A Poison of Passengers

by Jack Treby

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ The valet was a battered looking fellow, smartly dressed, but with a manner bordering on the funereal.

  I poured myself a glass and settled down happily in an armchair by the window. I sipped a mouthful of the nectar and closed my eyes, savouring the taste of it. This was proper scotch, not the Canadian fabrication I had been forced to consume over the last few months. ‘Just been down to lunch,’ I told the valet. ‘The food was excellent. I think you’d approve.’

  Maurice moved across to the closet and pulled out a hanger. ‘If you say so, Monsieur.’ When it came to nosh, my man was even more of a stickler than I was. That’s the Frogs for you.

  A couple of jackets were already hanging up inside the wardrobe but, in truth, there was not much luggage to unpack. I had lost most of my possessions in the hurricane, those that had been sent on to me from Guatemala. When I arrived in New York, I was carrying barely more than the clothes I stood up in. My entire wardrobe had had to be replaced. Maurice had taken care of that; he had a better eye for clothing than I did. The only personal possession I had managed to retain was my silver fob watch and that, sadly, was on its last legs. When I got back to England, I would be starting afresh, in almost every sense.

  ‘Have you eaten anything?’ I asked. The servants had a separate sitting from the rest of the passengers.

  ‘No, Monsieur. I was not hungry.’

  I regarded the man sourly. ‘You have to eat, Morris. I don’t want you fainting all over the place.’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’ He moved back to the suitcase.

  I took another sip of the whisky and felt the warm glow spread down to my stomach. It really was a fine malt. ‘How’s the room?’ I asked. It seemed only polite to enquire. I had booked Maurice a small cabin amidships. It was a somewhat basic affair, without a porthole or a private lavatory, but decent first class accommodation nonetheless; and not exactly cheap.

  ‘It will suffice, Monsieur,’ the valet replied, pulling out one of my shirts. Maurice was not one to enthuse about anything. There was an edge to the comment, however. Despite his professional manner, it was clear that the valet was struggling somewhat with life onboard ship.

  ‘It’s only for a few days,’ I muttered. ‘The sea looks calm enough. We’ll be home before you know it.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Maurice hung up the shirt, then opened a drawer at the base of the closet and moved back to the suitcase to pull out my under things.

  ‘Plenty of time for you to get home and see your mother.’ This elicited no response at all. ‘Did you send them a telegram, your family, to tell them you were coming?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Again, he did not elaborate. Maurice was a man of few words and those had to be prised out of him with a pair of pliers.

  ‘Have you decided if you’re going to fly?’ The Galitia was travelling directly to Southampton, so he would have to make his own way across the channel.

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  I flicked my eyes upwards. The man had already had a week to think about it. ‘Well, either way, you’ll have to pay for it yourself.’ I had shelled out enough money on his behalf already. Again, there was no response. Normally, Maurice’s lack of conversation was a positive boon – there is nothing worse than a chatty servant – but this afternoon it was starting to grate. Despite the whisky, my mood was beginning to sour. ‘Look, Morris, I appreciate this is difficult for you. But you need to put it out of your mind. Focus on the job.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  ‘You’re not the only one with problems, you know.’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the piece of paper Miss Wellesley had shown me this morning. This would take his mind off things, I thought. ‘Cast your eye over this.’

  The valet closed up the drawer and moved across. He pulled out a pair of reading glasses, unfolded the note and scanned it briefly. ‘Most peculiar.’

  ‘Miss Wellesley showed it to me this morning. You’ve met Miss Wellesley? Blonde thing. Five foot five.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  ‘She came here first thing, in a bit of a state.’

  The valet looked up. ‘She came to the cabin?’

  ‘Yes, shortly after we set sail.’ I outlined the salient points of the conversation; how Miss Wellesley had discovered the note under the door at the Alderley hotel.

  ‘Most curious, Monsieur.’

  ‘Yes it is. She enquired at the desk, at breakfast time, but they knew nothing about it. The night staff had all gone home by then of course. But this, coming immediately after the hoax bomb. It has to be connected somehow. Somebody has it in for Mrs O’Neill.’

  ‘It would appear so, Monsieur.’

  I stared down at the bottom of my glass. ‘At least we know they’re not on the ship with us. Whoever the scoundrel was, we’ll have left him well behind by now.’

  Maurice gazed thoughtfully at the note. ‘Not necessarily, Monsieur.’

  ‘What do you mean, “not necessarily”?’

  The valet took a moment to consider his words. ‘It may be nothing, Monsieur, but when I was collecting the key to your room, I happened to overhear a rather curious exchange.’

  ‘An exchange?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. At lunchtime, between two of the stewards. They were discussing a female passenger.’

  My eyes narrowed. ‘Gossiping, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ It was par for the course below stairs, sadly. There was little that anyone could do to prevent it. ‘As I understand it, this particular passenger had received an anonymous letter, of a rather unsavoury nature.’

  ‘Another one?’ I boggled.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. Apparently, it was slipped under her door this morning, while the woman was away from her room.’

  ‘Good lord.’ I scratched my head. ‘Did she make a complaint?’

  ‘No, Monsieur. But one of the ladies maids was overheard discussing the matter, in the canteen.’

  ‘I see. And the note was definitely delivered onboard the Galitia?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  I reflected on this for a moment. ‘Do you know who the lady was?’

  ‘No, Monsieur. Nor do I know the precise contents of the letter. However, as I understand it, the note was typed rather than hand-written. And it was in capital letters, like this one.’

  ‘Good lord.’

  ‘That at least is what the steward said.’

  I bit my lip. ‘That can’t be a coincidence, Morris.’

  ‘No, Monsieur. It cannot.’

  ‘But this note.’ I grabbed the paper back from him. ‘This was delivered to the Alderley Hotel, before we left. I assumed whoever sent it intended it as a parting shot, for Mrs O’Neil. But if somebody else has been receiving similar letters, aboard ship....’ I gazed across at my man.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  ‘Then that means whoever wrote this note, whoever sent that hoax bomb, then...they’re onboard here with us.’

  The valet regarded me grimly. ‘Yes, Monsieur,’ he agreed.

  A heavy object collided with my left ankle. The secretary, Mr Hopkins, had opened the door to the sitting room and a small cat had raced in from the hallway and smacked straight into me. ‘Good grief!’ I exclaimed, nearly spilling my drink. The animal sprang back, equally alarmed, and then hissed loudly at me, baring its fangs.

  ‘Matilda, no!’ Lady Jocelyn Wingfield snapped sharply. The cat was a small, rat like thing with short grey hair and thinly lidded eyes. ‘Bad girl!’ She glared down at the animal. ‘You know you shouldn’t be in here!’ Matilda was unrepentant, however. She slipped around the edge of the sofa and came to a halt beside Harry Latimer.

  The two of us had arrived at the Reynolds Suite promptly at six o’clock. The apartment was a luxury three bedroom affair on the port side. The sitting room alone was significantly larger than my own cabin. There was no sign of a party in progress, however. Only Sir Richard Villiers and his
sister were there to greet us. Lady Jocelyn Wingfield was a tall and rather severe looking woman in her early fifties. Her grey hair was curled around a thin, unfriendly face. Piercing blue eyes bored into anyone she looked at, though her greeting was hospitable enough.

  ‘Are we the first?’ I asked, as Harry and I shuffled through the open doorway. The sitting room was an elegantly furnished space, large enough to accommodate a good seven or eight people. There were dark mahogany walls, a hefty fireplace and luxurious carpet underfoot. A plethora of paintings adorned the walls; all reproductions of works by Sir Joshua Reynolds. There was a drinks table, a couple of padded armchairs and a comfortable sofa. Several hefty wooden doors led off to the other rooms, which were connected together by a short hallway. This was, without doubt, the best accommodation the Galitia had to offer, an elegant and very expensive set of rooms. I did not know exactly what sort of business Sir Richard was involved in, but whatever it was he was clearly doing very well at it.

  ‘Yes, do come in.’ Sir Richard pushed up his glasses, gesturing us forward. ‘Just us at the moment.’ I could hear a quiet murmur of voices coming from an open doorway leading out onto the verandah, but it did not sound loud enough to be Mrs O’Neill or her companion. The American woman had a separate “stateroom” just along the way. ‘This is my sister, Lady Jocelyn Wingfield,’ Sir Richard said.

  The lady extended a bony hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’ She was dressed in a smart, ankle length evening dress, well cut but understated in pale blue.

  Sir Richard was in a dinner jacket, with waistcoat and dicky bow; but with the thick glasses and close cropped hair he looked more like a bank manager than an aristocrat. ‘The others are out on the verandah,’ he said. ‘We can go through in a moment. But I’ll get you both a drink first. Jenny, would you mind?’

  A servant girl was hovering by the drinks table, dressed in the traditional black and white. Lady Jocelyn’s maid, presumably. The girl poured us both a glass of an insipid looking cocktail.

  ‘You’ll like this,’ Sir Richard declared, as Harry and I were presented with the triangular glasses. ‘Discovered it in Boston. It’s called “Goodnight Vienna”. After the musical.’

  I took a sip and tried not to wince. The drink was far too sweet for my taste.

  Harry was more polite. ‘Very nice,’ he lied. ‘Smooth, if a little sugary.’

  ‘That’s the apricot,’ Sir Richard said.

  ‘My brother has always had a rather sweet tooth,’ Lady Jocelyn observed. ‘So, Mr Buxton, what brought you to the Americas? I gather you’ve been here for some months?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said. ‘Just business. Nothing terribly exciting, I’m afraid. And yourself?’

  ‘I came over in October. My husband died last year and Richard thought I could do with a change of scene.’ The brother nodded. ‘He was coming over on business and thought I might like to accompany him. To spend Christmas here.’

  ‘With Mrs O’Neill?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lady Jocelyn did not sound enthused. ‘It was a kind thought. But I am looking forward to returning home.’

  The conversation was cut short by the arrival of Ernest Hopkins from the hallway. He was the freckled fellow who had dragged Sir Richard away from the smoking room this morning. ‘Ernest, come and join us,’ Sir Richard called. ‘You’ve met my secretary?’

  ‘Briefly,’ I said.

  It was at this point that the cat had rushed forward, through the open doorway. The damn thing must have been lurking in one of the bedrooms. Having assaulted my left leg, she came to a halt beside Harry Latimer and began rubbing up against him.

  ‘Bad girl!’ Lady Jocelyn admonished again. ‘I do apologise, Mr Buxton. She’s not supposed to leave the bedroom.’ The woman shot an angry but silent glare at Mr Hopkins, who must have left the door open.

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ I said. ‘No harm done.’

  ‘She seems quite taken with you, old boy.’ Sir Richard looked down at the animal, who was brushing herself against Harry’s leg and purring loudly. ‘Doesn’t usually like strangers.’

  Harry chuckled. ‘Oh, I have a natural affinity with animals.’

  ‘They have such a lot in common,’ I teased. I could not help but regard the cat with a less sympathetic eye, however. ‘I didn’t think animals were allowed onboard ship. Apart from the mousers.’ Matilda, for all her rat like appearance, was clearly not a ship’s cat.

  Sir Richard poured himself another cocktail. ‘You’re right, of course. Strictly speaking, she should be down in the hold, but Jocelyn won’t be without her.’

  ‘She’s a sensitive soul,’ Lady Jocelyn asserted. ‘And she doesn’t cause any trouble, do you Matilda?’

  ‘The stewards are happy to turn a blind eye,’ Sir Richard said, ‘as a personal favour.’ A man of Sir Richard’s standing could always expect a certain latitude in these matters, especially if there was the prospect of a hefty tip at the end of the voyage. ‘So long as she stays put, in the suite.’

  ‘You brought her with you from England?’

  ‘Indeed. She has been a great comfort to me these last few months,’ Lady Jocelyn said.

  The cat moved away from Harry and jumped up onto the sofa. ‘Didn’t she have to go into quarantine?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Not on the way out,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Might have to on the way home, though. They changed the rules a few years back. Used to be just dogs but now it’s cats as well. Damn silly law. In my day...’

  Lady Jocelyn cut across him. ‘Jenny, will you get Matilda a saucer of milk and return her to the bedroom? Ernest, you must be more careful about leaving doors open.’

  The secretary apologised sheepishly.

  The maid reached across to take the cat from the sofa. Matilda hissed at her and a claw lashed out, scratching the back of the girl’s hand. Jenny dropped the animal back onto the cushion. ‘The little bleeder,’ she muttered, without thinking.

  ‘Jennifer! Mind your language!’

  ‘Sorry, miss.’ The girl tried to grab the cat again and the animal promptly bit her. ‘Ow! Bloody thing!’

  Lady Jocelyn was incensed. ‘Jennifer, I will not tell you again. You will mind your language in front of our guests. Now be off with you.’

  By now, the maid had a firm grip on the animal. ‘Yes, miss,’ she mumbled as she scurried out of the room.

  ‘I do apologise,’ Lady Jocelyn said. ‘There is no excuse for bad language. Not in polite company.’

  ‘Hey, it’s not a problem.’ Harry was never one to take offence. ‘Believe me, I’ve heard a lot worse in my time.’

  ‘I used to have a maid called Jenny,’ I said, watching the girl disappear. ‘Back in England. A housemaid.’ I polished off the cocktail. ‘She was a bit of a handful too.’

  A man and a woman were seated on a couple of wicker chairs either side of a square table. ‘Have you met my cousin?’ Lady Jocelyn enquired, as we moved through onto the verandah. I recognised the man. He had a dog collar and a voluminous grey-black beard. He had been playing shuffleboard on the promenade earlier this afternoon. I had come across the contest when I had gone out for a stroll. I had wanted a bit of time to myself to think. The business of that note was playing on my mind. I had stopped to watch the game and seen the vicar brandishing his cue stick with some relish. Shuffleboard was a popular pastime on a ship like this, a strange hybrid of croquet and bowls. The woman seated to his left I did not know. The wife, presumably. She was short and mousy, in her mid fifties, like most of the company. The two rose to their feet at our arrival.

  ‘The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes and Mrs Hamilton-Baynes,’ Lady Jocelyn introduced us. ‘This is Mr Henry Buxton. You’ve already met Mr Latimer, of course.’

  The vicar extended a warm hand. He was a sprightly fellow, slightly older than his wife but with a shock of curly black hair and a full beard. ‘Delighted to meet you.’

  I returned the compliment and greeted his wife in similar fashion. The verandah was a comforta
ble rectangular space, with large windows facing out to sea. The sun had set some hours earlier – it being midwinter – so the area was now illuminated by electric lights. ‘I saw the match this afternoon,’ I told him. The reverend had been up against a young American. ‘I was going to put half a dollar on you.’ The officer next to me had been insistent that the American was bound to win, but I had thought otherwise. Shuffleboard was a game of skill rather than strength. Unfortunately, the crew were prohibited from gambling, so I was unable to place the bet. That was just as well, as it turned out. The foreigner had pipped the vicar with a last shove of his disk.

  The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes chuckled. ‘I thought I had him at the end, but it was not to be. Super fun, though. Do come and join us.’ He gestured to the seats. We pushed ourselves awkwardly into the space surrounding the coffee table. ‘Mr Latimer, I have something to show you.’ The vicar reached down to the side of his chair and pulled out an elegant wooden box.

  I shot Harry a questioning look.

  ‘I was talking to the padre at lunch yesterday,’ Harry explained. ‘He’s bringing back a rather special souvenir from America. He promised to show it to me.’

  ‘It’s not for me, you understand,’ the vicar said. ‘One of my parishioners.’ He placed the box on the table and unclipped it, pulling the lid open with child-like enthusiasm. Inside, nestled on a bed of silk, was an antique pistol, in polished wood and metal.

  ‘Good lord!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is that a musket?’

  ‘It’s a flintlock,’ Harry said, leaning in. ‘May I?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ The vicar beamed, his teeth shining out from beneath the bed of hair. He had a rather full beard and, unlike the hair on his head, it was flecked with grey.