The False Inspector Dew

'Gee,' said Marjorie, 'these English may have beautiful manners, but they do some Godawful things to each other.'

'Honey, Dr Crippen came from Coldwater, Michigan,' said Livy.

Yet there was no doubting the approval of British and Americans alike that Chief Inspector Dew was now in charge. His career was eagerly discussed over the coffee and chicken sandwiches. In his twenty-odd years as a detective, only one case of murder had remained unsolved in all those he had featured in, and that was his first, the case of Jack the Ripper, when Dew was just a junior. There was not a brighter copper anywhere. The fears accumulated through the day were scattered to the winds. The conversation was a chorus of praise for Dew and Scotland Yard and sensible Captain Rostron.

So buoyant was the mood that when Martinelli sang, he had never known a better audience. They clapped and cheered and asked for encores. It passed quite unremarked that the last aria of the evening was Nessun Dorma — None shall sleep.

9

When the singing was over, Alma turned down Johnny's invitation to a 'nightcap or two' and made her way forward past the dining saloon and through the embarkation hall to the drawing room. In the days before the war when the smoking room had been a male preserve, the drawing room had been a refuge for the ladies. It retained an atmosphere of quiet refinement. It had fabric-covered armchairs and a soft green carpet. There were copies of Vanity Fair and Vogue on low round tables. Alma preferred it to the stateroom. She was soon in conversation with a woman from Baltimore who was escaping from a former husband who wanted a reconciliation. It was a consolation to listen to someone else's problems.

Some time towards midnight a bellboy came into the drawing room and announced that he was paging Mrs Baranov. He repeated it twice before Alma reacted to the name. He had a note for her. It said, Lifeboat Station 3, Boat Deck, as soon as possible. W.

Walter. He needed her. Poor man, he had suffered an enormous shock. The plan had rebounded on him. He had lost control. This was his cry for help.

She told her companion she would have to go.

'You should be careful,' the woman warned her. 'Don't take any chances.' In their conversation this was the first reference to the subject that obsessed so many others.

Alma went first to the stateroom and put on Lydia's black velvet evening cape. It would be cold outside. She pulled up the hood before she went on deck.

The breeze caught the cape and swept her forward. She pulled it closer to her body. The boat deck looked deserted. She guessed it was not the wind that had discouraged people from taking moonlit walks. She knew there was nothing to fear, but she still felt a fluttering in her stomach as she moved along the deck.

She was not sure how the lifeboat stations were numbered. She had to hope that number 3 was on this side.

Then she felt her shoulder gripped. Fingers stabbed into her flesh. She was swung round. The hood slipped off her head. She gave a cry. She was facing Walter. In the ship's light his eyes looked demoniac.

'Alma!' he said as if amazed. 'My God, you gave me such a shock. I thought…' He pulled her close and held her. 'Alma, forgive me. I must be mad. In that cape I thought that you were Lydia.'

'She's dead,' said Alma, shivering with fright. 'Lydia is dead.'

'Yes. I lost control. It was quite irrational.'

'It's understandable considering what you've been through,' said Alma.

He shook his head. 'Whatever it was, I frightened you. Did I hurt you?'

'Just a little.'

A strand of hair was whipping across her face. He lifted it off her brow. She thought he was about to kiss her, but he did not.

He said, 'There's no-one up here. I've been right round the deck. Let's walk a little.'

She had raised her face to meet his lips. She lowered it as if she had meant to nod. Walter had not noticed. It was salutary to recall that men without exception in romantic fiction had to be tutored in the subtle ways of women. She would persevere.

She said, 'What a fright you must have had when you were asked to see the captain.'

'Yes, I wondered why he wanted me. I should have guessed.'

'It was my fault,' said Alma. 'It was my idea to call you Walter Dew.'

'We thought of it together.'

'We never dreamed this would happen — that they would ask you to investigate Lydia's death. Darling, what you must have been through! You looked as white as chalk when the captain introduced you to the passengers. But you were marvellous — so convincing!'

'If I was white,' said Walter, 'there was a reason for it. I had just come from looking at the body.'

She gripped his arm with both her hands. 'Walter, how dreadful! I had no idea.'

'It was somewhat disturbing. You see, it wasn't Lydia.'

'What?' Alma's spine gave a twitch. 'Not Lydia?'

'I know,' said Walter in a level voice, it seems impossible.'

'Are you quite certain?'

'Positive.'

'People can look different after death.'

'Alma, I was not mistaken. This was another woman.'

She had the appalling thought that Walter's mind had gone. It had not been equal to the strain. She said as calmly and as rationally as she could, 'How is that possible, Walter?'

He gave a shrug. 'I have no idea. But it means, you see, that we are safe. As the body is not Lydia's, we are free.'

She forced herself to talk as if she accepted what he had told her. 'But there is still a difficulty, isn't there?'

'What's that?' asked Walter.

'Everyone now believes that you're Inspector Dew. They expect results.'

'In that case, I shall have to do my best to provide them,' said Walter without a trace of perturbation.

'How can you, Walter? You're not really a detective.'

'Oh, but I am.'

'No,' insisted Alma, 'Walter, you are not.'

'Let me finish please. In the eyes of everyone aboard this ship — except for you — I am Dew, and that's what counts. I have satisfied the captain. I have his authority to back me up. You heard him in the lounge this evening. I am the man who arrested Crippen. The safety of the passengers has been vouchsafed to me.'

'Yes, darling, they believe it, but you are not a detective. You don't know what to do. We have four more days at sea. There's a dead woman on the ship and you say she isn't Lydia. That isn't much to work with.'

'A murdered woman.'

'But if it isn't Lydia, how can that be true?'

'Because of the bruising round the neck. The woman was strangled, Alma.'

She caught her breath. How could he sound so reasonable and say these things?

'So there must be a murderer on board,' Walter went on, 'and I really have a duty to the passengers and crew to catch him. There is no-one else to do it now.'

'No,' said Alma passively. 'No-one else.'

'The first thing is to identify the victim. I've been questioning the stewards. It's very simple. They know their passengers by now. All a detective does is verify the facts. It's a matter of looking at things and asking questions. I've done it all my life.'

'You're not afraid?'