Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery (2 page)

   I noticed a dark-haired, swarthy fellow at the bar was watching us. He tossed a few coins down and then made his way our direction.

   Medium height, but ruggedly built, the young man looked a bit of a brute despite his well-made grey suit and perfectly parted black hair. He came to a stop at our table, and with a friendly smile, he said, “I couldn’t help but overhear, you are traveling on the
Olivia
tomorrow?”

   I didn’t know the various accents of England, but his struck me as one of the less sophisticated I’ve heard in Holland Park.

   Mother Stayton somehow managed to appear surprised that her voice had carried so far. She responded, “My daughter-in-law and her companion are, yes.”

   I gestured to the open seat at our little table. The fellow bowed his head and sat down. “So am I,” he told us, and then he introduced himself, “My name is Gerald Hurst.”

   “I am Mrs. Viviane Burk Stayton, and this is Miss Lucy Wallace and my daughter-in-law—”

   Our new friend interrupted Mother Stayton, “I say, I already know who you are,
Mrs. X
.”

   I suspect I went pale for a moment. I had been dubbed this by all the newspapers after solving the murder of Phyllis Masterson.

   “You may call me Mrs. Xavier,” I said with just a hint of a stutter in my voice.

   “I saw your picture in all the papers. You are quite famous,” said Mr. Hurst, rather excitedly.

   “I think infamous is a better term,” I told him.

   “They hanged the man, the butler, didn’t they?” he asked.

   I nodded, and then he took a deep drink from his glass.

   Lucy watched over the months how people had relentlessly asked the same question of me over and over, and she saw how this drained my spirit. Ever the considerate friend, she attempted to change the subject. “Are you traveling to New York, Mr. Hurst?”

   “Yes,” was his simple reply.

   Lucy went on, “Have you been there before?”

   “Oh, yes,” came his next brief reply.

   “This will be a first for me,” said Lucy, her smile waning.

   Looking back to me, Mr. Hurst asked, “How did you reckon who killed the dame?”

   I took a sip of my sherry and replied, “The woman’s name was Phyllis Masterson. There were clues that led to the culprit’s identity.”

   He nodded his head, waiting for more information. There was a childlike quality in his eyes. My annoyance eased as I reminded myself that few people ever have to deal with a murder case, and even fewer sleuth out the truth. I forced a pleasant expression and then explained how I deduced that the butler had done it. (Perhaps my publisher will disagree, but it seems unnecessary to recap the events of my previous adventure. To me, it would seem rather like bragging on about my quick wit, which no one appreciates.) 

   Once I completed my explanation, Mr. Hurst clapped his hands several times and then called for the waiter to bring us another round of drinks. We three ladies were duly embarrassed by his brash behavior but amused by his friendly attentions all the same.

   We went on to speak about the
Olivia
. Mr. Hurst made mention several times of the fact that the ship was the second largest liner on the seas. Mother Stayton rolled her eyes when the friendly man asked if we’d ever traveled aboard the RMS
Majesty
.  

   I answered for us all. “Well, no. You know, she was originally named the
Bismarck
. They say it’s bad luck to rename a ship.”

   The
Majesty
had been built by the Germans, but the Treaty of Versailles had forced her owners to hand the new ship over to the White Star Line as compensation for the loss of the
Olivia’s
sister ship, the
Britannica
.

   “The
Bismarck
, ah? Doesn’t roll of the tongue like
Majesty
.”

    Unimpressed with the mighty German ship, Mother Stayton redirected the conversation and made quite a fuss that I wasn’t able to have my preferred room on the
Olivia
. I pointed out that Cabin A-3 was just as comfortable, but she wouldn’t let the subject go.

   Even the pleasant and curious Mr. Hurst grew weary of my mother-in-law’s rambling conversation. He slapped few notes on the table and said, “Well, it has been an absolute delight to meet you ladies. I do hate to be rude, but I see an old school chum of mine just over there.”

   We all looked toward a lanky fellow who was walking into the restaurant. Quick farewells were said, and then Mr. Hurst called out, “Birdy Ralston! Is that you?”

   This poor fellow’s brows rose as he nodded. Obviously, he didn’t recognize his old schoolmate and seemed baffled that the gent rushing toward him knew his name. 

   Shortly afterward, the hotel manager sent over a timid staff person to inform Mother Stayton that our rooms had been readied. 

   The hotel (I have been advised not to give its actual name, although I believe this is unfair to the reader) was a rather new building, despite the old world charm of its décor. Customarily, Liverpool was the primary port for liners. However, the newest ships, which were being built on gigantic proportions, simply could not fit at the Liverpool docks.

   The new ports of Southampton were home to these massive vessels. This meant the need for new hotels to house the travelers. The manager had not exaggerated when he’d assured Mother Stayton that we would receive the finest rooms. Mine was quite opulent and well furnished.

   There was something lonely about the tasteful chamber. It was almost too staged. The porcelain figures of greyhounds, the brass fireplace tools of which the handles showed of patina, even the small divan with a hole caused by a careless cigarette burn, gave the air that this room belonged to someone—but it did not. These items were not possessions; they were props. I ran my finger down the glazed fawn dog, somehow feeling sorry that no one would feel a sense of pride or ownership for this lovely trinket.    Pulling back from the bauble, I went to my overnight bag. Once open, I took several framed photographs of my beloved Xavier and placed them on the writing desk.

  His presence returned to me, I no longer felt alone. Furthermore, I was reminded that I was on a mission. I was going to cross the Atlantic, make my way to Madison Avenue, and ask Mr. Harland Orenstein just why he passed on representing my manuscript. Based on what would surely be feeble reasoning, I would convince him that he was wrong. In no time, my first book would be in print.

   Wednesday morning Lucy and I joined Mother Stayton for a leisurely breakfast. Boarding began at 9:30 for the third-class passengers. First-class passengers were not expected until 11, one hour before the ship set sail. (Is that right, set sail? It is a steam ship, after all, without sails. Perhaps the publisher can inquire as to the proper term.)

   The chauffeur stacked our overnight bags in the seat beside him, afraid he might upset the delicate balance of our other baggage still tied to the roof of the motorcar. Rather slowly, we went on our way to the Red Star Line’s dock.

   Along the way, Mother Stayton listed the many stores she thought we should visit in New York. The names of dressmakers, jewelers, and hat shops were lost on me almost immediately.

   Changing the subject, I said to Lucy, “I don’t envy you once we arrive in the States. You’ll be assaulted with all sorts of slang. I still don’t quite understand some of the expressions you all use here.”

   (I hope that my reader will understand the complexities of the various slang terms that have not migrated from one country to another. For instance, the first few times I stopped and asked a stranger for directions along the streets of London, I was given friendly, detailed information, with the odd conclusion,
and Bob’s your uncle!
This left me completely astonished. After the third time this happened, I asked my dear Xavier how it was that so many knew of my Uncle Robert.) 

   Mother Stayton and Lucy exchanged an awkward glance, and Lucy replied, “I’ve learned so much from you already. For instance, if I don’t believe the truth is being told,
in a pig’s eye,
is the correct accusation.”

    The two women looked back to each other and smiled at me, rather sympathetically. Mother Stayton’s face lit up, and she said, “Yes, and do not accept any wooden nickels.”

    I bit my tongue as Lucy demonstrated more of her knowledge. “And a convertible automobile is called a breezer—”

   “You tried to correct me when I made that reference toward Xavier’s car,” I retorted, not wanting to give her credit.

   “No, it was Mother Stayton,” Lucy reminded me.

    My mother-in-law nodded her head. “Oh, yes, I thought you were pronouncing
Benz
incorrectly.” There was something about her smile that irked me.

    Lucy cleared her throat and added, “And if something is impossible, you say,
when pigs fly.”
 

   I knew Lucy would be stumped by
something
once we crossed the Atlantic. I just hoped that the expression would be witty, and would make no reference to pigs.

   Once at the dock, I decided it would be for the best if I followed Mother Stayton’s example and completely ignored the porters and our driver as the car was relieved of our luggage.

  We passed into the terminal, where dear Lucy saw to checking us in. I hated that she so quickly played the part of my secretary, but she was always so eager to be of assistance to me; how could I dissuade her from this desire? 

   Before parting ways, Mother Stayton gave us both great hugs and well wishes. For a brief instant, she looked into my eyes; hers began to redden, and I knew the words she so wanted to say.

   I took her hands, squeezed them, and with a single tear running down my cheek, I told her, “We will be back in three weeks, and Mr. Harland Orenstein will have consented to publish my book.”

   I felt so very sorry for the woman. She would enjoy the distraction of a good row with the hotel staff over the bill, then chat up the driver for the hour or so it would take to return home, and then she would be alone.

   Yes, the household staff would be about the place, the dog would show her some affection, and her little parakeet might distract her, but I knew that these were little comfort when one remembered the days that Xavier had stormed about the house, telling stories of faraway places, marring the hardwood floors with his golf shoes, or nearly wounding the cook as he showed off a foreign pistol that he hadn’t realized was loaded.

   Sometimes I felt as if it wasn’t the house that seemed empty from his absence, but my very soul. I knew his mother, eccentric as she was, could feel little different than I.

   Lucy called my name and suggested we should hurry. Mother Stayton and I let our hands drop and whispered unneeded brief farewells.

   Lucy was ever so excited. She had never been on so large a ship, nor had she journeyed with me to America on my past few trips to visit my family in Saint Louis. This was certainly an adventure for her.

   As we strode toward the gangplank that was reserved for the first-class passengers, I gathered our tickets and passports from my purse. I felt rather worldly that this was all familiar to me. Of course, before my marriage to Xavier, I had never thought of such things.

  Once it was decided that Xavier and I would go to London to meet his family after our wedding in America, I asked if we’d be traveling “POSH”, having heard the term in relation to travel by sea. He’d told me that of course we would do so.

   Making an idiot of myself, I pointed out to the porter leading us to our parlor suite that we weren’t on the port side. He looked at me with an expression of clear confusion and agreed with me.

   I then said to Xavier, “You said we’d be traveling
posh.
”

  “We are, my sweet lamb, we are. This is the finest ship on the seas; we’ll be rubbing elbows with the royals.”

   “Oh, yes, it’s magnificently beautiful, but shouldn’t our first room be on the port side, and then at some point we move to the starboard side—port out, starboard home?”

   The porter suppressed his giggle, just barely, while Xavier unleashed a mighty roar of laughter. “My sweet, that is only for cruises in the Indian Ocean, and it all has to do with heat. No, no,
posh
means well done, to the nines, spare no expense! If I told you what these rooms with private promenades cost, you wouldn’t even be able to fathom the amount of money. I’m not sure that I do!”

   I blushed just as much that morning as I had on our wedding night when I saw Xavier in his undershirt and boxer shorts. (Dear me, Lucy blushed as she typed my dictation, perhaps this mention of Xavier’s underclothing is a bit too racy for publication.)

   Up the walkway Lucy and I went, a little line before us. A sturdy-looking fellow in a dark jacket kept looking over his shoulder and then down at his gold pocket watch. His dark hair was oiled and parted to the right. The scowl on his face matched his hard features.