replied, “Why, yes, there was.”
“Did you let the call ring through, or did you speak to someone in the cabin before putting it through?” came my next question.
“It was awfully late, and I wasn’t sure they’d take the call, so I didn’t ring it through. Mr. Farquhar answered and said he’d take the call.”
I pointed at the phone. “Call the room again.”
The operator pulled a cord from his board and inserted it into a little slot. A second passed, and the man gave a little frown as he pushed his earphone against his ear. With his lips close to the speaker, he said, “Mr. Farquhar, is that you?”
I wrung my palms together and asked, “Well, is it the same voice?”
The operator put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Hard to tell, but—well, no. I don’t think so.” He moved his hand from the mouthpiece and said, “Hold on a second, sir.”
I tapped my index finger to my chin and then said, “Tell him that Mrs. Stayton has a question. Did his wife have a will?”
The young man repeated my question, and then to me, he replied, “No.”
“Ask if he has a will,” I said, grasping at a shadowy hunch.
The question was repeated, and then I was told, “No, he doesn’t.”
I felt very close to being on to something. “Tell him to search his wife’s purse; he will know what he’s looking for when he finds it.”
Several minutes passed, while my heart raced ever so fast, and then the curious operator pushed the earpiece closer to his ear. “Yes, sir; yes, I’ll tell her. He found a calling card for one Mr. Earl Preston, solicitor.”
I gently patted the operator on the shoulder. “Tell Mr. Farquhar that is all we need to know for now.”
After the helpful man disconnected the call, I asked, “From what cabin was the call to Mr. Farquhar placed?”
His eyes closed, he slumped forward, and a moment later, he lifted his hands, mimicking the action of reaching from one cable to another. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the slot. “Cabin C-53!” he told me.
As I suspected, the moment Mathew left Ms. Wainwright, she had placed a call to her accomplice to warn him that the murdered woman’s husband was returning to the cabin.
“Thank you!” I said, with great sincerity to the telephone operator. Turning back to the helpful fellow who had aided me thus far, I told him, “I must send a telegraph to London.”
Chapter Eight
Early the following morning, there was a knock at the door. I didn’t believe enough time had passed that my telegraph might have been answered, but I was hopeful all the same.
A friendly young porter handed me a small folded piece of paper, and gave me a little bow after I placed a coin in his hand.
This was not a telegraph; it was a handwritten note from Mr. Pace.
Mrs. Stayton, your telegraph has been sent. Please keep me abreast of your investigation, and don’t let the captain find out that you are still on the case.
Ever the loyal conspirator, I found a cigarette lighter on the desk and burned the note.
An hour later, Yara, Lucy, and I went to the little morning café. From the windows, we could see nothing but grey skies. We consumed our breakfast rather quietly.
I feared that Yara was still suffering from the attack, but she assured me that she was well. I smiled at the polite girl and felt sorry for her.
Lucy nibbled endlessly on the same piece of buttered toast as she read from her notebook. I’d given her a full account of what I had learned after we had woken from a night of restless sleep.
She glanced up at me and said, “This proves that Ms. Wainwright had a hand in the murder, and that she’s still alive.”
I shook my chin. “No, Lucy, it doesn’t.”
Her eyes grew wide, and she looked very concerned.
“For one, Mr. Farquhar never gave us a fixed time that he
“Did you let the call ring through, or did you speak to someone in the cabin before putting it through?” came my next question.
“It was awfully late, and I wasn’t sure they’d take the call, so I didn’t ring it through. Mr. Farquhar answered and said he’d take the call.”
I pointed at the phone. “Call the room again.”
The operator pulled a cord from his board and inserted it into a little slot. A second passed, and the man gave a little frown as he pushed his earphone against his ear. With his lips close to the speaker, he said, “Mr. Farquhar, is that you?”
I wrung my palms together and asked, “Well, is it the same voice?”
The operator put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Hard to tell, but—well, no. I don’t think so.” He moved his hand from the mouthpiece and said, “Hold on a second, sir.”
I tapped my index finger to my chin and then said, “Tell him that Mrs. Stayton has a question. Did his wife have a will?”
The young man repeated my question, and then to me, he replied, “No.”
“Ask if he has a will,” I said, grasping at a shadowy hunch.
The question was repeated, and then I was told, “No, he doesn’t.”
I felt very close to being on to something. “Tell him to search his wife’s purse; he will know what he’s looking for when he finds it.”
Several minutes passed, while my heart raced ever so fast, and then the curious operator pushed the earpiece closer to his ear. “Yes, sir; yes, I’ll tell her. He found a calling card for one Mr. Earl Preston, solicitor.”
I gently patted the operator on the shoulder. “Tell Mr. Farquhar that is all we need to know for now.”
After the helpful man disconnected the call, I asked, “From what cabin was the call to Mr. Farquhar placed?”
His eyes closed, he slumped forward, and a moment later, he lifted his hands, mimicking the action of reaching from one cable to another. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the slot. “Cabin C-53!” he told me.
As I suspected, the moment Mathew left Ms. Wainwright, she had placed a call to her accomplice to warn him that the murdered woman’s husband was returning to the cabin.
“Thank you!” I said, with great sincerity to the telephone operator. Turning back to the helpful fellow who had aided me thus far, I told him, “I must send a telegraph to London.”
Chapter Eight
Early the following morning, there was a knock at the door. I didn’t believe enough time had passed that my telegraph might have been answered, but I was hopeful all the same.
A friendly young porter handed me a small folded piece of paper, and gave me a little bow after I placed a coin in his hand.
This was not a telegraph; it was a handwritten note from Mr. Pace.
Mrs. Stayton, your telegraph has been sent. Please keep me abreast of your investigation, and don’t let the captain find out that you are still on the case.
Ever the loyal conspirator, I found a cigarette lighter on the desk and burned the note.
An hour later, Yara, Lucy, and I went to the little morning café. From the windows, we could see nothing but grey skies. We consumed our breakfast rather quietly.
I feared that Yara was still suffering from the attack, but she assured me that she was well. I smiled at the polite girl and felt sorry for her.
Lucy nibbled endlessly on the same piece of buttered toast as she read from her notebook. I’d given her a full account of what I had learned after we had woken from a night of restless sleep.
She glanced up at me and said, “This proves that Ms. Wainwright had a hand in the murder, and that she’s still alive.”
I shook my chin. “No, Lucy, it doesn’t.”
Her eyes grew wide, and she looked very concerned.
“For one, Mr. Farquhar never gave us a fixed time that he
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