by Conrad Allen
The two daughters were pretty girls but they had inherited too many of their mother’s features to be judged truly beautiful. They had long, pale faces and large eyes. At seventeen, Alexandra had already acquired something of her mother’s dignity and solemnity. Three years younger, Maud was still excitable. She turned to her father as a court of appeal.
“May we go on deck soon?” she pleaded.
“Of course,” he said with an indulgent smile, “but only when we are all ready to venture out. We are not ordinary passengers, Maud. We cannot go wandering about the vessel at will. Decorum has to be observed. As soon as we step outside our cabins, every eye will be upon us. That imposes responsibilities.”
“I know, Father.”
“Then curb your impatience. We’ll go out as a family.”
Maud nodded obediently. “May we get down from the table?”
“If you’ve had enough breakfast.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Alexandra.
“We’ll call you in due course,” promised Fife.
“Clean your teeth then look for some warm clothing,” their mother advised. “It will be quite chilly on deck at this time of year.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Maud.
The two girls got down from the table and went into their own cabin. Princess Louise watched them go. Fife drained the last of his coffee and addressed himself to the small pile of correspondence at his elbow.
“I’m not sure that I’m ready for a stroll just yet,” Louise said.
“You must have a morning constitutional, my dear.”
“Later on, perhaps.”
“We can’t keep the girls waiting too long,” he said, reading an invitation card before setting it aside, “or we’ll have mutiny on our hands.”
“Maud seems to think that we’re on the royal yacht, where she can go on deck whenever she chooses. We’re only four among hundreds of passengers this time. The rules have changed.”
“I think that our daughters appreciate that, Louise.”
“I hope so.” She glanced at the little pile of envelopes. “Anything interesting?”
“Invitations, for the most part,” he said, glancing at a note on P and O stationery. “This one is from Sir Marcus Arundel, suggesting that we might join them in their cabin for drinks one evening.”
“Oh dear!”
“We have to be sociable, Louise.”
“Yes,” she sighed resignedly. “I suppose so.”
“You’re becoming too reclusive, my dear. If we’re not careful, we’ll end up being called ‘the Hermits of Mar Lodge.’ ”
“I love Mar Lodge. It’s so wonderfully private.”
“Almost as private as you,” he teased before slitting open another envelope. “Ah, yet one more invitation. Lord Wilmshurst’s son.”
“Do we know him?”
“No,” he replied, “but I was closely acquainted with his father at one time. Lord Wilmshurst was the best shot I’ve ever seen. And he had an extraordinary fund of sporting anecdotes. Interesting to see if the son takes after his father.”
“I don’t share your passion for anecdotes.”
“This young fellow won’t bore you with anything like that, Louise.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he and his wife are on honeymoon.”
She was startled. “Honeymoon? Yet they seek the company of others?”
“Mr. Wilmshurst sounds like a gregarious bridegroom. He doesn’t just want us there for drinks; he’s suggesting that we dine with them.” Fife saw the mild disapproval in her face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t commit us to a meal until I’ve had a chance to meet the chap. But I do owe it to his father to be congenial. Besides, the girls will expect some company while we’re aboard. It’s such an agreeable way to pass the time.”
After speaking to Roland Pountney for two minutes, Genevieve Masefield knew that she could cross his name off the list of possible suspects. Whoever had stolen the money and jewelry from Mabel Prendergast’s cabin, it was most certainly not this young man. During dinner on the previous evening, it had been impossible to have a proper conversation with him, especially with Lilian Cathcart sitting between them, so Genevieve was pleased to bump into him when she took a stroll around the deck. Pountney displayed a row of perfect teeth and politely touched his hat. After exchanging a few remarks about the weather with him, she asked him where he had been when the ship set sail.
“Up here on deck, of course,” he replied. “Weren’t you, Miss Masefield?”
“Yes, Mr. Pountney.”
“It’s always a unique moment. I never miss it.”
“Nor me.”
“The only problem was that I had to share it with that gloomy German.”
“Herr Lenz?”
“That’s right. He stood beside me and had the gall to tell me that German liners were superior to any built in our shipyards. Apparently, he was commissioned to photograph ships from the Hamburg-Amerika Line so he feels that he’s an expert on maritime travel.”
“He hardly said a word to me all evening.”
“When we stood at the rail, I couldn’t stop him talking.”
“Perhaps he’s shy in female company.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s the case,” said Pountney, “I had the feeling he revels in it. Herr Lenz is one of those strong, silent, watchful types. He seemed to be enchanted by the lady beside you.”
“Mrs. Cathcart? Yes, she managed to attract a lot of attention.”
His eyes twinkled. “So did you, Miss Masefield.”
Genevieve acknowledged the compliment with a smile. Roland Pountney was an affable young man with an air of quiet prosperity about him. Everyone promenading on the first-class decks was well dressed, but Pountney was immaculate in his overcoat and hat. Even his black leather gloves were of exceptional quality. Clearly, he was not the man who had broken into Mrs. Prendergast’s cabin. When the ship left Tilbury, he had stayed on deck for some time.
“You said last night that you were traveling on business,” she recalled.
“In the world of finance, alas, one always travels on business.”
“And you’re going to Egypt?”
“First of all,” he said. “I don’t believe in buying a pig in a poke. I like to see where my money is going. I’m investing rather a lot of it in a project in Cairo.”
“It’s very sensible of you to carry out an inspection, Mr. Pountney.”
“It doesn’t pay to be too trusting, Miss Masefield, especially where foreigners are concerned. Not that I have any prejudices against them, mark you,” he added. “Most of my investments have been abroad. That’s why I’ve prospered so much.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“The world is my oyster.” He laughed softly. “I’m a seeker after pearls. But tell me a little about Mrs. Cathcart, if you will, please.”
“Myra? Why?”
“Because she sounded like an interesting lady. I only caught snatches of what she was saying but she had far more life about her than that daughter of hers.”
“Lilian is inclined to be reticent.”
“It’s not a problem that troubles her mother. Mrs. Cathcart talked and laughed her way through the entire meal. I could see the effect she was having on the two men opposite. The American gentleman was entranced with her,” Mr. Pountney said.
“His name is Walter Dugdale.”
“He was even more taken with the lady than Herr Lenz. I know that it’s very early to make such a judgment, but I think your friend may have made a conquest—if not two of them.”
“Hardly!” said Genevieve. “That’s the first time she’s met either of them. Myra Cathcart might be amused at the notion that she’d caught Mr. Dugdale’s eye but I doubt if she’d be pleased to hear that Herr Lenz had taken an interest in her. She made an impression on both of them, I grant you, but that’s as far as it goes. Mr. Dugdale was excessively polite, that’s all.”
“He�
��s a rich American bachelor.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw no sign of a Mrs. Dugdale. Did you?”
“No,” said Genevieve, “but my guess is that he has been married.”
“More than once, probably,” Mr. Pountney agreed. “They make a hobby of it over there.”
Genevieve laughed.
“I didn’t mean that to sound quite so flippant, and I might be wrong about Mr. Dugdale, but he—and Lenz, for that matter—were doing something that few men in their position would have done.”
“What was that, Mr. Pountney?”
“Paying far more attention to Mrs. Cathcart than to you.”
“I was not exactly ignored.”
“No,” he agreed, “but you didn’t collect the sly glances that your friend was getting from both men. They must have been blind, Miss Masefield,” he continued, touching his hat again. “Had I been sitting opposite you, I wouldn’t have noticed any other woman at the table. Good day to you.”
After bestowing an admiring smile on her, he strolled off along the deck.
______
When he saw the man in action, George Porter Dillman was forced to revise his opinion of the purser. Brian Kilhendry oozed professional charm. The blunt Irishman who had given Dillman such a tepid welcome was now chatting happily to passengers in the first-class lounge. He seemed to have mastered some of their names already and dealt with their various requests with practiced ease. Kilhendry was relaxed yet supremely in control. After glancing at his watch, the purser excused himself and headed for the door.
“Good morning,” said Dillman, intercepting him.
“Good morning, Mr. Dillman,” said Kilhendry. “Did you sleep well?”
“Extremely well.”
“We can hold our own against the Cunard Line, you know.”
“I never doubted it for a second, Mr. Kilhendry. But I’m glad of a quiet word.”
“I’m busy, I’m afraid. Save it for Martin Grandage.”
“This won’t take a moment,” said Dillman. “It’s something that your deputy might not even know about. I gather that you took possession of some Egyptian relics.”
“That’s correct,” the purser admitted crisply. “Several of them are locked away in our largest safe. I know nothing about such things, but Professor Goss, the gentleman who entrusted them to me, tells me they’re highly valuable.”
“I know. I had dinner with him and his family.”
“Oh, of course. The professor is American.”
“I was more interested in the security of his property than his nationality, Mr. Kilhendry. While the major items were lodged with you, many smaller ones were not. Mr. Goss—he prefers to be called that rather than ‘Professor’—has kept some of the relics in his cabin. I think that you should persuade him to let you put them under lock and key.”
“Why?”
“Because it eliminates the risk of theft.”
“Who would want to steal a handful of ancient stones?”
“Who would want to rob a harmless old lady in second class?” asked Dillman. “Yet that’s precisely what happened while the ship was leaving her berth. Even your famed nose has not been able to pick up the scent yet. Those ancient stones in Mr. Goss’s cabin are worth a great deal, in the right hands.”
“They’re in the right hands, Mr. Dillman. Those of your fellow countryman.”
“What happens if they go astray?”
“I should imagine the professor—or Mr. Goss—will be rather upset.”
“Don’t you think you should make sure that eventuality will not occur?”
“I can see that you’ve never been a purser,” Kilhendry said tartly. “We don’t compel our passengers on the P and O. We give them fair warning and leave it at that. If they wish to keep items of value in their cabins, that’s their decision. Most of the property is insured before they even step on board. It’s yet another safeguard that we offer on P and O Lines. Excuse me, Mr. Dillman,” he went on, “but I have important work to do. Take your next unnecessary fear to Martin Grandage.”
He stalked off and left the detective both annoyed and pensive. Irritated by the purser’s abrupt manner, Dillman wondered yet again what had provoked it. How could a man who was so effortlessly pleasant to the passengers aboard the ship, be so offhand with one of his colleagues? Something more than mere dislike of the Cunard Line was involved. Dillman resolved to find out what it was. In the meantime, a more immediate problem confronted him. Polly Goss was bearing down on him with a mixture of nervousness and bravado. Her smile was tense.
“Hello, Mr. Dillman,” she said.
“Good morning, Miss Goss.”
“I just wanted to apologize for my father. He does go on, I’m afraid. You must have been bored rigid over dinner.”
“Not at all. I was fascinated by what he was saying.”
“He treats everyone as if they were students in class.”
“Well, I was only too grateful to be taught by him. Your father is obviously a leading expert on his subject.”
“Yes,” she conceded, “but that subject is so frightfully dull.”
“Not to anyone who’s interested in Egyptian civilization.”
“I’m not, Mr. Dillman.”
“You may change your mind when you actually get to Cairo,” he said. “I envy you the opportunity. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, myself. Before that, of course, you have the voyage to enjoy. There seem to be lots of young people aboard. I’m sure you’ll soon make new friends.”
She grinned at him. “I’d like to think that you’re one of them.”
“Of course. That goes without saying.”
“And I will play the flute for you—if you wish, that is.”
“Yes,” he said with feigned enthusiasm, “that would be very nice.”
“Do you want to fix a time?”
“Let’s wait a day or two, shall we? Then we can get used to the routine on board and find out when the music room is likely to be empty.”
“We don’t have to go there,” she said, blurting out the suggestion. “We could always find somewhere more private than the music room.”
“I’m sure your parents will want to be there to hear you.”
“They’ve heard my repertoire dozens of times. I’d be playing for you.”
“I see.”
There was an awkward pause. “Are you glad that you left Boston?” she said.
“Sometimes.”
“I couldn’t wait to get away,” she confided. “It’s so predictable. I knew exactly what I’d be doing every day of every week. There were no surprises. And the worst of it was that it’s terribly conventional. There’s a way of doings things that you simply have to follow. I’d never dream of talking as freely as this to anyone in Boston.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’ve only just met, Mr. Dillman. You’re a stranger.”
“I’m quite harmless when you get to know me.”
“But that’s the point,” she stressed. “Back in Boston, it would take months to get to know you. We’d have to go through all those ridiculous social rituals first. Go to the right places, meet at the right times, say the right things.”
“Some people find those rituals very comforting.”
“Well, I’m not one of them. And I suspect that you’re not, either.”
“No, Miss Goss. I’m not.”
She grinned again. “Then why do you still conform to the rules?”
“Rules?”
“Why do you call me ‘Miss Goss’ when you know that my name is Polly?”
He hunched his shoulders. “Courtesy, I guess.”
“But I hate being ‘Miss Goss.’ It’s exasperating.”
“May I call you Polly, then?”
“Of course,” she said, grasping his arm. “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”
She saw him first. He was alone. Genevieve found it remarkably easy to avoid being seen by him. Wearing a
long coat and a large, wide-brimmed hat, she merged with all the other ladies on deck who were similarly attired. Genevieve simply had to turn her head and the brim of her hat obscured her face completely. Nigel Wilmshurst walked within a yard of her without even knowing she was there. He looked older. When she’d first met him, she had been dazzled by his youthful zest and appearance. That seemed to have faded somewhat, though she did not subject him to any real appraisal. All she allowed herself was a glance at him as he strode past. He still exuded the confidence that had once impressed her. She could see it in his expression and in his bold step. But she felt no lingering affection for the man to whom she had once been engaged. If anything, she felt a mild repulsion. Too many unpleasant memories had surfaced.
Wilmshurst had not seen her but Walter Dugdale recognized her immediately.
“Ah!” he said with a throaty chuckle. “There you are, Miss Masefield.”
“Hello, Mr. Dugdale.”
Wearing a fur-collared cape and a hat with a tall crown, he looked even more like an amiable wizard. He raised his hat to her then stepped in closer so that she could hear him clearly above the tumult of the engines and the excited chatter from the passengers on deck. Closing one eye, he studied her through the other.
“Remarkable!” he concluded. “Quite remarkable.”
“What is, Mr. Dugdale?”
“You are, Miss Masefield. So is Myra—Mrs. Cathcart, that is. And so, to some degree, is her daughter though she, poor girl, chooses to hide her light under a bushel. All three of you are English roses.”
“Roses at this time of year? That’s rather perverse gardening.”
“I was speaking metaphorically,” he said with a smile. “It’s something to do with the shape of the face and the tilt of the head. There’s an endearing Englishness about all three of you. It’s such a pity that Lilian does her best to conceal it.”
“I don’t think she does it deliberately, Mr. Dugdale.”
“Maybe not, but the result is the same.”
“I’m sure that Lilian will mellow as the cruise progresses.”
“I do hope so,” he said, adjusting his cape around his shoulders. “She’s old enough to stand on her own feet yet she still relies too completely on her mother. I had tea with them earlier. To be honest, I’d planned on being alone with Mrs. Cathcart but the daughter invited herself along as well. It was almost as if she were a chaperone.”