Murder on the Celtic (10 page)

“Josh and I always cross swords like that.”

“He was trying to rile you.”

“David told me about it,” said Jane, taking an interest. “He had the feeling that you and your friend were involved in some sort of contest. Is that true?”

“Nothing could be further from the truth, Mrs. Lowbury,” said Spurrier with a brittle laugh. “Since you've met the lady in question, you can see why our curiosity has been aroused.”

Lowbury grinned. “Not just curiosity, I'd say.”

“David!” scolded his wife.

“Well, she's a beautiful woman, you have to admit that. Not that she compares with you, of course,” he added hastily. “Nobody could do that. Besides, those English ladies are always so cold and reserved. You can never really get close to them.”

“I don't
want
you getting close to them.”

“No danger of me ever doing that, honey. I don't have time for
any
other women.”

“Good.”

“One is enough for any man and I was lucky enough to pick the best of the bunch. Right, Mr. Spurrier?”

“We're all very jealous of you,” said the other, looking at Jane.

“Thank you, kind sir.” She gave a titter of appreciation at the compliment. “You're very generous.”

“Observant, that's all.”

“I guess you need a good eye in your trade,” Lowbury noted.

“My father taught me how to pick out real quality. That's a wonderful asset in my profession.” He glanced from one to the other. “How long have you known each other?”

“Long enough,” said Lowbury contentedly.

“And how long would that be?”

“A year or so.”

“I had a feeling that it hadn't been all that long.”

“Why?”

“Because you haven't acquired the sorts of habits that married couples always lapse into after a while. You have a delightful sparkle about you, as if you're still discovering new things about each other.”

“We are, Mr. Spurrier.”

“Every day brings a lovely surprise,” said Jane.

“That's good. Have you ever heard of Walter Pater?”

She shook her head. “No, I'm sorry.”

“Is he in the auction business as well?” asked Lowbury.

“Hardly!” Spurrier exclaimed. “The poor man died well over a decade ago. Pater was a distinguished British author and art critic. He wrote such books as
Marius the Epicurean.
But that's beside the point. What I always remember is the warning he gave in three words.”

“And what was that?”

“Habit is failure.”

Jane was puzzled. “What exactly did he mean?”

“That the moment something becomes a habit, it loses its real point. It becomes dull and meaningless repetition. We should always
strive for freshness and novelty, for something that spurs us on.”

“We try to do that,” she said, “don't we, David?”

“We always will,” Lowbury vowed.

“That's why we never get bored.”

“Never.”

There was a brief pause as they stared longingly at each other. Lowbury took hold of her hands. Jane beamed up at him. They seemed to have forgotten that somebody else was standing there.

“I get the feeling that I'm rather in the way,” said Spurrier, taking a step back. “If you'll excuse me, I'll continue my stroll around the deck.”

“No, no,” said Jane with a restraining hand on him. “Please forgive our rudeness. Don't let us frighten you away.”

“Join us for morning coffee,” Lowbury urged. “I'd like to hear much more about how you price antiques at auction. Listening to you has been a revelation, Mr. Spurrier.”

“In that case,” said the other, “I'll be glad to instruct you.”

“I'm hoping you'll let us into your little secret as well.”

“What secret?”

“The one that involves Miss Genevieve Masefield.”

Spurrier's laugh had a hollow ring to it.

Genevieve was sorry to hear details of the theft and anxious to recover the stolen book as soon as possible. After she had discussed the crime with Dillman, she went off in search of the woman who had held the séance. Thoda Burbridge was in her cabin, writing letters to the various friends she had made during her time in America. She was surprised when Genevieve called on her and introduced herself as one of the ship's detectives.

“Have I done anything wrong, Miss Masefield?” she asked.

“No, Mrs. Burbridge.”

“Has there been a complaint about me?”

“None at all,” said Genevieve with a reassuring smile. “I just wondered if you might help me, that's all.”

“Of course. Do come in.”

Thoda Burbridge was a plump middle-aged woman with a double chin that quivered as she spoke. Her gray hair was brushed back from her high forehead and she had a motherly face. She wore a dress of dark red velvet. After indicating a chair, she sat opposite her visitor and peered through wire-framed eyeglasses. Her manner was so warm and open that Genevieve felt as if she were visiting a favorite aunt.

“What seems to be the trouble?” said Thoda.

“Before I go any further,” replied Genevieve, “I must ask you to keep everything that passes between us to yourself. I speak in the strictest confidence.”

“This is beginning to sound serious.”

“Can I have your word that you'll be discreet?”

“Utterly discreet, Miss Masefield.”

“Thank you.” Opening her purse, she took out a pad and pencil. “Yesterday evening — perhaps during the time that you were holding a séance in here — something was stolen from the stateroom occupied by Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle.”

“Dear me!”

“Although the only item taken was a book written by Sir Arthur, it's caused them a lot of distress.”

“I can imagine.”

“Knowing that someone has searched your belongings makes you feel very uncomfortable. I've been in that position myself, so I can sympathize with them. Because Sir Arthur treasures that book, we wish to recover it promptly.”

“I don't see how I can be of any assistance, Miss Masefield.”

“He and his wife spent the best part of two hours in this cabin
last night. We believe that the crime may have been committed during that period. What I'd like to know is who would have been aware that they were involved in the séance?”

“Nobody beyond those who were actually here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Thoda, nodding so vigorously that her chins bounced up and down like rubber balls. “Most people are inclined to be very critical of the notion that contact can be made with the spirit world. Over the years I've had to cope with a lot of hostility. It's the reason I never discuss my work in public,” she admitted. “I'd only expose myself to mockery.”

“How did you choose people for this particular séance?”

“They chose themselves, Miss Masefield. When I went to the ship's library, I met Sophie Trouncer in there, poring over a book on spiritualism. We fell into conversation and I discovered that she'd been to a couple of séances in the hope of making contact with her late husband. When she described what had happened,” Thoda went on with a grimace, “I could see that she'd been the victim of fraud. The medium whom she trusted was patently a fake.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“No, it would only have caused unnecessary anxiety. When I explained who I was, and that I'd be holding a séance on board, she implored me to let her take part.”

“For a fee?”

“People pay me nothing unless they are completely satisfied with the way in which everything has been conducted,” said Thoda, meeting her gaze. “I don't look upon séances as a source of income, Miss Masefield. They are shared experiences that allow me the privilege of putting people in touch with loved ones whom they have lost.”

“You approached Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle, I believe.”

“Only because I knew of their interest in the subject.”

“What about Philip Agnew?”

Thoda smiled. “He was the most unlikely person I've ever had at one of my séances,” she said. “On the surface, Mr. Agnew is such a forceful, down-to-earth person. He's the sort of man I'd have expected to sneer at people like me.”

“But he didn't, obviously.”

“No, Miss Masefield. We sat next to each other at dinner on the first evening. All that he could talk about was his love of animals. When I argued that, if he loved them that much, he wouldn't keep them in cages, Mr. Agnew was quite sharp with me. Afterward, however,” she recalled, hands clasped in her lap, “he sought me out to apologize. Beneath that hard exterior, I realized, was a fairly sensitive man. He asked me why I'd gone to America in the first place.”

“I was told that you were attending a conference.”

“It was on psychic phenomena and I was one of the speakers.”

“Is that what you explained to Mr. Agnew?”

“Of course,” said Thoda. “I always give an honest answer to a direct question. He was amazed. Instead of being scornful, he pressed me for details of my work, then he more or less insisted on joining the séance.” She gave a shrill laugh. “We had an incongruous group seated around that table last night.”

“I can see that,” said Genevieve, writing something on her pad.

“Apart from my four guests, I told nobody about the séance. My profession is like yours, Miss Masefield.”

“In what way?”

“Confidentiality is essential.”

“You may not have advertised the event, Mrs. Burbridge, but someone else did. I have it on good authority that Mrs. Trouncer talked about it in public, and it may be that Mr. Agnew did the same. They could easily have been overheard.”

“I'd no means of preventing that.”

“Granted.” Genevieve jotted down something else before putting her pencil and pad away. She studied the other woman. “May I ask how you got involved with spiritualism in the first place?”

“I realized that I had a gift, Miss Masefield.”

“You believed that you could contact the spirit world?”

“No, no,” said Thoda, “that came much later — after I'd developed my gift. I was always able to sense things about people, you see. At first I just thought it was mere intuition, but it went well beyond that. Whenever I meet someone for the first time, I have a knack of spotting something about them that they try to keep hidden.”

“Could you give me an example?”

“As long as you don't think me impertinent.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because I sensed something about you the moment you sat down,” said Thoda, glancing at Genevieve's left hand. “You don't wear a wedding ring, yet I believe you're married. Is that correct?”

Genevieve was startled. “It is, actually.”

“Why you choose to pass yourself off as a single woman is your business and I wouldn't dare to press you on the matter.” She screwed up her eyes in concentration. “But I do get another sensation from you, Miss Masefield. Your husband might well be aboard.”

“How on earth did you know that?”

“I told you — it's a gift.”

“An extremely valuable one, Mrs. Burbridge.”

“I'm sure that you have gifts of your own.” She stood up. “I'm sorry that I wasn't able to be of more use to you.”

“On the contrary,” said Genevieve, getting to her feet, “you've been very helpful and I'm grateful to you.”

“I do hope you manage to find the stolen book.”

“We'll do everything in our power to catch the thief.”

Thoda smiled knowingly. “You and your husband, you mean?”

“Am I so transparent?”

“Only to someone like me, Miss Masefield.”

“Do you intend to hold another séance on board?”

“Of course,” said Thoda. “After dinner this evening. The very same people will be here. You'd be most welcome to join us.”

Genevieve pondered. “Thank you, Mrs. Burbridge,” she said at length. “I might well take up that invitation.”

Wilfred Carr was a short, neat, fussy Englishman in his forties with bushy hair flattened into submission and carefully divided by a center parting. Looking spruce in his uniform, he was proud of the fact that he was the cabin steward to some of the most important people aboard. Dillman caught him when Carr was having a rare moment off duty. The steward was outside the laundry enjoying a quiet cigarette. When he learned whom he was talking do, he stubbed it out on the sole of his shoe. Dillman told him about the theft of A
Study in Scarlet.

“Well, it was there when I left,” said Carr defensively.

“How can you be certain of that?”

“Because it was on the table with the other books. It was the one with slips of paper sticking out of it. Sir Arthur's name was on the spine.” He drew himself up to his full height. “I notice things like that, Mr. Dillman.”

“What else did you notice yesterday evening?”

“Nothing unusual.”

“No passengers wandering along the corridor?”

“They were all at dinner, sir.”

“What about members of the crew?”

“The only ones who had any business to be there were the cabin stewards like me.”

“How many keys are there to Sir Arthur's stateroom?”

“Three, sir, apart from those held by the passengers. I have one, the chief steward has a master key to all the first-class cabins and so does the purser. And before you ask,” he went on, patting his pocket, “my key never leaves my person.”

“What time did you finish your work last night?”

“It would have been around nine o'clock.”

“Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle didn't return until nearly eleven. That means the thief had a fair amount of time in which to operate.”

“How did he get in? That's what I want to know, sir.”