Flora's Secret

by Anita Davison

  ‘To trust one’s instincts is a creed of which I always approve.’ Miss Ames underlined something in her notebook with a flourish. ‘Perhaps he was murdered. Who knows what malign influences were at work?’

  Hester stopped chewing. She inhaled a rapid, noisy breath. Her eyes widened and she began to cough.

  ‘She’s choking! Do something someone!’ Monica flapped.

  A wave of concerned murmurs circled the table, though before the coughs turned into a full-blown crisis, Mr Hersch delivered a single, hard and effective slap to her back between her shoulder blades. He handed her a glass of water which she grabbed at as if it were a lifeline, taking several rapid sips.

  ‘Thank you. I’m quite all right now.’ Hester handed the glass back, then patted her upper chest, blushing furiously.

  Mrs Penry-Jones flicked a frustrated glance at Hester, then dismissed her with a slow exhale.

  ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ Miss Ames asked, her pen held aloft.

  ‘I didn’t mean to suggest anything.’ Flora’s face heated uncomfortably, aware she was still being stared at by half the table. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken. If Dr Fletcher says it was an accident, I’m in no position to contradict him.’

  ‘I heard a rumour Parnell was a professional gambler.’ Monica’s eyes gleamed with speculation. ‘Perhaps he cheated at cards and someone decided to teach him a lesson?’

  ‘One can’t accuse the man of being a broadsman without proof, Monica,’ Gerald snapped.

  Hester’s breathing was still shallow, and as she reached for her own water glass, she fumbled it at the last second, sending its contents across the table. ‘I-I’m so sorry, Mrs Penry-Jones,’ she stammered, oblivious to the fact it was Max who was forced to leap out of the way to avoid his trousers being soaked.

  ‘Clumsy!’ Mrs Penry-Jones’s thin lips twisted into a sneer.

  The companion dabbed at the spillage with her napkin, her feeble attempts annoying the old lady more. ‘Oh, do stop that. Hester, you’re making it worse. Summon a steward.’

  Monica tutted in sympathy, while Cynthia stared at the ceiling, her eyes closed as if the entire scene were beyond her attention. Gus Crowe watched the small drama with the self-satisfied smirk of someone who rarely began an argument, but often provided the ammunition for others to do so.

  Mr Hersch took command; summoned a waiter to replace the tablecloth and supervised the rearrangement of crockery with remarkable efficiency and the least disruption.

  ‘I don’t believe this speculation about Parnell helps matters,’ Mr Hersch said when the waiter withdrew. He topped up his wine glass before ostentatiously offering the bottle to the rest of the table. ‘Starting rumours will only make the situation worse.’

  ‘I agree.’ Cynthia toyed with the pendant at her throat, pulling the jewel along its gold chain. ‘This voyage is going to be unutterably boring if that man’s demise is the only topic of conversation.’

  ‘One cannot stop people talking, my dear.’ Miss Ames spoke with the relish of someone who was glad of the fact. ‘We’re all captive on this ship for another week.’

  ‘If it’s not inconvenient, Mrs Penry-Jones, may I return to the suite?’ Hester rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘The movement of the ship is making me queasy.’

  Flora experienced sudden sympathy for the woman. The sea was perfectly calm and Hester didn’t look ill, but perhaps having embarrassed herself had been the source of her upset?

  ‘Oh, if you must.’ The old lady sighed, and waved her away like a persistent fly.

  ‘Take my bag back to my suite would you? Saves me worrying about it.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Penry-Jones.’

  Passengers in the process of leaving hovered in the aisles while they waited for or assisted companions, forcing Hester to manhandle the cumbersome bag between them on her way out, each step hampered in some way.

  ‘Poor Miss Smith, she’s such a timid little thing,’ Monica whispered. ‘She made a dreadful fuss about tipping over a water glass.’

  Flora nodded, her gaze on Hester’s retreating back. It wasn't the falling glass that had upset her, but something that was said earlier. She wished she could recall what it was.

  Chapter 6

  ‘It’s a pity I chose to go straight back to my stateroom after dinner last night,’ Miss Ames repined. ‘I must have missed all the excitement.’

  ‘There was none,’ Gerald said. ‘When Parnell left the bar he was in perfect health. We had no idea what had happened until this morning.’

  ‘Oh well, anyway, I had this idea for a novel you see, and simply had to write it down.’

  ‘Do share it with us,’ Monica gushed. ‘We could do with a distraction from this horrible business, couldn’t we, Gerald?’

  ‘Can’t wait.’ Gerald’s lip curled. He cast a resigned look at Max, who rolled his eyes in sympathy.

  Mrs Penry-Jones gave Flora a distracted wave as she and Bunny left the table, where Miss Ames was occupied in delivering her new story idea to an enraptured Monica and a clearly bored Gerald.

  ‘What a beautiful day.’ Bunny eased beside Flora where she had paused outside the lobby doors leading from the dining room.

  Flora pulled her shawl tighter round her shoulders, nodding as a chill wind lifted the loose hair at her temples. The sea was like glass beneath a powder blue sky, the air sharp and not quite warm enough to linger for long; the whoosh of the waves as the vast ship cut through the ocean accompanied by the steady thrum of the engines far below them.

  ‘How about a game of poker?’ Gus Crowe appeared at Bunny’s shoulder, nudging him so hard he winced and rubbed a hand across his side.

  ‘Good idea.’ Max appeared, rubbing his hands together. ‘Cynthia’s busy writing letters this afternoon. Either that or she’ll be poring through the passenger list in search of someone famous.’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ Bunny directed a weak smile at the two men. ‘I’m sure Gilmore would join you.’ He nodded to where Gerald had emerged onto the deck.

  ‘Is that right, Gerald?’ Max accosted him, a hand clamped on his shoulder. ‘Are you game for a hand or two?’

  ‘Long as Monica doesn’t find out.’ Gerald gave the door behind him a swift furtive glance. ‘Let’s retire to the smoking room before she finds something for me to do.’

  ‘Ah well, see you later then, Harrington, Miss Maguire,’ Crowe drawled and hurried to join them as the trio sloped away like schoolboys intent on mischief.

  ‘Please don’t feel you need to miss the game on my account, Bunny,’ Flora said.

  ‘I’m not a card player, and those three play for very high stakes.’ He twisted toward her, lowering his voice. ‘I see you’re sticking to your theory that Parnell was murdered?’

  ‘For all the good it will do me.’ She fell into step beside him as he set off along the deck, pushing back strands of hair blown into her eyes by the wind. ‘Besides, Mr Hersch was right about idle speculation. I should be more careful what I say until I have some proof.’

  ‘You’re probably wise. By the way,’ he asked in a change of subject she suspected was deliberate, ‘did I hear you mention Eddy was enrolled at Marlborough?’

  She nodded. ‘I hope he’ll be all right, he’s never been away from home on his own before.’ When she had ventured similar misgivings to Lord Vaughn, he had dismissed her with talk of family tradition.

  ‘I’m sure Eddy will cope beautifully. Speaking as an old Marlburian myself.’

  ‘Really?’ Flora halted in surprise, though there was no reason why she should have been.

  ‘My father claimed it was because Charterhouse wouldn’t take me. Which I suspect was a ploy aimed to keep me on my toes.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Indeed yes.’ The lopsided smile she had begun to look for appeared, which raised goose bumps on her arms she couldn’t attribute to the weather. ‘Top marks all the way through to Oxford, and then a first.’

  ‘Impressive. Shall I see you in the
Commons, and will your speeches be quoted verbatim in The Times?'

  ‘Definitely not.’ He angled his head toward her, frowning. ‘What’s that look for? My motor car isn’t simply an indulgence, you know. It’s how I intend making my living.’

  ‘I just thought—’ Her gaze slid over his immaculate dark blue blazer, the diamond pin that held his tie in place, then down to the handmade shoes of soft leather. ‘Lobbs’, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  ‘Appearances don’t always tell the whole story,’ he said, following her look. ‘Granted, I benefitted from a privileged upbringing, but after my father died and the debts were paid, all that was left was a crumbling mansion and an annuity.’

  ‘You have no other close family?’

  ‘Only my mother. There’s my father’s younger brother and his family, but Mother and I manage well enough alone.’ His change of tone reflected his devotion to his lone parent. ‘She sold the crumbling pile, and we now share a charming eight-bedroom house on the Thames in Richmond, and the annuity of course. I’ve had to apply my expensive education into earning my living.’

  Flora hid a smile, bemused that his idea of reduced circumstances was a house with eight bedrooms and a private income. She doubted Bunny Harrington had ever woken to a winter’s dawn in an attic bedroom with a quarter inch of ice inside the glass.

  ‘May I take you in to dinner this evening?’ Bunny asked, suddenly.

  She turned her face into the wind in order to hide the sudden warmth that flooded her face.

  ‘I appreciate your kindness, but I don’t expect you to escort me to every meal.’ His face fell and she rushed on, ‘I’ll look forward to your company, though. After all, we occupy the same table.’

  His unsmiling nod told her this was poor consolation, which expanded into an awkward silence, broken when he indicated a man in an overcoat who stood between two lifeboats, smoking a cigar.

  ‘That chap over there asked to see my designs, so if you don’t mind, I—’

  ‘Of course not, please go ahead.’

  Flora watched him go, surprised at the depth of her attachment to him, when twenty-four hours ago she had never heard the name Bunny Harrington. He didn’t seem to mind she was a governess, but then why would he? Most likely he regarded her as a temporary amusement with whom to pass a few days aboard ship. Or was she denying herself the chance of friendship with a perfectly nice man who might be genuinely inclined to spend time with her?

  A dilemma for her to ponder, almost as mysterious as who might have killed Mr Parnell.

  *

  Flora pushed open the double doors of the library and stepped inside. Tapestry upholstered sofas were set in horseshoe arrangements of three round low tables, the room divided by supporting white pillars. Like the dining room, a glass lantern ceiling flooded the space with light, while rows of polished walnut bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling; every one entirely empty.

  ‘Where are all the books?’ she inquired of a passing steward.

  ‘They were pledged as a gift by the City of Minneapolis in recognition of the ship bearing the same name,’ a freckle-faced young man informed her with the air of a tour guide. ‘Though, unfortunately they didn’t reach New York before we sailed.’

  ‘What a shame.’ Flora reluctantly abandoned her intention to give Eddy some work in preparation for school.

  ‘We do, however, have a few magazines to accompany afternoon tea perhaps?’ The steward handed her a copy of The Strand Magazine. ‘It’s two months old, I’m afraid. I could find more if you wish.’

  ‘This one is perfect, thank you.’

  Flora had become engrossed in a story entitled, ‘The Brass Bottle’ when she heard Mr Hersch’s distinctive voice from a nearby table and realized she wasn’t alone.

  ‘You’re certain as to the cause of that head wound?’ he asked an unseen companion.

  Flora straightened, confident the white painted pillar she sat behind shielded her from sight, though she could just made out Dr Fletcher’s profile where he was seated on the sofa to her right.

  ‘I cannot be sure,’ the medic replied. ‘However, the signs certainly indicate a fall.’

  ‘Might the wound have been administered by something heavy?’ Hersch persisted. ‘An ashtray, perhaps?’

  Flora’s heartbeat quickened. Of course. The square brass ashtrays were a feature of every cabin and would be the perfect weapon. Eddy had knocked theirs off the table onto his foot that morning, his subsequent yell attesting to its considerable weight.

  ‘That’s rather specific,’ the doctor said, an edge to his voice. ‘What made you mention that?’

  ‘A maid reported the one in Parnell’s cabin was missing. Poor girl was worried she would be made to pay for it.’

  ‘The housekeeping staff have their wages docked for breakages whether they actually break anything or not,’ Dr Fletcher said. ‘Harsh, maybe, but it’s company policy.’

  ‘When the crew were questioned,’ the German continued, ‘they insisted there was no body on the deck when it was scrubbed down at six that morning.’

  ‘I don’t understand the question. He could have fallen after the decks were washed, even slipped on a wet step.’

  ‘In which case, why was there was no blood on the steps, or beneath the body?’

  Flora only just stopped herself jumping to her feet to add that this was exactly what she had thought at the time, unable to help a certain satisfaction she hadn’t been the only one to think it important.

  ‘Must admit, I didn’t pay much attention to that. I was too concerned about getting the body out of sight before any more passengers turned up. Bad enough that young woman was asking all those questions. What was her name again?’

  ‘Maguire,’ Hersch’s slow pronunciation of her name sent a tingle down Flora’s spine.

  ‘Ah yes, I remember now. Although I fear it’s destined to be one of life’s mysteries.’

  ‘What about the lividity on Parnell’s face?’

  ‘What about it?’ The doctor’s voice turned defensive.

  ‘Can you explain how it appeared if the man had been dead only minutes?’

  ‘I am qualified, you know,’ Dr Fletcher snapped. ‘I suppose you could say it was odd if he had only lain there a short while, but hardly conclusive.’

  Flora hunched against the pillar, her excitement growing at the knowledge she wasn’t the only one who believed Parnell may have been dead for hours, not minutes.

  ‘Is it possible he was killed elsewhere?’ Hersch asked. ‘And his body left on the steps to make it appear as if he had fallen?’

  ‘Steady on.’ The doctor dropped his voice to a fierce whisper Flora struggled to hear. ‘You could damage my reputation with such talk.’

  ‘What is more significant, is that it would mean there’s a murderer on board.’ Hersch appeared to be losing patience with the good doctor.

  ‘Quiet, man! You don’t want to go spreading rumours like that.’ Flora imagined him giving the room a swift, nervous glance to see if they had been heard. Then his voice came again in a fierce whisper. ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing, for the moment,’ Hersch said, unfailingly calm. ‘However, I suggest you ensure your record-keeping is flawless, Dr Fletcher, or this could come back to haunt you.’

  ‘I hope you’re wrong, Mr Hersch.’ The creak of leather signalled the doctor was about to leave. ‘Anyway, I must be off, I’ve a patient due with a boil that needs lancing. One of the few ailments I can charge for as it didn’t occur on board.’

  His footsteps tapped across the polished floor, followed by his cheery greeting to someone on his way out. The room fell silent, the clink of china and the slap of the door the only sounds as stewards and passengers came and went.

  ‘He didn’t appear particularly interested in my theory, did he, Miss Maguire?’ Hersch’s low, clear voice reached her.

  Flora froze. Then aware it would be pointless to pretend she hadn’t heard, she p
eeked around the pillar to where the German stirred his tea, the silver spoon dwarfed by his manicured hands.

  ‘Did you know I was here all the time?’ Her voice came out as a whisper.

  ‘I doubt you wear perfume, my dear, but your soap is distinctive. Jasmine, I think.’

  Sighing, Flora rose and eased round the pillar whilst bidding a mental farewell to the last remnants of her reputation. As if tripping over dead bodies wasn’t enough, she had now been caught blatantly eavesdropping.

  Hersch gave a low chuckle and indicated the seat the surgeon had vacated. ‘Would you care to join me?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Flora sat. ‘And I shan’t pretend I didn’t hear anything. Was it my imagination, or did Dr Fletcher seem nervous?’

  ‘You noticed that, did you?’ Hersch lifted the teapot in invitation. ‘You don’t suffer fools gladly, do you, Miss Maguire?’

  ‘He’s not a fool, but I think he’s lazy.’ Flora declined his offer of tea, but his compliment gave her confidence. ‘Do I understand you examined Mr Parnell’s body after it was taken to the doctor’s office?’ When he raised one brow in enquiry, she added, ‘I ask, because you weren’t there when he was taken away, so when else would you have seen him?’

  ‘How very astute of you.’ He took a slow sip from his cup while he kept his gaze on hers.

  Flora stiffened, suspecting she was being teased. ‘It’s not idle curiosity, Mr Hersch. I have responsibility for a young boy whose safety is my chief concern.’

  ‘I apologize, Miss Maguire. I don’t mean to be flippant.’ He leaned back in his chair as if settling in for a long talk. ‘Tell me, what were your impressions when you first came upon the body?’

  ‘Well.’ Flora cast her mind back to her initial horror at discovering the pile of clothes was in fact a dead man. ‘He lay face down with a gash on the back of his head that had already congealed. I couldn’t see blood anywhere else. Not on the steps or the handrail.’ Hersch looked about to ask a question, but she rushed on, ‘I have no medical training, but on a large country estate, injuries occur quite often from farm equipment and horses. I can tell an old wound from a fresh one.’