Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery

by Robert Colton

  “Empty?” I knelt down and looked inside. The trunk was brand new, showing no signs of wear. I was just about to stand, and then I saw it. Pushed into the lining was a calling card. Quickly, like a bird plucking seed, I pinched the card from the fold of material.

  It was a nice, thick piece of paper of high quality. I turned it over to read the raised name written in bold type, and I said it aloud, “Mr. Mathew Farquhar.”

  Lucy pointed to the room next to us toward the bow of the ship. “The angry couple?”

  Despite being empty, the trunk was too large for Mr. Pace to lift by himself. He called for a porter, and a moment later, they started to carry the object out of our room.

  The purser was very gracious. He made no mention of my false pronouncement, and instead thanked me for locating our neighbor’s luggage.

  I mumbled some polite reply as they crossed the threshold. Perplexed, I did not shut the door behind them. I listened as they knocked at Mr. Farquhar’s door. A second later, it opened.

  “What is it?” snapped the man’s irritated voice.

  Mr. Pace replied in his happy tone, “Righty oh. So sorry, sir; this was delivered to the wrong cabin.”

  “What about it?”

  “I just wanted to get it back to you—” began Mr. Pace.

  “It isn’t mine!” bellowed Mr. Farquhar.

  “We found your calling card inside…”

  “Well, then…get it in here for heaven’s sake!”

  I closed the door, and thought, Curious; ever so curious.

  ***

  Mother Stayton enjoys walking the family dog, but only for short distances and at fashionable locations. Therefore, the Airedale Terrier and she are driven by car to the spots where she enjoys being seen walking the pet. The poor dog does not keep his balance well as the sedan wobbles its way along the road. At turns, the creature leans and wavers all the while as he proudly attempts to stay upright.

  This was how Lucy behaved as the mighty ship crossed the English Channel to the French port of Cherbourg. She was as green as the lovely furnishings and remained very close to her bathroom as she wobbled about apologizing.

  Obviously, Lucy wasn’t well enough to enjoy dinner. We spent much of the afternoon in our suite. Just before 7:30, I left her so that I might watch as we came to the French port.

  Cherbourg did not have docking facilities large enough for the Olivia. Those joining us were ferried by tenders from the port to where several tugboats held us in position.

  Watching from the open first-class promenade, I saw the tender had to make two trips back to the dock. Within an hour, the new passengers were safely aboard, and the captain set his course for the next port, Cork Harbor, on the southern coast of Ireland.

  After the tugs pulled away and the mighty ship increased speed, I returned to our deck. Coming down the short passageway reserved for the four portside parlor suites, I encountered several porters lugging baggage to the cabin past ours at the end of the hallway. Stepping toward the set of rooms that Xavier and I occupied on our honeymoon was an odd couple.

  At first, I thought them mother and son. However, the surprisingly deep voice of this most diminutive man was completely absent of youth. I have no idea what he said to the porter, as his words were spoken in French.

  The tiny fellow didn’t notice me as he entered Cabin A-1. His wife, however, stopped to look me up and down.

  Perhaps in her middle fifties, she was a woman of some girth. She had a voluminous mop of dyed red hair, and her wide face rested on a few chins that concealed her neck. The colorful dress she wore looked as if it was made from heavy upholstery rather than wool or cotton.

  The new passenger stared at me just a bit too long, and I felt forced to greet her. “Hello, welcome aboard.”

  Perhaps she didn’t realize she’d been staring at me; she seemed surprised by my greeting. “Yes, good evening,” she replied with an American accent, and then bustled into her cabin. With the door still open, I heard her say, “Where is Cynthia? She knows how I like my towels.”

  One of the porters replied, “She was sacked just two weeks ago, dreadful business.”

  The woman’s harsh voice called out, “Pity. My bed will need to be remade; this is all wrong.”

  It seemed that the older couple occupying Cabin A-1 traveled aboard the Olivia more often than I.

  Entering our set of rooms, I peeked in on Lucy and found that she was blessedly slumbering.

  The trip to Ireland would take more than three hours. I assumed I would be sound asleep once we arrived. This assumption was incorrect.

  The ship swayed while at a stop off the coast of Ireland, and I reclined in bed, very much awake.

  Countess Orlov and Mr. Farquhar had quarreled through the evening. I could not make out the words, just the tones. I was getting rather upset when I heard a strange noise coming from the entrance hall.

  Jumping out of bed, I covered myself with a robe and ducked my head out into the darkened path. The door to the cabin was just swinging open when a youthful voice said, “Blimey, gents, this isn’t your cabin!” Then the door began to close. “Next door, Mr. Emerson.”

  A moment later, Lucy crept out of her room and was startled to find me with my ear pressed against the door. “New passengers from Ireland,” I told her.

  “They sound like elephants from Ireland; so noisy,” she said with unusual irritableness.

  The following morning, before breakfast, Lucy was too sleepy to even notice that she’d gained her sea legs. Whoever Mr. Emerson was, he’d made quite a lot of racket well into the morning.

  A steward was just seating us at a little table in a brightly colored café when I remarked, “I will speak to Mr. Pace. He can deal with the noisy Emerson man and those Farquhar people.”

  At the little table beside us, a young man choked on his glass of grapefruit juice and waved at me. Recovering from the sting of citrus going down the wrong pipe, the fellow smiled and said with a thick Irish brogue, “I can’t speak for the Farquhar people, but I promise that my brother and I will be quiet tonight.”

  “Mr. Emerson,” I said, somewhat embarrassed.

  He stood from his table and stepped the short distance to ours. “Michael Emerson; so nice to make your acquaintance.”

  I introduced myself and then Lucy. He asked us to his table, and we offered that he join us instead.

  Reaching out his long arm to grab his juice, he chuckled and said, “I think we were almost roomies last night.”

  Lucy’s eyes opened wide, and I explained, “Yes, the porter had our door open before he realized you were in A-4 instead of A-3.”

  The pleasant young man gave a little laugh. “That would have been something.” His words, while masked with mirth, carried a bit of tension as well.

  Michael Emerson was a nice-looking fellow. In his early twenties, his face was dotted with freckles, and his eyes were a medium brown. Although his hair was dark brown, his sideburns turned red just below the earlobe.

  He wore no ring, and his white shirt and blue jacket were rather undistinguished. Without a trace of snobbery on my part, I felt he did not quite belong in a first-class parlor suite.

  After the waiter took our breakfast order, Lucy asked, “Where is your destination?”

  Michael made a nervous little laugh that, in turn, made me nervous. “I’m taking my brother, Rory, to a little farm in upstate New York.”

  “Oh?” replied Lucy, curious in a good-natured type of way.

  Michael nodded his head rapidly. “Yes, and you?”

  Lucy pointed to me and said, “Mrs. Xavier is an author, and we are paying a call on an agent in New York City.”

  Mr. Emerson lit up. “An author—are you codding me? What kind of books do you write?”

  I gave a little shrug, as if to play down the man’s excitement, and replied, “Whodunits.”

  Lucy added with a giggle, “Be careful, she’s always on the lookout for a good culprit.”

  Michael
stiffened and nearly toppled his glass. Obviously concerned, he remarked, “Surely there aren’t any culprits on the RMS Olivia.” Once more, he flashed his nervous smile.

  It seemed the subject of malefactors caused Michael some discomfort. There was no reason to continue distressing him, so I asked, “What type of farm are you traveling to?”

  Michael’s expression faltered for a moment. His nervous smile returned before he explained, “My brother Rory is—well, perhaps the word special will be enough to explain him.” He paused as Lucy and I nodded. There was little conviction in his tone as he babbled, “You see, the boyo has been…cooped up at …a boarding school. I don’t think that it has been good for him. No, a farm, out in the country with fresh air, yes, that is what he needs.”

  I grew rather alarmed for poor Rory, dashed off to a farm. I remember as a child being told that the old family basset hound was going off to live on a farm in the country. Mingled with this recollection is the sound of a gunshot very late in the evening and the appearance of a new rosebush in the back lawn the following morning.

  Lucy smiled and replied, “How nice for him.”

  Our breakfast was served, and we navigated safely through the rest of our morning chitchat with Mr. Emerson. We parted ways upon returning to our neighboring cabins.

  After waking from an afternoon nap, Lucy came and found me in the parlor with my notebook. Her sleepy eyes lit up, and she asked me, “Are you starting a new book?”

  I tapped my varnished nails atop the writing desk and replied, “I don’t know, but I am certainly collecting some characters. We have the two Messrs. Emerson, one off to live on a farm. Then the countess and her husband, who fought through the night, and their mysterious empty trunk.”

  Lucy gave a great yawn and said, “You just need a little crime to attach them all to.”

  I ran my finger down the open page of my notebook and replied, “Well, we haven’t even completed our second day at sea yet. We will see what happens.”

  Lucy giggled, and I smiled knowingly before suggesting, “Let’s go in search of some clues.”

  I was far too modest to tour the ship’s Turkish bath, but Lucy and I filled the remaining afternoon with a lengthy tour of the ship’s first-class offerings, while avoiding the bath.

  The ship had a lovely library and a reading room that was quite impressive. There was a smoking room for the men, which we peeked our heads into, and several lovely parlors for ladies to play bridge or sip tea.

  When we stopped to spy through the etched glass windows of the beauty parlor, an attendant opened the door and exuberantly invited us in. This seemed a good way to pass the time.

  The shop was operated by several lovely Parisian women. The only other customer was a bulky figure reclined in a chair next to a manicurist table.

  Despite the green paste dried to her face and the cucumbers atop her eyes, I knew this to be the occupant of Cabin A-1. Her shape was rather singular.

  As Lucy and I sat down for our own manicures, I listened to our neighbor speak. I had already gathered that she was an American. Her speech was rapid, and her consonants were hard; I suspected that she was from the East Coast.

  “At the bottom of the ocean, I tell you. I’ll never put my jewels in the ship’s safe again.” With that said, she wiggled the plump fingers that the beautician was filing, and light gleamed from her many jeweled rings.

  “It must have been terrifying,” said the beautician.

  “It was. No sooner did we strike the iceberg, then the ship keeled over to one side. My husband and I went straight to the life rafts, straight to them. Woman and children first, they cried out. Well, I ignored that and pulled my poor Jerome onto the cramped lifeboat. At first they thought he was just a lad, until some knucklehead pointed out otherwise. A crewman tried to remove him from the lifeboat! I reached out and clutched Jerome’s hand, told them if they could pry him from my grip, they could keep him.” She balled her fists, causing the attendant to drop her file.

  The woman who was showing me different shades of varnish to select from whispered, “She was on the Tatiana.”

  “Who is that, who is talking about me?” asked the occupant of A-1.

  “We were just explaining who you were—”

  The large lady sat up, the slices of cucumber falling from her eyes. Loudly, she introduced herself, “I am Maxie Beaumont. I’m sure you recognize who I am; I survived the sinking of the Tatiana, and my name was in all the papers around the globe. I have clippings from over five hundred newspapers. They called me Maxie ʻGrip’ Beaumont.”

  She seemed very proud of this, so I smiled and nodded my chin. The sinking of the Olivia’s sister ship had taken place sixteen years beforehand, and as I had been rather young then, her name was not familiar to me.

  Lucy, far better mannered than I, said, “How very frightful. I don’t think I could ever sail again.”

  Mrs. Beaumont gave a toothy smile and replied, “You would if the Red Star Line gave you free passage for life!” These words were followed by an ugly, hollow chuckle.

  Lucy gave a dignified little laugh, and I simply nodded my chin again.

  Mrs. Beaumont looked to me and said, “You, you are in the cabin a few doors down from to mine, aren’t you?”

  I confirmed her accusation and introduced both Lucy and myself.

  Ignoring pleasantries, Mrs. Beaumont responded in a scandalized tone, “I understand there is a Russian Countess in the cabin between us.”

  Curious about what this woman knew, I responded, “Do say.”

  “A relation to the Romanovs, her people smuggled her to England while the rest of the family was rounded up and executed—or at least, so she thought,” Mrs. Beaumont added with perverse satisfaction.

  Lucy gave a little gasp and jerked her hands from the cosmetologist who was painting them; pink varnish flew about the table.

  After the mess was cleaned up, Mrs. Beaumont went on, “She was raised by a distant relative, and her identity was kept secret. From what I understand, she didn’t have a bean to call her own. All the dowry she had to offer was her title of countess, and that’s why she didn’t take his last name.”

  I had no reply, other than an open-eyed expression. This suited Mrs. Beaumont just fine.

  “Mathew Farquhar is his name. Handsome fellow, but poorly bred. He is the bastard child of a well-placed fellow and some cabaret singer. Scandalous, I tell you! He grew up having no idea who his father was. When the old sod died, Mathew was the sole beneficiary of his father’s will. He’s learned the right forks, if you know what I mean, but he still acts like he grew up in a tenement.” And this seemed to delight the hefty woman.

  “What a story,” I replied.

  Maxie Beaumont flashed her big pearly whites again and said, “That’s just the half of it. I found out just this morning that the countess has a twin sister in the States. She was thought to have been killed by the revolutionists, but she’s been hidden all this time.”

  This information seemed like less than half of the story to me, but with the intent to please the woman, I responded, “You don’t say?”

  “Are you from Kansas City?” asked Mrs. Beaumont, rather sharply.

  “Close, Saint Louis…”

  “Oh,” she replied in a manner that I didn’t care for, before doubly insulting me and asking rhetorically, “And you are staying in a parlor suite cabin?”

  Lucy noticed my skin blush, and she asked Mrs. Beaumont, “Where are you from?”

  “New Jersey,” replied the woman, obviously not pleased to be asked. She then added, as if to elevate herself, “My husband is from Quebec.”

  “I’ve never been to Canada,” replied Lucy, in an effort to keep the conversation moving.

  Mrs. Beaumont’s beady eyes happened to spot my ruby engagement ring, and she plucked up. Pointing toward my fingers, she said, “Now, sister, that’s a rock.”

  In a reserved manner, I smiled and replied, “It had been in my husband’s family f
or many generations.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t put it in the ship’s safe! I had all my best in the Tatiana’s safe, and there it sits at the bottom of the sea.” She ended her warning with a mighty huff.

  Our nails were done, and then the women went to work on our hair. Mrs. Beaumont, seeing that we were quite the captured audience, described in great detail the fateful evening that saw the great RMS Tatiana sink—along with all of her jewelry.

  Her delivery of the tale was tedious, but this was the stuff of legend. The maiden voyage of the most luxurious ship ending in tragedy set the imagination in motion. As she prattled on, fixated on the details that caught her attention, I wished to know more about the mechanics of the sinking.

  My mind’s eye was seeing the true drama of the catastrophe when Mrs. Beaumont brought her story to a close with the same words she had before, “Women and children first, they told my poor Jerome as they tried to yank him out of the lifeboat. I reached out and clutched his hand, told them if they could pry him from my grip they could keep him.”

  Mrs. Beaumont, thank heavens, lost all interest in Lucy and me as she started pointing out to her beautician the many mistakes that had been made with her hair. She told the poor woman she’d return the following day to have it all redone. As it was, she was nearly late for a game of bridge.

  Lucy and I were both delighted with our own minor transformations and quickly abandoned the hair salon’s staff to a fate as fierce as a quickly approaching iceberg.

  Chapter Three

  Lucy appeared ever so elegant, turned out in a lovely emerald green gown. Her dark hair held just the perfect amount of curl, and she had artfully applied a dash of makeup to her sweet face.

  “Oh, Lucy, you look like a countess!” I held up my finger and rushed back to my bedroom. A moment later, I returned to the parlor and opened my hands to show dear Lucy what I had for her. “Here, tonight, you should wear these.”

  Lucy protested as I placed my fine string of pearls around her neck. I ignored her and said, “They look better on you anyway.”