Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery

by Robert Colton

  “Yes,” was his simple reply.

  Lucy went on, “Have you been there before?”

  “Oh, yes,” came his next brief reply.

  “This will be a first for me,” said Lucy, her smile waning.

  Looking back to me, Mr. Hurst asked, “How did you reckon who killed the dame?”

  I took a sip of my sherry and replied, “The woman’s name was Phyllis Masterson. There were clues that led to the culprit’s identity.”

  He nodded his head, waiting for more information. There was a childlike quality in his eyes. My annoyance eased as I reminded myself that few people ever have to deal with a murder case, and even fewer sleuth out the truth. I forced a pleasant expression and then explained how I deduced that the butler had done it. (Perhaps my publisher will disagree, but it seems unnecessary to recap the events of my previous adventure. To me, it would seem rather like bragging on about my quick wit, which no one appreciates.)

  Once I completed my explanation, Mr. Hurst clapped his hands several times and then called for the waiter to bring us another round of drinks. We three ladies were duly embarrassed by his brash behavior but amused by his friendly attentions all the same.

  We went on to speak about the Olivia. Mr. Hurst made mention several times of the fact that the ship was the second largest liner on the seas. Mother Stayton rolled her eyes when the friendly man asked if we’d ever traveled aboard the RMS Majesty.

  I answered for us all. “Well, no. You know, she was originally named the Bismarck. They say it’s bad luck to rename a ship.”

  The Majesty had been built by the Germans, but the Treaty of Versailles had forced her owners to hand the new ship over to the White Star Line as compensation for the loss of the Olivia’s sister ship, the Britannica.

  “The Bismarck, ah? Doesn’t roll of the tongue like Majesty.”

  Unimpressed with the mighty German ship, Mother Stayton redirected the conversation and made quite a fuss that I wasn’t able to have my preferred room on the Olivia. I pointed out that Cabin A-3 was just as comfortable, but she wouldn’t let the subject go.

  Even the pleasant and curious Mr. Hurst grew weary of my mother-in-law’s rambling conversation. He slapped few notes on the table and said, “Well, it has been an absolute delight to meet you ladies. I do hate to be rude, but I see an old school chum of mine just over there.”

  We all looked toward a lanky fellow who was walking into the restaurant. Quick farewells were said, and then Mr. Hurst called out, “Birdy Ralston! Is that you?”

  This poor fellow’s brows rose as he nodded. Obviously, he didn’t recognize his old schoolmate and seemed baffled that the gent rushing toward him knew his name.

  Shortly afterward, the hotel manager sent over a timid staff person to inform Mother Stayton that our rooms had been readied.

  The hotel (I have been advised not to give its actual name, although I believe this is unfair to the reader) was a rather new building, despite the old world charm of its décor. Customarily, Liverpool was the primary port for liners. However, the newest ships, which were being built on gigantic proportions, simply could not fit at the Liverpool docks.

  The new ports of Southampton were home to these massive vessels. This meant the need for new hotels to house the travelers. The manager had not exaggerated when he’d assured Mother Stayton that we would receive the finest rooms. Mine was quite opulent and well furnished.

  There was something lonely about the tasteful chamber. It was almost too staged. The porcelain figures of greyhounds, the brass fireplace tools of which the handles showed of patina, even the small divan with a hole caused by a careless cigarette burn, gave the air that this room belonged to someone—but it did not. These items were not possessions; they were props. I ran my finger down the glazed fawn dog, somehow feeling sorry that no one would feel a sense of pride or ownership for this lovely trinket. Pulling back from the bauble, I went to my overnight bag. Once open, I took several framed photographs of my beloved Xavier and placed them on the writing desk.

  His presence returned to me, I no longer felt alone. Furthermore, I was reminded that I was on a mission. I was going to cross the Atlantic, make my way to Madison Avenue, and ask Mr. Harland Orenstein just why he passed on representing my manuscript. Based on what would surely be feeble reasoning, I would convince him that he was wrong. In no time, my first book would be in print.

  Wednesday morning Lucy and I joined Mother Stayton for a leisurely breakfast. Boarding began at 9:30 for the third-class passengers. First-class passengers were not expected until 11, one hour before the ship set sail. (Is that right, set sail? It is a steam ship, after all, without sails. Perhaps the publisher can inquire as to the proper term.)

  The chauffeur stacked our overnight bags in the seat beside him, afraid he might upset the delicate balance of our other baggage still tied to the roof of the motorcar. Rather slowly, we went on our way to the Red Star Line’s dock.

  Along the way, Mother Stayton listed the many stores she thought we should visit in New York. The names of dressmakers, jewelers, and hat shops were lost on me almost immediately.

  Changing the subject, I said to Lucy, “I don’t envy you once we arrive in the States. You’ll be assaulted with all sorts of slang. I still don’t quite understand some of the expressions you all use here.”

  (I hope that my reader will understand the complexities of the various slang terms that have not migrated from one country to another. For instance, the first few times I stopped and asked a stranger for directions along the streets of London, I was given friendly, detailed information, with the odd conclusion, and Bob’s your uncle! This left me completely astonished. After the third time this happened, I asked my dear Xavier how it was that so many knew of my Uncle Robert.)

  Mother Stayton and Lucy exchanged an awkward glance, and Lucy replied, “I’ve learned so much from you already. For instance, if I don’t believe the truth is being told, in a pig’s eye, is the correct accusation.”

  The two women looked back to each other and smiled at me, rather sympathetically. Mother Stayton’s face lit up, and she said, “Yes, and do not accept any wooden nickels.”

  I bit my tongue as Lucy demonstrated more of her knowledge. “And a convertible automobile is called a breezer—”

  “You tried to correct me when I made that reference toward Xavier’s car,” I retorted, not wanting to give her credit.

  “No, it was Mother Stayton,” Lucy reminded me.

  My mother-in-law nodded her head. “Oh, yes, I thought you were pronouncing Benz incorrectly.” There was something about her smile that irked me.

  Lucy cleared her throat and added, “And if something is impossible, you say, when pigs fly.”

  I knew Lucy would be stumped by something once we crossed the Atlantic. I just hoped that the expression would be witty, and would make no reference to pigs.

  Once at the dock, I decided it would be for the best if I followed Mother Stayton’s example and completely ignored the porters and our driver as the car was relieved of our luggage.

  We passed into the terminal, where dear Lucy saw to checking us in. I hated that she so quickly played the part of my secretary, but she was always so eager to be of assistance to me; how could I dissuade her from this desire?

  Before parting ways, Mother Stayton gave us both great hugs and well wishes. For a brief instant, she looked into my eyes; hers began to redden, and I knew the words she so wanted to say.

  I took her hands, squeezed them, and with a single tear running down my cheek, I told her, “We will be back in three weeks, and Mr. Harland Orenstein will have consented to publish my book.”

  I felt so very sorry for the woman. She would enjoy the distraction of a good row with the hotel staff over the bill, then chat up the driver for the hour or so it would take to return home, and then she would be alone.

  Yes, the household staff would be about the place, the dog would show her some affection, and her little parakeet might distract he
r, but I knew that these were little comfort when one remembered the days that Xavier had stormed about the house, telling stories of faraway places, marring the hardwood floors with his golf shoes, or nearly wounding the cook as he showed off a foreign pistol that he hadn’t realized was loaded.

  Sometimes I felt as if it wasn’t the house that seemed empty from his absence, but my very soul. I knew his mother, eccentric as she was, could feel little different than I.

  Lucy called my name and suggested we should hurry. Mother Stayton and I let our hands drop and whispered unneeded brief farewells.

  Lucy was ever so excited. She had never been on so large a ship, nor had she journeyed with me to America on my past few trips to visit my family in Saint Louis. This was certainly an adventure for her.

  As we strode toward the gangplank that was reserved for the first-class passengers, I gathered our tickets and passports from my purse. I felt rather worldly that this was all familiar to me. Of course, before my marriage to Xavier, I had never thought of such things.

  Once it was decided that Xavier and I would go to London to meet his family after our wedding in America, I asked if we’d be traveling “POSH”, having heard the term in relation to travel by sea. He’d told me that of course we would do so.

  Making an idiot of myself, I pointed out to the porter leading us to our parlor suite that we weren’t on the port side. He looked at me with an expression of clear confusion and agreed with me.

  I then said to Xavier, “You said we’d be traveling posh.”

  “We are, my sweet lamb, we are. This is the finest ship on the seas; we’ll be rubbing elbows with the royals.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s magnificently beautiful, but shouldn’t our first room be on the port side, and then at some point we move to the starboard side—port out, starboard home?”

  The porter suppressed his giggle, just barely, while Xavier unleashed a mighty roar of laughter. “My sweet, that is only for cruises in the Indian Ocean, and it all has to do with heat. No, no, posh means well done, to the nines, spare no expense! If I told you what these rooms with private promenades cost, you wouldn’t even be able to fathom the amount of money. I’m not sure that I do!”

  I blushed just as much that morning as I had on our wedding night when I saw Xavier in his undershirt and boxer shorts. (Dear me, Lucy blushed as she typed my dictation, perhaps this mention of Xavier’s underclothing is a bit too racy for publication.)

  Up the walkway Lucy and I went, a little line before us. A sturdy-looking fellow in a dark jacket kept looking over his shoulder and then down at his gold pocket watch. His dark hair was oiled and parted to the right. The scowl on his face matched his hard features.

  Once the couple in front of him moved on, he was first greeted by an official-looking young man with a heavy register book.

  Without returning the greeting, he barked out his name, “Mathew Farquhar.”

  The captain of the ship stood next to the attendant with the register book. He extended his hand to the man, who shook it absentmindedly.

  “My wife disappeared, and I don’t know what became of her,” said Mr. Farquhar as he looked back over his shoulder.

  The fellow beside the captain said, “Countess Dominika Orlov.”

  “She has to be here somewhere…”

  A rather beautiful woman with a nasty smile appeared some distance down the open promenade and called out with a thick Russian accent, “I am here, Mathew!”

  “How did she—” Mr. Farquhar threw his hands into the air, fell silent, and then pushed past the ship’s master, trotting toward his wife.

  I watched the interesting couple as they began to argue. This behavior seemed less than romantic.

  The captain and his assistant turned back to Lucy and me. He greeted us cordially and in a well-rehearsed manner. As we were checked into one of the eight most expensive parlor suites, the man did give us a very nice bow of the head as we were handed off to a smart steward.

  We were led to the deck just above, via a beautifully carved wooden staircase reserved for the first class area of the ship. I can’t quite describe the pure sumptuousness of the surroundings. Mahogany panels, fine carpeting, and exquisite chandeliers, the Olivia was very much a floating palace. (I would like to express to my reader the opulence of the ship, but at the same time, I fear it may come off that I am bragging. Perhaps the editor might assist in creating the right balance.)

  Somewhat to my dismay, we caught up with the angry couple. It seemed that their set of rooms was just past ours. Mr. Farquhar’s wife was just replying in her coarse accent, “Why does it matter how I am to come aboard before you? Perhaps not I who was lost, but you?”

  She passed into the open door, and Mr. Farquhar looked down the hallway and frowned at me.

  Lucy and I were next led into our parlor suite. My friend clapped her hands and made a little twirl about the room. “How beautiful.”

  Yes, it was, but not as fine as Suite A-1, two doors down. Mr. Jack had attempted to book the prized set of rooms for us, but they had been reserved.

  Xavier and I had spent our first week as man and wife in the rooms down the hallway, and on every passage I had made across the Atlantic, I had stayed in those rooms. I felt a terrible pang of jealousy that someone else would be enjoying the lovely spot that had briefly been mine and Xavier’s.

  I could not let Lucy know my disappointment. I plastered a wide smile on my little face and agreed with her that the lovely green parlor with Queen Ann furniture was divine.

  In truth, the suite was quite nice. I must describe the layout. From the entrance to the cabin, one walked down a little hallway toward a large parlor. On either side of the hallway was a door leading into a bedroom with both a private bathroom and a wardrobe. These rooms had doors that connected them to the neighboring rooms that were a mirror image to our suite; thus a larger group of rooms could be shared by a family or other party

  The sitting parlor had a door to either side, locked by the crew for now, that could connect to the neighboring parlors to join the rooms together and create a large set of rooms.

  There were only eight parlor suites, four on either side of the ship. What truly made these cabins special was that each four sets opened to private promenades. Like the parlors, these separate decks could be connected to each other. The last promenade, toward the stern (will my typical reader know that the stern is the rear of the ship and the bow is the front of the ship?), opened to the general first-class promenade that stretched nearly the length of the rest of the Olivia.

  Three porters entered our room and began filling it with our luggage. Before the pile was large enough to threaten to trap us, we escaped and made our way to the open first-class promenade.

  We found a place along the painted white railing just before the ship began moving away and spotted Mother Stayton as she waved from the dockside. A multitude of people cheered beside her as the ship’s whistle blew.

  Standing just behind Mother Stayton was our driver. He seemed completely detached from the actions around him as he rubbed his neck and grimaced.

  Chapter Two

  When we returned to our cabin, we found the door closed and locked. This meant the porters had managed to successfully stuff our luggage into the room.

  The staff was very efficient. All my belongings were placed in the room to the right of the entrance hall and Lucy’s to the left. One object, however, sat in the sitting parlor.

  “Lucy, is this your steam trunk?” I called, staring down at the foreign object.

  “Steam trunk, egads, what else did Mother Stayton send us off with?” said Lucy as she came to my side. Then, she added, “That wasn’t part of our luggage. I’ll call the steward.”

  Apprehension seized me. “No, call for the captain.”

  Hesitant, she did as I asked. Minutes later there was a knock on the door. A young man who was certainly not the captain entered our parlor.

  “I wanted the captain—” I began.


  “I am Oscar Pace, the ship’s purser,” said the fellow, cutting me off with a very chipper voice.

  Lucy batted her eyes at the man, and then I noticed that he wasn’t a bad looking chap.

  I pointed at the steam trunk and, sounding rather dramatic, I informed the purser, “This piece of luggage is not ours…”

  Friendly as he could be, Mr. Pace said, “I’ll have it removed in a jiffy. I’m so very sorry you’ve been troubled—”

  “No, it must be opened,” I told him.

  “Why is that Mrs. Stayton?” he asked.

  I lowered my voice, “In my experience, a strange steamer trunk delivered to the wrong room can only mean one thing.”

  Poor, sweet Lucy’s eyes opened wide. We had both been reading the same detective novels, and I’m sure she realized what I meant.

  Mr. Pace asked, “And that is?”

  I pointed at the nondescript steam trunk and told him, “Open that . . . and you will find a dead body.”

  Lucy gasped, and Mr. Pace exclaimed, “I recognize you from the papers. You are Mrs. X!”

  I nodded my head with some satisfaction at this recognition. “That is what the journalists call me.”

  Mr. Pace smiled and shrugged as he lifted a ring of small keys from his jacket pocket. “I hope you aren’t too let down when we find nothing but trousers or coats. On a ship this big, sometimes a stray piece of luggage is just that.”

  I watched while he bent and tried the lock with his collection of keys. Once one fit, and turned a complete rotation, I told Lucy, “Step back; this could be ghastly.”

  Sweet Lucy covered her eyes with her slim, gloved hands.

  Carefully, the purser lifted open the lid. I was completely shocked by what was revealed. The trunk was empty, completely empty.

  “Now that’s odd,” said Mr. Pace.

  Lucy peeked and saw that there was nothing to see.