A Poison of Passengers

by Jack Treby

  Harry lifted the gun and cradled it gently. ‘It’s genuine,’ he said, examining it closely. ‘I’d say late eighteenth century. No maker’s mark, but definitely US manufacture.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’ The vicar nodded eagerly. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ He must have noticed my rather perplexed expression as he added hurriedly, ‘You must think it very strange, a man of the cloth showing such an interest in antique weaponry.’

  ‘Not at all. Everyone has to have a hobby.’

  ‘It’s not for me, you understand. I wouldn’t know the first thing about it. But one of my parishioners is an amateur historian. He has one of the finest collections of antique weaponry in England. Absolutely splendid, it is. When he heard I was travelling to America, he asked me to keep an eye out for anything from the eighteenth century. The war of independence and all that. I saw this in an antique shop. It was frightfully expensive, so I telegraphed him and asked what he thought. He told me to buy it. He’ll be jolly pleased when he sees it.’

  ‘It’s a fine piece,’ Harry agreed, handing the weapon back.

  ‘Harry – Mr Latimer – is quite an expert on guns as well,’ I said. Although his reasons for knowing about such things were not quite as lily-white as the vicar’s friend.

  A rap at the far door heralded the arrival of Mrs O’Neill and her companion. Lady Jocelyn absented herself from the company to greet the new arrivals. There was room on the verandah for five or six people, but eight or nine would be pushing it a little.

  The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes returned the musket to its box. I was surprised he had been allowed to bring it onboard. ‘You didn’t have any trouble getting that through customs?’ I asked.

  ‘No, no,’ the vicar declared. ‘It has a certificate. In any case, I doubt it would actually fire after all these years. I wouldn’t have the first idea how to use it, even if it did.’

  Harry smirked. ‘I’ll have to show you some time.’ He rose to his feet as Mrs O’Neill and Miss Wellesley appeared in the doorway. They were both dressed for the occasion – quite garishly, in the case of Mrs O’Neill – and Sir Richard had furnished them each with a glass of his vile apricot cocktail.

  ‘Well, here we all are!’ he declared. And that was the party complete.

  Harry vacated his seat and, with a few of the group, moved back into the sitting room. Mrs O’Neill made a beeline for the chair next to me. Lady Jocelyn and Sir Richard joined us on the wicker chairs.

  ‘So how long have you all known each other?’ I asked, once we had settled ourselves down.

  ‘Oh, for a long, long time,’ Mrs O’Neill gushed. ‘My late husband, Ulysses, was in business with Sir Richard.’

  ‘Yes, I remember you saying.’

  ‘He was a good friend,’ Sir Richard said. ‘It was a great shame when he passed away. But he was ill for a long time.’

  ‘I think of him every day,’ Mrs O’Neill declared, stroking the pearls hanging from her neck. ‘He gave these to me, for our twentieth wedding anniversary. I keep them with me always.’

  ‘They’re worth an absolute fortune,’ Sir Richard said. ‘I keep telling her, she should keep them under lock and key, but she won’t listen.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m perfectly safe here,’ Mrs O’Neill insisted. ‘With all these fine men to protect me.’ She gestured to the assembled gathering.

  Lady Jocelyn Wingfield sat back in her chair. She did not look convinced by the sentiment.

  The clock ticked closer to eight and the party began to mutter about making their way down to D Deck for supper. Harry was deep in conversation with Miss Wellesley in the drawing room, and I doubt either of them noticed as I slid by into the hallway to answer a call of nature. It seemed we had split off now and I had been lumbered with Mrs O’Neill for the evening.

  Cynthia Wellesley had recovered her composure somewhat over the course of the day. The seasickness seemed to be a thing of the past and, after our little talk this morning, the girl seemed to have put the business of the anonymous note out of her mind. I wished I could be quite so sanguine; but then, she had not heard about the second note. I was in two minds whether I ought to tell somebody about that. If there was some sort of lunatic onboard ship, it might be prudent to inform the authorities. But I didn’t want to get Miss Wellesley in hot water with her employer; and I had no reason to believe anyone might be in any actual danger. Words are cheap, after all. Perhaps I would have a quiet word with Harry in the morning, and see what he thought about it. If I could prise him away from Miss Wellesley.

  ‘Hey, why not call me Harry?’ the fellow schmoozed as I passed the two of them by. ‘We’ve known each for such a long time. It must be at least twenty-four hours.’

  The girl smiled shyly. ‘All right. Harry.’

  ‘And may I call you Cynthia?’

  ‘If you’d like to.’

  The poor girl. It was text book stuff. In half an hour, he would be calling her “honey” and by the end of the evening they’d be canoodling outside his stateroom door. I had seen it so many times before. I still couldn’t quite fathom the influence Harry had over so many women. Oh, he was handsome, to be sure, with those twinkling eyes and boyish good looks, and he certainly dressed well, but any fool could see the calculation in his eyes. The honey words were just a means to an end. I shook my head and moved across to the bathroom.

  As I was completing my ablutions, some minutes later, another whispered conversation was taking place, out in the corridor. The Reynolds Suite had two bathrooms and three bedrooms, connected to the drawing room by a private hallway. The vicar and his wife presumably had one room, which meant Lady Jocelyn must be sharing with her maidservant, and Sir Richard with his secretary. Not an ideal arrangement, by any standards but, as I had discovered, it was useful to have one’s staff on hand. It had not done much for the mood of Lady Jocelyn, however.

  ‘That wretched girl,’ she muttered, her voice wafting under the bathroom door. She must have returned to her room briefly to pick up her handbag. Everyone was now preparing to leave for supper. ‘Embarrassing us in front of our guests. It won’t do, Richard. It won’t do at all. As if we don’t have enough to worry about.’

  Sir Richard was sympathetic. ‘I’ll speak to her in the morning.’

  ‘Tell her if she doesn’t buck her ideas up, she’ll be out on her ear in Southampton. I’m not putting up with any more of it. This trip has been a disaster.’

  ‘Hardly my fault, old girl,’ Sir Richard protested. ‘I wasn’t to know what would happen.’

  ‘I thought we could put all this behind us, once we were aboard ship. But now this. They’ve followed us here, Richard. It might even be someone we know. I can’t bear it.’

  ‘Stiff upper lip, old girl.’ Sir Richard was speaking quietly, so as not to be overheard by anyone in the sitting room. ‘If they had any teeth, they wouldn’t resort to letter writing. In my day...’

  ‘And you have to invite two complete strangers over for cocktails. What on earth were you thinking?’

  ‘They’re friends of Susan’s. And you’d met the American chap already.’

  ‘In passing. That’s hardly the point, Richard.’

  ‘Susan asked if they could come. I couldn’t bally well say no, now could I?’ That was news to me. It looked like Harry was right. Mrs O’Neill was determined to maintain close relations with the two of us.

  ‘But we barely know them from Adam,’ Lady Jocelyn said. ‘And Susan only met them a couple of days ago.’

  ‘They seem decent enough, as far as it goes. That’s the trouble with first class these days. You never know what you’re going to get.’

  ‘Mr Buxton seems presentable,’ Lady Jocelyn conceded, ‘for a man of his class.’ I blinked in surprise at that comment. What the devil did she mean by that? ‘But as for the American, I don’t like the look of him at all. Far too smooth. And he’s being far too attentive to Miss Wellesley.’

  ‘Yes, I can see the danger signs there,’ Sir Richard grumbled. �
��In my day, girls knew what to watch for. Kept well away from charmers like that. Still, she’s not our responsibility. Come on, my dear, we can’t keep our guests waiting. The dinner gong will be sounding any moment. Best foot forward, put on a brave face and all that. In a few days, we’ll be back in old Blighty, and all this will be forgotten.’

  And with that, they moved across the hallway and returned to the drawing room, where the other guests were now assembled. I left it a couple of minutes, finishing up my affairs in the bathroom, and then slipped quietly in behind them. My absence had not been noticed. The conversation I had overheard had confirmed one important point, however. The rumours Maurice had stumbled across were true. Mrs O’Neill was not the only one receiving poison pen letters. ‘Wouldn’t resort to letter writing,’ Sir Richard had said. And that was proof positive that, whoever was sending these letters – and whoever had arranged that hoax bomb – they were definitely here, aboard this ship.

  Chapter Four

  The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes was bashing away at a portable typewriter. I could scarcely miss the tall, heavily bearded cleric as I made my way through the writing room towards the Palladian Lounge on A Deck. It had been something of a late night for all of us and I had opted to skip a formal breakfast in favour of a much needed lie in. In fact, aware of the possibility of a sore head, I had booked a tray of food in advance, to be delivered to my room at nine am sharp. I had barely eaten any of it. The combination of alcohol and dancing the night before had taken a greater toll than I had anticipated. Now, staggering out into the wider world, here was the damn vicar, as bright as a button, tapping away between me and the sanctuary of the lounge. There was no chance of slipping by without acknowledging the fellow, so I called out as hearty a ‘Good morning!’ as my fogged cranium could manage.

  The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes looked up from his typewriter and smiled a toothy smile. His white teeth shone out particularly brightly against that thick grey-black beard. ‘Good morning, Mr Buxton. How is your head?’

  ‘Dreadful,’ I muttered. In point of fact, I had not drank all that much and I had been in bed well before two o’clock. No, it was the dancing that had been the killer. It was some years since I had last attended a formal dance and I had forgotten how exhausting they could be, especially after a heavy meal. ‘I just need a bit of peace and quiet for an hour or so,’ I said. ‘To get my head together.’ Hamilton-Baynes nodded sympathetically. He did not seem at all affected by the previous night’s excesses, though he had been up at least as late as I had. ‘Preparing a sermon?’ I asked, peering across at the typewriter. A wall of text was printed across the sheet in front of him.

  ‘My second one this morning. I like to keep ahead. Sir Richard was good enough to let me borrow his typewriter.’ He pulled up the sheet. ‘This one’s about the value of music in uplifting the spirits.’

  ‘Bringing us closer to God?’

  The reverend beamed. ‘That’s the ticket.’

  ‘You were certainly making the most of it last night,’ I said. Hamilton-Baynes had been like a maniac on the dance floor. ‘You put the youngsters to shame.’

  ‘If only that were true! I confess, I enjoy it all far too much. But it’s one of life’s little pleasures, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I agreed dubiously. ‘I think I’d rather play shuffleboard.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a lot of fun too.’ Hamilton-Baynes nodded vigorously. ‘A marvellous diversion on a ship like this.’ It was certainly a popular pastime, one of many such games laid on for the amusement of the passengers in first class. A dazzling array of recreational activities were available to us: sports, competitions, even a series of formal lectures for the more sedentary passengers. There was little chance of anybody getting bored.

  ‘Will you be be playing again today?’ I asked the reverend. ‘I’m sure you could beat that American fellow if you had another crack at him.’

  ‘I may well do at some point. He’s a splendid chap. Boxed for his county, you know. I told him I used to do a bit of that myself, in my school days. Actually, he’s invited me to the gym this afternoon, for a bit of sparring.’

  ‘Good lord.’

  ‘Nothing formal. The chap’s half my age! But it’ll be super fun getting back into the gloves again.’

  ‘Right, yes.’ An image of the bearded vicar popped into my head, in shorts and a vest, with boxing gloves on his hands, like an animated Punch cartoon. ‘Well, good luck. I may come along and cheer you on.’

  ‘Please do.’ He turned back to the typewriter as I moved away. ‘Oh and I hope your head clears soon.’

  So do I, I thought, so do I.

  I continued on into the lounge, trying to free my head of that bizarre image. A boxing vicar. There were less holy activities, I supposed. Actually, I have always quite enjoyed boxing. There is nothing like watching a couple of hefty oafs giving each other a good pummelling. But the gambling opportunities were somewhat limited and sport without gambling, I have always felt, is like a champagne flute without the bubbly. Perhaps I could muscle in on a game of poker instead. A few likely card games were always in progress somewhere onboard ship. I would ask Harry to join me, if he promised to behave himself. He did have a habit of shuffling the decks somewhat in his own favour. But that could wait until later. First of all, I would settle down in the Palladian and have a quick glance at the morning paper. Maurice had picked me up a copy of the Cunard Bulletin, a specially printed news sheet.

  I found myself a suitable chair and unfolded the newspaper.

  The saloon was a different place in daylight. The Palladian Lounge was an elegantly fitted great hall, some seventy feet across. A huge wagon-shaped ceiling rose up a good eighteen feet above the central section, between two rows of ionic columns. The ceiling was decorated with elaborate reproductions of seventeenth century artwork. Chairs and tables were spread out across the hall. The floor was covered with finely woven carpet. There were few people about at this hour and those that were were dozing happily or quietly reading.

  A waiter came by and I gestured for him to bring me a whisky and soda. Hair of the dog and all that. I was still half asleep and my head was throbbing unconscionably.

  When Adam, the cabin steward, had knocked on my bedroom door at nine am, it had been a rude awakening. It seemed to me that I had barely closed my eyes from the night before.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Buxton!’ the damned fellow had bellowed with unnecessary jollity as he pushed open the door. ‘I have your breakfast for you.’ I had wrenched a crusted eyelid open and peered across at the blurred figure as he gestured to a trolley resting out in the corridor. ‘Freshly cooked, just this minute.’ The smell of bacon and eggs wafted into the room, and my stomach churned. ‘Where do you want it, sir? On the bed?’

  ‘No, on the table,’ I croaked, reaching groggily for a glass of water.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ He placed the tray down neatly next to the jug. ‘It’s a lovely morning. A little chilly on deck but bright sunshine.’ As if to emphasize the point, he pulled back the curtains and the light streamed into the cabin, smacking hard against my face. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

  There is nothing quite as irritating as a perky servant first thing in the morning. ‘No, that’ll be all thank you,’ I informed him darkly. On any other day, I might have forgiven him his youthful exuberance, but just now I was really not in the mood. I was almost pleased, twenty minutes later, when Maurice arrived to help me dress. He at least could never be described as perky and would keep his opinions on the state of the weather to himself.

  The whisky did its job and I settled down quietly with the newspaper. The Palladian was all but dead now, a far cry from last night.

  The electric lights had been dazzling then, after supper; the floor bursting with activity. The chairs and tables had been cleared from the centre to create an enormous dance floor. There had been a live band, a seven piece orchestra made up of officers and other crew members, moonlighting for t
he evening. At supper they had played chamber music down in the restaurant on D Deck, before reassembling upstairs as a modern dance band. They were at one end of the hall, on a raised semi-circular stage. A good seventy or eighty people had taken to the floor as the band struck up. The dancers had done their best to fill up the space, but in truth the hall could comfortably have accommodated four times their number.

  All that dancing. I shuddered at the memory. I had been forced up onto the floor myself on more than one occasion. It was bad enough throwing oneself about on solid ground, but on a swaying ship, on the first day out, it was more than a little tricky. I had not adjusted to shipboard life as well as I had hoped. I had done my duty, however, accompanying Mrs O’Neill for the first dance and Miss Wellesley for the second. The younger woman had really found her feet over the course of the day. After the first couple of jigs, however, I had made my excuses and headed for the side lines.

  The vicar’s wife, Margaret Hamilton-Baynes, expressed some sympathy. ‘You’re looking quite exhausted,’ she observed, as I collapsed into a chair, downed a quick glass and gestured at a nearby flunkey for a refill.

  ‘Feeling my age, I’m afraid,’ I admitted glumly. ‘I can’t get the hang of these modern dances. I can just about manage a waltz, on a good day, but I’m woefully out of practise.’ I took a moment to catch my breath. ‘You’ll have to forgive me for not asking you onto the floor.’

  ‘That’s quite all right.’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes smiled warmly. ‘I’m taking a short break myself.’ She was a short, mousy woman in her early fifties with pinned-back hair and a puffy but not unattractive face. There were a few lines around her mouth and eyes, but on the whole she had worn better than I had, despite being ten years my senior.

  The truth was, I was woefully out of condition. I had lost a few pounds in British Honduras but I had put them straight back on in New York. And the plentiful, well cooked British food on offer at the Louis XVI restaurant was not doing me any favours at all.