Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery (3 page)

   Once the couple in front of him moved on, he was first greeted by an official-looking young man with a heavy register book.

   Without returning the greeting, he barked out his name, “Mathew Farquhar.”

   The captain of the ship stood next to the attendant with the register book. He extended his hand to the man, who shook it absentmindedly. 

   “My wife disappeared, and I don’t know what became of her,” said Mr. Farquhar as he looked back over his shoulder.

   The fellow beside the captain said, “Countess Dominika Orlov.”

   “She has to be here somewhere…”

   A rather beautiful woman with a nasty smile appeared some distance down the open promenade and called out with a thick Russian accent, “I am here, Mathew!”

   “How did she—” Mr. Farquhar threw his hands into the air, fell silent, and then pushed past the ship’s master, trotting toward his wife.

   I watched the interesting couple as they began to argue. This behavior seemed less than romantic.

   The captain and his assistant turned back to Lucy and me. He greeted us cordially and in a well-rehearsed manner. As we were checked into one of the eight most expensive parlor suites, the man did give us a very nice bow of the head as we were handed off to a smart steward.

   We were led to the deck just above, via a beautifully carved wooden staircase reserved for the first class area of the ship. I can’t quite describe the pure sumptuousness of the surroundings. Mahogany panels, fine carpeting, and exquisite chandeliers, the
Olivia
was very much a floating palace. (I would like to express to my reader the opulence of the ship, but at the same time, I fear it may come off that I am bragging. Perhaps the editor might assist in creating the right balance.)

   Somewhat to my dismay, we caught up with the angry couple. It seemed that their set of rooms was just past ours. Mr. Farquhar’s wife was just replying in her coarse accent, “Why does it matter how I am to come aboard before you? Perhaps not I who was lost, but you?”

   She passed into the open door, and Mr. Farquhar looked down the hallway and frowned at me.

   Lucy and I were next led into our parlor suite. My friend clapped her hands and made a little twirl about the room. “How beautiful.”

   Yes, it was, but not as fine as Suite A-1, two doors down. Mr. Jack had attempted to book the prized set of rooms for us, but they had been reserved.  

   Xavier and I had spent our first week as man and wife in the rooms down the hallway, and on every passage I had made across the Atlantic, I had stayed in those rooms. I felt a terrible pang of jealousy that someone else would be enjoying the lovely spot that had briefly been mine and Xavier’s.

   I could not let Lucy know my disappointment. I plastered a wide smile on my little face and agreed with her that the lovely green parlor with Queen Ann furniture was divine.

   In truth, the suite was quite nice. I must describe the layout. From the entrance to the cabin, one walked down a little hallway toward a large parlor. On either side of the hallway was a door leading into a bedroom with both a private bathroom and a wardrobe. These rooms had doors that connected them to the neighboring rooms that were a mirror image to our suite; thus a larger group of rooms could be shared by a family or other party

   The sitting parlor had a door to either side, locked by the crew for now, that could connect to the neighboring parlors to join the rooms together and create a large set of rooms.

   There were only eight parlor suites, four on either side of the ship. What truly made these cabins special was that each four sets opened to private promenades. Like the parlors, these separate decks could be connected to each other. The last promenade, toward the stern (will my typical reader know that the stern is the rear of the ship and the bow is the front of the ship?), opened to the general first-class promenade that stretched nearly the length of the rest of the
Olivia
.

   Three porters entered our room and began filling it with our luggage. Before the pile was large enough to threaten to trap us, we escaped and made our way to the open first-class promenade.

   We found a place along the painted white railing just before the ship began moving away and spotted Mother Stayton as she waved from the dockside. A multitude of people cheered beside her as the ship’s whistle blew.

   Standing just behind Mother Stayton was our driver. He seemed completely detached from the actions around him as he rubbed his neck and grimaced.

Chapter Two

When we returned to our cabin, we found the door closed and locked. This meant the porters had managed to successfully stuff our luggage into the room.

   The staff was very efficient. All my belongings were placed in the room to the right of the entrance hall and Lucy’s to the left. One object, however, sat in the sitting parlor.

   “Lucy, is this your steam trunk?” I called, staring down at the foreign object.

   “Steam trunk, egads, what else did Mother Stayton send us off with?” said Lucy as she came to my side. Then, she added, “That wasn’t part of our luggage. I’ll call the steward.”

   Apprehension seized me. “No, call for the captain.”

   Hesitant, she did as I asked. Minutes later there was a knock on the door. A young man who was certainly not the captain entered our parlor.

   “I wanted the captain—” I began.

   “I am Oscar Pace, the ship’s purser,” said the fellow, cutting me off with a very chipper voice.

   Lucy batted her eyes at the man, and then I noticed that he wasn’t a bad looking chap.

   I pointed at the steam trunk and, sounding rather dramatic, I informed the purser, “This piece of luggage is not ours…”

   Friendly as he could be, Mr. Pace said, “I’ll have it removed in a jiffy. I’m so very sorry you’ve been troubled—”

   “No, it must be opened,” I told him.

   “Why is that Mrs. Stayton?” he asked.

   I lowered my voice, “In my experience, a strange steamer trunk delivered to the wrong room can only mean one thing.”

   Poor, sweet Lucy’s eyes opened wide. We had both been reading the same detective novels, and I’m sure she realized what I meant.

   Mr. Pace asked, “And that is?”

   I pointed at the nondescript steam trunk and told him, “Open that . . . and you will find a dead body.” 

   Lucy gasped, and Mr. Pace exclaimed, “I recognize you from the papers. You are
Mrs. X!”

   I nodded my head with some satisfaction at this recognition. “That is what the journalists call me.”

   Mr. Pace smiled and shrugged as he lifted a ring of small keys from his jacket pocket. “I hope you aren’t too let down when we find nothing but trousers or coats. On a ship this big, sometimes a stray piece of luggage is just that.”

   I watched while he bent and tried the lock with his collection of keys. Once one fit, and turned a complete rotation, I told Lucy, “Step back; this could be ghastly.”

   Sweet Lucy covered her eyes with her slim, gloved hands.

   Carefully, the purser lifted open the lid. I was completely shocked by what was revealed. The trunk was empty, completely empty.

   “Now that’s odd,” said Mr. Pace.

  Lucy peeked and saw that there was nothing to see.

  “Empty?” I knelt down and looked inside. The trunk was brand new, showing no signs of wear. I was just about to stand, and then I saw it. Pushed into the lining was a calling card. Quickly, like a bird plucking seed, I pinched the card from the fold of material.

   It was a nice, thick piece of paper of high quality. I turned it over to read the raised name written in bold type, and I said it aloud, “Mr. Mathew Farquhar.” 

   Lucy pointed to the room next to us toward the bow of the ship. “The angry couple?”

   Despite being empty, the trunk was too large for Mr. Pace to lift by himself. He called for a porter, and a moment later, they started to carry the object out of our room.

   The purser was very gracious. He made no mention of my false pronouncement, and instead thanked me for locating our neighbor’s luggage.

   I mumbled some polite reply as they crossed the threshold. Perplexed, I did not shut the door behind them. I listened as they knocked at Mr. Farquhar’s door. A second later, it opened.

   “What is it?” snapped the man’s irritated voice.

   Mr. Pace replied in his happy tone, “Righty oh. So sorry, sir; this was delivered to the wrong cabin.”

   “What about it?”

   “I just wanted to get it back to you—” began Mr. Pace.

   “It isn’t mine!” bellowed Mr. Farquhar.

   “We found your calling card inside…”

   “Well, then…get it in here for heaven’s sake!”

   I closed the door, and thought,
Curious; ever so curious
.

***

    Mother Stayton enjoys walking the family dog, but only for short distances and at fashionable locations. Therefore, the Airedale Terrier and she are driven by car to the spots where she enjoys being seen walking the pet. The poor dog does not keep his balance well as the sedan wobbles its way along the road. At turns, the creature leans and wavers all the while as he proudly attempts to stay upright.

   This was how Lucy behaved as the mighty ship crossed the English Channel to the
French port of Cherbourg. She was as green as the lovely furnishings and remained very close to her bathroom as she wobbled about apologizing. 

   Obviously, Lucy wasn’t well enough to enjoy dinner. We spent much of the afternoon in our suite. Just before 7:30, I left her so that I might watch as we came to the French port.

   Cherbourg did not have docking facilities large enough for the
Olivia
. Those joining us were ferried by tenders from the port to where several tugboats held us in position.

   Watching from the open first-class promenade, I saw the tender had to make two trips back to the dock. Within an hour, the new passengers were safely aboard, and the captain set his course for the next port, Cork Harbor, on the southern coast of Ireland.

   After the tugs pulled away and the mighty ship increased speed, I returned to our deck. Coming down the short passageway reserved for the four portside parlor suites, I encountered several porters lugging baggage to the cabin past ours at the end of the hallway. Stepping toward the set of rooms that Xavier and I occupied on our honeymoon was an odd couple.

   At first, I thought them mother and son. However, the surprisingly deep voice of this most diminutive man was completely absent of youth. I have no idea what he said to the porter, as his words were spoken in French.

   The tiny fellow didn’t notice me as he entered Cabin A-1. His wife, however, stopped to look me up and down.

   Perhaps in her middle fifties, she was a woman of some girth. She had a voluminous mop of dyed red hair, and her wide face rested on a few chins that concealed her neck. The colorful dress she wore looked as if it was made from heavy upholstery rather than wool or cotton. 

   The new passenger stared at me just a bit too long, and I felt forced to greet her. “Hello, welcome aboard.”

   Perhaps she didn’t realize she’d been staring at me; she seemed surprised by my greeting. “Yes, good evening,” she replied with an American accent, and then bustled into her cabin. With the door still open, I heard her say, “Where is Cynthia? She knows how I like my towels.”

   One of the porters replied, “She was sacked just two weeks ago, dreadful business.”

    The woman’s harsh voice called out, “Pity. My bed will need to be remade; this is all wrong.”

   It seemed that the older couple occupying Cabin A-1 traveled aboard the
Olivia
more often than I.

   Entering our set of rooms, I peeked in on Lucy and found that she was blessedly slumbering.

   The trip to Ireland would take more than three hours. I assumed I would be sound asleep once we arrived. This assumption was incorrect.

  The ship swayed while at a stop off the coast of Ireland, and I reclined in bed, very much awake.

   Countess Orlov and Mr. Farquhar had quarreled through the evening. I could not make out the words, just the tones. I was getting rather upset when I heard a strange noise coming from the entrance hall.

   Jumping out of bed, I covered myself with a robe and ducked my head out into the darkened path. The door to the cabin was just swinging open when a youthful voice said, “Blimey, gents, this isn’t your cabin!” Then the door began to close. “Next door, Mr. Emerson.”

   A moment later, Lucy crept out of her room and was startled to find me with my ear pressed against the door. “New passengers from Ireland,” I told her.

   “They sound like elephants from Ireland; so noisy,” she said with unusual irritableness. 

   The following morning, before breakfast, Lucy was too sleepy to even notice that she’d gained her sea legs. Whoever Mr. Emerson was, he’d made quite a lot of racket well into the morning.

   A steward was just seating us at a little table in a brightly colored café when I remarked, “I will speak to Mr. Pace. He can deal with the noisy Emerson man and those Farquhar people.”

   At the little table beside us, a young man choked on his glass of grapefruit juice and waved at me. Recovering from the sting of citrus going down the wrong pipe, the fellow smiled and said with a thick Irish brogue, “I can’t speak for the Farquhar people, but I promise that my brother and I will be quiet tonight.”

  “Mr. Emerson,” I said, somewhat embarrassed.

   He stood from his table and stepped the short distance to ours. “Michael Emerson; so nice to make your acquaintance.”

   I introduced myself and then Lucy. He asked us to his table, and we offered that he join us instead.

   Reaching out his long arm to grab his juice, he chuckled and said, “I think we were almost roomies last night.”

   Lucy’s eyes opened wide, and I explained, “Yes, the porter had our door open before he realized you were in A-4 instead of A-3.”

   The pleasant young man gave a little laugh. “That would have been something.” His words, while masked with mirth, carried a bit of tension as well.

   Michael Emerson was a nice-looking fellow. In his early twenties, his face was dotted with freckles, and his eyes were a medium brown. Although his hair was dark brown, his sideburns turned red just below the earlobe. 

   He wore no ring, and his white shirt and blue jacket were rather undistinguished. Without a trace of snobbery on my part, I felt he did not quite belong in a first-class parlor suite.

   After the waiter took our breakfast order, Lucy asked, “Where is your destination?”

   Michael made a nervous little laugh that, in turn, made me nervous. “I’m taking my brother, Rory, to a little farm in upstate New York.”

   “Oh?” replied Lucy, curious in a good-natured type of way.

   Michael nodded his head rapidly. “Yes, and you?”

   Lucy pointed to me and said, “Mrs. Xavier is an author, and we are paying a call on an agent in New York City.”

   Mr. Emerson lit up. “An author—are you codding me? What kind of books do you write?”

   I gave a little shrug, as if to play down the man’s excitement, and replied, “Whodunits.”

   Lucy added with a giggle, “Be careful, she’s always on the lookout for a good culprit.”

   Michael stiffened and nearly toppled his glass. Obviously concerned, he remarked, “Surely there aren’t any
culprits
on the RMS
Olivia
.” Once more, he flashed his nervous smile.

   It seemed the subject of malefactors caused Michael some discomfort. There was no reason to continue distressing him, so I asked, “What type of farm are you traveling to?”

   Michael’s expression faltered for a moment. His nervous smile returned before he explained, “My brother Rory is—well, perhaps the word
special
will be enough to explain him.” He paused as Lucy and I nodded. There was little conviction in his tone as he babbled, “You see, the boyo has been…cooped up at …a boarding school. I don’t think that it has been good for him. No, a farm, out in the country with fresh air, yes, that is what he needs.”

   I grew rather alarmed for poor Rory, dashed off to a farm. I remember as a child being told that the old family basset hound was going off to live on a farm in the country. Mingled with this recollection is the sound of a gunshot very late in the evening and the appearance of a new rosebush in the back lawn the following morning. 

   Lucy smiled and replied, “How nice for him.”

  Our breakfast was served, and we navigated safely through the rest of our morning chitchat with Mr. Emerson. We parted ways upon returning to our neighboring cabins.

   After waking from an afternoon nap, Lucy came and found me in the parlor with my notebook. Her sleepy eyes lit up, and she asked me, “Are you starting a new book?”

   I tapped my varnished nails atop the writing desk and replied, “I don’t know, but I am certainly collecting some characters. We have the two Messrs. Emerson, one off to live on a farm. Then the countess and her husband, who fought through the night, and their mysterious empty trunk.”