The False Inspector Dew

4

By teatime it was rumoured that the woman had been murdered. In the first class lounge designed in the eighteenth century style to provide an atmosphere of quiet grace, appalling theories of homicide were aired across the salmon sandwiches and silver teapots. Ladies listened open-mouthed as their companions told them what horrors lurked beneath them on the lower decks. Lascars with daggers, drunken Irish stokers, rapacious engineers, thieving emigrants skulked in the steerage waiting for the night. No-one was safe. It was a horrifying prospect. There was no escape. They were imprisoned in the ship.

The anxieties were voiced in varying degrees in all the public rooms:

'There could be a maniac at large. What action are they taking?'

'My dear, they're not taking action. They're only taking statements.'

'That's absurd. The captain ought to give us some protection.'

'You're not really frightened, are you? You've always been so brave.'

'Don't give me that soft soap. If you cared the smallest bit about my safety you would go and see the captain and demand to know what he is doing to protect us from this maniac'

'Give him a chance, my dear. He's doing his best, I'm sure.'

On the boat deck, Alma overheard a similar conversation. The wind carried the last of it to her ears after she had passed the speakers: it's poor women like her that I feel sorry for. Fancy being all alone when there's a murderer at large.'

She had spent the afternoon reading in the stateroom. She had come out to get some air. At the word "murderer" a shock went through her body. She began to tremble. Had she misheard? She felt nauseous. She turned towards the sea and gripped the rail.

'I say, do you need help?' a man enquired.

'No thank you.'

'You look frightfully pale. Have you tried Mothersill's? They're very efficacious. I've got some with me if you'd like one.'

'No, it isn't that. I'm perfectly all right.'

Below, on the main deck, Wilf and Jean Dutton were walking arm in arm. Sally was behind them with her skipping-rope. Jean kept glancing back.

'Can't you forget her for a moment?' said Wilf. 'She's not daft. She won't jump over.'

'You know why I want to keep an eye on her,' said Jean.

'Love, it was a grown woman. Men who go after woman don't bother with little girls. If anyone's at risk, it's yourself.'

'It's horrible,' said Jean, i wish we'd stayed in Leicester, job or no job.'

'Well, I don't. Hey, isn't that the bloke we had lunch with?'

Jean looked at the hunched figure staring at the ocean. 'Yes, that's him. Leave him, Wilf. He's not our sort. He doesn't want to mix.'

'He's no-one special. We established that. Mr Walter Dew, retired. Retired from what, I'd like to know. Why was he so cagy when I asked him? What do you reckon he did for a living, Jean? Kept a pawnshop? No, that's not his style. Something smarter. One of them lounge-lizards. Hey, that's more like it. How would you fancy a foxtrot with him?'

'Don't be so daft'

'Well, if it isn't that, what is it? Something shady, or I'll eat my hat.'

'Good thing if you did,' said Jean, it's horrible. Greasy and fraying at the sides. I don't know what your brother's going to say. They don't wear things like that in America.'

'I've got it. He's the murderer. That's why he won't say much.'

'Keep your voice down, Wilf.'

'DrCrippen himself.'

'Stupid. He was hanged before the war.'

'I know that. It's just a joke. Poor old Crippen on the boat, and …' Wilf stopped. 'By God, I do know who that is!'