“You’re a little short for a famous detective…”
“I’m not a detective. Or famous. Or that short, for my age.”
“But aren’t you Orpheus March, young heir of the legendary consulting detective Lord Henry March and the celebrated writer of murder mysteries Dottie Palaver?”
“Yes. Those are certainly my parents. The eccentric “March Hare” of Scotland Yard and the imaginative “Our Lady of Arsenic”. They do love their outlandish puzzles and mysteries. For me, I can take or leave them.”
“But aren’t you the young prodigy that solved the case of the Glass Mandible, finding the Rambler twins and saving the honour of the French Foreign Legion?”
“I was in Paris when all that messy business occurred, but I didn’t solve anything. I was just trying to find my hat. It wasn’t my fault the Eye of Tamburlaine was hidden in that block of ice.”
“And yet here you are, ruthlessly interrogating an innocent lady of fashion and society, to discover whether I had any hand in the captain’s ghastly strangulation…”
“I don’t care who did what. I hate cruises as much as I dislike mysteries, and the first officer is threatening to not let anyone disembark if the murderer isn’t found before we reach Southampton. The ship company could hold us here for weeks while the police scour every cranny of this floating pleasure dome. Worse, every passenger and member of crew is a potential suspect, so they’ll make me sit in on hundreds of interviews, as if I know anything about criminals! I only want to go home, barricade the doors and windows, and not speak to anyone for several months. It’s easier to just go through the motions of investigating the case, and wait for the storm to pass. If you did in fact kill the captain, can you please confess to someone other than me, so I don’t have to keep wandering around this ship pretending to look for clues.”
“Oh. You’re no fun.”
“So I often hear.”
The woman uncurled onto her back, covering her eyes with a forearm.
Paula Vine. From a family richer than Midas, but with a touch that turns gold to quivering jelly. One of the three women to dine at the captain’s table the night before the murder. All linked to the crime scene. All exquisitely beautiful, if you liked cat eyes, long fingernails, longer legs, plunging bosoms, and cherry lips. If that was to your taste, Paula looked the way jumping off a skyscraper feels.
A few curated teardrops rolled down Paula’s cheeks, while her chest heaved with the decisive force and regularity of a metronome.
“Oh, I shouldn’t have come on this rotten cruise. I’m not hurting anyone - I just want to go out with whoever I want, whenever I want. Kick up my legs a little. That’s not much to ask, is it?”
“And that’s why you were dancing with the captain?”
“Being captain is such a stuffy job, if you think of it. Having to be in charge all the time, bossing all those sailors around, always putting up a front. He deserved a chance to unwind, don’t you think? Don’t we all? Didn’t he deserve to have a pretty girl in his arms from time to time? Smell her hair and feel her fingernails comb his shoulder? And he was dapper, and safe, a loveworn and cosy teddy bear.”
“Do you know how he came to be strangled with your stockings?”
“There! That sounds bad, but it proves I’m not the killer. If I was to kill anyone, which I would never do, I would hardly do it in a way that links me to the crime. He was a good boy, and he was so entranced by my legs, I just… made a little gift. Let him unroll them, too. But that’s as far as we went. I don’t know what happened after. But I’ll tell you who you should talk to. Ingrid Hoffmann. You’ll find her in the gymnasium, with her clients. If anyone has a motive, it’s her. I shouldn’t say, but… Well, you talk to her, you’ll see. Hates men. Has a vendetta against the entire sex. A case for a good alienist.”
“And you like men so much you would never hurt one?”
Paula straightened up like a freshly-watered sunflower.
“Oh, I can’t live without them! That wounded look in their eyes because the world’s too hard and scary and complex for their practical minds… Men are so kind, obliging, and easy to understand… No, it’s women you can’t trust. Can never know what a woman really thinks. Haven’t you heard what the sailors say? That it’s bad luck to have a woman on a ship. We knock things off course. It’s our nature, all the way back to Eve.”
“Thank you, Paula. That was informative. I am sure that your stockings are, alas, a clue. And may I say, I hope this ship sinks, to save us all from the rest of this alleged investigation.”
“Any time, darling. Oh, on your way out, you can tell the boys they can come back in.”
Orpheus left the cocktail bar. On either side of the hallway leading to the promenade deck, men in tuxedos stood at attention. They glared at Orpheus with the jealous hunger of sunburnt pride.
“The interview with Miss Vine is over, so you can all go back to… whatever you were doing.”
The men slipped past Orpheus in silence, sneaking furtive glances at the interloper. The bar began to hum with the mounting clamour of enthusiastic voices, as a dozen men strained to light a single cigarette. Champagne bottles popped, and the band’s trumpets sang of bright delights.
Orpheus made it a point to not look back, for fear that someone would be blowing them a kiss.
A steward came up to Orpheus and presented a slip of paper.
“A telegram, sir. From Lord Henry March. Someone told the papers about the murder...”
Orpheus read the telegram:
What ho stop rum business stop check porthole stop contortionist stop
How like Lord March’s brain to go in that direction.
The captain’s cabin was the only room on the ship that locked from the inside. When the captain was absent for roll call, the crew had to break down the door to enter. The sailors found the captain splayed out on the bed, his pants at his ankles, life choked out of him with a lady’s stocking. Nobody else in the room, and no signs of a struggle.
A classic locked room mystery. No way in or out.
But Lord March loved testing assumptions. And he was right. Even if the door was locked, every cabin had a porthole facing the ocean, although far too small for even a slender physique to slip through. So there was another way into the room, and it was possible, though unlikely, the porthole somehow explained the murder.
Suppose a circus contortionist was on board and climbed down the side of the ship on rope and squeezed their way into the captain’s cabin. Or perhaps the captain was lured to stick his head through the porthole, strangled with stockings dangling from above, and then fell backwards into his bed. Or perhaps the crime was committed by a tiny homicidal ape, after the fashion of an Edgar Allan Poe mystery.
Suppositions like those took you into a twilight world of blow darts fired through keyholes, killers hiding in chimneys, and time-release poison pills, where murder lurked in every pavement crack.
For Orpheus, who liked simplicity, and did not have energy for anything that could be described as malarky or shenanigans, these scenarios were too complex to be plausible. If you wanted to kill someone on a ship, why not just hit them on the back of the head with a pipe and push them over the side of the deck? No body for anyone to find. Instead, the captain’s body was displayed in the act of intimacy, with their apparent seductress evaporated into the ocean spray. Just the sort of nonsense that would guarantee international attention, close police scrutiny, and theories from every amateur sleuth from Cairo to Shanghai. If you were going to kill someone, why draw so much attention to the crime? Unless, for some reason, the murder was only possible that way?
Worse, three ostentatious clues stained the tranquility of the captain’s death:
around the captain’s throat, socialite Paula Vine’s stockings
an empty bottle of schnapps, a brand not served on the ship, but seen with sanitarium doctor Ingrid Hoffmann
a book of matches, with the logo of the exotic dancer Madeline Minx
On the promenade deck, Orpheus noted the empty chairs, and wistfully reflected that instead of failing to solve a crime, they could be sleeping. The sky was too blue and clean for any healthy person to spend the day worrying about murder and suspects. If only murderers took more naps, perhaps they would be less cranky, and things would be easier for everyone.
They traveled downstairs to the gymnasium, to speak to Ingrid Hoffman.
Ingrid was by the indoor pool, barking instructions to women splashing up and down the lanes. They saw Orpheus enter, and walked over to them. They handed Orpheus an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“My signed statement, recording my activities the night before the murder, with estimates of the time of each action. I have taken the liberty of obtaining some witness reports to corroborate elements of my statement. The package should provide a comprehensive alibi.”
“I suppose you’re not going to make this easy for me and confess to a murder?”
“I’ll tell you the facts. The captain visited my cabin to check on me, a friendly visit to a new acquaintance, and we shared a drink. He was maudlin over how he had neglected his wife by prioritising advancement in a naval career, which kept him away from home and female company for long periods. I suspect his wife found more than enough amusement in his absence. In these cases, however, it is best to let the man talk away their feelings. He placed his hand on my knee. I removed it. After that, I asked him to leave. I let him take the schnapps bottle with him, and I did not see him after that.”
“And you don’t have any hostility towards the captain for his, uh, romantic overture?”
“It would be meaningless to dwell on such a commonplace occurrence. I believe in the renewing power of fitness and hygiene, and it is impossible to maintain these qualities without experiencing occasional unwanted interest from men. Call it biology, or simply bad manners. I choose not to let such incidents distract me. My time is limited, and I spend it on what is useful. That is why my sanitarium only takes female patients. Rather than fixing broken men, I help women be stronger. Why waste my time on a drunken slight from a weepy old fool?”
Ingrid’s face was placid, but her voice shook with barely controlled rage.
“Well, that’s… thorough. Thank you. I’ll go find another suspect now.”
Ingrid smiled.
“Thank you. I take pride in my efficiency.”
No sooner had Orpheus left the gymnasium, than they were accosted by a frantic steward.
“Telegram, sir! Lady March!”
It read:
Buttercup stop how thrilling stop consider romantic tastes of deceased stop see you at port stop
Before her marriage to Lord March, Dottie Palaver had been a popular writer of macabre mystery novels, overenthusiastic research throwing her into close shaves with real criminals, and the arms of a protective and eccentric crime-solving nobleman.
Where Lord March believed murder could happen anywhere, Lady March believed anyone could be a murderer. After a childhood stuffed with Dottie Palaver’s countless tales of black widows and bluebeards, Orpheus could rattle off plausible homicidal motives for the most seemingly angelic of souls.
Suppose Paula was the killer. Scenario - accidental death during lovemaking, a passion game that got out of hand. Or - financial angle, the captain blackmailed Paula for her wild conduct, in a panic she killed the captain to stop her father discovering her indulgences, protecting her access to the family wealth.
Or say Ingrid was the killer. Scenario - the captain had an unpleasant incident with one of Ingrid’s sanitarium clients, and she strangled him in righteous vengeance. Or - in a shocking twist, Ingrid is the lover of the captain’s wife, and she killed him to free them from a suffocating marriage. Wild, but the racy element would sell a lot of paperbacks. Dottie Palaver would approve.
If you were going to get that creative with motive, why not say it was the first officer, taking the straightest path to promotion? Or it could be an unusually inspired steward, manufacturing a scandal on the ship to show the critical importance of the telegram service? Or Orpheus could be the killer, their reluctance to investigate a facade, when in fact they engineer crimes to solve to exorcise their feelings about brilliant investigator parents?
At least, Orpheus knew they were not the murderer, because they had no idea how anyone got out of the captain’s locked room.
And what of the exotic dancer Madeline Minx, the third suspect?
“Steward, I would like to ask you a favour.”
“Yes, of course! Will it help solve the case?”
“Um. Sure. Why not? Anyway, can you please take this testimonial from Ingrid Hoffmann. No, I don’t need to read it. That sounds like more work. I feel a burning desire to throw the envelope into the ocean, and I fear that will make things more complex, rather than less. I need you to protect me from myself. Also, no more telegrams, thank you. I have had enough telegrams for now, and for the remainder of the journey.”
Orpheus had almost finished retracing the captain’s last steps. There was one more destination, the steerage quarters of the exotic dancer Madeline Minx. Although famous enough to afford a better cabin higher up in the ship, the dancer preferred the bohemian camaraderie of the lower decks. Once this conversation was done, Orpheus planned to report back to the first officer that they had done their best, and bow out of the investigation.
Choking on cigarette smoke and accordion music, Orpheus pushed into the steerage dining saloon. Dodging an over-friendly Cossack dance, they found their way to the cabin of Madeline Minx.
Orpheus knocked on the door, and a gentle voice told them to come in.
They were greeted by what looked like a wet chicken with a drinking problem.
“Oh, don’t mind my appearance, I’ve just been taking off my make-up. It’s not glamorous, I know. And my hair’s all messy from the wig. You wouldn’t believe my beauty routine. I’m just about to put on my night mask. It’s an early night for me, I need to look my best when we make port tomorrow.”
“Miss… Minx? Madeline? Can I call you Madeline? I wish I could say I can come back later, but unfortunately I’m investigating a murder. It’s not pleasant for me either.”
“Aren’t you going to take off your hat?”
“I never take off my hat.”
“Oh, if you wish, nothing bothers me. I think I’ve seen it all already. The captain? Sad news, he seemed nice enough. He had a bit in him when he came to see me last night in the tavern. Sometimes, people get the wrong idea. I sell an experience, you see, and people can think it’s personal. But I can handle that. I told him to go see the show like everyone else, and gave him a matchbook. They’re my calling card - Madeline Minx lights your fire. Can you hand me that feather boa?”
“This one?”
“Yes, the pink one. Thank you. Oh, darn, this needs re-fluffing. Anyway, on the captain. Is there anything else you need to know?”
“Well, mother suggested I explore the captain’s romantic history.”
“Oh - is your mother here on the ship?”
“No, they’re just very enthusiastic about crime. You know how parents are.”
“Ah. Well, I can give you my professional perspective, as a performer. The captain was a gentleman, but a bit frustrated. Inhibited. But you don’t fall off the apple tree as a respectable captain of a ship. He would have started as a sailor, and you know how they cut loose on shore leave. On the surface, the captain has to be the boss of the ship, and project that image, but that doesn’t tell you what they do behind closed doors.”
“Or locked doors, as it so happens.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Thank you Madeline, I don’t think I need anything further. Despite my best efforts, I have solved the case. This is a black day for my dreams of an investigation-free future.”
“Have you really? How exciting for you. Please, don’t forget a matchbook. I hope to see you in the audience someday. I’ll even take you backstage to meet the artists.”
Orpheus wandered up to the ship’s bridge, turning over the interviews in their mind. They hailed a steward, and told them to inform the first officer that the case was over.
Despite Orpheus’ weary and futile protestations, the first officer insisted on summoning all of the suspects to the captain’s quarters, as though it was important for all revelations to happen at the scene of the crime. Paula was plucked from the cocktail bar, Ingrid removed from their vegetarian dinner, and Madeline wrenched from their beauty sleep, their face still caked in mud.
Orpheus spoke:
“I’ll be brief. You’re all very beautiful and engaging ladies, and the captain was understandably captivated by each of you. When he got back to his room, he locked the door, and began to engage in self-pleasure while thinking of you. At the same time, he choked himself with Paula’s stocking. This is a dangerous practice, however it is said to heighten the satisfaction of the act. The captain likely picked this method up in the venues sailors frequent on shore leave. This time the captain was a little more drunk than normal, which made him too enthusiastic, and he went beyond the little death, to the bigger and more permanent one. That is what happened. I will not be taking questions.”
Orpheus left the flummoxed group, and collapsed into bed in their cabin.
The next day, the ship docked.
The first officer stood at the gangways, nodding to the passengers as they left. He had the air of a man deflated, but determined to be graceful. Paula marched onward surrounded by a bevy of tired men hefting an extensive collection of matching luggage. Ingrid walked on with her clients following in a train like happy ducklings. Madeline was now dressed to inspire gold miners to toss her nuggets, and had smiles and waves for the waiting press photographers.
And then the first officer saw another beautiful woman, but not one he recognised. She wore a sleek yellow sundress. Her physique was lithe, her hair glossy, and her smile stabbed the eye like Cupid’s arrow. Then she spoke.
“Don’t recognise me? Fair enough. I only wear this kit when I’m seeing my parents. The darlings have opted to collect me from this trip and take me home. When traveling, I prefer the anonymity of a man’s costume. It’s the only way to be left alone, and you know how I like that. But you know how parents are, they expect their daughters to behave a certain way. It’s easier to go along than endure another one-sided conversation with them. How is my lipstick? After a long trip like this, I always forget how to do it properly. Oh, it’ll be good to be home. Cruise ships are terrible, aren’t they? I don’t know how you do it, all the scurrying around in that cramped space with so many people. I don’t think I’ll ever leave the house again.”
And Eurydice March left the ship, thinking of the quiet of home, detectives and murders and femme fatales behind her, not tempted to look back.
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