by Conrad Allen
“I agree,” said Halliday, turning to the chief engineer. “Leave this to us, Mr. Rourke. I know that you’re anxious to get back to your post. We’ll keep you fully informed of any developments.”
“If it does turn out to be this turd Barcroft—”
“Then we’ll take the appropriate action,” the purser assured him, opening the door to let him out. “Thanks for your help. At least we know where to start now.”
The chief engineer looked grimly from one to the other, then ducked his head as he took his huge frame out. Closing the door behind him, Charles Halliday gave an apologetic shrug.
“You’ll have to forgive him sounding off like that. Fergus is a proud man. Guards his territory very carefully. This has been a real blow to him. He takes it personally”
“I can see that.”
“Not unnaturally, the captain is disturbed as well. He wants the matter cleared up quickly but discreetly. So, where do we begin?”
“With Mr. Barcroft. I didn’t want to say this in front of the chief engineer because he’s inflamed enough already, but I fancy that I saw our journalist behaving rather suspiciously last night. On the prowl after everyone else had gone off to bed.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t be certain that it was him, mark you, and I never got close enough to confirm it. But if it was not Barcroft, it was his double.”
“Where did you see him?”
“On the promenade deck,” said Dillman. “I tried to follow him but he led me all over the ship and eventually shook me off when we got to the main deck.”
“Why go down there? His cabin is on the shelter deck.”
“He didn’t stop to tell me, Mr. Halliday.”
“Did he know he was being stalked?”
“I’m not sure.”
Halliday pondered. “What do you suggest we do?”
“Firstly, we must search his cabin. Thoroughly. Whoever you assign to the task must leave the place exactly as he found it.”
“Unless they actually find the stolen documents.”
“Slim chance of that,” said Dillman. “We have to be realistic. A man who’s clever enough to steal the documents will know where to hide them. I doubt very much if he’d leave them hanging around his own cabin. He might already have passed them on to an accomplice.”
“It’s still worth a try.”
“Definitely. We may not reclaim what was taken but we might find other clues to Mr. Barcroft’s real purpose for being on board. But let’s not rush to judgment. He could still be innocent.”
“What happens then, Mr. Dillman?”
“We start looking elsewhere.”
“Right.”
“Will you organize the search of his cabin?”
“Yes. Do you wish to be involved?”
“No,” said Dillman. “I’d prefer to speak to Henry Barcroft myself and sound him out. It will also keep him occupied while your men go through his things. I take it that Barcroft is on your list of accredited journalists?”
“No doubt about that.”
“Yet he’s not representing any specific newspaper.”
“He’s a freelance.”
Dillman lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “A freelance what, though?”
Genevieve Masefield agreed to meet him, more out of gratitude than out of any desire to spend time alone in his company. Henry Barcroft had introduced her to Lord Carradine, who in turn had introduced her to his circle of friends. Genevieve had made progress. Unfortunately it was in spite of Abigail and Carlotta Hubermann rather than because of them. Kind and well meaning though the two sisters were, they had been something of a hindrance during the visit to Lord Carradine’s private lounge on the previous evening. Genevieve needed to distance herself from them. When she headed for the Veranda Café that morning, she made sure that the Hubermanns did not know where she was going or with whom she intended to pass an idle hour.
Henry Barcroft was in an expansive mood, behaving more like a first-class passenger than a journalist on an assignment. The bright sunshine encouraged him to wear a striped blazer, white trousers, and a straw boater. He lacked only a cricket bat to turn him into a symbol of the English summer. For her part, Genevieve chose a two-piece dress carefully cut to display her figure. The long, narrow patterned skirt reached to her ankles and was matched by a Zoave jacket, which covered her white silk blouse. Her hat, trimmed with velvet bows, had a low crown and wide brim, and was set at just the right angle to show off her face to its best effect.
Elsewhere in the café, Norfolk jackets were popular among the men though there were a few lounge coats among the more elderly travelers who still seemed to feel that they were relaxing at their London clubs. It was left to the ladies to supply any color, style, or variety. One woman, in a mustard dress and a voluminous hat, sat alone and caressed the tiny dog lying somnolently in her lap. Another, anticipating much colder weather, was huddled in a furtrimmed coat with a muff at the ready.
Henry Barcroft summoned the waiter and ordered a pot of tea.
“How did you get on with Lord Carradine?” he asked Genevieve.
“He was extremely nice.”
“One of the old school. Odd thing is, although he’s made millions out of tobacco, he doesn’t smoke himself.” He gave a laugh. “Not exactly a good advertisement for his cigarettes, is it?”
“I hadn’t realized he was such a sportsman.”
“Oh, yes. He’s a regular on the house party circuit. Quite a shot, by all accounts. And a celebrated horseman. Of course, there’s another reason why he gets so many invitations for weekends in the country.”
“Is there?”
“Come, Miss Masefield. I don’t believe you’re that naive.”
“Ah,” she said, understanding. “Lord Carradine is a bachelor.”
“A highly eligible bachelor. I daresay he has an endless array of pretty daughters pushed at him for inspection but none have managed to ensnare him yet. He’s too fond of his freedom.”
“Yet he did talk about wanting to father children.”
“My guess is that he’s probably done that already!” said Barcroft with a smirk. “Without even knowing it. Well, if he wants the Carradine dynasty to continue, he’ll have to walk down the aisle with someone sooner or later. Do you think he’d make good husband material?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Barcroft,” she said, resenting his familiar tone and not wishing to be drawn into speculation. “Lord Carradine is a real gentleman, that’s all I know. But what happened to you last night?” she went on, moving the conversation in another direction. “You seemed to disappear from the dining saloon.”
“I had to, Miss Masefield. I have no dining privileges in first class. We minions of the press are second-class citizens. We have access to the whole ship during the day but the toffs draw the line at actually breaking bread with us.” He beamed at her. “Present company excepted, that is. I only turned up yesterday because I’d promised to make that introduction and I always honor my promises.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barcroft. It was appreciated.”
The journalist was about to pay her some fulsome compliments on her appearance when he caught sight of a familiar face coming into the café. He rose to his feet and extended his arms in a welcome.
“Here comes our mystery man again!”
“Good morning, Mr. Barcroft. How are you today?”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Dillman.”
Dillman was checked. “You know my name?”
“I told you that I was well informed. Oh,” he said, indicating his companion. “Allow me to introduce Miss Genevieve Masefield.”
Dillman took the proffered hand and gave her a little bow.
“George Dillman. Delighted to meet you, Miss Masefield.”
She gave a polite smile of acknowledgment but it lacked warmth.
“Would you care to join us?” invited Barcroft.
“I don’t wish to intrude on a private conversation,” said Dillman.
“But you might be able to help us.” He turned to Genevieve. “Mr. Dillman has a maritime background. He designs and builds yachts. A true sailor in every way.”
“Do join us, Mr. Dillman,” she said, endorsing the invitation in order to escape being alone with Barcroft. “Where do you build these yachts?”
“In Boston,” he explained, sitting beside her and catching a first whiff of her delicate perfume. “It’s a family firm. Over fifty years old now. We have an established reputation.”
“Is it a lucrative business?” asked Barcroft, resuming his seat.
“We don’t starve.”
“Only the rich can afford private yachts.”
“The firm has a long waiting list.”
“That shows how successful it is. But what I wanted to ask you was this, Mr. Dillman. In your opinion, will the Lucy manage to regain it?”
“Regain what?”
“The Blue Riband, of course.”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Barcroft.”
“Nonsense. I know very little about oceanic travel. You’re a veteran. That means you must have developed instincts. What do they tell you?”
“To beware of foolish predictions.”
“The Lusitania is bound to regain the Blue Riband,” said Genevieve. “That’s what everyone was saying over dinner last night.”
Barcroft grinned. “One of my colleagues is taking bets to that effect. I need your advice, Dillman. Should I put my money on a record?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are too many imponderables,” warned Dillman. “It’s far too early to judge. Bad weather might slow us down. Or we might be hampered by ice. It drifts down on the Labrador current and can be a real hazard. Then there’s the possibility of technical problems in the engine room, of course. And an outside chance of navigational error.”
“Not from Captain Watt, surely?”
“Highly unlikely, I agree, but it’s possible. The Lusitania is a superb ship but it would be unfair to expect too much of her on her maiden voyage. If you really want to know how to wager your money, Mr. Barcroft,” he suggested, “the person to talk to is the chief engineer.”
“I’ve already interviewed Mr. Rourke.”
“Have you?” said Dillman artlessly.
“He and I didn’t exactly get on.”
“Why not?”
“Long story. Ah!” he said, as a waiter approached. “Our tea. We’re going to need a third cup. If Americans drink tea, that is.”
“Have you never heard of the Boston Tea Party?” said Genevieve.
It was a swift riposte to Barcroft’s gibe, and Dillman shot her a smile of thanks. The tray was unloaded by the waiter and a third cup ordered. The man went off to get it. Dillman turned to Genevieve.
“You seem to be without your sentries today, Miss Masefield.”
“Sentries?”
“The two ladies I keep seeing with you.”
“I didn’t realize I’d caught your attention, sir.
“I couldn’t help noticing the three of you together.”
“They’re the Hubermann sisters,” explained Barcroft. “I wouldn’t care to go three rounds with either of them. But I wouldn’t really call them sentries.” His oily smile warned Genevieve that a compliment was coming. “Miss Masefield is the Lusitania and they are her tugboats.”
“They are dear friends of mine,” said Genevieve sharply, “and I will not have them mocked.”
“I only spoke in jest,” said the journalist, semaphoring regret.
“And in rather poor taste.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Let’s go back to the chief engineer,” suggested Dillman. “You say that the two of you did not get on. What exactly was the problem?”
But there was no time for Barcroft to answer. Abigail and Carlotta Hubermann suddenly came into the room and swooped down on them. Two more cups and a second pot of tea were ordered and conversation turned to more neutral subjects. Dillman concentrated on winning them over with a combination of charm and deference but he kept one eye on Henry Barcroft. The man was an enigma. His bonhomie was apparently inexhaustible. He was completely at ease in the company of Genevieve Masefield and the Hubermann sisters, even though none of them seemed to have any particular liking for him. Indeed, he was given a stern rebuke by Abigail at one point and a warning stare by Carlotta, but his broad smile survived intact. The more reproaches he was given, the happier he seemed to be. Dillman wondered how exuberant he would remain if he knew that his cabin was being searched at that very moment.
It was almost noon before the chance finally presented itself. While going about his own duties, the steward made sure that he went past the Rymers’ suite at regular intervals. Like his brother, Jack was short, stout, and well groomed but with a paler complexion and rather fewer teeth. A chat with a colleague elicited the fact that the Rymers were still in their suite, and he began to think they would be entombed there for the entirety of the voyage, making it impossible for Jack and his brother to earn another reward from a grateful second-class passenger.
Violet Rymer finally broke cover. Tired of being trapped with her parents, she excused herself to go for a walk on deck in order to work up an appetite for luncheon. Sylvia Rymer was too engrossed in her novel to wish to put it aside and her husband also sanctioned their daughter’s outing. They took it as a hopeful sign. Being locked in their lounge with a moping girl brought neither of them any pleasure. By giving Violet a degree of freedom, they might lift her spirits. Matthew Rymer went back to the study of his Bartholomew atlas and Marie Corelli weaved her spell anew for his wife.
Jack was lucky enough to see her actually coming out of the suite. That made the identification certain. Violet Rymer glanced over her shoulder, heaved a sigh, then set off down the corridor toward the stairs. The steward hurried after her, looking around to ensure that nobody else would see or hear them.
“ ’Scuse me, miss!” he called.
Violet stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“Got something for you,” he said, coming up to her and feeling in his pocket. “I am talking to Miss Violet Rymer, am I?”
“That’s right.”
“Then I’m to give you this.”
He offered something to her and she held out a palm to receive it. Mystified at first, she responded with a mild shriek when she saw what she was holding. Her hand closed on the tie pin and her legs buckled. The steward reached out to support her.
“Steady on, miss!” he said in alarm. “You all right?”
“Yes, yes,” she mumbled.
“You don’t look like it. Shall I fetch a glass of water?”
Violet slowly recovered. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“You sure?” She nodded. “Then I’ll be off, miss.”
“Wait!” she implored.
“I got my duties.”
“Who gave you this?” she asked, opening her palm. “I must know.”
“My brother, miss.”
“Brother?”
“Albert’s a steward in second class.”
“And who gave it to him?”
“A gentleman who wanted you to have it.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Never even met him, miss.”
“Did he give no name?”
“Who knows? I only did what Albert told me.”
“But he’s a second-class passenger, you say?”
Jack nodded, then scurried off down the corridor. Violet was in turmoil, not knowing whether to be anxious or elated. Philip Garrow was there, after all. She had given him the tie pin as a present. He had sent it back to her as a sign. Violet almost swooned with excitement. Putting a hand against the wall to steady herself, she debated whether she should try to make contact with him or wait for a further message. Whatever happened, his presence on the ship had to be kept secret from her parents. There would be ructions if they discovere
d that he was aboard. As she looked at the tie pin again, she remembered the moment when she gave it to him and the kiss with which he expressed his gratitude. All hesitation fled. The miracle had happened and Philip somehow contrived to get aboard. Violet had to try to reach him at once. She would find her way to the second-class quarters and begin her search. But her resolve was short-lived. Before she could even get to the steps, a cabin door opened ahead of her and Ada Weekes stepped out. When she saw Violet, her face lit up.
“Going for a walk on deck?” she asked cheerily.
“Yes, Mrs. Weekes.”
“Then I’ll come with you, if I may.”
Charles Halliday was still in his cabin when Dillman returned there. The expression on the purser’s face told him that the search had been in vain. Dillman was disappointed but not surprised.
“Did they search the cabin thoroughly?” he asked.
“They turned it inside out.”
“And they found nothing?”
“Nothing that would point to Barcroft as our man. Apart from his clothing, all that was in there were his writing materials and a few articles which he’d drafted.” Halliday shook his head wearily. “No sign of any diagrams of the ship.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s off the hook.”
“No, Mr. Dillman. But it does mean that he’s one jump ahead of us. If he really is the thief, that is. He’s far too cunning to be caught with stolen goods in his possession. Did you manage to speak to him?”
“Yes,” said Dillman. “I’ve just come from him. We had a rather strained tea party with three ladies. Barcroft is a cool customer, I have to admit that. Until this voyage, he’d never met any of them, but he was chatting away as if they were lifelong friends.”
“What’s your guess?”
“I wouldn’t trust him an inch, Mr. Halliday.”
“Then he could be the culprit?”
“I’d rather give him the benefit of the doubt until we have proof. That means probing a little deeper,” he said, brushing his mustache with a finger as he thought it through. “I want to know much more about Henry Barcroft’s reason for being on this cruise. Which newspaper is he selling his articles to? What angle is he taking in them? Why doesn’t he move around with the rest of the press contingent? Who is he trying so hard to impress? In short, what’s his game?”