Murder on the Celtic (3 page)

“I understand, Sir Arthur.”

“I knew that you would.”

Dillman returned his smile. He had taken an instant liking to the man. Conan Doyle was affable, approachable and entirely without affectation. With his burly frame and red cheeks he looked more like a head gardener than a renowned author. After a lengthy tour of the eastern states he seemed rather tired, yet there was still a merry twinkle in his eye.

“I have a second favor to ask, Mr. Dillman,” he said with mock seriousness. “I want you to promise me that your choice of profession was in no way inspired by any of my detective stories.”

“It was not, Sir Arthur.”

“That's a relief.”

“I've read them, naturally, and enjoyed them immensely, but I have to confess a preference for
The White Company.
”

“How wonderful!”

“There's real detection at work there,” said Dillman. “You must have done the most enormous amount of research before you could even lift up your pen. You must have looked for clues, collected facts and sifted evidence carefully before reaching your conclusions.”

“I did, indeed,” said Conan Doyle, pleased with the approbation. “
The White Company
is very dear to my heart — as are all my historical novels. But they'll never get the attention that they deserve, alas. They're doomed to be eclipsed by a gentleman in a deerstalker who has some rather peculiar habits.”

“Peculiar but endearing.”

“Not when he takes over your life, Mr. Dillman.”

“Is that what's happened?”

“I'm afraid so,” said the other wearily. “Sherlock Holmes casts a giant shadow. There are times when I regret that I ever created him. But,” he went on quickly, “I always remind myself how much I owe to him. I'm loath to acknowledge this, but the fact remains that I'd never have been invited on a lecture tour in America on the basis of my being the author of
The White Company
.” He stifled a yawn. “I do beg your pardon. Travel has rather exhausted us.”

“Then I'll get out of your way and let you rest, Sir Arthur.”

“My wife is already taking a nap,” said Conan Doyle, indicating the bedroom, “and I may do the same. But I did want to engage your services during the voyage. And don't worry,” he added. “There's no need for Jean — for Lady Conan Doyle — to know that you are the ship's detective. Anonymity is vital in your job. I respect that.”

“Thank you. It's the reason I never wear my deerstalker.”

Conan Doyle chuckled.

“I'll keep an eye out for you in the public rooms. We don't like
any of our passengers to be pestered, whatever the reason. Incidentally,” he said, moving to the door, “I take it that you've put any items of value in the ship's safe?”

“Indeed, we have, Mr. Dillman. My wife handed over her jewelry box as soon as we came aboard.”

“Good. Not everyone understands the importance of security. You've no idea how careless some people are with their valuables — then they complain like mad when they're stolen.”

“Even though it's their own fault.”

“Why tempt Fate?” asked Dillman. “It's so foolish.”

“I hope that you have no crimes to solve on the
Celtic
.”

“So do I, Sir Arthur. I have a good feeling about this ship. Something tells me that we're going to have a relatively quiet voyage for once. With luck,” he said, opening the door, “the only thing I'll be called upon to do is to save you from your adoring fans.”

The purser was so busy dealing with requests from various passengers that it was some time before Genevieve Masefield was able to catch him alone in his office. When she introduced herself, she put a smile of surprise onto Nelson Rutherford's face.

“You're the last person in the world I'd suspect of being a detective,” he said, waving her to a chair. “I'm sure that goes for everyone else aboard.”

Genevieve sat down. “It's a big advantage, Mr. Rutherford. It's one of the reasons why George persuaded me to become his partner. He said that I'd be invisible.”

“Invisible yet highly conspicuous.”

“I suppose that I'm something of a paradox.”

“You have the perfect disguise,” said the purser. He became more businesslike. “Now, has Mr. Dillman given you the passenger lists?”

“He slipped them under my door.”

“There was a diagram of the ship as well, though I'm sure that you're used to finding your way around ocean liners.”

“It's a necessary skill that I've had to acquire.”

“Then you may well need to put it to the test, Miss Masefield.”

“Oh?”

“We may have a real problem aboard,” he said, reaching for a piece of paper on his desk. “Earlier on, when I met your partner, I assured him that the
Celtic
never had any serious trouble from its passengers. I spoke too soon.”

“Did you?”

“Five minutes ago the wireless operator brought me this.”

“What is it, Mr. Rutherford?”

“A warning from the New York Police Department. They were on the trail of a wanted man named Edward Hammond — there's a brief description of him here — but he gave them the slip. They believe that he sneaked aboard this ship to escape them.” He passed the message across to her. “He could be armed and dangerous.”

“What is he wanted for?” asked Genevieve.

“Murder.”

THREE

D
inner on the first evening was a comparatively informal affair, but there were always those who believed in dressing up for the occasion. Amid the smart suits and pretty frocks in first class, therefore, was a scattering of men in white tie and tails. They escorted ladies in long evening dresses with an unashamed display of jewelry. On the second day at sea, such attire would be the norm. Until then, passengers like Frank Spurrier took advantage of the more relaxed dress code. He was astounded to see that Joshua Cleves had not done so. When they met in a corridor, Spurrier blinked in astonishment. His friend was resplendent in one of the curtailed dinner jackets that were becoming fashionable in some quarters, and he was sporting diamond cuff links. His hair had been brushed neatly back.

“Hello, Frank,” he said, eyeing his suit. “You remind me of that story about King Edward and the man in the Norfolk jacket.”

“Do I?” asked Spurrier.

“Yes, it was at a formal garden party at the Palace. Someone had the temerity to violate the dress code, so the king sauntered across to him and said, ‘Good afternoon, Simpson. Going ratting?' I guess that put him in his place.”

“It's obvious that
you're
not going ratting, Josh.”

“I suppose that I am involved in a hunt of some sort.”

“I've never seen you in formal wear on a first day before.”

“I've never been invited to dine with the aristocracy before.”

“Aristocracy?”

“Lord and Lady Bulstrode,” explained Cleves, baring his teeth in a grin of triumph. “A charming couple. By the end of the evening I expect to be on first-name terms with them — Rupert and Agnes. It's nice to rub shoulders with real quality.”

“I thought you were a republican.”

“All societies must have their patrician element.”

“What about royalty?”

“I'd draw the line at that, Frank. We don't recognize kingship in the United States. We fought to throw off that particular yoke.” He adjusted his black tie and pulled down his black waistcoat. “I meant to ask you if you'd managed to get anywhere near the young lady about whom we spoke earlier on.”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” said Spurrier, spying a chance to boast about the progress he had made. “We had a long chat on deck just after we set sail. At close quarters she's even more beautiful.”

“Really?”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I've stolen a march on you, Josh.”

“What's her name?”

“Ah, that's the one thing I didn't find out.”

“Then let me save you the trouble,” said Cleves, savoring his moment. “She's called Miss Genevieve Masefield and she's returning from a visit to friends in New York.”

Spurrier was nonplussed. “How on earth did you find that out?”

“By the most effective means, Frank. While you rushed in too recklessly, I did a little research by ingratiating myself with Lord and Lady Bulstrode. They were the couple we saw talking to Miss Masefield when she came aboard. They found her delightful.”

“I see,” said Spurrier through gritted teeth.

“In fact, they were so taken with her that they invited her to join them for dinner this evening.” He beamed. “And I'll be sitting at the same table with them.”

Spurrier was fuming. Having congratulated himself on achieving a brief but revealing conversation with Genevieve, he was shocked to learn that his rival would actually be dining with her. Envy began to rise inside him but he hid it behind a nonchalant smile.

“Congratulations, Josh,” he said. “First blood to you.”

“You may as well hand over the money now.”

“Contriving a meeting with her is not the same as conquest.”

“But it's a necessary part of the process.”

“Only if she's susceptible to your dubious charms,” observed Spurrier, “and that remains unlikely. I've met her already, you must remember. Miss Masefield is a lady with high standards. She's also irredeemably English and that means she views any American with a degree of circumspection.”

“You're forgetting something, Frank.”

“Am I?”

“My first wife was English.”

“Only for the short time you were married to her.”

“We were happy enough while it lasted.”

“What about your second wife?”

“Martine was French — lovely, elegant and full of Gallic passion. The five years we had together were idyllic. Between them, my wives rubbed off all my rough edges. That's why I have no qualms about consorting with lords and ladies. I know the rules.”

“You mean that you learned to hide your true self.”

“Isn't that what we always do with women?”

Spurrier was disparaging. “You're too cynical, Josh.”

“I prefer to call it being realistic.”

“Is that how you hope to ensnare Genevieve Masefield?”

“I'll use a combination of blandishments to reel her in.”

“I think you'll find that you've met your match in her,” warned Spurrier. “She has great poise and self-assurance.”

“In other words, she kept you at arm's length.”

His friend was piqued. “That's not true at all!”

“Where you failed,” said Cleves complacently, “I'll succeed. Move aside, Frank. You had your turn up on deck. This evening, over dinner, it's my turn.”

“I wish you good luck.”

“That's very noble of you.”

“I have no worries about the dining arrangements. The young lady will be chaperoned by Lord and Lady Bulstrode. They have a right to expect your attention, Josh.” He wagged a finger. “You won't be able to leer at Miss Masefield throughout the meal.”

“That was never my intention.”

“No?”

Cleves beamed afresh. “I'm not giving away any trade secrets,” he said. “Watch and wonder, that's my advice. And don't be stupid enough to issue another challenge to me where women are concerned. Because you'll lose every time.” He indicated the way. “Shall we go to dinner?”

______

No dress code was ever observed in steerage because some of the passengers had only the clothing that they were actually wearing. Seated in serried ranks at long wooden tables, they occupied chairs that were bolted to the floor to prevent movement when the ship rolled. Since there were so many mouths to feed, the stewards did not stand on ceremony. Speed of delivery was the order of the day and they went briskly up and down the aisles unloading food from their trays. The noise was deafening, amplified by the clatter of plates, the clash of cutlery and the deep, rolling thunder of the engines. Family arguments occasionally broke out and crying children added to the pandemonium. The cavernous dining saloon was a huge echo chamber that threatened to burst any sensitive eardrums.

Though her husband was right beside her, Miriam Pinnick had to raise her voice to be heard above the tumult. She was a gray-haired old woman with a skinny body, skeletal hands and an emaciated face. She squinted badly.

“It's even louder than when we came,” she said.

Saul was tolerant. “Two thousand people make a lot of noise,” he said, popping a piece of bread into his mouth. “You'll get used to it, Miriam. It will only be until the end of the week.”

“That's more than long enough.”

“Try to make the most of the voyage.”

“I hate the sea.”

“And cheer up a little, my love.”

“How can I?” she protested. “I thought that we'd be living in Brooklyn with Isaac by now, but we never even set foot on the mainland. It's a disgrace, Saul. At the very least, they should have let us see your cousin. Isaac must have wondered what was going on.”

“He'll have got my letter by now.”

“It's still a disgrace.”

She munched her food disconsolately and did her best to ignore the din caused by a fight between two small boys. Dragged apart by angry parents, they continued to yell taunts at each other until a few hard slaps apiece brought the argument to an end. Their howls of pain reverberated throughout the dining saloon. Miriam shuddered, but Saul was more interested in the figure of Leonard Rush hunched over a table nearby, somehow isolated in a crowded room.

“Maybe I should speak to him again,” he said.

“Who?” asked his wife.

“That man I told you about. He's suffering, Mirry.”

“We're
all
suffering. Do you want to know what suffering is?” she went on, her hands gesticulating. “It's spending your last farthing on the fare to America, then finding they don't want you because you're too old, too poor, too weak and half-blind.”

“So — we go back to the East End. We have friends there.”

“Yes,” she said bitterly, “and we told them that we were going to better ourselves. Instead, we have to crawl back. It will kill me, Saul. I can't do it anymore. I can't work for fourteen hours a day sewing dresses. It made me ill. It ruined my eyes.”

“We'll manage, my love.”

“How? We have no house to go back to.”

“Others are worse off than us, Mirry.”

“I don't care about anyone else.”

“Well, I do,” he said, watching as Rush got up from the table, coughed loudly several times, then shuffled toward the exit. “Him, for instance. I could see it in his face. The poor man is in torment.”

“So am I,” she complained.

Unlike his wife, Saul Pinnick was not given to self-pity. He accepted his fate without complaint. More than forty years earlier they had fled from a pogrom in their native Russia. It had been the first of many hopeful journeys to a different country. Each time they had had to find housing, search for work and learn a new language. When they settled in London — and changed their surname so that English tongues could pronounce it — they thought that they had reached the end of their nomadic existence. Then some relatives emigrated to America and urged them to follow. Since their children had long since flown the nest, the old couple elected to sell their little house in White-chapel and sail after a dream. It had proved to be an illusion. Yet Saul was not disheartened. To him, it was just one more mistaken turning off the road of life. They were still alive. They were still together. That was all that mattered to him.

Leonard Rush had aroused his interest.

“I wonder if he's the one,” he speculated.

“What one?”

“Have you forgotten what happened on the voyage to America?”

“How can I when I was in agony all the way?” she demanded, jabbing a finger at her chest. “I remember every last minute of that ordeal. It was terrible.”

“Someone died down here in steerage,” Saul reminded her. “A sick woman passed away before she even reached America. Think how her husband must have felt. The two of them set out together, but only one of them survived. The wife was buried at sea.” His brow was furrowed in sympathy. “Imagine the horror of that, Mirry.”

“I've got enough horror of my own,” she said bluntly.

“Show a little sympathy, woman.”

“I've none left to spare.”

“It could be him,” decided Saul. “In fact, I'm sure it must be. No wonder he was so sour with me. He's hurting badly inside.”

“And you think I'm not?” she challenged.

“Calm down, Mirry.”

“Then stop going on about a complete stranger.”

“But he's not a stranger — that's the point. He's one of us. They rejected him as well. It was his voice, you see. That woman who died came from Yorkshire and he talks like someone from up North. He's not from London, I know that.” He wheezed quietly. “I ought to speak to him again. I ought to offer comfort.” He glanced at his wife. “Did you hear what I said, Mirry?”

But her gaze was fixed immovably on the remains of his dinner.

“Are you going to eat that food?” she said covetously. “Because, if you're not — let
me
have it.”

Since they had not met since coming aboard, George Dillman made a point of calling at Genevieve's cabin on his way to the first-class dining saloon. After a warm embrace, they compared notes. Dillman, too, had heard about the possibility that there was a fugitive on the
Celtic.

“It would help us a lot if we had a more detailed description of the man,” he observed.

“We know his name, his nationality, his age, his height, his hair color and his distinguishing facial features.”

“But we don't, Genevieve.”

“Didn't the purser show you the second message he had from the police?” she asked. “It told us much more about him.”

“An optical illusion.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I know how easily criminals can disguise their appearance.
According to the police, he has a beard — do you think he'll be careless enough to leave it on? As for his name, he'll certainly have changed that. He came aboard on a false passport.”

“We still know that he's in his thirties, of medium height and has curly brown hair. That's something, George.”

“It is,” he agreed. “Unfortunately, it's a description that fits several people. I've counted nearly ten so far in first class alone. Not that he's likely to be here.”

“Why not?”

“Put yourself in his position.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you want to conceal your identity on a ship, you'd find it much more difficult in first class where everyone is on show. The most obvious place to go to ground is in steerage.”

“Safety in numbers.”

“Exactly,” he said. “There'll be hundreds of men there who are the same age, height and coloring as Edward Hammond. Much easier for him to avoid detection.”

She smiled. “You should have been a criminal, George.”

“I've just learned to think like one.”