Murder on the Mary Jane Page 5

  “Captain!”

  “Cinch, I need you to find the following people,” Captain Pevsner handed him a list of names, similar to the one Clara had written out. “I wish you to bring them to my private cabin. Express upon them the matter is urgent, but be discreet.”

  Captain?” Cinch had not been informed of the body in the kitchen, though Clara was surprised it had not so far been gossiped about. A ship was a closed community and rumours flew around quickly.

  “I’ll explain later, Cinch,” Pevsner nodded at him.

  The first mate briefly looked at Clara and O’Harris as he left, clearly curious but wise enough to obey his captain without quarrel.

  “I’ll show you to my private cabin,” Pevsner rose from the chair. “Oh, and I will spread the word about the lost lad.”

  Clara glanced at Bert.

  “That would be appreciated, his mother must be going spare.”

  “I’ll have my crew attend to it at once,” Captain Pevsner placed his captain’s cap on his head and straightened it until he was satisfied with the fit. “In the meantime, I have a New Year’s Eve party to host.”

  Chapter Six

  Pevsner’s private cabin was larger than Clara had imagined it would be. She had expected it to be a poky space with just enough room for a bunk bed and perhaps a desk. Instead she discovered the captain had quite spacious quarters with the sleeping area divided from a study or dining room, and a separate bathroom. Pevsner’s ‘parlour’ consisted of a cosy, if well-worn sofa, a round table firmly bolted to the floor and several cabinets or chests of drawers. A porthole gave a view outside, though a curtain was currently drawn across it. There was an instant feeling that this was personal space, a place few rarely entered without invite.

  Pevsner motioned for them all to sit at the table. Papers and a couple of books were spread across it and the captain collected them up roughly and deposited them in a drawer.

  “Can I provide you with a drink?” he asked, going to another cabinet and revealing a series of decanters and bottles. “I don’t suppose you are wanting alcohol, but I do have a bottle of mineral water?”

  “That will do,” Clara agreed.

  Bert was wandering around the room, looking up at the many nautical pictures on the wall. Captain Pevsner watched him, his expression softening.

  “Here you go, young man,” he picked up a glass bottle from out of a cabinet. It contained loops of white rope and a nail. “This is an old seaman’s puzzle. You have to work out how to extract the nail from the bottle without either breaking it or undoing any of the knots in the rope.”

  Bert was handed the puzzle and ushered to a large wooden chair with arms near the porthole.

  “You see if you can work that out.”

  Clara smiled at Pevsner’s kindness. Bert had relaxed in their company and seemed less disturbed at being lost. Now he was a typical curious child who would need distracting while Clara interviewed those who knew Henry Kemp. The puzzle should keep him occupied for a while, at least.

  “If he gets tired, he can rest in my bed,” Captain Pevsner told Clara.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll put the word out for his mother, hopefully it won’t take long to find her.”

  There was a gentle rap at the door of the cabin and Alfred Cinch popped his head inside the room.

  “I have the guests here you asked for, Captain.”

  He had hardly finished speaking when a large, burly man shoved him out of the way and stalked into the room.

  “What is this all about?” He demanded angrily.

  He was an extremely fat man and his tailor had clearly had some difficultly accommodating his belly within his suit jacket. Discreet tucks and darts could not mask that here was a man whose gut poured over his belt and who had no intention of doing anything about it. He was flushed in the face, and a fine sweat hovered on his forehead, despite the weather being considerably cold. He wiped at his face with a handkerchief from time-to-time.

  “I was enjoying the party,” the fat man continued. “Now I am told I have to come down here and talk to…”

  He turned his gaze on Captain O’Harris.

  “So, you are the detective who has requested to speak with me and interrupt my evening!”

  “Actually,” Clara rose from her seat, “that would be me. I imagine you would be Arthur Noble?”

  The fat man scowled at her, an incredulous look on his face. Then he snorted in derision.

  “Now I have seen everything!”

  “Have you seen Henry Kemp recently,” Clara quickly asked, wanting to catch Mr Noble on the wrong-foot and not intending to get into a debate about female detectives.

  Arthur Noble opened his big mouth and then paused. He had probably been about to say something about being interviewed by a woman, he was that sort of man, but Clara’s question had registered in his mind and suddenly had him thinking. He looked out the door to where Alfred Cinch was doing a better job of keeping the others of his party from entering the cabin. It was obvious that it was just dawning on him that Henry Kemp was not with them.

  “Mr Noble, I did not ask you to come here to ruin your evening. I asked you because Henry Kemp has been found deceased in the ship’s kitchen,” Clara said patiently.

  In the corridor outside the cabin the only woman in the Noble and Sons party gasped at the statement. Clara surmised she was Jane Dodd. Arthur Noble had become briefly uncertain, an obvious rarity for him. He shook it off.

  “Henry?” He seemed to be processing the idea that his employee was dead. “But that is preposterous.”

  “Hardly,” Clara waved at the chairs about the table. “Would you and your party like to sit? Then we can discuss this properly.”

  “With you?” Arthur Noble returned to his previous train of thought.

  Clara was concluding the man was rather stupid, though clearly he had a finesse for business – or very good managers.

  “Our other option is to sail back into harbour this very instant and summon the police,” Clara explained, hearing Captain Pevsner make a strangled noise behind her. She ignored him. “If you want to get back to the party with reasonable speed, you would be best advised to have a chat with me.”

  Arthur Noble blanched, unused to being ordered about by anyone, let alone a young woman. Clara waited, standing with one hand on her hip and not dropping her gaze from the fat man’s eyes. She had her own evening arrangements and was not about to waste time. The sooner this matter was resolved, the sooner she and Captain O’Harris could return to celebrating the last few hours of 1921.

  “I have never been spoken to in such a fashion!” Arthur Noble blurted out.

  “You perhaps mean you have never been spoken to so honestly before?” Clara challenged him. “Really Mr Noble, you are not the only one who has had their evening interrupted. Personally, I would rather like to be on the sun deck dancing right now. I imagine Henry Kemp would much rather be up there too.”

  Arthur Noble was fighting with himself – a part of him wanted to continue arguing and protesting at being confronted by a woman claiming to be a detective, but the other part of him – the small, sensible part – realised that doing so would only waste his own time further. He huffed and puffed but, in the end, they all knew he was going to sit down at the table and talk.

  “This best not take long,” he grumbled, finally taking a seat.

  The chair groaned under his weight and Captain O’Harris raised his eyebrows at Clara. She knew he was debating the possibility of the chair collapsing into fragments beneath Noble’s mass. Clara returned his look with a roll of her eyes and O’Harris nearly laughed, having to put his hand to his mouth and cough to disguise it.

  Alfred Cinch allowed the other guests into the room. Simon and Elias resembled their father in their round, flushed faces. A family trait, it would seem. They were both overweight, but nowhere near the size of Arthur. They had his sour expression, however, and sat down with looks of sufferance on their faces
. Clara was wondering if they behaved in such a way to their customers, or maybe the senior Nobles never dealt with those who bought their goods. They were belligerently arrogant and she was making a mental note never to provide them with her trade.

  The other two members of the group looked more as would be expected of two people who had just heard a work colleague had died. Jane Dodd was older than Clara had initially anticipated; somewhere in her forties. She seemed upset at the news and pulled out her chair with her hands trembling. In a complete opposite to her employers, she was rail thin and had a tendency to stoop her shoulders. This masked the fact that she was actually taller than Arthur Noble. She was dressed smartly, but not extravagantly, and pulled her embroidered wrap tighter about her shoulders once she was sitting, as if she was feeling the cold suddenly.

  Charles Walsh was the youngest of the group; Clara guessed he was in his mid to late twenties. He wore a good suit and was smartly turned out, his blond hair carefully oiled back and his moustache trimmed. He sat down between Arthur Noble and his two sons, avoiding making eye contact with anyone.

  “Now,” Clara began with everyone seated, “I understand who you are, Mr Noble, and that these are your two sons, but might I ask how Miss Dodd and Mr Walsh fit into your company?”

  If anyone was surprised that Clara knew all their names, they did not show it. They probably guessed Pevsner had acquainted her with the details. Despite the captain’s indication that he had a myriad of duties to attend to and could not supervise Bert, he was now hovering at the back of the room and clearly too intrigued to leave. Alfred Cinch, however, had quietly departed.

  Arthur Noble finally decided it was best to get on with things and cooperate with Clara. He made the introductions of his staff.

  “Miss Dodd has been my secretary for almost twenty years, she is a part of the family,” he said gruffly, though there was a tenderness to his words that Clara had not expected. “Charles is our youngest senior manager. A rising star in the company.”

  Charles Walsh reddened at the compliment.

  “What about Henry Kemp?” Clara asked.

  “Henry was also a senior manager,” Arthur Noble explained. “He was extremely good at his job and will be sorely missed.”

  “I take it you arranged this evening, Mr Noble?” Clara was trying to get him talking before she probed further into Henry Kemp’s character.

  “Every year we do something for New Year’s,” Arthur Noble shrugged dismissively. “Miss Dodd makes the arrangements.”

  Naturally, Clara thought to herself. Arthur Noble would not lower himself to such petty labours. Clara turned to Miss Dodd.

  “You booked the tickets for this evening?”

  “With Mr Noble’s approval,” Jane Dodd answered hastily. “I thought it would be a rather different way to spend the evening.”

  “And you always invite the senior managers?” Clara turned back to Arthur Noble.

  “They are like family too,” he displayed his boredom for the questioning with a yawn.

  “What about guests? You all attended singly? I assume you have a wife Mr Noble, does she not come?”

  Noble gave his nasty snort again.

  “This is a male only event, excluding Miss Dodd, naturally,” he nodded to Miss Dodd with that remarkable hint of sensitivity once more. “The arrangement is we attend alone, no wives or girlfriends. I insist. Women are such a nuisance.”

  He directed this last statement firmly at Clara and she felt inclined to retort but held her tongue. She felt that Mrs Noble was probably hugely relieved she did not have to spend New Year’s with her boorish husband.

  “Was Henry married?” Clara asked instead, thinking there might be someone on shore who would be heartbroken to hear the news, certainly more heartbroken than Arthur Noble.

  “Henry never married,” Noble answered. “Tragic, actually, his father was badly hurt in an accident and Henry devoted his time to caring for him and his mother, outside of work. It was a trying existence.”

  Clara thought of Henry’s drinking.

  “I have to ask, was it usual for Henry Kemp to drink so much?”

  “It’s a party,” Arthur Noble shrugged gruffly.

  “Yes, but it is also very early in the evening, and I note that none of you are drunk, whereas, when Henry was last seen alive, he had clearly had too much to drink.”

  “What are you implying about my managers?” Arthur Noble growled, his tone sharp.

  Captain O’Harris, who was taking a backseat in events, now bristled and narrowed his eyes at the man. Clara was unfazed.

  “I am not implying,” she said. “I am stating. Henry Kemp was extremely drunk when last seen alive, I witnessed this for myself. He refused to get into a lifeboat and it would seem he came down to the kitchen looking for more champagne. All I wish to know is whether this was a common occurrence for him.”

  “I don’t employ drunkards!” Arthur Noble slammed his fist on the top of the table.

  Bert, who until then had been fully absorbed in his puzzled, startled and looked up. Captain Pevsner spoke quietly to him and turned his chair so he faced out the porthole.

  “Mr Noble,” Clara said coldly. “Your obstructive attitude is not assisting any of us. I am not questioning your business practices, I am asking about tonight. Was Henry Kemp in the habit of drinking to excess in his leisure time?”

  “And I am telling you that I only employ people of the strictest of character!” Arthur Noble pointed a fat finger at Clara, jerking it at her as he made his point.

  Captain O’Harris had endured enough.

  “Put your finger down before I break it, old boy,” he said, his tone level but sinister.

  Arthur Noble’s eyes switched to him. His face reddened to a dark shade of crimson.

  “You are threatening me?”

  “Old boy, if you don’t start behaving like a gentleman and answer the questions you are being asked, then I shall do more than just threaten you,” O’Harris leaned back in his chair and spread his hands on the table. “My family has had an account with your company since 1862, you know. I have always been a deeply loyal and, might I add, prolific customer.”

  “You have an account with us?” Charles Walsh asked suddenly.

  Clara saw something in his eyes, a look almost of panic. As she had suspected, while Arthur and his sons were the figureheads of the company, it was the senior managers who made sure it ran smoothly and the last thing they needed was for one of the Nobles to upset a good customer.

  “The O’Harris account,” O’Harris said with pleasure. “I admit there was a bit of a dip last year due to my absence, but on the whole I believe you will agree I provide you with a lot of trade.”

  “The O’Harris account is one of our oldest and most profitable,” Charles Walsh now turned to Arthur Noble and Clara noted he was no longer the abashed employee. He was telling Noble, in a subtle but firm fashion, to shut up and cooperate. “The O’Harris account brings in a lot of outside trade too.”

  “Yes, I am generous donator to a number of societies in Brighton and I have always encouraged them to source their supplies through Noble and Sons,” Captain O’Harris said lightly. “When I donate wines to these societies for their dinners, I always use your company. It would be a shame if, because of a silly row, that was to come to an end.”

  Arthur Noble had lost some of his puff. He blinked rapidly.

  “What are you saying?” He asked, looking first to O’Harris then to Charles.

  “I am merely saying that I don’t care for your attitude towards my good friend, Clara Fitzgerald,” O’Harris purred. “And that might influence my buying habits in the future.”

  Clara was amused. She knew the battles she could win alone and the ones where she would need help. As much as she liked to consider herself an independent woman, she was aware that some men would simply not talk to her without leverage. Arthur Noble was one of those men and no threat she could propose to him would change his attitud
e. However, O’Harris could kick him where it hurt, figuratively speaking, right in his bank account. If that made him keener to talk, Clara was not going to protest.

  “Mr O’Harris is one of our best customers,” Charles Walsh hissed at Arthur Noble.

  He was angry and impatient with his boss. Arthur Noble no longer looked so confident.

  “I would like to remain one of your best customers,” O’Harris smiled pleasantly. “All it takes is a little cooperation.”

  Arthur Noble, now completely cowed, glanced to Charles then turned his face to Clara. He took a deep breath and, in his most polite and obsequious manner, stated;

  “Miss Fitzgerald, might we begin again?”

  Chapter Seven

  “Henry Kemp joined the company five years ago,” Arthur Noble told Clara when she asked him about Henry. “He came highly recommended from another importing company, one that specialised in exotic goods such as spices and tea from India and China. He had doubled their profits.”

  “And then he left?” Clara asked.

  “Henry was a native of Hove. The firm he was working for was based in London and he wished to move back to the coast to be nearer his parents. As I said earlier, his father is infirm and he wished to be nearby to help his mother. It never interfered with his work,” Arthur Noble seemed to consider this a rather irrelevant aspect of his employee’s life. It did not relate to him or the business, therefore it was out of his scope of interest. “Henry was a very good senior manager. He helped the business to prosper, I had no reason to fault his abilities. He was responsible for hiring Charles, a decision that has also been beneficial to the company.”

  Arthur Noble was really laying it on thick now. Like a lot of puffed up bullies, the moment the tide turned against him he was left desperately treading water to save himself. He seemed to feel the need to appease Charles Walsh, who had been the one to point out the significance of Captain O’Harris’ account.