foolish. Help us now and it will stand you in good stead when you go to court.’

She gave a shudder. ‘We didn’t do it,’ she said.

‘I’m prepared to believe that you didn’t actually administer the poison,’ he conceded. ‘How could you, when you were banned from even entering Mr Heritage’s house? And I think it highly unlikely that you helped to mix the concoction since he is the pharmacist and you were merely his assistant.’

‘Nobody mixed any concoction, Inspector.’

‘The Home Office pathologist disagrees.’

‘Our only crime was to want to be together.’

‘Unfortunately, Mrs Heritage stood in your way, didn’t she?’ He leaned in closer. ‘That’s why her husband devised his plan. I’m sure you would never have thought of it, Miss Peterson, and I suspect that you raised a lot of objections at first. But it seemed like the only means by which you and Mr Heritage could be with each other. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘Not really.’

‘At most, you’re an unwilling accomplice. The judge will take that into account.’

‘We don’t belong in court at all.’

‘I’m afraid you do, Miss Peterson.’

She looked bewildered. ‘What will happen to us?’

‘That depends on what you tell us.’

‘We’re innocent. I’ve said that a dozen times.’

‘Then why did you and Mr Heritage run away from the scene of the crime? That’s what guilty people tend to do. If you had nothing to hide, why did the pair of you take the ferry to Ireland?’

‘To start a new life together.’

‘Leaving the dead body of that poor woman behind you.’

‘No!’ she exclaimed, bursting into tears. ‘No, no, no!’

Redfern took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She dabbed away at her eyes. Carrie Peterson did not look like the kind of woman who might drive a man to kill his wife out of love for his mistress, but that did not matter. The inspector had met criminals before who were practised in the art of dissembling. They could even summon up real tears, as she was doing now. It was only when they were convicted that the mask was ripped away from them. She looked up at him, her voice trembling as she spoke.

‘Will they hang us?’

‘That depends on the verdict.’

‘But they could – if the evidence was against us?’

‘Premeditated murder does carry the death sentence,’ he told her, ‘but you have an excellent chance to cheat the hangman, Miss Peterson. Help us build our case against Mr Heritage, and your sentence will be much lighter.’

She shook her head. ‘We did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong at all.’

‘The jury may take a different view.’

‘How can they?’

‘The facts speak for themselves.’

‘Your facts, Inspector. Not ours.’

‘Tell me what really happened,’ he counselled.

‘No,’ she retorted with sudden defiance. ‘I’m not saying a word. And I’m certainly not going to help you to send John to the gallows. You can question me until you’re blue in the face but it will be a waste of time.’ She met his gaze. ‘You believe we killed her, don’t you?’

‘I’m convinced of it.’

‘Very well,’ she said crisply. ‘Prove it!’

It was late when Dillman tapped on the door of her cabin but Genevieve was expecting him. She admitted him to the room then checked the corridor to make sure that nobody had seen him enter. Closing the door, she accepted a welcoming kiss on the cheek.

‘You’re as punctual as ever, George,’ she said.

‘One of my many virtues.’

‘I’ve lost count of the others.’

‘Don’t flatter me,’ he said with a grin. ‘Interesting day?’

‘Very interesting. I’ve met some people from Boston who want their daughter to marry into the British aristocracy, and I shook hands with the next winner of the annual Bordeaux-to-Paris race.’

‘A cyclist?’

‘Well done, George! I didn’t even know that it was a cycle race.’

‘And I bet you’d never heard of Theo Wright, either.’

‘How did you know that is his name?’

‘Two reasons, Genevieve,’ he explained. ‘Firstly, Theo Wright is the only American cyclist who’d stand a chance of winning that particular race.’

‘And secondly?’

‘I saw his name when I skimmed through the passenger list.’

‘That’s cheating,’ she said, giving him a playful push.

‘What was he like?’

‘As fit as a fiddle. He’d jogged the length of the ship a couple of times and he was hardly out of breath. I’d have been on my knees. I liked him. Theo Wright is a lively character. He’ll be a change from all the stuffed shirts aboard this ship.’

She gave him a more detailed account of her chance meeting with the cyclist, then told him about the way Isadora Singleton was trying to adopt her as an alternative mother. What made his ears prick up was her mention of the conversation she had overheard about the two prisoners.

‘That guy, Harvey, may have thought they looked guilty,’ he remarked, ‘but so would anyone jammed in between two cops and a loaded shotgun. But they were no brazen villains. To be honest, I thought the woman was about to faint.’

‘Harvey – whoever he was – made her sound like Lizzie Borden.’

Dillman sighed. ‘Rumours are bound to spread,’ he said, ‘and that leads to heated speculation. By the end of the voyage, people will think we have two mass murderers chained up in the cells. I blame Sergeant Mulcaster for that. He didn’t need to brandish that shotgun. And they certainly didn’t need the police escort.’

‘Why didn’t they just bring the prisoners quietly aboard?’

‘Because they wanted to display their trophies, Genevieve.’

‘Do you think the pair of them are guilty of the crime?’

‘Without the full evidence,’ he said, ‘Fm in no position to judge. Though I must admit I wasn’t entirely convinced by what Inspector Redfern told us. I was just sorry that Sergeant Mulcaster came in when he did. I fancy we’d have learned a lot more about the case if he hadn’t butted in.’

‘I keep thinking about Carrie Peterson,’ she confessed.

‘Why?’

‘Well, guilty or not, she must be suffering terribly. They were pursued across the Atlantic, arrested on board ship, marched onto the Caronia under armed guard, then kept rigidly apart. Inspector Redfern may be a gentleman when it comes to questioning a suspect but Sergeant Mulcaster looks as if he were trained by the Spanish Inquisition.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘He’d make it his business to give her a rough time.’

‘I was puzzled by the fact that neither had made a confession.’

‘So was I.’

‘You expect habitual criminals to deny everything but that’s not what we have here. They worked in a pharmacy,’ he reminded her. ‘They’re intelligent, responsible people. If they did kill the victim, it probably would have been their one and only criminal act. I don’t think they’d have been able to lie about it so easily.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘We don’t know that’s what happened, of course.’

‘True.’

‘Besides, it’s not our case.’

‘That doesn’t stop me from thinking about it, George,’ she said, ‘or from wondering if I might be of some assistance.’

‘In what way?’

‘Carrie Peterson may be able to keep two male detectives at bay but she might react differently to a woman. If I could win her confidence, who knows what I could draw out of her?’ She smiled quietly. ‘I might even discover that she’s not a second Lizzie Borden after all.’

‘In some ways, that may be a pity.’

‘A pity? Why?’

‘Because you’ve forgotten something,’ he said. ‘Lizzie Borden was acquitted.’