A Poison of Passengers

by Jack Treby

  A steward was hovering near the bottom step ‘May I help you sir?’ he asked, stepping forward. He was a fresh-faced youth in his early twenties, with small eyes and big teeth, dressed in the traditional Cunard grey.

  I looked down at the piece of paper. ‘Er...B61, I think.’

  ‘Just along here, sir, on the starboard side.’

  The key was already in the door. It was a pleasant, roomy space, a far cry from the cramped Zeppelin cabin I had shoe-horned myself into on the way out to America. This was proper first class accommodation, light and airy. I stepped inside and gave a sigh of satisfaction. The word “cabin” did not do it justice. In the literature it was referred to as a “stateroom” and I could see why. There was a bed set against one wall, with actual legs and a wooden bedstead, rather than the regulation bunk. A window off to the left had a rectangular frame and pretty floral curtains, in place of the traditional port hole. Best of all, on the right hand side, there was a private bathroom. I had paid a little extra for that. I had learnt my lesson on previous trips. Given my peculiar lifestyle, it was better where possible to keep away from public lavatories.

  My luggage was resting smartly at the side of the bed. ‘There are towels in the bathroom and a spare blanket in the closet if you need it,’ the steward informed me. ‘If you need anything else, just give me a bell at any time. My name’s Adam.’

  ‘Thank you, Adam.’ I reached into my pocket for a coin, but stopped myself just in time. For all the splendour of the accommodation, this was not a hotel and Adam was not a bellhop. Gratuities could wait until the end of the trip. ‘Oh, there was one thing you could do,’ it occurred to me suddenly.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘My valet has a cabin not far from here. I don’t know the number, I’m afraid. Somewhere amidships. His name’s Maurice Sauveterre. French fellow. Looks like a tombstone. I was wondering if you could provide him with an extra key?’

  ‘Maurice Sauveterre.’ Adam fixed the name in his mind. ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘He might need to pop in here from time to time.’

  ‘I’ll arrange it for you.’ The steward moved out into the corridor. ‘Oh, excuse me, miss.’

  A young woman had come to a halt just outside the door. ‘Is this B61?’ she asked, hesitantly.

  ‘That’s right, miss.’

  I caught sight of her face. ‘Miss Wellesley!’ I called out, in surprise. ‘Are you lost? I thought you were on the port side.’

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m awfully sorry.’ Cynthia Wellesley raised a hand in greeting. ‘I am starting to feel a little light headed.’ She wobbled slightly and reached out to steady herself on the frame of the door. She was looking a little green around the gills.

  The steward was hovering to her left. ‘That’s all right, Adam,’ I said. ‘Please come in, Miss Wellesley. Sit yourself down.’ Adam made a tactful retreat and Miss Wellesley stepped tentatively through the doorway. ‘You are looking a little peaky.’ The motion of the ship was beginning to take its toll. At my direction, she sat herself down on the edge of the bed, to the left of the suitcase.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine in a minute.’

  ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’

  ‘That would be most kind.’

  I reached for the jug on the bedside table and poured out a glass, which I handed across. Miss Wellesley knocked it back in one. She was a slender thing, tallish and nicely dressed in a two piece rayon number. She must have nipped to her room, before calling on me, as she was no longer wearing her coat. ‘Thank you,’ she said, recovering her composure. She handed the glass back to me. ‘You’re very kind.’ Her eyes met mine with a sincere smile. For all her quiet nature, Miss Wellesley did not strike me as being particularly shy. It had taken a fair amount of pluck to travel the world like this all on her own and she had had no qualms about stepping into my hotel room last night, to report back on the interview with Mrs O’Neill. Neither was she reluctant to enter my cabin now without a chaperone. Miss Wellesley was a thoroughly modern girl; and all the better for that. Just so long as she didn’t start throwing up over the carpet. ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you like this,’ she said. ‘I wanted to ask your advice. I couldn’t think who else to talk to.’

  ‘Advice?’ I coughed, not quite understanding.

  ‘You’ve been so kind to us these last couple of days. Myself and Mrs O’Neill. Helping to put our minds to rest. Soothing our ruffled feathers.’

  ‘Well, I do my best, of course.’ Not that I had had much choice in the matter. That’s the trouble with showing kindness to people. You do it once and they expect you to do it again and again. I pulled up a chair. ‘What’s on your mind, Miss Wellesley?’

  ‘I...’ She hesitated. ‘I think I may have done something terrible.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mrs O’Neill has had such a terrible time, these last few days. The purse snatching and then the restaurant. Being interviewed by the police.’

  ‘Yes, it’s been very trying for her.’

  ‘And you saw how she was at breakfast. She’s trying to put it all behind her, but if anything else were to happen...’ Miss Wellesley took a gulp of air. She was clutching a small piece of paper in her hand. ‘I haven’t known Mrs O’Neill that long. Barely more than a week or so. But in that short time, I’ve become rather fond of her. I would never do anything to hurt her.’

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t.’ My eyes narrowed, wishing the girl would get to the point. ‘But you say you’ve done something you regret?’

  She nodded unhappily. ‘As you know, we’ve been sharing a suite at the Alderley for the last few nights.’

  ‘Yes.’ An impressive set of rooms, judging by the glimpse of it I had had through the doorway.

  ‘I rose early this morning,’ Miss Wellesley continued. ‘Earlier than Mrs O’Neill, and I noticed a small piece of paper had been pushed underneath the door of the suite.’

  I glanced down at her lap. ‘You mean, that piece of paper?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded and handed it across. ‘I should have told Mrs O’Neill about it. It was addressed to her. But it’s such a vile...such a horrible thing.’

  I unfolded the note and scanned it briefly. ‘Good God,’ I spluttered, unable to stop myself.

  ‘If Mrs O’Neill had seen that, she would have been horrified,’ Miss Wellesley asserted, not without good reason. ‘And she was so anxious to get away this morning, to put everything behind her and start her European adventure. If I’d shown her that, she might have felt obliged to call the police. Again.’

  ‘The third time in 24 hours.’

  ‘Yes. And if they’d come to talk to her, she might have missed the boat.’

  ‘Yes, I do see that.’ I looked up. ‘So you kept it from her?’

  ‘I did,’ Miss Wellesley admitted. ‘I suppose it was wrong of me not to show it to her straight away, but I...I just thought...’

  ‘You thought she’d been through enough. I understand.’

  ‘And now I don’t...I don’t know whether to show it to her at all. To admit that I kept it from her. And...and to worry her even more, now that we’re all here onboard ship.’

  I sat back in my chair. ‘Yes, I see your dilemma. Although I must confess, I’m not sure what to suggest.’ Try as I might, I could not disguise the irritation in my voice. Why did the damn girl have to get me involved in this? I had no more idea what to do about it than she did. ‘Well, look. Whoever slipped this under the door of your room, I imagine we’ve left them far behind by now.’

  ‘You don’t think I should tell Mrs O’Neill?’

  I shrugged, glancing out of the window. The ship was now pulling out of the river and into the sea. ‘They can’t do her any harm out here. And as you say, there’s no point upsetting her unnecessarily.’ I looked down at the note again and shivered slightly. Apart from the name, the paper contained only one simple statement, in typed capital letters: “NEXT TIME,” it said, “IT WILL NOT BE A HOAX”.

>   Chapter Three

  Sir Richard Villiers sat back in a comfortable padded armchair and surveyed the smoking room with something less than satisfaction. ‘Oh, I grant you, the décor hasn’t changed,’ he conceded, dropping his pipe briefly from his mouth. ‘The Galitia is still the finest ship afloat. Nothing to match it anywhere else in the world. No, it’s the passengers they’re letting on these days.’ He wrinkled his nose, shifting his glasses up a good half an inch. ‘Too many riff raff getting into first class, that’s the problem.’ He sighed. Sir Richard was an odd looking man in his mid fifties. He had grey, close cropped hair and a thin face dominated by a pair of heavy spectacles. His suit was finely cut, however, and there was no mistaking the aristocratic attitude.

  ‘You’ll like this guy,’ Harry had teased, when we arrived together at the Carolean Smoking Room a little after eleven. ‘He’s even more of a snob than you are.’

  Sir Richard was one of a small party of guests who had been staying with Mrs O’Neill at her town house in Boston for the past few months. Sir Richard had been a business partner of her late husband, apparently; and a good friend to boot. Harry had met the fellow a couple of days ago at the Waldorf Astoria, where they both had rooms. The American handled the introductions, when we arrived at the smoking room together.

  The Carolean was a pleasant, well lit chamber, a good fifty feet across, with oak panelled walls, several cosy recesses and an elaborate fireplace. Wooden floorboards were covered over with hand-made Persian carpets, and a portrait of James II was hanging above the mantelpiece at one end. Light streamed in from a set of high windows above each alcove.

  Sir Richard was surveying the scene with distaste. ‘They’ll let anybody in these days,’ he concluded.

  I sat back in my armchair and took a slow drag of my cigarette. ‘I suppose they have to take anyone who can pay for a ticket.’

  Sir Richard puffed unhappily on his pipe. ‘But where will it end, that’s what I want to know. Where will it end?’

  ‘It seems quiet enough at the moment,’ I observed. Perhaps a dozen people were spread out across the saloon, in a space that could easily have accommodated many times that number. I tapped out the end of my cigarette. The Carolean had the feel of a gentlemen’s club and, despite Sir Richard’s assertion, none of the other guests looked particularly out of place. ‘The whole ship seems a little quiet.’

  ‘Barely a hundred and fifty of us in first class,’ Sir Richard grumbled. ‘According to the passenger list. In my day it would have been nearer five hundred. But it’s not the quantity,’ he asserted. ‘It’s the quality.’ He pushed his glasses up against his nose once again. Harry was right: the man was a snob. Not that he didn’t have a point, of course.

  ‘It was the third class boarding that surprised me,’ I said. ‘When I last travelled on the Galitia, just after the war, everyone was packed in like sardines; but judging by the queues at the dock today, there don’t seem to be many more people in second or third class than there are up here.’

  ‘Maybe things are becoming a little more democratic,’ Harry Latimer put in, cheekily.

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ Sir Richard shuddered. ‘But you’re right, Mr Buxton. Passenger numbers have fallen drastically in the last couple of years, especially below decks. It’s not just the depression. The third class market was collapsing anyway.’ He removed his pipe, seeing that the end had gone out, and relit it quickly. ‘There’s no such thing as steerage these days. That’s why they’re introducing this “tourist class”.’ An upmarket version of third class. Sir Richard harrumphed. ‘Damn fool notion. But it was steerage that paid the bills and without it, it’s difficult to see how ships like this can survive. It’s all the Americans’ fault.’ He waggled his pipe. ‘No disrespect to you, Mr Latimer. Once they decided to pick and choose which of the “poor and huddled masses” they let in, everything ground to a halt. What with that and the depression, we may well be seeing the end of the ocean liner as we know it.’

  I stubbed out the end of my cigarette. ‘I do hope not,’ I said, with some feeling. ‘It’s got to be better than aeroplanes.’ There was vague talk in some circles of establishing a transatlantic airline some time in the future. Harry smirked, knowing how much I hated the damned things.

  ‘But it’s the people that make the difference,’ Sir Richard continued, unable to let the idea drop. ‘All these American tourists. Present company excepted, of course. You seem a decent, sober chap, Mr Latimer. But it has to be said, too many of your countrymen treat the place like nothing more than a floating bordello. Loud and boorish, that’s the only way to describe them, even at this time of day. I’m sorry to say it, Mr Latimer, but most of them don’t seem to be able to handle their drink.’

  Harry nodded and drained a glass of brandy, which a flunkey had brought across. ‘Well, we don’t get a lot of practise these days.’

  ‘That’s your own damn fault.’ Sir Richard snorted. ‘Bloody silly law. There’s nothing wrong with alcohol, so long as it’s consumed in moderation.’

  Harry nodded seriously. ‘I think a lot of Americans are coming around to that way of thinking.’ He put his glass down on a side table and sat back in his armchair. ‘Although some people have made a lot of money out of prohibition.’

  Sir Richard frowned. ‘Criminals, you mean? Well, that’s as good a reason as any to get rid of it. But what you Americans don’t seem to understand is that there’s a time and place. Boorishness in a public house is perhaps unavoidable, but there’s no call for it here, in a civilised environment.’ He gestured across the saloon. ‘I’m talking generally, of course.’ The Carolean just now was not exactly a hive of activity. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Mr Latimer. I’m not getting at you. You have behaved impeccably. Stepping in like that yesterday morning, when that blackguard tried to rob Susan out in the street.’

  ‘I was just doing my duty, sir.’

  ‘And doing it very well.’ Sir Richard regarded Harry for a moment, his expression thoughtful. ‘You know, I think she may be developing a bit of a soft spot for you.’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Harry said. ‘I think she may be more interested in Mr Buxton here.’

  Sir Richard peered across at me, his brow furrowed. ‘Yes, there may be some truth in that.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘She does seem rather taken with you, Mr Buxton. You want to be careful, the pair of you. Susan has had a difficult time of late and I think she may be on the look out for a new husband.’

  I shuddered at that idea, but Harry chuckled. ‘We shall consider ourselves duly warned.’

  ‘That’s another thing,’ Sir Richard complained. ‘All the women onboard.’ He gestured vaguely with his pipe. Apart from myself, there was not a single woman currently seated in the smoking room. ‘Brazen young hussies, travelling alone, looking for excitement. Wouldn’t have been allowed in my day.’

  ‘And ageing widows looking for husbands,’ Harry put in mischievously.

  ‘Oh, that’s a little different. Susan is the picture of respectability. Even if she does talk too much. And she does have a companion with her.’

  Harry’s eyes lit up. ‘The delightful Miss Wellesley.’

  ‘Yes, pretty young thing.’ Sir Richard sucked on his pipe. ‘Doesn’t say much, though.’

  ‘I think Harry has his eye on her already,’ I said.

  Sir Richard coughed. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘You’re not married yourself?’ I asked.

  ‘I was. My wife died a few years ago. Couldn’t be bothered to go through it all again. Not really a woman’s man, you know.’ That I could well believe. ‘Listen, we’re having a few drinks in the old stateroom before supper this evening. I’m sure Susan – Mrs O’Neill – would like to see you both there. If you’d care to pop along? Nothing formal. Just a few cocktails.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said. ‘We’d be delighted.’ And bizarrely, I meant it. I had been starved of polite society for so long, it was pleasant to be
back in the fold. Sir Richard was a trifle opinionated, but it was clear that he came from good stock; and it was agreeable – at long last – to be conversing with an equal. Harry was right. I was a snob and I didn’t care who knew it.

  A young fellow appeared at the far end of the saloon. At the sight of him, Sir Richard grimaced. ‘No peace anywhere,’ he muttered. ‘This is my secretary, Mr Ernest Hopkins.’

  ‘Mr Hopkins.’ I nodded my head as the man approached us. Harry just smiled.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Sir Richard.’ Hopkins was a thin, freckled fellow of about twenty-five. ‘I’ve completed the figures you asked for. You wanted to see them as soon as they were complete.’

  ‘So I did,’ Sir Richard said. He tapped out the end of his pipe and rose reluctantly to his feet. ‘Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me. Business is calling.’

  Harry and I made the appropriate noises.

  Sir Richard grabbed the notebook from Mr Hopkins and then turned back to us briefly. ‘The Reynolds Suite on B Deck,’ he said. ‘Six o’clock. On the port side. You can’t miss it.’

  Maurice was brushing down a pair of trousers as I returned to my room. A suitcase was open on the bed and the valet was busily tidying away my things. ‘Afternoon, Morris,’ I declared cheerfully, closing the door behind me. I always called him “Morris” rather than “Maurice”. It was a long standing joke. I had just got the lift up from D Deck, after a rather pleasant lunch at the Louis XVI, and was in an unusually cheerful mood. Mrs O’Neill had been babbling away at me for an hour and a half, in the company of Harry and Miss Wellesley, but she had now gone off to the gymnasium for an hour of physical jerks. I had declined the invitation to join her. ‘I want to let my lunch settle first,’ I had lied. I have never been much of a one for physical exertion. Harry was looking to go for a swim in the pool with Miss Wellesley and I was content to leave them to it. I was hardly in a position to parade around in my bathing suit in any case. I would be much happier, this afternoon, taking a quiet turn around the deck. But first I had stopped off at a small kiosk and bought myself a bottle of whisky. That was the source of my good humour. I moved across to the bedside table, put the bottle down and grabbed a tumbler. ‘You got hold of a key, then?’ I asked Maurice.