This time, Guy used his badge. Thankfully, he never took it out of his inside suit pocket, so although he had dressed in a hurry, it was with him. He held it out as he walked into the cabin that Louisa had directed him towards, further along the same passage as Diana’s. The guests in the hallway had started to drift away now, the remaining few in danger of revealing themselves as ghoulish tourists in dressing gowns.
The door to cabin B-17 was closed – all the doors on the Princess Alice swung shut automatically – but not locked. Guy pushed it open and stepped into a narrow entrance, with a further door opposite; to his left the entrance carried on, leading presumably to other rooms of this suite. It was cluttered with several coats and hats hanging up and shoes that were ineptly lined up against the wall. To his surprise, Guy could hear jazz music playing loudly. Quickly, firmly, Guy opened the door into the drawing room. Immediately he blinked: all the lights were on, making it bright enough that his eyes ached, but it did at least leave nothing to hide.
Guy took in the scene, trying to nail down as many details as he could in a few seconds. On the left-hand wall was a second open door that he assumed led to the bedroom, or bedrooms, and a bathroom. The room was comfortable and stylish, grander than anything in his own house but more modest than Diana Guinness’s stateroom. Opposite the door he’d walked through were floor-to-ceiling curtains, dark yellow with a flower print, parted in the middle, and through the gap he could see only darkness on the other side of a clear panel of glass – French windows leading to a balcony, he assumed. In front of the curtains an armchair, the impression of a body that had been sitting in it still visible on the cushions. To the left of the chair there was a muddy-looking damp patch on the cream carpet that he wanted to inspect more closely. Otherwise, everything was in its place.
The real problem was the people swarming everywhere, all over the crime scene, talking in low voices, their eyes darting around. Mostly young men in white uniform so far as he could see. No one seemed to respond to his having entered the room until he caught the eye of a maid, her skin as white as the frilled apron she wore. She looked away quickly and turned towards a figure that Guy knew he should have noticed sooner.
This was Joseph Fowler’s wife, he was sure, having seen her earlier, after the first punch-up of the evening, leaving with the older man to go to supper. She was no longer in her evening dress but in coffee-coloured satin pyjamas that had a dark stain on one of the trouser legs; her hair was unkempt and she had a glass of whisky in one hand. Most surprisingly of all, she seemed to be dancing – swaying – around the room, talking loudly and incoherently to no one in particular. As he watched, she grabbed the arm of one of the white-suited crew members and appeared to be trying to kiss him, the man putting his hands on her shoulders and trying to talk to her calmly. All this happened in a matter of seconds.
Standing by the armchair – his shoes too close to the stain on the carpet – also watching Mrs Fowler, was the man that Guy knew must be the captain. He was in full uniform, including the cap with its gold badge on the front. Guy walked over and stood a little to his side, hoping to make the captain move away from the incriminating spot on the carpet.
‘Excuse me, sir, are you the captain of this ship?’
The man turned to Guy, his pockmarked skin weathered, his blue eyes faded to the colour of a winter’s morning. ‘What is it to you?’ He had a German accent, but it was not strong.
‘I’m DS Sullivan, I’m with the CID of the Metropolitan Police. I gather there’s been an incident.’
The captain looked over at where Mrs Fowler was swaying by the gramophone player. There were loud squeaks as she scratched the needle on the record and he winced.
‘Captain Schmitt.’ He put out his hand for Guy to shake, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, there has been an incident. How is it you are here? Did you know this was going to happen?’
‘No, sir, it’s coincidence. I’m staying on your ship for a few days because my wife is here, working as a lady’s maid for Lady Redesdale. I joined at Livorno and was planning to leave at Rome. Captain, can you tell me – are we further than twelve miles from land?’
‘Considerably further; we cannot dock for another thirty-two hours.’
‘And my understanding is that the man who has been attacked, Mr Joseph Fowler, is British?’
‘Ja, that is my understanding too.’
‘In that case, if there is a line of inquiry to pursue here, it falls under the jurisdiction of the British police. If there is no one else here, I think I had better take charge. Will you agree?’
Captain Schmitt nodded. He gestured to a crisply dressed young man beside him. ‘This is the first officer, Mr Logan. He will assist you in any way you need. If you will forgive me, I must return to my post.’
‘I will need to talk to you later,’ said Guy.
‘Absolutely.’ The captain left, and on his signal three members of the crew followed him.
Guy knew he needed to talk to the maid and Mrs Fowler, but the likelihood of her telling him anything that would make sense was vanishingly small. He turned to the first officer, but before he could say anything, another man came into the cabin and walked straight towards Mrs Fowler, who put her arms around his neck, the remaining few drops of whisky sloshing out of the glass.
‘Doctor,’ she mumbled, ‘doctor, I need you.’
‘Mrs Fowler,’ said the doctor, carefully removing her hands but keeping hold of her.
Guy went towards him and showed his badge. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Sullivan—’ he started, but the doctor waved at him to stop.
‘Mrs Fowler is in no state to say anything. I’m taking her to her bed and giving her morphia to calm her down.’
Mrs Fowler leaned heavily against the doctor as he said this. ‘I did it, I did it,’ she was saying. ‘He’s been killed.’
Guy was alarmed, but he wasn’t going to stand in the doctor’s way. The two of them walked through the door to the bedroom, the maid following behind.