by Conrad Allen
“I take your word for it, Mr. Dillman.”
“The main thing is that nobody else is made aware of the fact that we may — just may, of course — have a killer aboard. If it became common knowledge it would unsettle everyone.”
“I agree,” said Rutherford, breaking off to exchange greetings with the last of the diners. He turned back to the detective. “Well — so far, so good.”
“We’ve a long way to go yet, Mr. Rutherford.”
“I accept that but I remain sanguine.” They strolled away from the dining saloon. “Did you enjoy your meal?”
“Very much.”
“We pride ourselves on the quality of our cuisine.”
“Quite rightly,” said Dillman. “It was delicious. Though I wasn’t there to appreciate the skills of your chefs. Like you, I’m always on duty. That’s why I chose a table near the far wall and sat with my back to it. While talking to those nearest me, I could also keep an eye on the whole saloon.”
“Did you see anything of interest?”
“A great deal.”
“Such as?”
“Well, it’s always intriguing to watch people forming into groups early on. Some are traveling with friends, or as part of larger parties, but the majority are not. It’s amazing how quickly they make new acquaintances and create bonds. At the start of the meal,” Dillman recalled, “it was fairly subdued in there. By the end of the evening there was a constant babble. A good sign.”
“Did you notice Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle?”
“At his request, I paid particular attention to them. Sir Arthur asked for some assistance if I saw him surrounded by over-eager admirers at any stage.”
“Yes,” said Rutherford with a sigh. “Fame can be a real problem at times. We’ve carried celebrated writers, actors and politicians before, and some of them do get besieged.”
“I don’t think that will happen to Sir Arthur somehow. Most of the passengers will not even know who he is. Sherlock Holmes is far more famous than the man who actually brought him to life. On the other hand,” Dillman continued, “Sir Arthur has just completed a long lecture tour. His photograph will have been in many American newspapers. Someone will recognize him.”
“As long as they don’t pester him unnecessarily.”
“I’ll be on hand to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Did you meet Lady Conan Doyle?”
“No, she was resting when I visited their stateroom.”
“A charming lady,” said Rutherford, “though quite a bit younger than her husband. I understand that she’s his second wife.”
“She is,” confirmed Dillman. “His first wife died after a long illness. He seems very happy with the new Lady Conan Doyle. In fact, when they came into the dining saloon, that was the first thing that struck me about them.”
“What was?”
“They had a wonderful air of contentment, as if quietly delighted in each other’s company. It was rather touching. They looked like the perfect advertisement for marriage.”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had been pleasantly surprised over dinner. Once he had yielded up his name to the people opposite them at the table, he braced himself for the usual questions about Sherlock Holmes, but, miraculously, they never came. His dinner companions clearly knew who he was, but they spared him any interrogation about his work and deliberately introduced neutral topics of conversation.
“I was reminded of the first time we met,” he said as he and his wife entered their stateroom. “I had the identical sense of relief then. It was at an afternoon tea party on March 15, 1897.”
Lady Conan Doyle smiled nostalgically. “Do you think I’ll ever forget a date like that?”
“As with this evening, I thought I’d have to deal with the same tedious cross-examination about my work. Instead, you asked me if I’d seen the exhibition of photographs of Nansen’s expedition to the Far North. It was the last question I expected.”
“I knew that you’d once sailed to the Arctic on a whaling ship, so I assumed that you’d be interested in Nansen’s voyage.”
“I was fascinated by it. That’s why I went to hear him lecture at the Albert Hall where he received a medal from the Prince of Wales. The remarkable thing is that you were there as well.”
“Pure coincidence.”
“Oh, it had a deeper significance than that, Jean.”
“But we didn’t know each other then.”
“We were destined to meet. We were drawn together.”
“Well,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek, “I won’t argue with that. What I can tell you is that, when I went to hear Nansen at that meeting of the Royal Geographical Society, it never crossed my mind for a second that I would one day end up as your wife.”
“Do you have any regrets?”
“None at all, Arthur.”
“Neither do I, my darling.”
“Good.”
Lady Conan Doyle was a striking woman in her thirties with a pretty face framed by curly dark-blond hair. Her bright green eyes shone with intelligence and he had discovered at that fateful first meeting how quick-witted and well read she was. The former Jean Leckie had been trained as a mezzo-soprano. When he heard her singing Beethoven’s Scottish songs, he had been enchanted. The fact that her family claimed lineal descent from Rob Roy, one of the nation’s greatest heroes, was another powerful source of attraction for him.
“I always feel proud when I walk into a room with you on my arm,” he confided. “It was a joy to have you with me on the tour.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope you weren’t too bored, having to listen to me spout on.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Besides, you didn’t only talk on literary subjects. You gave lectures on spiritualism as well and we share a profound interest in that.”
“I just wish that the schedule had not been quite so full.”
“People wanted to hear you, Arthur,” she said. “That’s why so many different venues had to be fitted in. Now that we’re on the way home, you’ll have time for a nice rest.”
“So will you.” He slipped off his coat and put it on the back of a chair. “What do you make of the Celtic?”
“She’s luxurious.”
“Much more so than the Elbe, the German ship I sailed on the first time I came to America.”
“I thought you sailed on the Cunard line.”
“No,” he explained, “that was on the return voyage to Liverpool. The ship was the Etruria — nowhere near as large and lavish as this.”
“Which lecture tour did you prefer?” she asked, turning her back so that he could unhook her necklace. “The first or the second?”
“Oh, this one, without a doubt.”
“Why?”
“You were with me, for a start. Last time, I was very lonely. I had nobody to look after me.”
“Is that the only reason you brought me?” she teased. “So that I could act as your nursemaid?”
“Of course not,” he said, holding the necklace in the palm of his hand. “You inspire me, Jean. You know that.” As she turned to face him, he gave her the necklace. “When you’re beside me, I feel complete.”
“What a lovely compliment!”
“And I didn’t just want your companionship. I was desperately keen to show off America to you, like a child showing off a new toy.”
She laughed. “A rather large toy!”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, Arthur, and I’m so grateful that you brought me. It was an education from start to finish.”
“I wouldn’t have come without you.”
“I wouldn’t have let you come.” She kissed him again, then put the necklace down on a small table and began to remove her earrings. “What are we going to do on the voyage?”
“Sleep, for the most part.”
“We’re neither of us suited to hibernation.”
“Then we’ll enjoy the facilities of the vessel. There’s a
whole program of events, including a concert tomorrow afternoon. You ought to be singing in that, Jean.”
“I’ve retired from public performance.”
“As long as I can still have private ones,” insisted Conan Doyle. “I love to hear your voice.”
She stifled a yawn. “Oh, I do beg your pardon!”
“You’re tired. Go to bed.”
“What about you?”
“I thought I might just stay up for a little while.”
“You want to write something, don’t you?” she said with an understanding smile. “I know that look in your eye. When you have a new idea, you’re burning to put it down on paper.”
“I’ve trained myself to write whenever inspiration strikes, and in whatever circumstances. I’m not the kind of author who locks himself away in an ivory tower to wait for the prompting of his Muse. I can work almost anywhere,” he said, opening a bag to take out a sheaf of paper. “If we’d stayed any longer in the dining saloon, I’d have reached for the menu and started writing on the back of it.”
“What’s this idea for, Arthur — a short story or a novel?”
“Wait and see.”
“As long as you don’t stay up too late.”
“I’m a slave to the creative flow, Jean.”
“You also need your sleep as much as I do,” she warned. “You’ll have plenty of time to write on this voyage. If you confine it to daylight hours, it will be much easier on both of us.”
But her husband was not listening. Seated at the table, he was already jotting down the first few lines that had come into his mind. His wife did not protest. She knew how much his work meant to him. Leaving him to it, she withdrew quietly into the bedroom.
Genevieve Masefield rose early the next morning and glanced through the porthole. It looked as if they were blessed by a fine day. Bright sunshine was already burnishing the sea. On the horizon she caught a glimpse of another liner. After having a bath, she dressed and made her way to the dining saloon for breakfast. Before she could enter the room, Frank Spurrier materialized at her elbow.
“Good morning, Stella,” he said.
“Oh,” she replied, startled by his sudden appearance. “Good morning. But, as I told you, my name is not Stella Jameson.”
“I know. It’s Miss Genevieve Masefield.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I have my spies.”
“I don’t like being spied on, Mr. Spurrier,” she said firmly.
“Then you shouldn’t be such an object of fascination,” he said with a disarming smile. “You turned a lot of heads over dinner last evening. I was by no means the only man who wondered who you were and what your name was. Since you were dining with Lord and Lady Bulstrode, you were even more conspicuous.”
“I can see that your spies have been working hard.”
“In truth, there’s only one of them, Miss Masefield. I suppose that you might call him an unpaid informer.”
“Oh? And who might that be?”
“Your other dinner companion — Joshua Cleves.”
“You know the gentleman?”
“We’ve done business on many occasions,” said Spurrier, producing a card from his waistcoat pocket and handing it to her. “We’ve bought from each other.”
“An auction house,” Genevieve noted, studying the card. “It must be a successful one if you cross the Atlantic so often in first class.” She slipped the card into her bag. “Mr. Cleves was very personable.”
“Yes, Josh can be very charming when he wishes to be.”
“Do I detect a note of disapproval?”
“Not at all,” he said blandly. “We’re old friends. I’m very fond of him. It’s just that — like the rest of us, I suppose — he does tend to suppress certain facts about himself.”
“You mean that he has a dark secret?”
“There’s nothing sinister in his past — as far as I know, anyway. Though he dislikes being reminded of the fact that he’s the child of Polish refugees. I’ll wager that he made no mention of it over dinner.”
“None at all, Mr. Spurrier.”
“That’s typical. It’s almost as if he wants to pretend that his parents didn’t exist. He changed his name to Cleves to disguise his heritage — and to make the name easier to pronounce, of course.”
“I don’t see any harm in that.”
“There is a whisper of ingratitude about it, I feel.”
“Ingratitude?”
“Yes,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “Josh’s father came from humble origins yet went on to build up a chain of delicatessens in New York that eventually sold for millions of dollars. If I’d inherited that kind of money, I’d have felt obliged to keep the family name.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” asked Genevieve with growing suspicions. “You claim to be a friend of Mr. Cleves, yet you’re highly critical of him.”
“I just wanted you to understand the sort of person he is. Josh has many virtues — he’s cultured, forthright and strong-willed. And although he’s quintessentially American, in the best sense of the word he has an excellent knowledge of Europe — particularly of France, but that’s only natural.”
“Is it?”
“His second wife was French,” he told her. “The first, oddly enough, was English. Josh has a soft spot for English ladies.”
“What about you, Mr. Spurrier?”
“Me?”
“Do you prefer English ladies?”
He beamed at her. “Every time.”
“Yes,” she said with a slight edge, “I had the feeling that I wasn’t the first one to catch your eye.”
Her comment wiped the broad smile from his face. Nonetheless, once again, Genevieve felt at a slight disadvantage. She wanted to take her leave of Frank Spurrier but something held her back. By sheer force of personality he kept her anchored to the spot. Over dinner the previous evening, Genevieve had been acutely conscious of the interest that Joshua Cleves was showing in her, and of the effort he was making to be on his best behavior. What puzzled her was why Spurrier was now deliberately trying to influence her view of Cleves.
“We’ve obviously got off on the wrong foot this morning,” said Spurrier, anxious to make amends for upsetting her, “and I do apologize. Perhaps I might buy you a drink at some stage by way of recompense.”
She was noncommittal. “Perhaps.”
“Or perhaps not. I leave the decision to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Spurrier,” she said crisply. “As your friend, Mr. Cleves, may have told you, I do like to make my own decisions.”
“I admire decisiveness.”
“Then you’ll excuse me if I make the decision to have breakfast.”
“Of course.”
As he stood politely aside for her, David and Jane Lowbury bore down on them. They greeted Spurrier effusively. Genevieve was introduced to the American couple.
“Oh, I’m so pleased to meet you,” said Jane, beaming at her. “I just adored that dress you were wearing last night.”
Genevieve was surprised. “You noticed me in that crowd?”
“You’d stand out anywhere, Miss Masefield,” said Lowbury.
“There you are,” observed Spurrier. “Independent witnesses. I’m not the only person to be entranced.”
Jane sighed. “I wish I was tall enough to carry off an evening dress like that,” she said. “It was gorgeous.”
“So are you, honey,” Lowbury assured her as he slipped an arm around her waist. “What do you think of the Celtic, Miss Masefield?”
“I’m very impressed,” said Genevieve.
“So are we. She’s like a floating hotel.”
“As long as we don’t run into bad weather.”
“She feels pretty stable to me.”
“She is,” said Spurrier, “but the North Atlantic is the most dangerous ocean in the world. If we get hit by a squall, we’ll certainly know about it.”
“I hope that doesn’t happen
.” Lowbury smiled at Genevieve. “Did you know that a famous English author was on board?”
“No,” she said, feigning ignorance. “Who is it?”
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Really?”
“I wonder if we could persuade him to read one of those Sherlock Holmes stories to us. He’d get a huge audience.”
“I’d certainly be part of it, Mr. Lowbury.”
“So would Jane and I.”
“Unfortunately,” said Spurrier, “it’s unlikely to happen. Sir Arthur has the reputation of being a very private man. The only way to secure his interest is for one of us to commit a crime.”
“A crime?” said Genevieve.
“Yes — then we could send for Sherlock Holmes to solve it.”
Leonard Rush stood on deck in the stern of the ship and stared at the massive triangle of white foam left in her wake. The wind had picked up, and the sun had vanished behind some clouds, but he seemed quite unaware of the cold. Saul Pinnick felt it keenly even though he wore a scarf, overcoat and hat. He watched Rush for a few minutes before crossing over to him.
“Good morning,” he said.
The other man looked at him but gave no sign of recognition. Rush’s face was pale, his remaining eye lackluster. There was such an air of dejection about him that Pinnick’s compassion was stirred.
“We spoke yesterday,” he went on. “My name is Saul — Saul Pinnick. What’s yours?”
“What does it matter?”
“I like to know who I’m talking to.”
Rush considered the request for a long time before speaking.
“My name is Rush,” he said at length. “Len Rush.”
“And you were a miner, weren’t you?”
“I spent the best part of forty years down the pit, starting as a lad. I come from a mining family.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Yorkshire.”
“There!” said Pinnick. “That’s what I told Mirry.”
“Mirry?”
“My wife, Miriam. I had this feeling that you might be the man who suffered that terrible tragedy on the voyage to New York.” Rush turned away. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Rush. I grieve with you.”