Flora's Secret

by Anita Davison

  ‘What did you conclude from these observations?’ He steepled his fingers below his chin.

  ‘That if Mr Parnell fell down those steps, he did not do so in the half hour before I got there.’ Then something he had said earlier returned. ‘This lividity you mentioned? Is it anything to do with the large purple mark on Mr Parnell’s cheek?’

  Hersch’s mouth twitched, but the slight smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Indeed yes. It’s what happens when the heart stops pumping. The blood in the veins pools at the lowest points, causing that purplish-blue colour. It doesn’t appear for at least half an hour after death. Similar marks appeared on his body as well. Such an injury would have rendered him either dead or unconscious, so I doubt he could have moved on his own.’

  ‘Then he was already dead when he went down those steps,’ Flora said, almost her herself. When he didn’t correct her, she added, ‘there was a small amount of dried blood on his shirt collar.’

  ‘Dried, you say?’ Hersch’s brows drew together, his glance drifting to the ceiling. ‘The body had already been stripped when I saw him, but that also puts the time of death into dispute.’

  ‘There’s something else.’ Flora waited until she was sure she had his full attention. ‘He was still wearing his dinner suit at six in the morning.’

  ‘Something else I wasn’t aware of. You make a good point.’ He stroked a thumb and forefinger down either side of his moustache, his eyes filled with either admiration or amusement. He had one of those faces which were not easily read, which made her suspect he was a much misunderstood man.

  ‘I’ll reserve judgement until more information comes to light.’ He leaned towards her, lowering his voice. ‘But between you and me, Miss Maguire, I too am not happy about the circumstances of this man’s death. It doesn’t look right.’

  A rush of excitement fizzed through her veins, but was irrelevant when neither of them had any proof. In which case, she would have to find some.

  Chapter 7

  Flora dressed early for dinner that evening in a gown of primrose yellow lawn with a fine lace overskirt; a lacy shawl over her exposed shoulders – inadequate for evening sea breezes on the Atlantic, but far too pretty not to wear.

  Eddy emerged from his bedroom, his tongue protruding as he struggled with his tie. ‘Some of the chaps want to listen to music after dinner. There’s a piano in the smoking room and one of the crew has offered to play for us. You don't mind if I join them, do you, Flora? I promise to be back by nine thirty.’

  ‘What sort of music?' Flora gently eased his hand away and completed the knot for him.

  ‘It’s not boring classical stuff like Mozart or dreary Bach. It’s Tin Pan Alley mostly.’ He stood passive while she completed his efforts, tweaked his collar and smoothed his hair.

  ‘I doubt your parents would object. What was that tune your father liked, the one about the bank?’

  ‘“The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo?”’ Eddy hummed in perfect tune. ‘Hey, Mr Gilmore has a gramophone. One of those new ones that plays disks, not cylinders.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll let you listen to it sometime.’ She dismissed him with a gentle push. ‘Nine thirty at the latest, and remember, it's Sunday, so decorum is called for. Oh,’ she added in mock seriousness, ‘no smoking, either.’

  ‘Flora!’ He snorted in mock disgust. ‘In any case, they chuck us out well before the grown-ups come in.’

  *

  When Flora reached the dining room on the deck below, she spotted Bunny through the filigree gold etchings on the glass in the doors. He was seated at their table opposite Cynthia, who propped one elbow on the table, supporting her chin while she stared into his eyes as if he conveyed the meaning of life.

  Flora’s confidence dwindled, despite reminding herself that Cynthia was a married woman – on her honeymoon, no less. Still, she was exquisite - exactly the type of woman a man like Bunny was destined to be with; not a shy girl raised below stairs who hovered in a doorway trying to summon the courage to go inside.

  A group of diners approached the doors from another direction, all talking at the top of their voices; a trait of the upper classes.

  Flora stepped behind a pillar as they passed, just as a blast of hot breath enveloped the back of her neck.

  ‘Don’t turn around, Miss Maguire,’ a voice little more than a croak whispered, freezing her in place. Indistinguishable as male or female, yet the menace behind it combined with the use of her name sent her heart thumping at an uncomfortable rate.

  ‘Leave well alone’ the voice went on. ‘People disappear from ships all the time. Who would miss one nosy governess and a small, mischievous boy?’

  Flora sucked in a breath, unable to believe she had heard correctly. Her mouth worked in protest, though no sound came. Too terrified to move, long seconds passed until she sensed the person had moved away and she was alone.

  She ran to an alcove but found it empty, then back to the corridor that disappeared into the ship, the cool wind having driven the passengers to use the internal hallways. Her eyes darted into corners in search of a lone figure, but saw no one. On impulse she pushed through the double doors onto the saloon deck, the cool wind tugging her hair as she probed the deck with her eyes.

  There was no one there.

  Low laughter drifted toward her from the internal corridor and she ran back inside, in time for a group of approaching diners to sweep past her into the dining room, on an enticing wave of expensive perfume.

  Smoothing her skirt with shaking fingers, she took a deep breath and joined the tail end of the line who entered the dining room. The pressing crowd made it difficult to judge who was missing, while couples and small groups stood between tables, talking in small coteries rather than being seated. She passed the Gilmores talking to a couple she didn’t know and Miss Ames giving what looked to be an animated lecture to a young woman Flora had seen before at a nearby table. Mrs Penry Jones arrived and glided past Flora on a cloud of Parma Violets without acknowledging her; a snub repeated by Hester who followed close behind.

  Flora tried to assess who was missing, which thus far included Max and Eloise, though she found it difficult to believe anyone amongst the elegant diners with their benign smiles and expensive clothes would whisper threats. And yet she had not imagined it. Someone on this ship felt threatened by her.

  Her slow progress through the welcome warmth, light and the plinking notes of a piano at the end of the room, combined with the clatter of plates and the savoury smell of cooked meat, calmed her nerves as she approached the table Bunny and Cynthia occupied with Mr Hersch.

  Bunny rose from the table with a smile when he saw her, and Cynthia relinquished her seat without being asked.

  ‘Are you quite well, Miss Maguire?’ Mr Hersch enquired. ‘You look somewhat shaky if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘Y-yes. I’m fine, thank you.’ Warmth flooded her face, her glance flicking to where Mr Crowe held out Miss Ames’ chair, though not all the chairs were occupied. Not still nervous about being here, are you, Flora?’ Bunny whispered as she stared about her, trying to discern who was missing.

  ‘N-no, I’m quite all right, but outside just now, I—’

  ‘Ah, here’s our notorious actress,’ Gerald announced as he and Monica drifted to their seats. ‘Wondered when she was going to make an appearance.’ He nudged Bunny with an elbow, distracting him. ‘I don’t care if my wife does disapprove,’ Gerald murmured, ‘I think our pocket Venus is quite lovely.’

  ‘Gerald, really!’ Monica glowered at him, then turned to welcome Miss Ames, the two falling immediately into animated conversation.

  The crowd parted briefly to allow Eloise’s approach in a slow and sensuous stride, despite her diminutive size. She dimpled at a middle-aged ogler at the next table and blew a kiss to another whose eyes popped when he saw her, while their respective female companions glowered like cross twins.

  ‘Good evening, everyone.’ Eloise’s captivating smile and s
eductive drawl encompassed them all. ‘Someone get me a drink, would you? I’d like a large gin and tonic to give me an appetite for dinner.’

  At the word, ‘gin’, Miss Ames exchanged a scandalized look with Monica, who uttered the word ‘actress’ in a clear, disparaging tone.

  Eloise must have heard her, but she gave no sign.

  Monica’s glare deepened when her husband leapt up to fulfil Eloise’s request, although he extended the request for aperitifs to include everyone else.

  ‘Sorry, Flora, you were about to say something,’ Bunny said, once the waiter had left with Gerald’s order.

  Flora hesitated. The safe, warm atmosphere of the crowded room, the repeated clink of expensive glass among low laughter had made the incident in the lobby seem unreal. As if it had happened to someone else.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Flora shook her head and smiled. ‘I’m fine, really.’

  Eloise sipped her drink, flirting in equal measure with Gerald on one side and the lately arrived Max on the other, unaware of the hostility emanating from both their wives.

  ‘Bank clerks, even secretaries travel to Europe unaccompanied these days,’ Mrs Penry-Jones responded to a remark made about modern young women who crossed the Atlantic alone. ‘I always say, if one cannot afford to employ a maid, one should not be permitted to purchase a ticket. Hester would never dream of travelling alone, would you, Hester?’

  ‘No, Mrs Penry-Jones,’ Hester acquiesced with little enthusiasm.

  ‘I believe single, independent ladies should be permitted to enjoy foreign travel, even without husbands or male relatives to escort them?’ Miss Ames tossed the trailing end of a canary yellow boa carelessly over her shoulder. ‘It seems harsh to deny us the same advantage.’

  ‘I agree,’ Flora said, recalling Bunny’s advice to stand up to the likes of the old lady. ‘I don’t have a maid or a male escort. I don’t think Eddy counts.’

  Gerald laughed and Bunny saluted her with his glass.

  ‘Hmm…’ Mrs Penry-Jones did not trouble herself to answer, but stared at Flora down her long, pointy nose. ‘One also has to be wary of whom one associates with on board ship. A woman came out of Lady Radley’s suite this morning and struck up a conversation with me. It was a full hour before I discovered I’d been prowling the decks with her maid. Everyone saw us talking too.’

  ‘How distressing.’ Cynthia’s face was a picture of false outrage. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What could I do?’ Mrs Penry-Jones’s mouth puckered in distaste. ‘When she approached me again this afternoon, I cut her, naturally.’

  Cynthia nodded sagely, while the corner of her mouth twitched as she concealed her amusement. Monica offered the old lady a moue of sympathy, while the men either buried their noses in their glasses, or pretended something fascinated them on the other side of the room.

  ‘I’ve found maids and valets to be most useful in providing information about their masters, especially those who have suffered at their hands.’ Mr Hersch’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he gently stroked his moustache. ‘It’s shameful to listen to their stories, but who can resist?’

  ‘If you want my opinion,’ Monica said in tones which dared anyone to decline, ‘the Baedeker guides place an asterisk on hotels that guarantee to be first-class, the steamship companies should do the same with the passenger lists.’

  ‘I need another drink,’ Gerald stared round in search of a waiter.

  By the time her entrée arrived, Flora had convinced herself that the owner of the voice had played some sort of joke. Then as if from nowhere, the thought struck her that if it was indeed serious, a thirteen-year-old boy was an easy target.

  She considered excusing herself to see that Eddy was all right, then she remembered, he would be at his musical evening with the other boys. He was safe there as anywhere for the time being. Besides, what excuse could she give for dragging him away? With this thought uppermost, she only caught the tail end of a question Miss Ames had directed at Eloise.

  ‘…recovered from the death of your travelling companion?’

  ‘We weren’t exactly friends!’ Eloise waved her fork in the air. ‘Ours was purely a business arrangement.’ Beside her, Gus Crowe shifted sideways in order to avoid a chunk of beef landing in his lap. ‘Someone has since reminded me I’m talented enough not to need him.’ She aimed a wink at Flora.

  ‘That’s somewhat callous.’ Miss Ames puckered her thin lips. ‘The poor man’s been dead less than a day.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Eloise said on a sigh. ‘Tragic maybe, but still an accident. He had probably had too much to drink and missed his footing. It could happen to anyone.’

  She held her empty glass out for a refill from a passing waiter, a careless elbow perilously close to a crystal rose bowl, which Gerald whisked away just in time to avoid disaster.

  Monica suppressed a startled, though redundant cry, while Mrs Penry-Jones tutted loudly. Hester glared at Eloise in disapproval, her tiny eyes glinting, whereas the instigator of this possible disaster laughed and covered her mouth with one hand, then demanded her drink.

  The table finally settled down and conversation resumed, with banter going back and forth, carefully avoiding all talk of bodies. Instead, there appeared to be a mutual agreement to confine talk to trivial subjects which could not offend anyone. Usual for strangers forced together in close proximity for a protracted time, if a little stilted, while jokes were met with overenthusiastic and too loud laughter.

  Flora sensed a simmering unease ran beneath the smiles and polite requests to pass the water jug, the subject of Mr Parnell’s demise present but never spoken of.

  The entrée plates were removed and a waiter approached with a wide tray expertly balanced on one shoulder from which he distributed dishes of chocolate mousse among the diners at a nearby table.

  Without warning, Eloise rose awkwardly from her chair, unbalanced and staggered backward, her arm flung out behind her in an effort to stay upright.

  Flora brought a hand to her mouth, aware of what was about to happen but helpless to prevent it. Dismayed, she could only watch as Eloise’s hand sent the tray of glass dishes flying from the man’s hands.

  Chairs were hurriedly scraped back. A man at the next table issued an expulsion of rage, his evening shirt sporting a large smear of whipped cream.

  Eloise surveyed the damage dispassionately, offering a garbled but incoherent apology.

  A steward led the cream-splattered man away, while a stiff-lipped waiter gathered pieces of broken glass whilst uttering repeated apologies.

  ‘I feel quite woozy.’ Eloise raised a hand dramatically to her forehead. ‘Mr Harrington, Bunny. Would you be a darling and take me back to my suite?’ She ignored a respectable offer to do exactly that from Gerald.

  ‘Sit down, Gerald,’ Monica snapped. Reluctantly, he resumed his seat.

  ‘We’re happy to oblige, aren’t we, Flora?’ Bunny rose, hauling Flora to her feet.

  ‘What?’ Flora gaped. ‘Why me?’

  ‘I insist.’ Bunny wrapped an arm round Eloise’s waist and addressed Flora in a whisper over her shoulder. ‘I’ve no desire to be trapped in a stateroom alone with an inebriated woman.’

  Eloise giggled and flung her arm round Bunny’s neck.

  ‘I never took you for a coward,’ Flora said mischievously. Then the thought she was about to leave the safety of the crowded dining room brought back the earlier incident. ‘I’ll come, provided you promise to collect Eddy from the musical evening and bring him back to the suite for me.’ She picked her way along behind them as Bunny guided an unsteady Eloise towards the doors.

  This seemed to take Bunny by surprise, who blinked. ‘I’ll pour his cocoa for him if you like.’

  ‘You don’t have to be sarcastic. He isn’t a baby. It’s almost dark and - I simply want to make sure he’s safe that’s all.’ She trailed after them, speculating on which of her audience had threatened her outside earlier, but only curious or bemused sta
res followed them out, not malicious ones.

  *

  By the time Flora had retrieved Eloise’s key from her bag and unlocked her stateroom door, Eloise clung to Bunny like a rag doll, leaving him with no option but to hoist her into his arms and carry her inside. Lowering her limp figure onto the bed, he barely paused to see if she was likely to fall off again before backing away.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Flora demanded, bringing him to a halt at the door.

  ‘My chivalrous deed is done.’ He held both hands up in surrender. ‘I’ll order some coffee to be sent in, but I’ll leave the rest to you.’

  ‘You won’t forget Eddy, will you?’

  ‘Were you serious about that?’

  She nodded, trying not to shiver as the croaky voice accompanied by a wave of hot breath on her neck returned to haunt her.

  ‘Well, if you insist, of course I’ll fetch him.’ He gave an airy backwards wave of one hand and disappeared through the door without a backwards look.

  ‘Black coffee is what you need, Miss Lane,’ Flora addressed the prone figure on the bed. ‘Or you’ll be fit for nothing in the morning.’ She plucked the coverlet from a nearby chair and spread it over Eloise’s childlike form.

  Eloise moaned but barely stirred, her cloud of messy black curls in stark contrast to the snow-white pillow. She looked just as pretty in sleep as she did awake, with dark eyelashes gently curved on her pale cheeks, her expertly applied red lipstick not even smudged. Even her bodice rose and fell gently with each silent breath. She didn’t even drool.

  The stateroom was similar to Flora’s own, but with only the one bedroom and an identical tiny bathroom. Flora left the bedroom door open, the bed clearly visible from the sitting area. In both rooms, the detritus of Eloise’s chaotic life lay strewn over every surface: open pots of cosmetics scattered on the dresser, a feather puff on a layer of flesh-coloured grains on the polished top. A string of agate beads looped over the corner of the mirror. The mess had spilled over into the sitting area too, with an oyster silk negligee discarded on an armchair. A pair of shoes discarded on the floor beside the bureau, its top messy with empty boxes and discarded crumpled scarves.