by Conrad Allen
“Are you a friend of Morgan?” he asked belligerently.
“Not exactly,” replied Boyd.
“What do you think of him?”
“Well, you have to admire the man’s success.”
“At what cost in human misery was it achieved, though?”
“He does have a ruthless streak. We all know that.”
“You don’t have to be ruthless in business,” said Rosalie sweetly. “Ethan isn’t and they made him president of the bank. He got where he is by hard work and knowledge of finance.”
“There was some luck attached to it as well,” admitted Boyd.
Dillman liked the couple. They were amiable companions. Ethan Boyd was intrigued to learn that Dominique was the model for all of Thomas’s recent paintings and he wanted to know how she had come into the art world. Rosalie, meanwhile, reserved her curiosity for Thomas, amazed at some of the stories he told about his erratic life in Paris. There was a bumbling innocence about her that Dillman found engaging. He had no difficulty in believing that she could have left her purse in the library and forgotten all about it. What touched him was the way that Boyd tolerated his wife’s obvious limitations.
Dillman spent most of the first course talking to Veronica Thomas.
“I always associate ocean liners with honeymoons,” she said.
“Oh, I daresay that we have a few newly married couples here.”
“A voyage is always so romantic.”
“Did you spend your honeymoon on a ship in the Atlantic?”
“No, George. It was on a barge in the Seine.”
“That’s not a bad substitute,” said Dillman.
“It is if the barge leaks and you don’t know how to control it properly.” Veronica smiled at him. “It’s a pity that you weren’t with us.”
“Me?”
“An experienced sailor. Abednego was hopeless.”
“Steering a barge is not as easy as it looks.”
“That’s what Dominique and I found out.”
Dillman was astonished. “Dominique was with you at the time?”
“She goes everywhere with us. Abednego wanted it to be a working honeymoon so I took all my materials as well. He took his model.”
“Didn’t the barge seem a little crowded at times?”
She laughed. “Well, it wouldn’t have suited everybody.”
“I’m probably one of them, Veronica.”
“We started as we intended to go on.”
“Cruising up the Seine in a leaky barge?”
“Putting our work first all the time. Being an artist is not like any other job,” she said with a note of resignation. “It’s a way of life.”
Dillman had grown fond of Veronica Thomas. She was older and less shapely than Dominique but she had a dignity and intelligence that the Frenchwoman lacked. She had also sacrificed far more to reach her goal. Dominique Cadine had grown up in the artistic community of Paris whereas Veronica had repudiated her background and gone to live in a foreign country. For the model, it had been a natural progression; for the wife, it had been a complete metamorphosis.
“You’ve acquired one admirer since you’ve been on board,” he said.
“Have I?”
“Manny Ellway, the steward.”
“Oh,” she said with undisguised disappointment. “I was hoping that it would be you, George.”
“You can take my admiration for granted.” Veronica’s foot touched his leg affectionately under the table. “Manny was so impressed with those designs you showed him.”
“I may even make some of that jewelry before we get to New York.”
“You have all the necessary equipment?”
“In our cabin. The precious metals are locked away in a safe. They’re far too valuable to leave lying around.”
“I agree, Veronica.”
She fondled the gold clasp fastened to one shoulder of her dress.
“This is one my latest pieces,” she said. “I made it before we left.”
“And I daresay that you designed the dress as well, Veronica. You really are a woman of many parts.”
“Oh, I have all sorts of hidden talents. So do you, I expect.”
“I like to think so.”
“It would be interesting to find out what they are.”
When her foot rubbed against his leg again, it stayed there for much longer and it was accompanied by a meaningful stare. Dillman was confused. Veronica was sitting next to a husband she professed to adore and yet she was flirting unashamedly with the detective. He was not sure how to respond. Ethan Boyd came to his rescue.
“And what line are you in, Mr. Dillman?” he asked.
“I work in the family business. We build oceangoing yachts.”
“Really? You should talk to J. P. Morgan.”
“I already have,” said Dillman.
“So have I,” added Thomas, curling his lip. “I could have punched him in the face for what he’s done to the art world.”
“Calm down, Abednego,” soothed Veronica.
“You know how I feel about him, my love.”
“That’s why you should think happier thoughts.”
She kissed him on the cheek and whispered something in his ear. He gave a ripe chuckle. His good humor returned. Boyd waited until the artist was talking to Rosalie before he turned to Dillman again.
“You spoke to Mr. Morgan?” he said.
“It was on behalf of my father, really,” explained Dillman. “He was invited to submit the design of a new yacht to Mr. Morgan and got an earful of abuse for his pains. Our yacht was called Medusa. I had the pleasure of pointing out that it came second in the America’s Cup.”
“I guess that put Morgan in his place.”
“He’s no authority on yachts, I can tell you.”
“Maybe not, but you can’t fault him when it comes to high finance. Nor when it comes to his choice of women either,” he went on, looking in the direction of Morgan’s table. “That lady on his right is an English rose by the name of Genevieve Masefield.” He nudged the detective with his elbow. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Wouldn’t you like to have someone like that sitting next to you?”
Dillman gave a quiet smile. “I do believe I would.”
Blanche Charlbury and Mark Bossingham were sharing a table with a retired Anglican bishop and his wife, a Dutch engineer with a poor command of English, an ancient lady from Baltimore, desperately hard of hearing, and a young French couple making their first visit to America. Conversation ebbed and flowed but there was little opportunity for Blanche to broach any intimate topics with her fiancé. It was only when three people left the table toward the end of the evening that they were able to talk more freely together.
Bossingham turned a jaundiced eye on the table in the corner.
“Look at him,” he said, enviously. “How does he do it? Killick has got himself a seat next to Mr. Morgan this time.”
“So has Genevieve.”
“It’s patently obvious why she’s there.”
“Mark!”
“She used her charm on Morgan. I saw her for what she was at the very start. Miss Masefield is nothing but an adventuress.”
“That’s a wicked thing to say.”
“Then why is she dining with the richest man on the whole ship?”
“Because he invited her, probably,” said Blanche.
“And why did he do that?”
“You’re worse than Johnny with your insinuations.”
“I hate people who dissemble — and that’s what she’s doing.”
“Well, I like Genevieve, whatever you say.”
There was a long silence while coffee was served. Bossingham was sulking. She did her best to make peace with him. Blanche put a hand on his arm and spoke in a low, coaxing voice.
“Let’s not argue,” she said.
“Who’s arguing? I merely gave you my opinion.”
“Forget everyone else, Mark. The only people that really matter on this ship
are the two of us. If we have each other, we don’t need anyone else to make this voyage pleasurable.”
“That’s what I said to you when I first joined the ship.”
“And you were so right.”
“I usually am.” Her contrition softened him and he even rose to a smile. “We just require a little more time to get used to each other, that’s all. To find our rhythm as companions.” He looked at her. “Have you had time to read any of The Warden yet?”
“I dipped into the first chapter but I couldn’t concentrate.”
“Why not?”
“Something kept popping into my mind,” she said, frowning at the memory. “Something that Dickon told me a long time ago.”
“And what was that?”
“Well, he met this girl at Oxford and I could tell that he was keen on her. He took her punting on the river and played tennis with her and all that sort of thing.”
“That was years ago, Blanche.”
“Yes, but I’d forgotten her name until now.”
“So?”
“It was Ally. He kept saying that Ally was a topping girl.”
Bossingham was irritated. “Do we really have to talk about Dickon’s undergraduate friendships?” he asked. “He knew dozens of girls when he was at Balliol with me. It’s the reason he only got a third in Finals. Your brother was easily led astray.”
“Ally was worth it. That’s what he told me. Ally was worth getting no degree at all.” She looked him in the eye. “I think that Ally must have been this Alicia Tremaine.”
“That’s highly unlikely.”
“Dickon talked about visiting her people in Henley. It must be her.”
“Possibly,” he conceded with a shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”
“You must have known.”
“Dickon and I didn’t live in each other’s pockets.”
“But you were best friends. You shared a room for two years. If he went out with someone called Alicia Tremaine, you’d have been the first person to be told about it.”
“Perhaps I was, perhaps I wasn’t.”
“Earlier on, you denied that you’d ever heard the name.”
“I’m still not sure that I have.” Blanche fell silent and regarded him with growing distrust. He became defensive. “Why did you have to bring up the subject? It’s pointless to discuss it. To be honest, I’ve forgotten most of what happened at Oxford. I’ve outgrown that period of my life.” Her critical gaze unsettled him. “All right,” he said at length, “perhaps there was such a girl but I only ever knew her as Ally. Your brother never told me her full name.”
“But you must have known it if he passed her on to you.”
“You make her sound like a baton in a relay race.”
“I was being polite.”
“Blanche!”
“Did you get to meet her people in Henley as well?”
“I refuse to be cross-examined like this,” he blustered.
“Then why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“I did — I always have.”
“No, you haven’t, Mark. You reserved the right to grill me about Johnny Killick, but you’re not ready to talk about your own past, are you? According to you, Alicia Tremaine never existed. Now that I’ve proved that she did, you’re still trying to pretend that you had nothing whatsoever to do with her.”
“This is absurd,” he said, trying to bring the conversation to an end with a display of petulance. “It’s demeaning to both of us. One moment, you’re saying that we don’t need anyone else, and the next, you’re dredging up something that happened years ago.”
“So it did happen?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“That this whole topic is unseemly.”
“We’re not really talking about Alicia Tremaine.”
“Then what are we talking about?”
“The principle of trust,” she said. “The commitment we made to be completely honest with each other. I think you’re lying to me and there’s an easy way to prove it.”
“Don’t believe a syllable that Killick says.”
“I won’t. I’ll turn to a much more reliable witness.”
“Who’s that?”
“My brother.”
Bossingham gulped. “You can’t do that, Blanche.”
“Why not?”
“Look, you’re getting this totally out of proportion.”
“I don’t like the feeling that you’re hiding something from me.”
“There’s nothing to hide.”
“Then why are you behaving so strangely?”
“Keep your voice down!” he urged, glancing round. “This is neither the time nor the place for something as personal as this.”
“Then let’s adjourn to your cabin.”
He was outraged. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“You wouldn’t have shown such scruples with Alicia Tremaine.”
“I hardly knew the woman.”
“So you did inherit her from Dickon.”
“No, and I resent that suggestion.”
“Did you take her out?” she pressed. “Did she go to a college ball with you?” He pursed his lips and breathed heavily through his nose. “You might as well tell me, Mark. If you don’t, then my brother will.”
“It was a fleeting friendship, that’s all.”
Blanche was unconvinced. “Was it?”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Then stop giving me a reason to do so.”
He slapped the table. “This discussion stops here and now!”
“It does,” she said, tossing her napkin aside. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t do that, Blanche.”
She got up quickly. “Don’t try to stop me.”
“I forbid you to go,” he said, peremptorily.
“Good night, Mark.”
After distributing a farewell smile among the other people at the table, she thrust out her chin and walked purposefully toward the exit. Bossingham was about to follow her. Before he could rise from his seat, however, a hand rested on his shoulder.
“What’s happened?” asked Jonathan Killick. “A lovers’ tiff?”
“Go away!”
“Has Blanche found you out at last?”
“This is all your responsibility, Killick.”
“Well, I do like to spread light and joy wherever I can,” said the other, happily. “That’s probably why I could never get into the diplomatic service like you. I’m too hopelessly indiscreet.”
Genevieve Masefield’s fears had proved groundless. Summoned to sit beside J. P. Morgan, she thought that he would somehow express his anger at being deceived by her, without giving away her role on board the Oceanic. In fact, he was consistently pleasant, talking about his art collection, revealing the global extent of his social contacts, and most surprising of all, showing a detailed knowledge of the Bible. There was no hint of any grievance against Genevieve. It was only when Jonathan Killick departed that Morgan slowly moved the conversation to a more personal level.
“Do you know much about him?” he asked, indicating the table at which the Welsh artist was seated. “Abednego Thomas, I mean.”
“Only that he has a reputation for being unorthodox.”
“He’s a deviant, Miss Masefield — an abnormality, a purveyor of smut and depravity. Worlds away from his biblical counterpart.”
“Wasn’t he one of the men in the fiery furnace?” said Genevieve. “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. They upset King Nebuchadnezzar by refusing to worship the Babylonian gods.”
“I’m glad to hear that someone else reads the Old Testament,” he said, impressed. “The Book of Daniel — Chapter Three. Abednego was ready to die for his faith. That Welsh impostor doesn’t even have one. I’m much more entitled to that name,” he claimed, bluntly. “For I’ve been thrust into the fiery furnace many times. It’s been heated to seven times its original
fury.”
“By whom?”
“My rivals, my detractors, and most of all, by a hostile press. But my faith has brought me through it, and it will sustain me through this latest visit to the furnace. I think you know what I mean.”
“Yes, Mr. Morgan — events in your stateroom.”
“More intense heat.”
“We hope to cool it very soon.”
“Someone wanted to cause me serious injury.”
“They’ll be apprehended.”
“Can you offer me any assurances to that effect?”
“Bear with us, Mr. Morgan.”
“What exactly have you been doing?”
“Inquiries have been made. The net is closing in.”
“I’d like to be there when it’s pulled tight,” he growled.
“We shall see.” Noticing that Killick was about to rejoin them, she sat back and changed the subject. “How did you acquire your detailed knowledge of the Bible?”
“By reading it, of course.”
“Your memory is phenomenal.”
“Yes,” said Killick, resuming his seat. “All that I can remember of my Scripture lessons are the juicy bits — Cain killing his brother, David slaying Goliath, Delilah betraying poor old Samson. Oh, and all the begetting that went on in the Holy Land.”
“Read the parable of the sower and his seeds,” advised Morgan.
“Is that about begetting as well?”
“No, Jonathan. It’s about the folly of planting seed in soil where it will never grow. Your Scripture teacher faced the same problem when she threw biblical wisdom onto the stony ground of your brain.”
Killick laughed. “How right you are, Mr. Morgan!”
“It’s not something to be proud of,” said Genevieve.
“I’ve learned to live with my afflictions.”
“You do admit that you have some, then?”
“We all have defects. Don’t you agree, Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes,” he replied. “The trick is to use them to your advantage.”
“That’s what I always do. But while we’re talking about afflictions, Miss Masefield,” he went on, “have you been looking at the one who belongs to Blanche Charlbury?”
“Are you referring to her fiancé?”
“Mark Bossingham. To marry him would be to commit suicide.”
Morgan was amused. “Do I take it that you have designs on this young lady yourself?”