Murder on the Celtic (6 page)

“None at all, Mr. Spurrier.”

“That's typical. It's almost as if he wants to pretend that his parents didn't exist. He changed his name to Cleves to disguise his heritage — and to make the name easier to pronounce, of course.”

“I don't see any harm in that.”

“There is a whisper of ingratitude about it, I feel.”

“Ingratitude?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “Josh's father came from humble origins yet went on to build up a chain of delicatessens in New York that eventually sold for millions of dollars. If I'd inherited that kind of money, I'd have felt obliged to keep the family name.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” asked Genevieve with growing suspicions. “You claim to be a friend of Mr. Cleves, yet you're highly critical of him.”

“I just wanted you to understand the sort of person he is. Josh has many virtues — he's cultured, forthright and strong-willed. And although he's quintessentially American, in the best sense of the word he has an excellent knowledge of Europe — particularly of France, but that's only natural.”

“Is it?”

“His second wife was French,” he told her. “The first, oddly enough, was English. Josh has a soft spot for English ladies.”

“What about you, Mr. Spurrier?”

“Me?”

“Do you prefer English ladies?”

He beamed at her. “Every time.”

“Yes,” she said with a slight edge, “I had the feeling that I wasn't the first one to catch your eye.”

Her comment wiped the broad smile from his face. Nonetheless, once again, Genevieve felt at a slight disadvantage. She wanted to take her leave of Frank Spurrier but something held her back. By sheer force of personality he kept her anchored to the spot. Over dinner the previous evening, Genevieve had been acutely conscious of the interest that Joshua Cleves was showing in her, and of the effort he was making to be on his best behavior. What puzzled her was why Spurrier was now deliberately trying to influence her view of Cleves.

“We've obviously got off on the wrong foot this morning,”
said Spurrier, anxious to make amends for upsetting her, “and I do apologize. Perhaps I might buy you a drink at some stage by way of recompense.”

She was noncommittal. “Perhaps.”

“Or perhaps not. I leave the decision to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spurrier,” she said crisply. “As your friend, Mr. Cleves, may have told you, I do like to make my own decisions.”

“I admire decisiveness.”

“Then you'll excuse me if I make the decision to have breakfast.”

“Of course.”

As he stood politely aside for her, David and Jane Lowbury bore down on them. They greeted Spurrier effusively. Genevieve was introduced to the American couple.

“Oh, I'm so pleased to meet you,” said Jane, beaming at her. “I just adored that dress you were wearing last night.”

Genevieve was surprised. “You noticed me in that crowd?”

“You'd stand out anywhere, Miss Masefield,” said Lowbury.

“There you are,” observed Spurrier. “Independent witnesses. I'm not the only person to be entranced.”

Jane sighed. “I wish I was tall enough to carry off an evening dress like that,” she said. “It was gorgeous.”

“So are you, honey,” Lowbury assured her as he slipped an arm around her waist. “What do you think of the
Celtic,
Miss Masefield?”

“I'm very impressed,” said Genevieve.

“So are we. She's like a floating hotel.”

“As long as we don't run into bad weather.”

“She feels pretty stable to me.”

“She is,” said Spurrier, “but the North Atlantic is the most dangerous ocean in the world. If we get hit by a squall, we'll certainly know about it.”

“I hope that doesn't happen.” Lowbury smiled at Genevieve. “Did you know that a famous English author was on board?”

“No,” she said, feigning ignorance. “Who is it?”

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Really?”

“I wonder if we could persuade him to read one of those Sherlock Holmes stories to us. He'd get a huge audience.”

“I'd certainly be part of it, Mr. Lowbury.”

“So would Jane and I.”

“Unfortunately,” said Spurrier, “it's unlikely to happen. Sir Arthur has the reputation of being a very private man. The only way to secure his interest is for one of us to commit a crime.”

“A crime?” said Genevieve.

“Yes — then we could send for Sherlock Holmes to solve it.”

Leonard Rush stood on deck in the stern of the ship and stared at the massive triangle of white foam left in her wake. The wind had picked up, and the sun had vanished behind some clouds, but he seemed quite unaware of the cold. Saul Pinnick felt it keenly even though he wore a scarf, overcoat and hat. He watched Rush for a few minutes before crossing over to him.

“Good morning,” he said.

The other man looked at him but gave no sign of recognition. Rush's face was pale, his remaining eye lackluster. There was such an air of dejection about him that Pinnick's compassion was stirred.

“We spoke yesterday,” he went on. “My name is Saul — Saul Pinnick. What's yours?”

“What does it matter?”

“I like to know who I'm talking to.”

Rush considered the request for a long time before speaking.

“My name is Rush,” he said at length. “Len Rush.”

“And you were a miner, weren't you?”

“I spent the best part of forty years down the pit, starting as a lad. I come from a mining family.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Yorkshire.”

“There!” said Pinnick. “That's what I told Mirry.”

“Mirry?”

“My wife, Miriam. I had this feeling that you might be the man who suffered that terrible tragedy on the voyage to New York.” Rush turned away. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Rush. I grieve with you.”

It was patently a subject about which Rush did not wish to speak. He was still trying to cope with the loss of his wife, and the mention of her death had caught him on the raw. Pinnick was annoyed with himself for raising the topic. He took a different tack.

“I was a tailor in the East End of London,” he said. “I made suits for workingmen. Ironic, really — a Jew like me, making suits for people to wear to church on Sunday. I've never even been in a church,” he added with a cackle. “Saturday is our Sabbath. Mirry and I go to the synagogue, regular as clockwork. Everything was fine until I got arthritis in both hands.” He held them up for inspection, but Rush took no notice of him. “That put paid to my tailoring. It was the same with my wife. She was a seamstress until her eyes started to go. Still, we can't complain, can we? It's not as if our lives were ever in danger. Yours must have been, down the mine. You hear of the most terrible accidents.” He moved to his right so that he could see the side of the other man's face. “Were you ever involved in an accident down the pit, Mr. Rush?”

Rush nodded. “Twice.”

“I'm glad that you lived to tell the tale.”

“Others didn't, Mr. Pinnick. I lost a lot of good friends.”

“Yet you continued to work down the pit.”

“What else could I do?” demanded Rush with a flash of truculence. “Every man in the village was a miner. Nowt else to do.” He looked at the old man properly for the first time. “Why did you want to go to America?”

“I have a cousin there. Isaac told us to come and join him. We had a house to go to and a relative to look after us, but it made no difference. They wouldn't let us in.”

“They herded us like animals in that reception hall.”

“There were so many of us — thousands a day.”

“It were my chest that did for me,” confessed Rush.

“Was it?”

“Bad lungs. Going down a pit is unhealthy. You're breathing in coal dust all the time. They've got this fancy name for it but what it comes down to is bad lungs. That's why it hurt so much.”

“What did, Mr. Rush?”

“Ellen, dying like that. I were the invalid, yet my wife was the one who died on the voyage. Not fair, is it? I mean, it's cruel.”

“Life very often is,” said Pinnick with a fatalistic shrug.

There was a long silence, but the old man made no attempt to break it. Having made a little progress, he was ready to settle for that. Rush was far too preoccupied with his own misery to talk readily to a stranger. When he realized that Pinnick was offering him friendship, he might, in time, respond. For the moment, he needed to be left alone to brood. After giving him a farewell pat on the shoulder, Saul Pinnick adjusted his hat and walked slowly off down the deck.

George Dillman made a point of getting to know as many people as possible on a voyage. Spending time with new acquaintances was a form of camouflage for him. Nobody ever guessed that the
debonair American, who claimed to work in the family business of building yachts, was really the ship's detective. Befriending people was not without its perils. As he headed toward the promenade deck that afternoon, Sophie Trouncer accosted him. She and her mother had sat opposite him at dinner and she had spared Dillman nothing of her history. Sophie was a handsome, full-bodied Englishwoman in her early forties with a distinct whiff of prosperity about her. Widowed two years ago, she and her equally full-bodied mother had been to visit relatives in New York.

“Mr. Dillman!” she cried with delight. “How nice to see you!”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Trouncer.”

“I was just on my way to the library.”

“I understand that they have a good stock of books.”

“Mother favors light romance,” she revealed, her smile broadening with each word, “but I prefer a novel with real passion. What about you?”

“I have very catholic tastes.”

“Catholic, as in Roman?”

“Catholic, as in wide-ranging.”

“Ah, I see,” she said, clutching her hands to her bosom.

Sophie Trouncer's manner was almost girlish. In the course of dinner she had been drawn more and more to Dillman, watching him shrewdly, plying him with questions and making noises of approval at everything he said. Like her mother, she was an educated woman who was at ease in any conversation.

“Mother will be so sorry that she missed you,” she said, “but she always likes to lie down after luncheon. I'm the opposite, I'm afraid. I get very restless. My husband used to say that I had far too much energy, but I see it as a virtue — don't you?”

“Very much so.”

“One has to keep oneself active.”

“I agree, Mrs. Trouncer.”

“As one gets old, the more important it becomes.”

“Nobody could ever accuse you of getting old,” he said gallantly.

“Oh, Mr. Dillman!” Her eyelashes fluttered for a second. “I'll cherish that remark.”

“It's well deserved.”

“Thank you.”

“But you'll have to excuse me. I'm on my way to meet a friend.” He moved away. “Do give my regards to your mother, won't you?”

“Of course.”

“And happy hunting in the library.”

With a brittle laugh, she waved him off. Dillman was glad to escape. He had met her type before. Sophie Trouncer was a merry widow, a rich woman who had come out of an extended period of mourning to take an interest in the opposite sex once again, eager to make up for lost time. She had already hinted that she might invite him to her house in the Surrey countryside, and he was careful not to commit himself. She had many good qualities, but she was too possessive for Dillman. If he let her get close to him, she would severely hamper his work on the
Celtic.

When he came out on the promenade deck, he took a deep breath. Then he strolled toward the prow of the ship. Wrapped up warmly, dozens of people were about. The man who interested him most was standing at the rail gazing out to sea. With his bowler hat and his long overcoat, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle looked like an off-duty bailiff. Dillman did not want to disturb him, but as he walked past, the writer turned and saw him.

“Hello, Mr. Dillman,” he said with obvious pleasure.

“Good afternoon, Sir Arthur. No need of my services, I see.”

“Not yet.”

“I hope that it continues that way — though I doubt it.”

“So do I, alas.”

“Once the word spreads that you are on board, you're bound to be stared at by all and sundry. You may even be at the mercy of autograph hunters. It's an occupational hazard for an author. When I sailed on the
Baltic
last year,” said Dillman, “Bernard Shaw was aboard. Unlike you, he enjoyed being recognized. In fact, he went out of his way to court public attention.”

Conan Doyle grinned. “Just like GBS!”

“Needless to say, he did not seek my protection.”

“Actually, I may need rather more than that.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” said the other. “There's a possibility that we may have to report someone to you for obtaining money by false pretenses.”

“And who might that be, Sir Arthur?”

Conan Doyle raised a palm. “Let's not prejudge the case. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty, so this lady should be given the benefit of the doubt. Until I've met her, I can't be sure about her. My wife, however,” he went on, “has reservations and her instincts are rarely wrong.”

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“We have a medium aboard.”

“Someone who conducts a séance?”

“Exactly, Mr. Dillman. Knowing of our interest in spiritualism, she made contact with my wife and invited us to join her at a séance.”

“At a price, I suspect.”

“That's what alerted me. Not that she's charging us, mark you,” said Conan Doyle. “We were offered free entry. But the other people will have to pay. This lady is a professional.”