The False Inspector Dew

She was going to tell him that she had been mistaken. She did not love him. It had been infatuation.

Already she wished there was some way to retrieve the note before he found it. She was afraid of him. She should never have chosen to tell him here, in the stateroom where Lydia had died. Only the strength of her love for Johnny kept her from running away. She would rather die than lose her chance of marrying Johnny.

Yet she was tormented by guilt. In her mind she had been over and over the events that had entangled her life with Walter's and each time she could reach only one conclusion. If Walter had never met her, he would not have dreamed of murdering his wife. He would still be somewhere in England trying to find a way of continuing to work as a dentist. He was not and never had been the exquisitely glamorous figure her imagination had made him. He was decent and dependable and dull, dull, dull. There was not a spark of animation in him. It was depressingly obvious to Alma now that she had been bewitched not by Walter, but an idea. She had fallen in love with the prospect of running away with a man who had murdered his wife and abandoned everything — job, home and country — to be with her for the rest of his life. And now she did not want him. He was still dull beyond belief.

Somewhere she had read that almost all murderers were boring and pathetic individuals. She had not believed it. Surely Ethel Le Neve had not believed it. But what if Crippen had never been caught? What if Ethel had faced the rest of her life with him?

The murder had not made Walter glamorous. It had changed him in one way only: he was dangerous now. Dull and dangerous. A man who has murdered once and got away with it can never be ignored.

The knock came, startling her. She was wearing a silk blouse, and it was alive with fear. She took a deep breath and went to the door.

He stood with the note in his hand and his eyebrows raised questioningly.

Alma tried to summon a smile. She stepped aside to admit him, and closed the door. She said, 'Walter, I know we agreed not to meet unless there was some over-riding reason.'

'But there is a reason?'

She nodded. 'Please sit down. I had to find a way of talking to you before tomorrow. 1 don't know how to start. You've had so much more to face then we anticipated.'

He shrugged dismissively. it hasn't been so bad. It's occupied my mind.'

'But you were shot. Are you still in pain?'

'I wouldn't call it pain. Discomfort if you like.'

'I blame myself for what has happened,' Alma told him. 'I've had more opportunity than you to think things over.'

'Blame yourself for what?'

'Everything. Lydia's death.'

'We agreed to that together.'

'If you had not met me, you would never have considered it. You would never have set foot on this ship, never have done what you did in this God-forsaken room, never have been forced to pose as a policeman.'

Walter blinked in surprise. 'That's been no hardship. I've enjoyed it immensely.'

'Enjoyed it?'

'I've never been treated so well. I thought it would be difficult at first, but it wasn't. I didn't need to ask clever questions or discover hidden clues. Being a detective is just a matter of getting other people to talk. I'm a good listener — Lydia made sure of that. Well, if you let them talk they tell you everything and give you the credit for arriving at the truth.'

Alma thought she understood. She said, 'Yes, you must have been clever to have taken them in.'

'Taken them in?' repeated Walter as if the words were offensive.

'Convinced them that you knew what you were doing — that you were solving the mystery.'

'My dear, I have solved it. I know who committed the murder and I know why. That's what I'm saying. I'm a very good detective.'

'Walter, that's impossible.'

He leaned back in the chair with folded arms and said, 'You'll see.'

She looked at him, wondering whether his mind had snapped. He seemed to have been taken over by the identity of Dew. He believed he was the great detective. He believed he had solved the crime.

Was it conceivable that he was so far in the grip of this delusion that he intended naming himself as Lydia's murderer? And herself as his accessory? Was that to be the ultimate achievement of the false Inspector Dew?

Alma started talking with all the urgency and the conviction of a prisoner pleading for life. 'Walter, listen to me, please. I have no right to say this now. It shames me, but I have to tell you.' She took hold of one of his hands and crouched beside his chair looking earnestly into his eyes. 'I have changed. When I used to come to you in the surgery I idolized you. I had never spoken to a man so confident, so strong, so handsome. I must tell you that I was very inexperienced. The only men I had known outside my family were in books, romantic stories of the sort you find in lending libraries. You were just like one of those godlike creatures to me, with your sophisticated ways and your foreign-sounding name. And like every one of them at the beginning of a book, you seemed unattainable.'

'But we overcame that,' said Walter with an indulgent smile.

'Yes.' Alma swallowed hard, i convinced myself that it was the way to everlasting happiness. I was completely selfish. I believed I loved you, and nothing, not even your lawful wife, should be allowed to stand in our way. It was an obsession. All the girlish dreams, frustrations, fantasies that had stayed with me right through the war were focused on you. Walter, I'm twenty-eight, almost an old maid, and I conducted myself no better than a schoolgirl.'

'There's no need to be ashamed of that,' said Walter.

'There is — because I deluded myself and you. These few

'There is — because I deluded myself and you. These few days at sea have brought me to my senses. How can I tell you this without hurting you?'

'You don't love me?' said Walter in a level voice.

Alma lowered her eyes.

'You don't want to live with me in America?'

She bowed her head.

'There is someone else?'

'Yes.' She started to sob.

He stroked her hair. He said, 'Thank you for telling me. To be honest, it's rather a relief. You see, I was feeling guilty over you. I took advantage of your feelings for me. Alone, I would never have plucked up the courage to do what I have. I faced it with your help. Like you, I have learned from the experience. Now I can stand alone.'

He was calm and in control. He meant what he had said. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. She said, 'What happened in this room will be our secret. I'll take it to my grave.'

Walter thanked her and stood up. He said, 'There are some trunks of Lydia's in the hold. When we are in America, would you take them? If they were unclaimed, there might be questions.'

'Of course I will,' said Alma. As he reached the door, she added, on an impulse, 'It was a perfect murder.'

'Almost,' said Walter. 'Good luck with Mr Finch.'

Alma was alone again.

22

Before 7am on Wednesday, the morning the Mauretania was due to dock in New York harbour, there was a meeting in the captain's quarters. Walter had been summoned by his cabin steward. In the room where he had first been asked to investigate the murder, he saw, besides the captain, the master-at- arms, Paul Westerfield II, his fiancee Barbara and, her face stained with tears, Marjorie Livingstone Cordell. The captain nodded towards a chair and Walter sat down. He was opposite Mr Saxon, who was giving him a withering look.

'Inspector, I'll be brief,' said Captain Rostron. 'Another passenger has disappeared. This lady's husband, Mr