by Conrad Allen
“I like to know what we’re up against,” said Dillman with a smile, “and so does my partner.”
“I thought the two of you would turn up together.”
“We make a point of staying apart, Mr. Rutherford. If we’re seen together, people might start to connect us and that could hamper the pursuit of any villains aboard. We do our best to look like ordinary passengers so that we can mix easily with everyone else. That way, we have a chance to catch any criminals off guard.”
“We don’t get too many crooks on the Celtic.”
“How do you know?”
“Because so few crimes ever come to our notice.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re not committed,” Dillman argued. “Certain crimes are not always reported — blackmail, for instance — and others are not discovered until passengers have disembarked. It’s a rare ship that has no villainy on it at all. I just hope that we have no real problems this time,” he went on, remembering his promise to Genevieve. “On the Oceanic we had a murder to solve.”
“Nothing like that has ever happened on the Celtic,” Rutherford told him. “Her problem is that she’s been dogged by bad luck.”
“In what way?”
“Less than two years after her maiden voyage she collided with a steamer in the River Mersey. Six months later there was a fire in hold number five while she was docked at Liverpool. A cargo of cotton, leather and other merchandise was destroyed. A more worrying incident came on Christmas Day 1905.” The purser grimaced at the memory. “It was my first voyage on the vessel.”
“What happened?”
“We were hit by a massive wave that sent water into all of the second-class areas. Windows were smashed, doors taken off their hinges and carpets ruined. It was a nightmare.”
“I can imagine,” said Dillman, knowing how treacherous the North Atlantic could be. “It’s difficult to be full of Christmas spirit when you’re soaked to the skin.”
“The awful thing is that the same thing happened again three years later. I was deputy purser at the time. Huge waves buffeted us on the westward crossing,” recalled Rutherford, “and scoured the decks. The wooden railing was torn from the bridge and there was a lot of other damage.”
“A real chapter of accidents, then.”
“It didn’t end there, Mr. Dillman. Last year, when we docked at Liverpool, we had a fire in the hold that burned for two days.”
“Thank goodness you were not at sea when it broke out.”
“A small mercy, but an important one.” He gave a reassuring smile. “I wouldn’t want you to think that the Celtic has a jinx on it. Most of the time she’s a real joy to sail on.”
“I’m sure that she is.”
“Pleasure to have you and Miss Masefield aboard.”
“Thank you.”
Rutherford picked up some papers from the desk. “There’s a passenger list for each of you,” he explained, handing them over to Dillman, “and a diagram of the ship. Not that you’ll need to go anywhere near some parts of it.”
“Any information about the vessel is welcome.”
“Then I’d better warn you about the competition.”
“Competition?” repeated Dillman.
“Yes, you and your partner will not be the only detectives aboard. On this crossing we have the honor of carrying the most famous sleuth of them all.”
“Really?”
“Look at the list of first-class passengers,” advised Rutherford. “One name will jump out at you — that of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I daresay you know why he’s so famous.”
“Yes,” said Dillman with interest. “Sherlock Holmes.”
TWO
No matter how many times she set sail, Genevieve Masefield liked to be at the rail for the moment of departure. There was an excitement that never seemed to dull, an exhilaration at setting out each time on a new adventure. It was a shared experience. The pleasure of being part of a large, elated crowd of passengers was heightened by the presence on shore of so many relatives, friends and well-wishers who had come to wave the ship off. Those who thronged the various decks felt a tingle of anticipatory delight as the vessel pulled slowly away from the pier. Those left behind shouted and cheered with unrestrained gusto, their enthusiasm tempered by a faint sadness as they saw loved ones disappearing for a length of time. The Celtic was sailing on a huge tide of emotion.
Genevieve stayed on board until the concerted farewell slowly faded beneath the noise of the engines and the melancholy cries of the gulls. People around her began to disperse to their first-class cabins. She was about to follow them when a man stepped forward to block her way and raised his hat in greeting.
“Miss Jameson?” he said. “Miss Stella Jameson?”
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“Then I offer my profound apologies,” he said, still gazing intently at her face. “The likeness is uncanny. I could have sworn that you were she. My name is Frank Spurrier, by the way,” he went on. “Perhaps I should explain that the young lady whom you resemble so closely once worked for a friend of mine. You could be her twin.”
“Indeed?” said Genevieve.
“I should have known that you couldn’t be Stella — Miss Jameson, that is — because she, like you, is very beautiful. She must surely be married by now.”
“Not every woman chooses to relinquish her freedom.”
He was surprised. “Does that mean you are still single?”
“As it happens, I am.”
“I find that impossible to believe,” he continued, smiling at her with candid approval. “You must spend all your time turning down marriage proposals. Before this voyage is over, I daresay that you’ll have spurned a few more amorous swains.”
“I do not make a habit of it, Mr. Spurrier.”
“Do you object to the notion of marriage?”
“That’s my business,” she said crisply.
Genevieve wanted to move away, but there was something about him that kept her rooted to the spot. Though his gaunt face and protruding nose gave him an almost sinister appearance, his eyes had an appealing glint in them and his voice had a beguiling quality. She found him strangely interesting.
“Have you sailed on the Celtic before?” she asked.
“Seven or eight times.”
“You’re a seasoned traveler, then.”
“Business brings me to New York at least twice a year.”
“And you always choose the White Star Line?”
“If I can.”
“Cunard would get you here quicker.”
“It’s not only a question of speed,” he said blandly. “Loyalty also comes into it and I’ve always been a loyal person. What about you?”
“Yes, I value loyalty as well.”
“Does that mean you stay faithful to the White Star Line?”
“Most of the time,” she said. “To get to New York, I sailed on the Oceanic and I’ve also been on the Baltic.”
“Another seasoned traveler, then. Why haven’t we bumped into each other before? By the way, you didn’t give me your name.”
“It’s not Stella Jameson, I can assure you of that.”
He laughed. “To be honest, I’m rather relieved.”
“Why?”
“Because she was not the most intelligent person on the planet,” he explained. “No disrespect to her. Stella was gorgeous to the eye but she had very little conversation — unlike you.”
“How can you say that when you hardly know me?”
“Instinct. It never fails.”
“Does that mean you’ve had plenty of practice at accosting unaccompanied young ladies?”
“Not at all,” he said, hearing the note of censure in her voice, “and I hope that you don’t think that’s what I was doing. One can sense things about people. That’s all I meant. And I sense that I’m talking to someone who c
an hold her own in any situation. That was not the case with poor Stella.”
“Then why did you approach me with such readiness if you believed that I was she?”
“A familiar face is always welcome on a voyage.”
“True.”
“Unless the face is as unprepossessing as mine, of course.” He gave her a smile of self-deprecation. “It does at least have the virtue of being unique. Nobody has ever mistaken me for someone else.”
Genevieve knew that he was fishing for a compliment that she was not prepared to give him. Torn between curiosity and caution, she could not make up her mind about Frank Spurrier. To travel in first class and to wear such expensive clothing he had to be at least moderately wealthy, and he had the easy sophistication of a man of the world. But something about his manner rang a distant warning bell. She decided to reserve judgment on her new acquaintance.
He stood back. “I’m holding you up, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Am I forgiven for thinking you were someone else?”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Spurrier.” She gave him a farewell nod and walked past him. “I suggest we forget it.”
“You didn’t tell me your name,” he complained.
She paused. “That’s right — I didn’t.”
“Ah, I see — I’m to be kept in the dark.”
“I cherish my privacy.”
“In that case, I shall call you Stella.”
“Then you’ll be well wide of the mark.”
“Will you not even give me a hint?”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said pleasantly. “I have to unpack my trunk.”
“Good-bye, Stella.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Spurrier.”
As she walked toward the nearest door, she was conscious that his eyes followed her every inch of the way. Genevieve was mystified. Her first impression of a person was usually so clear, but not in this case. Polite, unthreatening and engaging, Frank Spurrier nevertheless worried her and she could not understand why. Nor could she explain why she had held back her name from him. Of only one thing was she firmly convinced — that there was no such person as Stella Jameson.
Many of the people in steerage had never been on a vessel of any kind before, still less on a liner that would sail over three thousand miles across a vast ocean. They had crowded the rail eagerly and watched the familiar sights of New York starting to diminish in size before their eyes. A first visit to England — or to Europe — was, for them, a thrilling venture that held all kinds of possibilities. For others, however, the voyage was a form of death sentence, returning them to countries that held only poverty and unemployment for them, a misery they had tried desperately to escape. Instead of pleasure, they felt only pain. Instead of a surge of hope, they were weighed down by a sense of abject failure. Having gone to extraordinary lengths to reach America in order to embrace its opportunities, they had been deemed unfit as citizens in some way. Rejection was more than a violent shock to them. It was like a physical blow that left them stunned.
Nobody was suffering more than Leonard Rush. While other emigrants huddled together on deck in groups, or moped in their cramped cabins, Rush sat alone in the dining saloon, deep in contemplation. He was a tall, wiry man in his fifties with stooping shoulders and a face pitted by a life of drudgery. Beneath his tattered overcoat he wore his only suit, frayed at the cuffs and worn at the elbows. His cap concealed a balding head that was covered by livid blue scars. There were other visible mementos of a working life spent down a coal mine. Two fingers were missing from his left hand and he had lost an eye when a piece of vengeful anthracite had shot up into it.
But it was the invisible wounds that smarted the most. His first two children had been stillborn, a tragedy that he ascribed to God’s disapproval of him. Rush gave up drinking, attended church regularly and tried to curb his tendency to violence. When a third child was eventually born — a healthy daughter — he believed that he had achieved some sort of redemption. It was short-lived. The girl died of diphtheria before her first birthday, plunging her parents into dejection. Rush began to drink again and get involved in brawls. There were no more children.
“It was not to be,” said a voice beside him.
Rush looked up. “What’s that?”
“I saw you on Ellis Island. You were turned away, just like us.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe it’s all for the best.”
“The best?”
Rush could not believe he had heard the word. Nor could he believe that the old man who had spoken it could do so with such philosophical calm. There was an air of gentle resignation about Saul Pinnick. Wearing a moth-eaten black overcoat and a battered bowler hat, Pinnick was a small, shrunken individual in his late sixties with a wizened face fringed with a silver beard. While Rush was in a state of anguish at what had happened, the other man seemed able to shrug it off as a minor disappointment.
“We had family in America,” said Pinnick, “but that didn’t matter. The doctors still wouldn’t let us through. Miriam, my wife, is almost blind and I’m afflicted with all kinds of ailments. They chalked something on our lapels, and that was that.” He gave a hollow laugh. “We were turned away from the gates of paradise.” He sat down beside Rush. “What about you, my friend?”
“Me?”
“Did they give you a reason?”
“No,” replied Rush.
“They must have offered some explanation.”
“They didn’t.”
“Well, they should’ve,” insisted Pinnick. “Nobody can be rejected on the whim of an official. Were your documents in order? Did you have enough money? And what about your medical examination — did you pass that?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters a great deal. You deserved a reason.”
“It’s all over now.”
“But you’ve been badly treated, my friend.”
Rush became aggressive. “Why should you care?”
“I’m only showing an interest.”
“You’re poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.”
“There’s no need to get upset,” said Pinnick, spreading his arms in a gesture of conciliation. “We’re on your side. Miriam and I are in exactly the same position as you.”
“No, you’re not,” said Rush, getting abruptly to his feet. “Now, leave me alone. I don’t want your sympathy.”
Turning on his heel, he stalked out.
Though he had seen many photographs of the famous author, George Dillman realized that none of them had captured the essence of the man. In the flesh, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was tall, well built, and straight-backed, retaining, now that he had turned fifty, more than a few vestiges of an athletic youth. With his heavy eyelids, ruddy complexion and drooping mustache, he looked like a benign walrus. When he exchanged a handshake with him, Dillman felt the firmness of his grip.
“It’s good of you to come so promptly,” said Conan Doyle.
“I had a note from the purser to say that you wanted to see me, Sir Arthur. You can always expect a swift response.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dillman.”
“Is there a problem of some sort?”
“There may be — in due course. But that’s not the only reason I asked to meet one of the ship’s detectives. I was curious to see what you looked like and I’m reassured to learn that you are nothing at all like a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“I lack his brilliance and his deductive powers.”
“I’m sure that you have compensating virtues,” said Conan Doyle, sizing him up. “The purser spoke very highly of you. He tells me that you once worked as a Pinkerton agent.”
“That was how I learned my trade, Sir Arthur.”
“And you learned it well.”
“I had to — my life sometimes depends on it.”
“Well, your life is not at risk here. Indeed, there’s no danger involved at all. My request is ve
ry trivial, I fear. I need to ask a favor.”
“Granted before you put it into words.”
“That’s very obliging of you, Mr. Dillman,” said Conan Doyle, “but you haven’t heard what it is yet.”
What Dillman had heard was the nervous, halting voice with its clear echoes of Conan Doyle’s Scottish upbringing. From such a forthright man, the detective had expected more confidence. They were in the author’s stateroom, one of the most luxurious on the ship, and Dillman was delighted to have such an early opportunity of making the acquaintance of Conan Doyle. The last thing he had allowed for was the man’s slight diffidence.
“Fame sits rather heavily on my shoulders at times,” confided the author. “I’m the first to admit that I enjoy its trappings, and my wife and I made the most of them on our lecture tour around your country. But the truth is that I’m not, by nature, gregarious. I hate being at the mercy of my admirers.”
“You’ll find lots of those on board, Sir Arthur.”
“That’s my fear and it leads me to my request. If you see me being helplessly besieged in one of the public rooms, I’d be most grateful if you could come to my rescue.”
“Of course.”
“Find some excuse to call me away and I’ll be eternally grateful. My wife is an able bodyguard, but I’m sometimes ambushed on my own. At times like that, I need a friendly intervention.”
“Say no more. I’ll be standing by.”
“Casual conversation with a few people is not a problem,” said Conan Doyle. “It’s when I get mobbed by a dozen or more ardent readers that I begin to feel uneasy.”
“I understand, Sir Arthur.”
“I knew that you would.”
Dillman returned his smile. He had taken an instant liking to the man. Conan Doyle was affable, approachable and entirely without affectation. With his burly frame and red cheeks he looked more like a head gardener than a renowned author. After a lengthy tour of the eastern states he seemed rather tired, yet there was still a merry twinkle in his eye.
“I have a second favor to ask, Mr. Dillman,” he said with mock seriousness. “I want you to promise me that your choice of profession was in no way inspired by any of my detective stories.”