Decline in Prophets (6 page)

“Matthew?… God… No!” Clyde put his head in his hands. “You can’t be serious.”

Milton fell back laughing. “The bishop will explode… Good for you, Ed… save Matthew from the church—make a man of him!”

“This is not funny,” Clyde raised his head. “You can’t…”

“Ed, stop tormenting Clyde.” Rowland poked her, hoping that was all she was doing.

Edna sighed and leaned over to pat Clyde’s knee. “All right, I’m not serious… not really. It is a tragic waste though. He’s very handsome.”

Clyde smiled thankfully. “So who do you think killed Urquhart?” he asked, clearly glad to change the subject to something a lot less frightening.

Rowland shrugged. “Sounds like he may have had a few enemies.”

“I wonder why the killer put him in a lifeboat?” Milton mused.

“To hide the body, I suppose,” Clyde offered.

“I don’t think so.” Milton shook his head slowly. “It would have been a lot easier just to toss the blighter overboard than to lift him into a life boat. He was a hefty
chap remember.”

“He was killed in the lifeboat,” Rowland said suddenly visualising the scene of Urquhart’s demise. “There was no blood on the deck around the boat. There would have been
if he’d been dragged or carried into it.”

Clyde nodded. “By George, you’re right, Rowly. There was a good two inches of blood in the bottom of the boat but nothing outside.”

“So what the blazes was Urquhart doing in a life boat on the second class deck?” Rowland gazed absently at the blue glass beads which hung around Edna’s neck and caught the
light.

Milton looked a little sheepish. “Perhaps some kind of lovers’ tryst?”

“Why wouldn’t he just use his stateroom?” Edna asked the obvious. “A lifeboat…” She shuddered.

“Perhaps his young lady did not want to risk being seen—maybe he was concerned that the other Theosophists were watching him… maybe he’s got some odd preferences.”
Milton shrugged. “It explains why he’d be sitting in a lifeboat.”

Rowland nodded. “It’s possible…”

“You don’t think a girl could have killed him?” Clyde interrupted. “It would take a fair bit of strength to impale someone like that.”

“Maybe this girl had her own Rowly, following her around like an avenging angel…”

“I wasn’t following Ed around,” Rowland protested, embarrassed by the suggestion.

“You know what I mean.” Milton glanced at him apologetically. The torch Rowland carried for Edna was not a secret, but they didn’t talk of it in her presence. It was an
understanding between gentlemen.

“How’s your leg holding up, Rowly?” Clyde asked, deftly redirecting the conversation.

“Aches like the blazes, actually,” Rowland murmured. He shifted his leg gingerly.

“Maybe we should find you another stick,” Edna said touching his arm in concern. She was normally dismissive of the occasional ailments and complaints of the men she lived with, but
this was a little different—
she
had shot Rowland.

“We’re not going to get one on board unless I rob some old lady,” Rowland replied, rubbing his thigh. “I’ll pick up one in New York if I need to.”

“So tomorrow, we try to find out if Orville Urquhart had some kind of assignation on the second class deck.” Milton brought the conversation back.

Rowland smiled and shoved the poet. “Perhaps I better talk to the captain before we unleash Sherlock here upon the
Aquitania
.

“I hate to be the voice of reason,” Clyde said tersely, “but it’s really not our responsibility to find out who killed Urquhart. It’s nothing to do with
us.”

“I don’t know,” Rowland replied. “I must say I was rather fond of that walking stick.”

Godfrey Madding listened thoughtfully as Rowland told him of his conversation with Annie Besant. They sat opposite one another at the large mahogany desk in the privacy of the
captain’s quarters. The shelves behind Madding’s leather chair were filled with naval memorabilia, and the odd item that Rowland recognised as a trophy of the Great War.

“So it’s possible that Mr. Urquhart had many enemies,” Madding said finally, idly tapping the bottled model ship on his desk. “Indeed the Theosophists themselves had
reason to wish Mr. Urquhart gone.”

“The Theosophists?”

“Well it sounds like he was a source of constant embarrassment to the movement.”

“Yes,” Rowland agreed hesitantly. “But murder seems to be rather against their doctrines.”

Madding snorted. “I don’t know that doctrines hold much sway with those moved to kill, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland held his own counsel on that point and raised the question of the lack of blood outside the lifeboat.

Madding nodded. “You’re quite right, Mr. Sinclair, but what would Mr. Urquhart be doing in a lifeboat?”

Rowland recounted Milton’s theory.

Madding’s brow rose. “I see.” He stroked his beard. “I’ll speak to my staff captain—see if the crew noticed anything. The question still remains as to how
such a person got hold of your stick.”

“One has to assume they picked it up on the promenade after my run-in with Urquhart.”

“How many people were on the promenade that night?”

“Not many before I hit Urquhart, quite a few after.”

“The Theosophists have the staterooms that look out on that side of the promenade,” Madding commented. “As well as Bishop Hanrahan and a number of American couples.”

“The bishop?” Rowland smiled.

Madding laughed. “Of course,” he continued soberly, “there is always the possibility that Urquhart himself took your stick and had it with him when he was attacked. The killer
then just used it as a weapon of opportunity.”

“Well,” Rowland shook his head, “we’ve managed to narrow it down to anybody on board the
Aquitania
.”

Madding’s lips pursed. “Yes, a sterling piece of deduction.”

“May I enquire, Captain, as to what will happen if no killer has emerged by the time we make port?”

Madding took out his pipe and stuffed it. “I’m afraid the murder of Orville Urquhart will become a maritime mystery,” he said. “Both Scotland Yard and the New York Police
Department are at pains to declare it outside their jurisdiction.” He sighed. “The best we can hope for is that the blaggard disembarks in New York and doesn’t join us for the leg
to Sydney.”

“Yes, far better that a murderer runs loose in the streets of New York.”

“It’s not ideal, Mr. Sinclair, but it really can’t be helped. Let’s just hope that it was only Mr. Urquhart against whom the killer had a grievance.”

They talked for a while longer, allies now; and then Rowland made his way back to the first class deck where he found his companions huddled in blankets upon wooden deckchairs. It was mid-autumn
in this part of the world. The day was grey and sea breeze cold.

Rowland turned up the collar of his coat before he took the deckchair they’d saved for him. Edna handed him a blanket.

“Tell me again,” he muttered, as he unfolded it, “what the blazes are we doing out here?”

Edna glanced across at the scores of lined-up deckchairs bearing wrapped passengers peering out at the dark sea and bracing wind. “Seems to be the done thing, Rowly.”

“We are experiencing the majesty and glory of Neptune’s realm.” Milton motioned dramatically towards the water. “Defying the unknown oceans whilst Britannia still rules
the waves, even though the sea is flecked with bars of grey, the dull dead wind is out of tune…”

“That second part is Oscar Wilde, the first part is nonsense, and it’s flaming cold,” Rowland grumbled, entirely uninspired.

“Someone will bring tea shortly,” Milton said, returning to his book.

Rowland looked across at Clyde who was leaning forward, gazing towards the horizon.

“Seascape?” Rowland asked, recognising the look on the other’s face. Clyde was constructing a painting in his mind. Clyde pointed to a shaft of light breaking through the grey
of the clouds—seabirds seemed to be flying towards it, upwards to the source of the beam.

Rowland nodded. “Yes, that could be worth painting,” he murmured.

“Of course, you’d need to put a naked woman in the foreground.” Clyde smiled. Rowland Sinclair did not paint landscapes.

“Ed’s already said it’s too cold,” Rowland replied.

“Edna! What a pleasant surprise.” Father Bryan stood before them. “Gentlemen, how are you this morning?”

“Matthew, how lovely to see you.” Edna craned her neck along the line of deckchairs. None was empty. She drew her legs up and made room at the foot of her own. “Why don’t
you join us?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” The clergyman sat. “It’s a fine morning.”

The Australians did not contradict him. They had grown accustomed to what Englishmen seemed to think was a fine morning. It called for compassion.

“Are you hiding from the bishop?” Edna asked pleasantly.

“Ed!” Clyde choked.

“It’s all right.” Matthew Bryan laughed. “I am in fact trying to stay out of his way. His Grace is in a fearsome temper.”

“Oh? What particular abomination is troubling the good bishop today?” Milton asked.

“Gout,” Bryan replied. “And of course this matter with Isobel.”

“Who’s Isobel? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“His Grace’s niece. Isobel is travelling with her uncle to Sydney.”

“Taking her to a nunnery is he?” Milton ignored Clyde’s glare.

“Not yet, but he just might,” Matthew Bryan shook his head. “A bit of a wild creature, is Isobel.”

“Really?” Milton winked at Rowland. “Why didn’t she join us at dinner last night?”

“She was a bit distraught—this Urquhart thing you know… wouldn’t come out of her cabin.”

Now Rowland was interested.

“She knew Orville Urquhart?”

“Apparently so. His Grace was most upset about it.”

“Yes, we noticed he was excitable.”

“His Grace is a passionate man, one of the Good Lord’s most loyal soldiers,” Bryan defended his superior. “He was a boxer in his day,” he added, “before he
joined the Seminary. Why, I’m sure the Holy Father himself is terrified of him!”

They were interrupted at that moment by the service of tea.

Father Bryan did not stay. He rose regretfully. “I must go and prepare the chapel. His Grace is celebrating Mass in an hour or so. I’m just mustering a congregation.”

He looked hopefully at them.

Rowland shrugged apologetically. “Protestant,” he said.

“Lenin’s godless spawn,” Milton volunteered before the clergyman could even look at him. “But Clyde will go—won’t you, Clyde?”

Clyde sputtered. He didn’t often take his Catholicism that far—he turned to Rowland for help.

Rowland looked at him. “I think you should go. Pray for us.”

If Father Bryan hadn’t still been standing there, Clyde might have sworn at him. As it was he had little choice but to promise his attendance.

“And I’ll see you there, Edna.” Matthew Bryan beamed at the sculptress who smiled back at him with wide-eyed innocence.

“Of course.”

It must have been that the friendly deacon had eyes only for Edna, because he did not notice the looks of shock on the faces of the gentlemen around her. They waited till he had gone before they
challenged her.

“You told him you were Catholic, didn’t you?” Milton accused.

“No… I just didn’t tell him I wasn’t… he just assumed…”

Clyde groaned and slumped back in his deckchair.

“Ed, you’ve just agreed to go to a Catholic Mass,” Rowland informed her.

“Oh yes, I believe I did.”

Clyde groaned a little louder.

“It’s a bit different from an ordinary Anglican service.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Have you ever been to Mass before?” Rowland asked.

“Of course not, I’m not Catholic.”

“That was my original point, I think.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Rowly.” Edna was unconcerned. “I’ll just go along and do exactly what Clyde does.”

Milton laughed. “Assuming Clyde knows what to do.”

“We’ll be fine, won’t we, Clyde? We’ll stay at the back.”

“I haven’t been to Mass in a while,” Clyde admitted grimly. “Thanks for your help, Rowly.” He kicked at Rowland’s deckchair in disgust.

“Sorry about that, old mate.” Rowland was sincere. “I just thought going to Mass might be a good chance to meet Isobel.”

“Why do I want to meet Isobel?”

“To find out if she was meeting Urquhart in a lifeboat.”

Milton sat up. “God, Rowly, you’re right. It could have been her—and what’s more I wouldn’t put it past the bishop to deal out a little divine justice of his
own.”

Rowland’s lips twitched upwards. “Apparently, the Pope’s afraid of him.”

Clyde looked slowly from Milton to Rowland. “Just so we’re clear… you think His Grace is some kind of murderous lunatic who impaled a man for dallying with his niece, and you
want me to go into
his
Mass, with Jezebel on my arm and accuse that same niece of meeting Urquhart in a lifeboat for immoral purposes?”

“I didn’t plan on Ed,” Rowland confessed. “Who would have thought that she was masquerading as a Catholic?”

Clyde sighed. “My mother’s right—I’m moving with a bad crowd.”

“Did you notice that Bryan is somewhat indiscreet for a priest?” Milton said suddenly. “A nice change, I’ll admit, but unusual.”