The False Inspector Dew

glasses on the bedside cupboard. She closed her eyes again, pressing them hard as if to squeeze out the image. She turned over and buried her face in the pillow. But she knew that when she opened her eyes again the bottle and the glasses would still be there. Scattered across the floor would be the stark reminders of the hour after midnight, the remnants of fancy dress — velvet cloak, white head-dress made from a teatowel, white blouse with a paper red cross pinned on the front, grey skirt, black lisle stockings and lace-up shoes. She could not escape the evidence that she had done the thing that even the most passionate and romantic heroines forswore until it was sanctified and licensed. She had admitted one of the opposite sex to her room and to her bed. She had broken faith with Ethel M. Dell. And God. And Walter.

Walter. What she had done was unforgivable. She had promised herself to him and given herself to Johnny.

Worse, she knew now that she loved Johnny, that what she had felt for Walter had amounted only to — what was the word used so often and so tellingly in The Way of an Eagle! — infatuation. Whatever had been in her heart for Walter had gone for ever, supplanted by her overwhelming love for Johnny, that gentle, irresistible man who had taken her in his arms and told her she was the loveliest creature on God's earth. Walter had never spoken words like that. He had never whispered to her that she inflamed him with her eyes and that her skin was smoother and more white than purest porcelain.

The act of love had not been the ordeal she had imagined and expected. The initial moments of discomfort had been more than compensated by sensations that had surprised and gratified her. She had said nothing to Johnny about her inexperience, yet he had understood and been pleased and helped her tenderly over the threshold of pain into sheer joy.

But she felt an obligation to Walter that was inescapable. He had listened to her, plotted with her and been persuaded by her. Because of her he had put himself in jeopardy. He had murdered Lydia. He would not have done it without Alma's prompting. Except for her, he would still be in England and Lydia would be alive and sailing to America. Her loyalty had to be with Walter, even if her love was with Johnny. She was weeping into the pillow.

There was a knock on the door. The steward! He had brought the morning tea.

'Wait a moment, please.' She sprang out of bed and put the bottle and the glasses in the wardrobe and scooped up the clothes and flung them in as well. She snatched out one of Lydia's negligees and wrapped it round her shoulders, slammed the wardrobe shut and got back into bed. 'You may come in now.'

'Lovely morning, madam. Is it your birthday?' He was a very young steward, certainly not twenty, perfectly efficient and friendly without too much familiarity as a rule.

'No, it isn't. Why do you ask?'

'Card for you, ma'am.' He placed the tray on the bedside cupboard where the champagne bottle had been. A square envelope that obviously contained a greetings card was propped against the milkjug. 'Did you sleep through it, then?'

'I beg your pardon,' said Alma.

'The storm, ma'am. Some passengers didn't get to sleep at all. There won't be many for breakfast.'

'I suppose not.'

'What I say, madam, is that if it was just the weather that was laying them low we wouldn't have much to worry about.'

'What do you mean, exactly?'

'Another passenger copped it last night. It was that Inspector Dew from Scotland Yard.'

'No! What happened?'

'He was shot, ma'am. He went up on deck and someone took a shot at him.'

'Oh, my God! Is he…'

'I couldn't say, ma'am. We was told to keep our mouths shut. Will that be all?'

'Yes.' Alma was shaking. She sank back on the pillow. Walter shot? Dead? It was beyond belief.

She sat in a state of shock for more than a minute. Who would want to kill Walter, and why? She was very afraid. But she would have to get up and find out for certain what had happened.

Without thinking much about it, she reached for the teatray and picked up the envelope and opened it. The card inside had been drawn by hand. It showed two hearts linked by an arrow. She opened it and read the message inside. It comprised two lines of an old song:

Because God made thee mine,

And I am yours.

J

Alma said aloud, 'Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.'

She did not drink the tea. She did not take her morning bath. She put on her clothes and went straight to Walter's stateroom and knocked on the door.

A nurse, a genuine nurse, opened it and looked disdainfully at Alma. 'Yes?'

'I heard that the Inspector has been shot.'

'That's right.'

'I am a friend, a personal friend. Tell me please, is he badly hurt?'

'It's not for me to say.'

'Please — is he in danger?' As she asked the question, her voice expressed the real concern she felt, but even as she was speaking, some dissident section of her brain anticipated Walter's death and freed her from her obligation to him. She would be free to marry Johnny.

'He is not in danger,' said the nurse.

A voice inside the room, not Walter's, said, 'Who is it, nurse?'

The nurse asked Alma, 'What is your name?'

She hesitated. Without knowing Walter's state of consciousness, she dared not say that she was Lydia. He had probably been given morphia. To be told that Lydia was at his door might shock him into some calamitous response.

'If you won't tell me your name, how can I give him a message?'

'There is no message,' said Alma. She turned and almost ran towards the door at the end of the passageway.

The nurse clicked her tongue, closed the door and rejoined the master-at-arms beside Walter's bed. Mr Saxon was triumphant. From his exuberance it appeared that he was unconcerned at Walter's plight. He was as cock-a- hoop as if he had fired the shot himself. 'Take your time recovering,' he said. 'Your responsibilities are over now, Inspector. It's a glorious day outside, and you're entitled to enjoy it.'

'What do you mean?' asked Walter, ready to take issue.

'Quite simply that there's nothing more for you to do when you've given me your statement. Gordon is under arrest. He hasn't written his confession yet, but he will.'

'Gordon? Jack Gordon?'

Mr Saxon smiled, if you hadn't released the blighter in the first place, you wouldn't be nursing a sore shoulder. How does it feel?'

Walter tried lifting his head off the pillow. He winced and fell back.

'Painful, by the look of it,' said Mr Saxon.

'Jack Gordon didn't shoot me,' said Walter.

Mr Saxon turned to the nurse. 'What did the doctor give this man?'

'I had my back to him,' said Walter. 'The bullet hit me in the front.'

'I don't suppose you remember much,' said Mr Saxon, it's all a blur.'

'I remember clearly. I turned away from him and I was hit from in front. I fell back against him. I was shot by someone else.'

'I doubt it.'

'What happened after I was hit?'

'Gordon dragged you to the stairs and shouted for help. He's no fool, Inspector.'

'Did you search him? Was he carrying a gun?'

'I expect he dropped it overboard.'

'The man is innocent,' said Walter. With the help of his good arm he propped himself up. 'Where is he now? I want to speak to him.'