34 - The Queen's Jewels (6 page)

Of course, I hadn’t planned on Michael Haggerty showing up and sharing my voyage, nor had I anticipated that the business partner of a man who’d been murdered while his precious blue diamond was being stolen would also be aboard.

But those surprises wouldn’t get in the way of my enjoyment of the crossing.

 

M
y driver navigated the maze of streets leading to where the
Queen Mary 2
was docked in Southampton, the ship’s distinctive red and black funnels rising imposingly into the crystal clear blue sky. As we drew closer, the ship’s immense size became increasingly apparent. It was, I knew, the world’s longest passenger vessel, 1,132 feet in length, longer than the Eiffel Tower is tall; it would stretch the length of four blocks on Manhattan’s Fifth Avenue.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” my driver said as we pulled up in front of the sprawling terminal.

“She certainly is. I can’t wait to get on board.”

The driver helped deliver my luggage to a porter, wished me a pleasant voyage, and drove off, leaving me to enter the huge terminal, where I was handed a card indicating the section in which I was to wait. The place was chockablock with passengers. I knew the ship accommodated 2,620 passengers from having read the literature that had been sent me, and that this particular crossing was sold out. That meant that there were probably 2,619 other souls with me in that building, all happily anticipating their trip.

I scanned the room for Michael Haggerty but didn’t see him, nor did I see Kim Chin-Hwa and the beautiful Betty LeClair. It wasn’t unexpected with so many passengers waiting to board. Many were undoubtedly already in their staterooms. I sat down to wait, wondering how many hours it would be, but the process was surprisingly quick and smooth.

Fifteen minutes later, I was called to a string of positions where my photo was taken, and I was issued a special charge card to use when accessing and paying for the ship’s amenities not included in the basic fare, including the Canyon Ranch Spa, which I fully intended to explore. As a lecturer, my trip was compliments of Cunard, but all incidentals were my responsibility.

With that bit of logistics out of the way, I walked a long, twisting gangplank up to the ship and was greeted by a line of sharply dressed young crew members, one of whom directed me to my stateroom. But first I paused for one of the shipboard photographers to snap my picture. Every arriving passenger was photographed, the printed results to be displayed and for sale in the ship’s photo gallery.

My stateroom on Deck Eleven was large and airy. Glass doors led to the balcony with two lounge chairs and a table. Waiting for me in the cabin were a bucket of chilled champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries, and two notes: One was from the captain welcoming me aboard the
QM2
; the second was from the ship’s recreation director, informing me of a five-thirty cocktail party for lecturers in the Commodore Club.

My luggage had already been delivered; how they managed to do that so fast was beyond me. I’d started to unpack when there was a knock on my door. I opened it to be face-to-face with a handsome young man in uniform.

“Mrs. Fletcher?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I’m here to help unpack your luggage, madam.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” I said, “but thank you. I’m an old hand at unpacking when I travel.”

He showed me where my life preserver was located; I’d have to take it with me for the safety drill that was coming up shortly.

“Thank you,” I said.

“My pleasure, madam. I am Rupesh, your cabin steward. If there is anything you need, please call me.” He pointed to the phone and gave me his extension.

“I’ll do that,” I said. “Thanks again.”

He bowed and left. But the minute he was gone, his name registered with me. Rupesh! Maniram Chatterjee’s cousin?

I opened the door and beckoned to him when he emerged from the cabin adjacent to mine. “Rupesh,” I said.

“Yes, madam?”

“Do you happen to have cousins living in Cabot Cove, Maine, Maniram and Hita Chatterjee?”

His large black eyes opened wide, and he broke into a smile exposing a set of exquisite white teeth. “You know Maniram and Hita?”

I explained.

“How are they?” he asked, his voice animated, which added to its lilt.

“They’re fine,” I said. I adopted an exaggerated stern expression. “But they tell me you haven’t been keeping in touch with your mother back in India.”

His sheepish expression, too, was exaggerated.

“I promised them that I’d remind you to call or write her,” I said, lightening my voice. We were going to be together for six days across the Atlantic, and I didn’t want him to consider me an old scold.

“I will, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I will write her tonight.”

“Good. Maybe we can find some time during the crossing to have a chat. From what your cousins tell me, you’ve lived quite an interesting life.”

“It has been—let me just say that I have enjoyed it.”

“Which is so important,” I said. “Well, I’d better get to the safety drill.”

After reporting to the assigned deck, where crew members explained the routine should an emergency arise, I dropped my life preserver back in my cabin and hastened to attend the cocktail party. The ship’s staff captain, second-in-command after the captain, was on hand to greet us as we entered the Commodore Club. One of his myriad duties was commanding shipboard security, he told me. His staff of sixteen security officers not only maintained day-to-day security; it could be called upon to act as a seagoing police force should troubles of a criminal nature arise.

Our host was the ship’s entertainment director, a charming fellow who’d once been a British TV and film actor. My fellow lecturers made for a pleasant group—an expert on global warming, an astronomer, a college professor who specialized in rare plants, and a musical duo, a man and woman who performed historic British sea shanties and songs of the sea. I learned that my first lecture was scheduled for eleven o’clock the next morning in “Illuminations,” the
QM2
’s very own floating planetarium. An actual working planetarium on an ocean liner. What would they think of next?

I returned to my stateroom just as the ship was beginning to pull away from the dock, stood on my balcony with a flute of champagne, and watched as the dock became smaller and we headed for the open sea. I felt at peace with the world at that moment. Any tension I’d experienced over the past few weeks seemed to vanish immediately, blown away in the bracing breeze that mussed my hair. The champagne’s bubbles tickled my nose and caused me to laugh.

An hour later, dressed to reflect that evening’s semiformal dress code, I made my way to Deck Seven, where the Princess Grill was located, at the rear of the ship—no, make that the “stern.” I reminded myself that I’d better get comfortable using nautical terms.

One of the grill’s hosts escorted me to a table against a large window that afforded a lovely view of the ocean. It was a table for six, but I noticed it had been set for five. I’d no sooner been seated than the first of my dinner companions arrived. He was a tall, handsome man whom I judged to be in his late seventies or early eighties. His face, tanned and quite wrinkled, was that of a man who’d spent much of his life outdoors. He wore a blue, double-breasted blazer with brass buttons, white slacks, and a bright white shirt open at the throat.

“Hello,” I said as he came around to a chair next to me.

“Hello to you,” he said in a deep voice tinged with gravel. He sat in the chair the host held out for him, drew a deep breath, looked at me, smiled, and extended his hand. “Harrison Flynn,” he said. “Call me Harry.”

“Jessica Fletcher,” I replied.

“The mystery writer,” he said. “They told me I’d be having the pleasure of dining with you.”

“I hope it’s as pleasurable as they said it would be.”

We looked up at the next arrival, a young British couple. Harry stood and accepted the husband’s and wife’s outstretched hands, and I greeted them from my chair. They introduced themselves as Richard and Marcia Kensington. Richard had a face that hadn’t been creased by too many smiles. Even so, he was nice-looking—sandy hair worn fashionably long for his age, pale blue eyes, and thin lips. Marcia was considerably shorter than her husband. He stood six feet; I doubted she topped five-two. They were dressed more casually than Mr. Flynn and I were, although not blatantly so, Richard in a multicolored pullover sweater over a blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks, Marcia in a loose-fitting white blouse over a dressy pair of jeans. She had a shy smile, which she directed at her husband while he held her chair; I had the feeling that when it came to decision making, Richard ruled the roost.

We fell into an uneasy conversation. Richard Kensington wasn’t the talkative type, nor did he seem especially interested in what others had to offer.

“We’re on our honeymoon,” Marcia said without being prompted.

“Oh! Congratulations,” I said. “What a wonderful honeymoon, crossing the Atlantic on this magnificent ship.”

“It isn’t all a honeymoon,” Richard corrected his wife. “I have business in New York.”

“What do you do for a living, Richard?” Harry asked.

“Ah, I work alone.” No smile, no apparent pride in his occupation. He seemed to address the white tablecloth, avoiding eye contact.

“Richard is very successful,” Marcia said, smiling proudly and touching his arm.

“I believe this gathering of kindred souls calls for champagne,” said Flynn. He waved over the wine steward and ordered a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée. “Not the most expensive,” Flynn said, “but a particular favorite of mine. I first tasted it in Hong Kong years ago. I ended up there as a guest of the government for a week, something to do with my papers not passing muster.”

“What business were you in?” I asked.

“I’d hardly call it a business,” he replied pleasantly. “I was captain on an oil tanker.”

“How marvelous! Were you always a ship’s captain?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, I was. I started out with Harland and Wolff in Belfast—”

We were interrupted by the arrival of the last of our tablemates, Michael Haggerty, dressed in a nicely tailored tuxedo complemented by a muted orange, white, and green striped bow tie and matching cummerbund.

“Good evening, ladies and gents,” he said as he took the fifth chair. “A pleasure dining with you. My name’s Wendell Jones. And you are?”

Richard and Marcia introduced themselves, Richard without enthusiasm. Harry Flynn eagerly shook Michael’s hand and said, “That’s a handsome tie you’re wearing. Same colors as the Irish flag.”

“An astute observation,” Haggerty said, his brogue thickening. “That’s exactly what it is, orange for the Irish Protestants, green for Irish Catholics, and white in between as a symbol of hope for peace between them. I had the tie and cummerbund specially made in London.” He turned to me. “And I know this lovely lady. Jessica Fletcher, my favorite writer of crime novels. We’ve met on several occasions.”

“So we have.” I took Michael’s hand and said, “And how is the antiques business in Dublin, Mr. Jones?”

Michael flashed his best winning smile. “We’ll have none of this ‘Mr. Jones’ formality, Jessica. But to answer your question, business is splendid. There seems to be an insatiable demand for historic theatrical and motion picture memorabilia.” He turned to Mr. Flynn. “Did I hear you worked for Harland and Wolff? Some mighty fine ships were built by them.”

Harry beamed. “And I’ve served on a good number of them.”

“Obviously not the
Titanic
,” Haggerty said pleasantly.

“My good fortune to have missed
that
one,” Flynn responded with a laugh.

Our champagne was delivered and opened with a flourish by the wine steward. We clinked our flutes. “Here’s to a long life and a merry one,” Harry said, “a quick death and an easy one. A pretty girl and an honest one, a cold pint—and another one!”

Haggerty and I joined Flynn’s hearty laugh. Richard Kensington grimaced. His wife’s smile was guarded. Haggerty proclaimed, “Down the hatch!” before he drained his glass.

“Yes, indeed,” said Flynn. “‘Down the hatch.’ Does anyone know the origin of that phrase?”

No one responded.

“Well,” he said, warming to his tale, “cargo ships have large hatches through which the crew can access cargo below. In rough weather, if those hatches aren’t securely closed, great amounts of water can pour into the hold, sometimes enough to sink a ship. Crew members began toasting each other with ‘Down the hatch,’ meaning opening up one’s gullet for large amounts of alcohol.”

His story was well received by everyone at the table except for Richard, who stifled a yawn and checked his watch.

I noticed that another table in our section of the grill was set but unoccupied. It wasn’t until we were halfway through our main courses that its occupants arrived: Mr. Kim Chin-Hwa; his companion, Betty; and two strapping young Asian men who I assumed were his “business associates.” They were seated, but Mr. Kim got up almost immediately and came to our table.

“Ah, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “it is my good fortune to see you again.”

“Hello,” I said.

“And Mr. Jones,” Kim said, acknowledging Haggerty, who stood and shook his hand.

“This is Richard and Marcia Kensington,” I told Kim, “and Mr. Harrison Flynn.”

Richard simply nodded; his wife smiled. Flynn stood and gave Kim a hearty greeting, offering a large, calloused hand that engulfed Kim’s smaller, almost delicate one.

“My apologies for interrupting your dinner,” Kim said. “But perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to enjoy your company later this evening.” He looked at me.