Murder on the Celtic (24 page)

“If I tell you the truth,” he said wearily, “it goes no further than this cabin. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Agnew.”

“Then I want a second promise from you. When I finish, you get out of here and stay clear of me for the rest of the voyage.”

“That depends on what you have to tell me.”

“Sit down.”

Dillman obeyed and waited while Agnew collected his thoughts.

“I did not steal a book from that animal hunter,” said Agnew. “I wouldn't touch anything that man has written. And I didn't steal a clock from that funny little Frenchman either. Yes, he told me about it because all he could talk about was his collection of clocks. Has he accused me?”

“Of course not.”

“He'd better not, Mr. Dillman.”

“I'm not accusing you either. I'm just pointing to certain facts.”

“I can see how it looks,” Agnew conceded, “but you're on the wrong track. I left that séance because I felt let down. I came straight back here and did some damage to a bottle of brandy I always keep at hand. Are you a drinking man, Mr. Dillman?”

“Now and then, sir.”

“I drink to forget. I drink to forget that my wife died. I drink to forget that we lost both our children. I drink to forget that my first business venture almost crippled me. But most of all,” he confessed, “I drink to forget that I grew up in Utah in a family of Mormons.”

“Are the memories so painful, Mr. Agnew?”

“Sometimes,” said the other. “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle attacked Mormon beliefs in his book — is that right?”

“He was particularly critical of the doctrine of polygamy.”

“Not every man has a string of wives — my father didn't.”

“Sir Arthur also censured the power of the elders.”

“Then he obviously never lived with Mormons,” said Agnew. “There are people in charge, but that's true of every community. They set the standards and enforce control.”

“That's why you broke away, isn't it?” Dillman guessed. “You wanted more freedom. You rebelled against control.”

“No, Mr. Dillman. I left because I couldn't measure up to what was asked of me. I lived among people who led good, decent, honest, industrious lives that served a common purpose. I could
never match up to them,” said Agnew sadly. “I had urges I shouldn't have had. I wanted to see the world. I wanted to enjoy a drink whenever I chose to. And I wanted to be able to look at a pretty woman the way I looked at Jane Lowbury. In other words,” he concluded, “I wasn't fit to be a Mormon. I just couldn't climb high enough.”

Dillman was interested to hear praise of the Mormons. It came in sharp contradistinction to what Conan Doyle had had to say about them in A
Study in Scarlet,
though it had to be borne in mind that the novel referred to the early days of Mormon settlement in Utah. Looking at the religion from outside, the writer had been appalled. Trying to practice it within a devout Mormon family, Philip Agnew had been unequal to its demands. He had run away from home but he could not outrun the guilt he felt at having betrayed his heritage. Dillman could now see why Thoda Burbridge's claim about his background had enraged Agnew so much.

“Thank you for being so honest with me,” said Dillman.

“That's more than I can say about you.”

“My job depends on a certain amount of deception.”

“Then go off and do it somewhere else,” said Agnew, getting to his feet and opening the door. “As for Mrs. Lowbury, I didn't mean to cause offense. It won't happen again.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Agnew,” said Dillman, rising to his feet.

“Just get out of my life.”

Lady Conan Doyle stood still while her husband fastened the clasp on her necklace. He took the opportunity to place a gentle kiss on the back of her neck.

She laughed. “Your mustache tickles me.”

“You've never complained before.”

“It wasn't a complaint,” she said, facing him. “I liked it.”

“And what about the trip to America?” asked Conan Doyle. “Now that you've had time to see it in perspective, what's the verdict?”

“I loved every minute of it, Arthur.”

“Even the traveling?”

“Even that. I know that you forewarned me, but I just wasn't prepared for the sheer size of everything. When I first saw New York I was completely overawed. The whole trip was inspiring,” she said. “It's such a pity that our memories of it are clouded by the theft of your book.”

“And by that other embarrassment, Jean,” he said. “I'm sure that Nobby Ruggles is a competent barber, and he's clearly a man with all the right instincts, but — oh dear!— I do wish he hadn't recited that poem at the concert. I felt as if I were being roasted on a spit.”

“It's a good poem. He did very well.”

“Too well. People have been congratulating me ever since.”

“At least we didn't have to watch Ruggles doing it again.”

“I couldn't have sat through another concert knowing that he'd spring a second poem on me. The worst of it is,” he said, straightening his bow tie in the mirror, “that he insists on giving us a private performance.”

“Tell him we're too busy, Arthur.”

“I don't want to hurt the man's feelings.”

“Would you rather he hurt yours?” she replied, squeezing his arm. “Don't worry. I'll find an excuse to put him off.”

“No, no. It's my responsibility.”

She looked at her watch. “We must go. They'll be wondering where we are. Lady Bulstrode did ask us to be punctual. It will be amusing to see who else has been invited.”

“As long as it's not Nobby Ruggles.”

Lady Conan Doyle pulled on her evening gloves and took a
final look at herself in the mirror. She was wearing a pink evening gown with a matching stole and gloves. Every time she moved her head her earrings glistened. She spoke over her shoulder.

“Do you think it will ever be found?”

“What?”

“
A Study in Scarlet.
”

“I sincerely hope so, Jean,” he said. “That book is my talisman.”

“Mr. Dillman has had no success so far.”

“Give him time.”

“What has he actually been doing?” she said.

“Getting on quietly and efficiently with his job.”

“I expected him to retrieve it long before now.”

“George Dillman won't let us down.”

“How can you be so confident about that?”

“It's easy,” said Conan Doyle, taking her by the shoulders to turn her round. “I know a good detective when I see one.”

It was a small but convivial gathering. Lord and Lady Bulstrode were attentive hosts, welcoming each newcomer warmly and introducing them to everyone else. A steward served drinks. Genevieve was not surprised to find that she was the youngest person in the room. What did astonish her was that neither Frank Spurrier nor Joshua Cleves tried to talk to her. Though they each gave her a smile of acknowledgment on arrival, they drifted off to engage others in conversation. Spurrier took the opportunity to compliment Lady Conan Doyle on her jewelry while Cleves paid court to the wife of the American ambassador to France. Genevieve found herself monopolized by a grinning Brazilian who bred champion racehorses and a dour Scotsman who owned a whiskey distillery.

Drink flowed and the chatter became increasingly louder and
more animated. When she tired of hearing about the wonders of Brazil and the delights of single malt whiskey, she excused herself and went across to Spurrier, who had been talking earnestly to Lady Bulstrode. He detached himself politely so that he could face Genevieve.

“A lovely party,” she remarked.

“I feel privileged to be invited.”

“Did I see you give Lady Conan Doyle your business card?”

“Have you been watching me, Miss Masefield?” he said with a note of challenge. “If you have, you'll have seen that I've parted with four business cards and acquired three in return.”

“Was that by way of advertisement?”

“Of course. One can never have too many customers. If a lady wears fine jewelry the chances are that she might like to bid for some of the items at one of my auctions. While I'm crossing the Atlantic in either direction I'm always looking to recruit new customers.”

“I didn't know you had such an interest in jewelry,” she said.

“I'm fascinated by it,” he told her, face impassive, “and even more so by the ladies who wear it. Some — like you, for instance — select brooches, necklaces and earrings that are both tasteful and appropriate. They heighten your beauty. Others,” he went on, lowering his voice, “wear unsuitable jewelry that is either distracting or tending to vulgarity.”

“I hope that nobody here is guilty of that.”

“No, Miss Masefield.”

“I'm glad that we all pass your test, Mr. Spurrier.”

“I'd never presume to set a test,” he said. “Do excuse me,” he went on, seeing that Conan Doyle was helping himself to a drink from the tray, “I must have a word with Sir Arthur.”

Genevieve was mystified. A man who had gone out of his way to speak to her on previous occasions had now apparently lost
interest in her. Her feeling of relief was edged with a slight sense of pique. It was disconcerting to be studiously ignored. Lord Bulstrode came across to her with Cleves at his elbow.

“Were you there, Miss Masefield?” he inquired.

“Where?”

“At the concert this afternoon.”

“No,” she said. “I wasn't able to get there.”

“Joshua says that I missed a special treat.”

“Yes,” said Cleves, “it was a delight for anyone interested in horses. One of the ship's barbers recited a poem by Sir Arthur called ‘The Groom's Story.' I laughed all the way through.”

“I'd like to see a copy,” said Lord Bulstrode.

“Oh, it won't mean so much on the printed page. Ruggles — that's the name of the barber — turned it into a real drama.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't there,” said Genevieve. “That wasn't all I missed, Joshua. Where were you at lunchtime?”

“I had business to discuss with an associate of mine.”

“I see.”

“Agnes and I kept her diverted while you were away,” said Lord Bulstrode. “And the four of us will be back together at dinner.”

“I'm hungry,” announced Cleves, “and I always play my best game of chess on a full stomach. Be warned, Rupert.”

“I'll be ready for you.”

Cleves broke away to talk to the grinning Brazilian, leaving Genevieve alone with her host. It was ironic. Having come with the intention of fending off Spurrier and Cleves, she was feeling oddly neglected by both of them. Lord Bulstrode gazed around.

“I do like to be in the same room as kindred spirits,” he said.

“I'm glad that you consider me one of them.”

“We needed a sprinkling of pulchritude among all the hoary old buffers like me. Not that you're here solely for decorative
purposes,” he added quickly. “You'd light up any assembly. Agnes and I are both very fond of you, Miss Masefield. We hope that you'll be able to come down and see us in the country one day.”

“Thank you, Lord Bulstrode. I'd like that.”

“Joshua has promised to visit us as well.”

“Has he?”

“Yes,” said Lord Bulstrode. “It would be altogether splendid if the pair of you could come together.”

Genevieve did not reply. When she glanced across at Cleves, his back was to her but she no longer believed that he was now indifferent. In securing an invitation to visit his titled friends, Cleves was trying to ensnare her by other means. Her eyes flicked across to Spurrier. She wondered what his next maneuver would be.

In the interest of pursuing his investigation, George Dillman elected to miss dinner that evening. Wearing an overcoat and scarf, he also took a hat with him when he stepped out onto the main deck. There was a blustery wind and the sea was quite choppy. It was the sort of weather when few passengers would venture outside. Dillman nevertheless expected to find one of them on deck. Since there was none of the stately ritual followed in first class, dinner in steerage was served earlier and quicker. Leonard Rush had left immediately afterward.

Dillman found him sitting in a corner with a blanket around his shoulders. Rush was no more than seven or eight yards from the lifeboat from which the discarded frock coat had been retrieved.

“Is this where you always sleep?” asked Dillman.

“Go away!”

“I need a word with you, Mr. Rush.”

“Stop haunting me!”

“The only way to get rid of me is to help me,” said Dillman with authority. “What I didn't tell you when we last met is that I'm working as a detective on this ship. I'm investigating the disappearance of a passenger.”

“It's nothing to do with me,” said Rush, retreating farther into his blanket. “Why bother me?”

“Because I think you might have been a witness.”

“No, Mr. Dillman.”

“Answer my first question: Do you always sleep here?”

“Yes,” replied the other. “It's out of the wind.”

“It also happens to be close to the place where an item belonging to the missing man was found. If you were lurking here in the shadows you could well have seen something.”

“I was fast asleep.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because I'm telling you.”

“I think you're lying.”

“I don't give a damn what you think!”

He tried to turn away but Dillman grabbed his shoulder to prevent him from doing so. He crouched down beside Rush and spoke with quiet intensity.

“I don't think you quite understand,” he began. “A serious crime was committed last night and I fancy that you're in a position to help me solve it. Perhaps I should warn you that I have powers of arrest aboard the
Celtic.
If you persist in holding back crucial information, I'll have no alternative but to have you locked up by the master-at-arms. Do you want to spend the rest of the voyage behind bars?”