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member—?” Kemper began.
Pendergast waved his hand. “Mr. Kemper, relax. If I am correct, the killer is in fact not a member of the crew. However, he may have disguised himself as one, and managed to get a passcard to off-limits areas. As a working hypothesis, I would suggest Willa Berkshire was lured backstage with the promise of meeting Braddock Wiley. Which implies that her killer was dressed as someone in authority.”
He turned to the commodore. “Where are we, if I may be forgiven the question?”
The commodore stared back, then turned to Kemper. “Are you going to let this . . .
passenger
take over ship’s security?” His voice was hard as steel.
“No, sir. But I would respectfully advise that we accept his help. He’s . . . assisted us before.”
“You’re
acquainted
with this man and have used his services?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In what capacity?” “In the casino,” said Kemper. “He assisted us in dealing with the card counters.” He didn’t add that Pendergast had walked off with more than a quarter of a million pounds extra in the process—money that had yet to be recovered.
The commodore waved his hand disgustedly, as if to abruptly distance himself from the subject at hand. “Very well, Mr. Kemper. You know as master of this ship I do not involve myself in non-nautical matters.” He strode to the door, glanced back. “I warn you, Kemper: it’s on your shoulders now.All of it.” Then he turned and disappeared.
Pendergast looked at Mason. “May I ask what the
Brita
’s present location is? Vis-à-vis the nearest body of land.”
“We’re about twelve hundred kilometers east of the Flemish Cap, eighteen hundred kilometers northeast of St. John’s, Newfoundland.”
“St. John’s is the closest harbor?”
“It is now,” Mason replied. “A few hours ago it would have been Galway Harbour, Ireland. We’re in midcrossing.”
“A pity,” Pendergast murmured.
“Why is that?” the staff captain asked.
“Because it is my conviction that this killer is going to strike again. Soon.”
35
AS MANAGING DIRECTOR OF ABERDEEN BANK AND TRUST LTD, Gavin Bruce considered—rather grimly—that he’d had a great deal of experience taking control of impossible situations and setting things firmly in order. In the course of his career, he had taken over no fewer than four failing banks, whipped them into shape, and turned their fortunes around. Prior to that he had served as an officer in Her Majesty’s Navy, seeing action in the Falklands, and the experience had served him well. But he had never faced a challenge quite as bizarre, or as frightening, as this one.
Bruce had been traveling with two other representatives of Aberdeen Bank and Trust—Niles Welch and Quentin Sharp—both ex-navy like himself, now impeccably dressed bankers of the City mold. He’d worked with them for years and he knew them both to be good, solid people. They’d been presented with this crossing by a client of his, Emily Dahlberg, as a reward for services rendered. These days, most rich clients seemed to feel that a banker owed them, but Emily understood the importance of fostering an old-fashioned relationship of mutual trust. And Bruce had repaid that trust by helping her navigate through two tricky divorces and a complex inheritance case. A widower himself, he was very appreciative of her attention and her gift.
Too bad it all seemed to be going sour.
After the discovery in the Belgravia Theatre the night before— which he had witnessed—it was immediately clear to him that the ship’s perso
So he had sat down after lunch with Welch, Sharp, and Ms. Dahlberg—she had insisted on being involved—and, true to form, they had come up with a plan. And now, as they strode down the plush corridors, Bruce in the lead, he took some measure of comfort in knowing they were putting that plan into action.
The small group made their way up through the decks until they reached a forward passageway leading to the bridge. There they were stopped by a nervous-looking security guard with watery eyes and a whiffle cut.
“We are here to see Commodore Cutter,” said Bruce, producing his card.
The man took the card, glanced at it. “May I ask what it is in reference to, sir?”
“In reference to the recent murder. Tell him we are a group of concerned passengers and that we wish to see him immediately.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, somewhat embarrassed, “Ex-captain, RN.”
“Yes, sir. Just a moment, sir.”
The security guard hustled away, shutting and locking the door behind him. Bruce waited impatiently, arms folded across his chest. Five minutes passed before the guard returned.
“If you’ll please come this way, sir?”
Bruce and his people followed the guard through the hatch into a much more functional area of the ship, with linoleum floors and gray-painted walls framed in fake wood, illuminated with strips of fluorescent lighting. A moment later they were ushered into a spartan conference room, a single row of windows looking starboard across a stormy, endless ocean.
“Please be seated. Staff Captain Mason will be here shortly.”
“We asked to see the ship’s master,” Bruce replied. “That would be Commodore Cutter.”
The guard ran an anxious hand over his whiffle. “The commodore is not available. I’m sorry. Staff Captain Mason is second in command.”
Bruce cast an inquisitive eye on his little group. “Shall we insist?”
“I’m afraid that would do no good, sir,” said the guard.
“Well then, the staff captain it is.”
They did not seat themselves. A moment later a woman appeared in the door, in an immaculate uniform, her hair tucked under her hat. As soon as he was over his surprise at seeing a woman, Bruce was immediately impressed by her calm, serious demeanor.
“Please sit down,” she said, taking as a matter of course the seat at the head of the table—another small detail that did not escape Bruce’s approval.
The banker got to the point immediately. “Captain Mason, we are clients of and representatives from one of the largest banks in the United Kingdom—a fact I mention only to impress on you our bona fides. I myself am ex–Royal Navy, former captain, HMMSussex . We are here because we feel the ship is facing an emergency that may be beyond the ability of the crew to contain.”
Mason listened.
“There is great anxiety among the passengers. As you probably know, some people have begun locking themselves in their rooms. There’s talk of a Jack the Ripper–style killer aboard.”