Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  “Why not?”

  “Put yourself in his position.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you want to conceal your identity on a ship, you’d find it much more difficult in first class where everyone is on show. The most obvious place to go to ground is in steerage.”

  “Safety in numbers.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “There’ll be hundreds of men there who are the same age, height and coloring as Edward Hammond. Much easier for him to avoid detection.”

  She smiled. “You should have been a criminal, George.”

  “I’ve just learned to think like one.”

  Genevieve was rather deflated by what he had said, but she saw the logic of his argument. The wanted man would be even harder to find than she had imagined — if, that is, Edward Hammond was actually aboard. All that the police could say was that there was a likelihood of his being on the Celtic. Had it been an incontrovertible fact, and had the ship not sailed so far before the telegraphed messages were received, the captain might have considered going back to port so that the police could come aboard and institute a search. He would not make such a momentous decision on the strength of a mere possibility. With or without Hammond, they had sailed on.

  Dillman was wearing a well-cut navy-blue suit and a sober tie, but Genevieve had opted for more dramatic attire. Her silk evening dress had a turquoise hue and displayed her figure to advantage. She wore the opal necklace that her husband had bought her in Australia and an opal dress ring set in gold. Brushed up at the back, her hair was held in place by a large silver slide. Genevieve had used cosmetics frugally but artfully to enhance her beauty.

  “This is what comes of hobnobbing with the aristocracy,” said Dillman, appraising her. “You have to dress the part.”

  “Lady Bulstrode is a stickler for decorum.”

  “Then I’d not pass muster.”

  “They were kind enough to invite me to dine with them, so I had to make the effort. How do I look?”

  “Irresistible,” he said, reaching out for her.

  “One moment, George,” she told him, pushing him gently away. “We’re still on duty as ship’s detectives.”

  Dillman grinned. “I was thinking of a husband’s duties.”

  “Wait for a more opportune time,” said Genevieve, brushing his cheek with a kiss. “We have to be patient. Besides, you haven’t told me whom you’ve befriended since you’ve been on board.”

  “Oh, nobody of importance,” he said casually. “An English couple — you’ve probably never even heard of them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle.”

  Genevieve gaped. “You’ve met them?”

  “I’ve met Sir Arthur. His wife was taking a nap when I called on him earlier. He’s not at all as I expected,” said Dillman. “Literary gentlemen can be rather pompous at times, but not him. Sir Arthur is refreshingly down-to-earth.”

  “How did you bump into him?”

  “He sent for me, Genevieve.”

  Dillman explained why he had been summoned to meet the celebrated author, then he fielded a stream of questions from Genevieve. She had been fascinated to learn that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was on the Celtic and had hoped to catch a glimpse of him at some point. Dillman had actually befriended him.

  “I’m insanely jealous of you, George,” she said.

  “And I of you, darling,” he countered. “I may have made the acquaintance of a knight, but you’re on intimate terms with a baron.”

  “With his wife, to be more exact. It was Lady Bulstrode who decided to take me under her wing.”

  “Lord Bulstrode will not complain when he sees you looking like that. You’ll be the center of attention in the dining saloon.”

  “Oh, I hope not,” she sighed, taking a last critical look at herself in the mirror. “I don’t want anybody else to dance attendance on me.”

  He was intrigued. “You’ve gained a first admirer already?”

  “I think that’s what he is.”

  “Surely you know.”

  “I don’t, George. I wish I did. I couldn’t fathom him somehow. He was inscrutable. He invented an excuse to talk to me on deck and was very courteous, but there was something about him that was vaguely disturbing.”

  “Disturbing?”

  “I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.”

  “But it was no chance encounter.”

  “Oh, no. He was lying in wait for me.”

  “So why did you find him unsettling?”

  “Heaven knows,” she said with a shrug. “Nothing untoward happened between us — we only spoke for a few minutes. And he made no attempt to arrange a meeting with me.”

  “Yet you sensed something?”

  “I did, George. I’m well used to male attention and quite adroit at dealing with it as a rule. But I didn’t get the feeling that he was really interested in me as an individual. What I felt was this sense of calculation. And it was faintly unnerving.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Spurrier,” she said. “Frank Spurrier.”

  Frank Spurrier had sailed on the Celtic so many times before that he took the sumptuousness of its first-class areas for granted. He was no longer impressed by the splendor of the dining saloon with its magnificent dome of stained glass and its lavish decoration. It was left to the couple opposite him at the table to express delight at the luxurious surroundings. Once introductions had been made, Jane Lowbury gazed around the room with awe.

  “I just love all this extravagance,” she said, exhibiting perfect teeth in a smile. “It’s like being in a fancy hotel.”

  “That’s why I chose White Star,” explained her husband.

  “It’s wonderful, David!”

  “No more than you deserve.”

  Jane Lowbury was a shapely young woman in her twenties with an almost doll-like prettiness. Her bright blue eyes were alight at the wonder of what she saw. Seated beside her, David Lowbury was a more phlegmatic character, older than his wife, more sophisticated and more inclined to measure his words before speaking. Of stocky build and with close-cropped hair, he had the quiet confidence of a moneyed man. From the way that he and his wife kept referring to each other by name, and touching each other, Spurrier surmised that they might be on their honeymoon.

  When they discovered that he was English, he was assailed by questions about London and he answered them readily. David and Jane Lowbury were pleasant company, though Spurrier would much rather have been at the table where Genevieve Masefield was sitting. From time to time he glanced across to see how his rival was getting on with her. But he was unfailingly polite to his new acquaintances.

  “This is your first visit to England, then?” he said.

  “Yes,” replied Jane, “and we’re so excited about it, aren’t we, David? Actually,” she continued, lowering her voice as if confiding a secret, “we’re going to Paris as well.”

  “A magical city — you’ll enjoy Paris.”

  “You know it, Mr. Spurrier?”

  “Very well.”

  “What should we see?”

  “Everything.”

  “That sounds like good advice,” said Lowbury with an easy smile. “May I ask what line you’re in, Mr. Spurrier?”

  “I run an auction house in London.”

  “Antiques and paintings?”

  “Anything that commands a good price, Mr. Lowbury. Or, to put it more succinctly, anything of real beauty.” He smiled at Jane. “If she were not married, I’d be tempted to put in a bid for your wife.”

  Jane responded with a giggle of appreciation and Lowbury seemed pleased with the compliment. He squeezed his wife’s arm with affection, then turned back to Spurrier.

  “Is that why you came to New York — looking for items to buy?”

  “It is, indeed,” said Spurrier, “and I had quite a good haul this time. It’s safely stored in a crate in the hold.”

 
“What did you acquire?”

  “Furniture, china and a couple of paintings. But the most exciting purchase on this visit was a selection of rare books.”

  Jane was intrigued. “You mean secondhand books?”

  “These have been through many hands, Mrs. Lowbury.”

  “Yet they still have value? That seems crazy to me.”

  “The books in question belonged to a man who collected works by French authors. He had first editions of Montesquieu, Voltaire and so on. The real gem was a copy of Montaigne’s Essais. It was published in 1580, so it will fetch a high price.”

  “If this man was so fond of his books,” said Lowbury, puzzled, “why did he agree to part with them?”

  “He didn’t,” said Spurrier. “It was his widow who sold them to me. When her husband died she had no need of the library and so she contacted me. It was a happy coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Yes. I’d actually sold two of the books at auction in London to this particular collector. His wife had my business card. I was able to buy back the two books — both by Diderot, as it happens — along with several others. That library was a treasure trove.”

  “I had no idea there was so much money in old books.”

  “The older, the better,” Spurrier told him, “though they don’t necessarily have to be centuries old. The trick is to spot an author who has great promise early in his career. Then you lay down first editions of his work like fine wine and wait for their value to grow. Look at Charles Dickens, for instance,” he said, warming to his theme. “Anyone with a copy of The Pickwick Papers in its original serial form would be able to sell it for vastly more than was paid for it when the magazines first came out. Good authors are excellent investments.”

  “So it seems,” said Lowbury, genuinely interested. “I started out as a stockbroker and I thought I knew the market, but it never occurred to me to put money into books. I always went for a quicker return. But you say that the profit margins are attractive?”

  “Very attractive — if you pick the right books.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’ve a perfect example on this very ship,” said Spurrier, looking around. “Somewhere in here is the famous British author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” admitted Jane.

  “Yes, you have,” corrected Lowbury. “Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Oh, did he write those books?”

  “And lots of others,” said Spurrier. “He has an international reputation. The early Sherlock Holmes stories were published in The Strand Magazine. Copies of those editions have already appreciated markedly in value. Sir Arthur’s work is a target for collectors now.”

  “You live and learn,” said Lowbury. “Thank you, Mr. Spurrier. If you have your business card on you, I’d be grateful to have one. It may be that Jane and I can visit your auction room while we’re in London. Not that we’re interested in old French books, mind you,” he added with a smile, “but china is a different matter.”

  “We always have plenty of that,” said Spurrier, taking a card from his waistcoat pocket and handing it over. “In ten days’ time, everything that I bought in New York will be auctioned. It would be rather ironic if you bid for something that had already crossed the Atlantic once.”

  “Oh, we aim to settle in England in due course.”

  “Yes,” added Jane. “One of the reasons we’re going is to look for a house where we can live one day. David is used to it, but I find New York so brash and crowded. I come from a small town in Connecticut.”

  “Jane fell in love with those paintings by Constable,” said her husband fondly. “I keep telling her that it may not actually be like that in Suffolk, but she insisted that we at least take a look.”

  “You won’t be disappointed,” said Spurrier.

  Throughout the meal, conversation between the three of them ebbed and flowed. Frank Spurrier spoke to the people on either side of him — David and Jane Lowbury also chatted with their immediate neighbors — but the Englishman always returned to the people directly opposite him. He found Jane quite charming, if a trifle gauche, and thought her husband an interesting character. Having studied the stock market keenly for years, Lowbury had made some lucrative investments on his own account. Instead of selling stocks and bonds, he explained, he had gravitated upward to become a financier. He was now on the board of a number of companies. Yet he remained modest about his achievements. Spurrier took to the man. They had a mutual interest in making money.

  When the meal was over and people were starting to drift out of the saloon, Spurrier glanced once more at the table where Genevieve Masefield had been sitting with Joshua Cleves. His friend was still there and so were Lord and Lady Bulstrode, but there was no sign of Genevieve. Spurrier was annoyed that he had missed the opportunity to exchange at least a few words with her. Excusing himself from the table, he picked his way across the room. Seeing him approach, Cleves got to his feet.

  “Good evening, Frank,” he said. “Delicious meal.”

  Spurrier nodded. “I always enjoy good food.”

  “Lord and Lady Bulstrode, allow me to present Frank Spurrier.”

  Cleves made the introductions as if the elderly couple were old friends of his and not simply recent acquaintances. Lord Bulstrode was a corpulent man of seventy with rheumy eyes and a pudgy face that was further enlarged by two bushy white side-whiskers. His florid complexion suggested a fondness for alcohol. His wife, by contrast, was a slim, pale, birdlike creature, bowed with age yet possessing an undeniable air of distinction.

  “Frank owns the best auction house in London,” said Cleves.

  Lord Bulstrode elevated an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “That’s how we met. I bought some antiques from him.”

  “It’s all that you seem to do these days, Josh,” said Spurrier, trying to score a point off him. “Since you became a member of the Idle Rich, you’ve dedicated your life to indolence.”

  Cleves laughed. “And to getting richer!”

  “In England, fortunately, wealth is not the only criterion by which we judge a person.”

  “Quite so,” agreed Lord Bulstrode, jowls wobbling. “Breeding comes into it — decisive factor, in my view — and standards, of course. I judge a man by the standards he sets himself.”

  “So do I, Rupert,” said Cleves.

  Spurrier winced to hear that his rival was already on first-name terms with Lord Bulstrode. If he had insinuated himself into their good graces, Spurrier feared, he might also have done the same with Genevieve Masefield. After going through the conversational niceties, Lord and Lady Bulstrode went off to have an early night. Spurrier was left alone with Joshua Cleves.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Well what?”

  “How did you get on with Miss Masefield?”

  “A gentleman does not talk about such things.”

  “Oh, come on, Josh. Don’t be so irritating.”

  “I’m serious,” said Cleves with condescension. “It would be quite wrong to breach confidentiality.”

  “You dined in a public room — what’s confidential about that?”

  “You wouldn’t understand, Frank.”

  “Did you speak to the lady?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then what was said?”

  “It was more a question of what was not said.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does to a true huntsman,” Cleves told him. “Looks, smiles and gestures can be far more eloquent than words.”

  “So what did you divine from them?”

  “I told you — I’m not prepared to discuss it.”

  “I think you’re bluffing,” decided Spurrier. “Miss Masefield kept you at arm’s length. If you and she established such a bond, why did she leave the table so early?”

  “I’ll ask her tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” said Cleves smugly. �
�It’s the one thing I am prepared to disclose. Genevieve and I will be having breakfast together.”

  Frank Spurrier felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

  FOUR

  When dinner was over, most of the passengers made their way either to the public rooms or to their respective cabins. A few ventured out on deck, but a stiff breeze deterred all but the really determined and the hopelessly romantic. Nelson Rutherford stood outside the door of the first-class dining saloon so that he could be seen and recognized by those who went past. Like anyone who held the post, he felt it was important for the purser to be a visible presence on the voyage. Rutherford had an extraordinary memory for faces, and people he had already met in the course of the first day were hailed by name. Some stopped to chat, others merely gave him a nod of acknowledgment. Inevitably, he had to listen to a few minor complaints. As the mass exodus slowed to a dribble, George Dillman sauntered across to the purser.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  “I haven’t spotted him yet,” admitted Rutherford.

  “Who?”

  “The wanted man — Edward Hammond.”

  “He may not be aboard.”

  “That’s my fervent hope, Mr. Dillman.”

  “And even if he is, he won’t necessarily be traveling first class.”

  “True.”

  “We’ve the best part of three thousand passengers on the ship,” said Dillman. “That makes the job of finding him much more difficult.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “That we wait until he shows his hand.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Remember that first telegraph message, Mr. Rutherford? It said that the murder was committed during a burglary at the victim’s home. Hammond went to that house in order to steal something, not to kill anyone. He’s a professional thief. If he is aboard the Celtic, I don’t think he’ll be able to resist practicing his trade.”

  “In his place, I’d just want to hide.”

  “Oh, he probably thinks he’s safe now that we’re afloat,” said Dillman. “I fancy that the temptation will be too strong. There are a lot of wealthy people on this ship, and not all of them have the sense to keep their valuables in a safe. If Edward Hammond is here, then sooner or later we’ll know about it.”