Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  It was patently a subject about which Rush did not wish to speak. He was still trying to cope with the loss of his wife, and the mention of her death had caught him on the raw. Pinnick was annoyed with himself for raising the topic. He took a different tack.

  “I was a tailor in the East End of London,” he said. “I made suits for workingmen. Ironic, really — a Jew like me, making suits for people to wear to church on Sunday. I’ve never even been in a church,” he added with a cackle. “Saturday is our Sabbath. Mirry and I go to the synagogue, regular as clockwork. Everything was fine until I got arthritis in both hands.” He held them up for inspection, but Rush took no notice of him. “That put paid to my tailoring. It was the same with my wife. She was a seamstress until her eyes started to go. Still, we can’t complain, can we? It’s not as if our lives were ever in danger. Yours must have been, down the mine. You hear of the most terrible accidents.” He moved to his right so that he could see the side of the other man’s face. “Were you ever involved in an accident down the pit, Mr. Rush?”

  Rush nodded. “Twice.”

  “I’m glad that you lived to tell the tale.”

  “Others didn’t, Mr. Pinnick. I lost a lot of good friends.”

  “Yet you continued to work down the pit.”

  “What else could I do?” demanded Rush with a flash of truculence. “Every man in the village was a miner. Nowt else to do.” He looked at the old man properly for the first time. “Why did you want to go to America?”

  “I have a cousin there. Isaac told us to come and join him. We had a house to go to and a relative to look after us, but it made no difference. They wouldn’t let us in.”

  “They herded us like animals in that reception hall.”

  “There were so many of us — thousands a day.”

  “It were my chest that did for me,” confessed Rush.

  “Was it?”

  “Bad lungs. Going down a pit is unhealthy. You’re breathing in coal dust all the time. They’ve got this fancy name for it but what it comes down to is bad lungs. That’s why it hurt so much.”

  “What did, Mr. Rush?”

  “Ellen, dying like that. I were the invalid, yet my wife was the one who died on the voyage. Not fair, is it? I mean, it’s cruel.”

  “Life very often is,” said Pinnick with a fatalistic shrug.

  There was a long silence, but the old man made no attempt to break it. Having made a little progress, he was ready to settle for that. Rush was far too preoccupied with his own misery to talk readily to a stranger. When he realized that Pinnick was offering him friendship, he might, in time, respond. For the moment, he needed to be left alone to brood. After giving him a farewell pat on the shoulder, Saul Pinnick adjusted his hat and walked slowly off down the deck.

  George Dillman made a point of getting to know as many people as possible on a voyage. Spending time with new acquaintances was a form of camouflage for him. Nobody ever guessed that the debonair American, who claimed to work in the family business of building yachts, was really the ship’s detective. Befriending people was not without its perils. As he headed toward the promenade deck that afternoon, Sophie Trouncer accosted him. She and her mother had sat opposite him at dinner and she had spared Dillman nothing of her history. Sophie was a handsome, full-bodied Englishwoman in her early forties with a distinct whiff of prosperity about her. Widowed two years ago, she and her equally full-bodied mother had been to visit relatives in New York.

  “Mr. Dillman!” she cried with delight. “How nice to see you!”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Trouncer.”

  “I was just on my way to the library.”

  “I understand that they have a good stock of books.”

  “Mother favors light romance,” she revealed, her smile broadening with each word, “but I prefer a novel with real passion. What about you?”

  “I have very catholic tastes.”

  “Catholic, as in Roman?”

  “Catholic, as in wide-ranging.”

  “Ah, I see,” she said, clutching her hands to her bosom.

  Sophie Trouncer’s manner was almost girlish. In the course of dinner she had been drawn more and more to Dillman, watching him shrewdly, plying him with questions and making noises of approval at everything he said. Like her mother, she was an educated woman who was at ease in any conversation.

  “Mother will be so sorry that she missed you,” she said, “but she always likes to lie down after luncheon. I’m the opposite, I’m afraid. I get very restless. My husband used to say that I had far too much energy, but I see it as a virtue — don’t you?”

  “Very much so.”

  “One has to keep oneself active.”

  “I agree, Mrs. Trouncer.”

  “As one gets old, the more important it becomes.”

  “Nobody could ever accuse you of getting old,” he said gallantly.

  “Oh, Mr. Dillman!” Her eyelashes fluttered for a second. “I’ll cherish that remark.”

  “It’s well deserved.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you’ll have to excuse me. I’m on my way to meet a friend.” He moved away. “Do give my regards to your mother, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And happy hunting in the library.”

  With a brittle laugh, she waved him off. Dillman was glad to escape. He had met her type before. Sophie Trouncer was a merry widow, a rich woman who had come out of an extended period of mourning to take an interest in the opposite sex once again, eager to make up for lost time. She had already hinted that she might invite him to her house in the Surrey countryside, and he was careful not to commit himself. She had many good qualities, but she was too possessive for Dillman. If he let her get close to him, she would severely hamper his work on the Celtic.

  When he came out on the promenade deck, he took a deep breath. Then he strolled toward the prow of the ship. Wrapped up warmly, dozens of people were about. The man who interested him most was standing at the rail gazing out to sea. With his bowler hat and his long overcoat, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle looked like an off-duty bailiff. Dillman did not want to disturb him, but as he walked past, the writer turned and saw him.

  “Hello, Mr. Dillman,” he said with obvious pleasure.

  “Good afternoon, Sir Arthur. No need of my services, I see.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I hope that it continues that way — though I doubt it.”

  “So do I, alas.”

  “Once the word spreads that you are on board, you’re bound to be stared at by all and sundry. You may even be at the mercy of autograph hunters. It’s an occupational hazard for an author. When I sailed on the Baltic last year,” said Dillman, “Bernard Shaw was aboard. Unlike you, he enjoyed being recognized. In fact, he went out of his way to court public attention.”

  Conan Doyle grinned. “Just like GBS!”

  “Needless to say, he did not seek my protection.”

  “Actually, I may need rather more than that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” said the other. “There’s a possibility that we may have to report someone to you for obtaining money by false pretenses.”

  “And who might that be, Sir Arthur?”

  Conan Doyle raised a palm. “Let’s not prejudge the case. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty, so this lady should be given the benefit of the doubt. Until I’ve met her, I can’t be sure about her. My wife, however,” he went on, “has reservations and her instincts are rarely wrong.”

  “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “We have a medium aboard.”

  “Someone who conducts a séance?”

  “Exactly, Mr. Dillman. Knowing of our interest in spiritualism, she made contact with my wife and invited us to join her at a séance.”

  “At a price, I suspect.”

  “That’s what alerted me. Not that she’s charging us, mark you,” said Conan Doyle. “We were offered free entry. But the other people will have t
o pay. This lady is a professional.”

  “Do you intend to go?”

  “Of course. She could have genuine gifts.”

  “Is that often the case, Sir Arthur?”

  “Frankly, no. There’s a large amount of fraudulence and I’ve been able to expose it in some instances. I’m sure that you can guess the kind of thing — hidden wires, mirrors, cunning effects. At a séance we attended in Cornwall once,” he remembered, “I dragged out the man who was concealed behind the curtains. He’d been speaking into a megaphone with a ghostly voice.”

  “But some people have genuine gifts, you say?”

  “No question of it. They act as gatekeepers to the other world.”

  “What do you know of this particular lady?”

  “Nothing beyond what my wife told me,” said Conan Doyle. “She’s English, middle-aged and very plausible. She claims to have held many successful séances in America, but we only have her word for that. On the face of it, the lady is above reproach.”

  “Lady Conan Doyle, however, has doubts about her.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dillman. That’s why I wanted to warn you.”

  “I’ll be interested to hear how you get on, Sir Arthur. I’ve dealt with every imaginable crime in my time but I’ve never encountered this kind of thing. If she is indeed a fraud,” promised Dillman, “then she’ll be arrested for obtaining money by deception.”

  “The secondary charge carries more weight in my book.”

  “Secondary charge?”

  “That of willful cruelty.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s because you’ve never been to a séance. People who do take part place the utmost faith in the medium. They open themselves up, Mr. Dillman, and bare their souls. They are so desperate to make contact with loved ones who have passed on,” said Conan Doyle, “that they render themselves open to exploitation. They are often utterly defenseless. To take advantage of such vulnerable people is more than cruelty,” he added solemnly. “It’s downright brutality.”

  FIVE

  The concert that was held in the first-class lounge that afternoon was a forerunner of a number of performances that would be offered to passengers in the course of the voyage. Featuring the resident orchestra, it was a small-scale event that provided pleasant entertainment on their first full day afloat. Concerts being held simultaneously in second and steerage class relied strongly on the more homespun talents of the passengers or crew and a motley selection of would-be conjurers, impressionists, musicians, comedians, monologuists and singers who competed for applause. The concert in first class was largely a musical affair and it drew a sizable audience. Genevieve Masefield was among those who took their seats. Her companion was Lady Bulstrode, complete with lorgnette and a small box of chocolates.

  “Rupert is not fond of music,” said the old lady, surveying the room through her lorgnette. “I have a dreadful job persuading him to go to the opera with me. He’s partially deaf, you see, and his eyesight is a trifle impaired, so he misses a great deal.”

  “What a pity!”

  “That’s why I’m so grateful to you, Miss Masefield. It’s so vital to have agreeable company at such events as this.”

  “It’s I who should thank you, Lady Bulstrode. Had I come on my own,” said Genevieve, “I might have felt far less comfortable.”

  “You’d not have been alone for long.”

  “I know.”

  “Something about the sea air seems to bring out the philanderer in some men,” said Lady Bulstrode with a confiding smile. “They cannot help themselves. I noticed it when we sailed to New York. As they enter a public room, certain men immediately look around to see if there are any attractive unaccompanied young ladies on board. Some of those same ladies, of course,” she added in a hoarse whisper, “may not be at all what they seem.”

  Genevieve did not need to be told that. During her years as a detective she had identified more than one high-class prostitute, who traveled on liners in order to pick up wealthy clients. Other women, working with a male confederate, had lured gullible men into compromising positions for the purposes of blackmail. Genevieve had also been called upon to apprehend an occasional female thief or pickpocket on board. Crime was by no means limited to the male sex.

  “Rupert is playing chess with that nice Mr. Cleves,” said Lady Bulstrode. “I have to confess that I tend to find Americans a little too assertive for my taste, but Mr. Cleves is the exception to the rule. He has such exquisite manners.”

  “Yes,” agreed Genevieve. “I liked him.”

  “A happy coincidence in both cases.”

  “I don’t understand, Lady Bulstrode.”

  “Well, I met you in the customs shed and discovered that we had mutual friends back in England. When my husband first chanced upon Joshua Cleves, he not only found someone who is as addicted to racing as he is. Rupert also acquired a fellow chess player.”

  “Common interests do draw people together.”

  “They’re the basis of civilized society, my dear.”

  Genevieve had not made a deliberate attempt to befriend the couple. While they chatted in the customs shed, however, Lady Bulstrode had mentioned someone whom Genevieve had actually known. It then transpired that they had other mutual acquaintances among the minor English aristocracy. What Genevieve did not explain was that she had met those people as a result of her engagement to a young man who was set to inherit his father’s title. Unforgivable behavior by her fiancé had compelled her to break off the engagement, but she was certainly not going to entrust the details of that episode to Lady Bulstrode. They belonged firmly in her past.

  “What did you really think about him?” asked the old lady.

  “Mr. Cleves?”

  “Yes.”

  “I found him friendly, interesting and knowledgeable.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “I didn’t have much conversation with him, Lady Bulstrode. Over dinner last night — and breakfast this morning — he spent most of the time discussing, with your husband, race meetings he’d been to in England. He’s been to the Derby three times.”

  “Rupert hasn’t missed a Derby in fifty years.”

  “I’ve only been to one,” confessed Genevieve.

  “You might well improve on that score, Miss Masefield.”

  “How?”

  “By being invited to attend this year’s race,” said Lady Bulstrode with another smile. “You may have thought that Mr. Cleves was more interested in horses than anything else, but I believe that he’s conceived another passion as well.”

  “For what?”

  “For you, my dear. Unless my intuition has deserted me, Joshua Cleves is smitten.” Opening the lid of the box, she offered the chocolates. “May I tempt you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I can’t resist them.”

  While her companion chewed away, Genevieve reviewed her two meetings with Joshua Cleves. There had been a glint of admiration in his eyes on both occasions, but she was accustomed to that reaction from men. Because he had not tried to monopolize her, she had assumed that Cleves was not overly interested in her. Then she remembered the conversation that morning with Frank Spurrier and the disparaging remarks he had made about his American friend. Like Spurrier himself, she decided, Cleves would need to be watched.

  The concert started with a Rossini overture that was followed with piano selections from Beethoven, Chopin and Liszt. A lighter note intruded when one of the senior officers gave a rendition of Stephen Foster songs in a pleasing tenor voice. The orchestra took over again, to be followed by a member of the crew who was a competent amateur ventriloquist. But the real surprise of the afternoon was the appearance of Nelson Rutherford. Accompanied by the piano, the purser revealed himself to be a gifted clarinetist, delighting the audience with a variety of popular melodies.

  After the chairman had made his closing remarks, a collection was taken for a seamen’s charity, then the concert ende
d with the playing of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “God Save the King.” The applause was sustained and well earned. Genevieve clapped as enthusiastically as anyone while Lady Bulstrode took the opportunity to slip another chocolate into her mouth. Eventually, they rose to leave. It was only when she turned around that Genevieve realized with a start that she knew the man who had sat directly behind her.

  “Did you enjoy the concert, Miss Masefield?” he asked.

  “Very much,” she replied.

  “Me, too.”

  Frank Spurrier gave her a meaningful smile.

  Sophie Trouncer’s face was distorted by an expression of disbelief.

  “You missed the concert this afternoon?” she said.

  “I’m afraid so,” Dillman admitted.

  “Then you missed an absolute treat. Didn’t he, Mother?”

  “Oh, yes,” May Hoyland confirmed with a roll of her eyes. “It was wonderful — especially the purser on his clarinet.”

  Dillman was astonished. “Mr. Rutherford took part?”

  “He was the star of the whole show.”

  Never having met a musical purser before, Dillman found the notion rather difficult to envisage. Playing the clarinet was something that he would never have suspected Nelson Rutherford of doing, but he was prepared to accept the word of two witnesses. They were at their table in the first-class dining saloon, and since formality had taken over, the room was filled with a dazzling array of evening dresses and jewelry. Like the rest of the men, Dillman had donned his white tie and tails. Seated opposite him at the table were Sophie Trouncer and her mother, though, since the latter had taken such great pains with her appearance, May Hoyland could almost pass for an elder sister. Now approaching seventy, she had the manner and carriage of a much younger woman. The resemblance between them was very close. Mother and daughter had the same features and the same unquenchable vivacity.

  “Did you see the concert, Mr. Gaffney?” asked Dillman, turning to the man beside him. “Or am I the only one who missed it?”

  “No,” said Gaffney. “I missed it as well.”

  “Are you still having trouble?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dillman.”