Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  “Speak to the ship’s doctor. Perhaps he can help.”

  “I’ve tried every remedy there is. None of them works.”

  Liam Gaffney was a taciturn man of Irish descent in his forties who suffered from seasickness. Though he made the effort to come to the dining saloon for meals, he refused far more than he ate and never touched a drop of alcohol. He was a short, skinny, anxious man making his first trip across the Atlantic and having second thoughts about the wisdom of undertaking the voyage.

  “Next time we have a concert,” Sophie warned, “I’ll insist on taking you, Mr. Dillman.”

  “That depends when it is,” he said guardedly.

  “Entertainment is there to be enjoyed — isn’t it, Mother?”

  “Yes,” said May, tapping the table for effect. “You must take full advantage of it, Mr. Dillman. The same goes for you, Mr. Gaffney.”

  “I’m not well enough to do so, Mrs. Hoyland,” said Gaffney. “I wish I were. I just can’t seem to find my sea legs.”

  Dillman was sympathetic. “It takes time.”

  “Yes,” said May cheerily. “I had a nephew who used to work for Cunard and he was a martyr to seasickness. You don’t think of merchant seamen having that problem, but they often do. The first day of a voyage was always a trial for Donald, then it seemed to ease off.”

  “He found that wearing earplugs somehow helped,” said Sophie.

  “And a glass of rum. Be sure to have one this evening.”

  “To be honest,” said Gaffney, “I’m not in a mood for anything. I just felt that I had to be here. I hoped that all the activity would somehow distract me.” He put a hand gingerly to his stomach. “So far, I fear, it hasn’t.”

  When the first course arrived, he waved it politely away, then lapsed into a prolonged silence. Sophie Trouncer and her mother did not complain. It allowed them to concentrate on Dillman. Taking it in turns, they fired so many questions at him that he wondered if they had rehearsed them beforehand.

  “Why have you never married?” said May.

  “I’ve never had the time, Mrs. Hoyland.”

  “The time or the inclination?” Sophie pressed.

  “Neither.”

  “But you have no objection to the institution of marriage?”

  “None at all, Mrs. Trouncer.”

  “That’s encouraging to hear,” said May, beaming.

  “It is,” said Sophie. “Married life is a joy. I recommend it.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Dillman promised.

  While maintaining a conversation with the two ladies, he kept the rest of the room under surveillance. Genevieve, he observed, was dining with Lord and Lady Bulstrode again, seated beside the fleshy American whom she had described to him. Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle also had the same dinner companions as before and all four were having an animated discussion about something. Dillman had not forgotten Edward Hammond. Though he doubted that the wanted man would be in first class — if, indeed, he was actually aboard — he kept scouring the tables for possible suspects. The description given by the police could fit a number of men in the saloon. Dillman tried to whittle the total down by eliminating potential suspects.

  The meal was exceptional and even Gaffney was tempted to try the main course. They were halfway through it when Sophie Trouncer broached a new subject.

  “Do you believe in spiritualism, Mr. Dillman?” she asked.

  He was tactful. “I’m not entirely sure.”

  “Will you accept that some people have psychic powers?”

  “I can’t say that I’ve ever met any of them, Mrs. Trouncer.”

  “But you don’t mock such claims, do you?”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  “There you are, Mother,” said Sophie, as if scoring a point.

  “I think they’re charlatans,” said May robustly, “and until I’m proven wrong, I’ll go on thinking that. I’ve seen too many stage mediums and they’re always cheats. They’ve usually been trained as magicians, so they know all the tricks for deceiving the eye.”

  “You can’t deceive the eye if someone is sitting right next to you.” Sophie flicked a glance at Dillman. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Up to a point,” he said cautiously.

  “Not every medium is an impostor. I’ve met at least two who had extraordinary psychic powers.”

  May was scornful. “All they had was a talent for deception,” she said briskly. “And you were one of their victims.”

  “That’s unfair, Mother.”

  “They cheated you, Sophie.”

  “How do you know? You weren’t there.”

  “I had more sense.”

  “You’ll just have to agree to differ,” said Dillman, trying to calm them down before the argument got out of hand. “From what I’ve heard, the facts are inconclusive. Many condemn spiritualism, yet its worth is attested by some extremely intelligent people.”

  “Intelligent people should know better,” May declared.

  “We do,” said Sophie. “That’s why we spurn your taunts.”

  “They’re not taunts. They’re fair comments.”

  “Maybe we should leave it at that,” Dillman suggested.

  “Why don’t you be the judge?” asked Sophie.

  “The judge?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dillman. As it happens, we have a medium aboard and she’s holding a séance in her cabin after dinner. I’ve agreed to go,” she said, ignoring the muffled protest from her mother. “Come with me and see for yourself, Mr. Dillman. You decide if Mrs. Burbridge is genuine or a fake.” She reached across the table to touch his hand. “I’d respect your opinion.”

  It had taken Saul Pinnick a long time to coax him to join them for the meal, but Leonard Rush had eventually agreed. He was introduced to Pinnick’s wife, and in listening to Miriam’s mournful complaints about the treatment meted out to her he was able to take his mind off his own troubles. The three of them were part of the huge army of diners in steerage and they ate their food amid the usual tumult.

  “Did you take part in the tug-of-war, Mr. Rush?” asked Miriam.

  “No,” he said.

  “Why not? A miner like you must be very strong.”

  “I’m past that kind of thing, Mrs. Pinnick.”

  “I was past it the moment I was born,” said Pinnick with a throaty chuckle. “I was always too short and too scrawny to be any good at sports. But it was fun to watch the tug-of-war on deck this afternoon. Even Mirry enjoyed it.”

  “Yes,” she said. “They really put their backs into it.”

  “We had a tug-of-war team at the pit,” Rush recalled, “and I was part of it at one time. We used to challenge other collieries or take on local pub teams.”

  For the first time since they had met, Pinnick saw a look of pleasure on the man’s face. It vanished in a second but it had shown that his life as a miner in the Yorkshire coalfield had not been one of unrelieved toil and distress. Pinnick probed for detail.

  “Did you have a football team as well?” he asked.

  “Football, darts and skittles,” Rush answered. He coughed uncontrollably for a few moments, then patted his chest. “I was hopeless at soccer but I captained the darts team for years. We played in a league and won the cup three times.”

  “You must have had a lot of skill.”

  “It depended on how much beer I’d had beforehand.”

  Rush grinned for the first time, exposing a row of small dark teeth. Then, as if catching himself out in a forbidden activity, he lowered his head guiltily and addressed himself to his meal. Miriam picked a fishbone from her mouth and set it down on her plate.

  “The food is better than on the way here,” she decided.

  “It’s much the same, Mirry,” said Pinnick. “We have the same cooks we had before and the same sort of menu. What do you think, Mr. Rush?”

  “I’ve had worse,” grunted the other.

  “So have we.”

  “A lot worse,” sai
d Miriam, seizing on her cue. “When we lived in Poland, we’d go for days with no food at all. There was one winter when we lived on potatoes and nothing else. I don’t know how we got through it. But the worst time was in Germany.”

  Miriam went on a rambling journey through the various countries in which she had lived, listing the various privations they had endured. Rush was not really listening — and Pinnick had heard the recitation so often that he ignored it — but that did not check her. She was determined to unburden herself of her tribulations.

  “That’s what Isaac kept saying in his letters,” she went on. “Isaac is Saul’s cousin and he lives in Brooklyn. The food is wonderful, he told us. The vegetables were bigger, the fruit was sweeter and the kosher meat was the best he’d ever eaten. All the way across the Atlantic I thought about the tasty meals we’d have in America. But they sent us back. Why?” she demanded. “They let in older people than us. They let in poorer people. Why did they reject us?”

  “You know why, Mirry,” said her husband patiently.

  “It’s a scandal.”

  “We took a chance and we failed.”

  “Someone should be made to pay for it, Saul.”

  “It wasn’t just us. Thousands of people were refused entry.”

  “Who cares about them?” She blurted out the words before she could stop herself. Pinnick’s nudge reminded her that they had company. “I was just thinking about us,” she went on, “and about Mr. Rush, of course. I’m sure he feels the same as me.”

  “What’s that?” asked Rush, looking up.

  “We’re all victims.”

  “Are we?”

  “They should have given us more respect.”

  “There’s no point in going on and on about it, Mirry,” said Pinnick gently. “We have to look to the future. We’ll get by somehow.”

  “You always say that, Saul.”

  “I have faith.”

  “Faith,” said Rush dully. “What’s that? How can you have faith in a God that does such terrible things to us?” He pushed his plate away. “I’ve got to go.”

  “There’s more to come yet.”

  “I’ve had enough.”

  “Then we’ll see you in the lounge afterward.”

  “I’ll be out on deck, Mr. Pinnick. I spend the night there.”

  Pinnick was horrified. “You sleep on deck?”

  “I share a cabin with three other men,” Rush explained. “When I lie down, I start to cough. I’d keep the rest of them awake.”

  “But you’ve paid for a bunk and you’re entitled to it. Sleeping out there in the cold will make your cough even worse.”

  “I take a blanket with me.”

  “Speak to the steward. See if he can find you another cabin.”

  Rush stood up. “I prefer my own company.”

  “You’ll freeze to death out there,” said Miriam.

  “So?”

  He gave them a curt nod of farewell and marched off. Miriam watched him picking his way between the tables, then she turned accusingly on her husband.

  “You should have stopped him, Saul.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Talk to him. Reason with him.”

  “I’ve tried, Mirry He just won’t listen to me.”

  “Sleeping on deck in this weather? It’s suicide.”

  Pinnick sighed. “What does he have to live for?”

  Throughout dinner, Joshua Cleves had been far more attentive toward Genevieve than hitherto, but he never strayed beyond the bounds of decorum. Pleasant and companionable, he told several amusing anecdotes about previous voyages he had experienced. Lord and Lady Bulstrode clearly approved of him, and Genevieve, too, found him increasingly likable. Yet he did not give the slightest indication that he was in any way enamored of her. When they left the table, however, he made sure that he stayed close to her.

  “What are you going to do when you reach London?” he said.

  “Catch up on a lot of unfinished business,” she replied.

  “Will you be staying in the city?”

  “Part of the time, Mr. Cleves.”

  “And what about the rest of it?”

  Genevieve was evasive. “I’ll be visiting some friends.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, there and everywhere.”

  “I’d like to think I was on your list, Miss Masefield,” he said smoothly. “I’ll be staying at the Ritz. They serve an excellent luncheon there. Perhaps you’d be able to sample it with me one day.”

  “I’m not certain about that.”

  “Take time to think it over.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  “I won’t press you on the matter,” he said courteously. “I’ve no right to do so. After all, we’re merely shipboard acquaintances at this point. But that situation may change when we get to know each other better. Just remember that my invitation stands.”

  “I’ll remember, Mr. Cleves.”

  Genevieve had no intention of accepting his offer, but the fact that he had put the idea to her showed that he did have a deeper interest in her. Her memory was jogged.

  “I believe that you know a gentleman called Frank Spurrier.”

  He beamed. “Yes, Frank and I are old sparring partners.”

  “He told me that you were good friends.”

  “We are, Miss Masefield, though we have occasional disputes. Frank is always trying to buy things for less than they’re worth and sell them for far more. How do you come to know him?”

  “We had a casual encounter on deck.”

  “I doubt very much if it was accidental,” said Cleves with a grin. “Almost everything he does has a distinct purpose. That’s the sort of man Frank is. He likes to plan carefully in advance. I don’t think he’s ever done anything spontaneous in his life.” They came out through the doors of the saloon and stopped. “What did he say about me?”

  “Very little,” she lied.

  “Whatever it was, you’d be wise to disregard it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The truth is that Frank has always been rather envious of me. I inherited wealth and increased it by sound investments. He still has to work for a living and he finds that irksome.”

  “I got the impression that he was very happy in his work.”

  “He’d be even happier without it,” said Cleves. “Then he could do what I do and devote himself to cultural pursuits. Well,” he added, glancing toward the staircase. “I’m off to enjoy a cigar. Thank you again for the pleasure of your company, Miss Masefield.” He offered his hand and she shook it. “I do admire the way you’re so at ease with the aristocracy. Rupert and Agnes clearly adore you.”

  “You get on well with them yourself.”

  “Wealth is a great leveler.”

  “There’s rather more to it than that.”

  “Of course,” said Cleves, producing his most radiant smile. “But I’m not going to tell you what it is — not here, anyway. Come to the Ritz with me and I may be more forthcoming.”

  The first-class smoking room was a popular venue after a meal and several people were already there when the two men came in. Settling into one of the luxurious leather armchairs, Frank Spurrier took out a silver cigarette case, flicked it open and offered it to David Lowbury.

  “Thanks, Mr. Spurrier,” said the American, extracting a cigarette and slipping it between his lips. “Beautiful case you have there.”

  “Yes,” Spurrier agreed, selecting a cigarette before snapping the case shut. “Solid silver. Would you like to see it?”

  “Please.” Lowbury took it from him to examine it. “Inscribed with your initials, I see. What does the O stand for?”

  “Osborne. Francis Osborne Spurrier.”

  “You’re a man of real taste.”

  “If you smoke as many cigarettes as I do, you might as well have a decent case in which to keep them.”

  “This is much more than decent.”

  Lowbury laid it on his palm to
feel its weight, then passed it back. Spurrier slipped it into his inside pocket. When their cigarettes were alight, they inhaled deeply, then added more smoke to the fug that was already gathering in the room.

  “What I really want to ask you about is books,” said Lowbury. “I didn’t wish to bring this up over dinner because it might sound a little mercenary, and, in any case, Jane had warned me not to badger you on the subject.”

  “I’m always happy to talk about books, Mr. Lowbury.”

  “Is there really such a good profit margin?”

  “In antiquarian books, certainly.”

  “Supposing I had first editions of, say, Edgar Allan Poe or Herman Melville? Would they be valuable?”

  “You’d have no difficulty selling them to collectors, I know that. Price would depend on the condition of the books. If they were in good condition, you’d get far more for them. If, of course,” said Spurrier with a smile, “you had copies that were autographed by the authors, then the price would shoot up even more.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “What you really need at an auction is to have two or three people bidding against each other and sending the price artificially high. Last year, we had rival bidders who were keen to get their hands on a first edition of The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling.”

  “Pardon my ignorance, but who wrote that?”

  “Henry Fielding,” said Spurrier, “way back in 1749. It’s one of the greatest novels in the English language. Not that everyone approved of it at the time. Samuel Johnson was very critical, so were Richardson and Smollett. Yet none of them wrote a novel that could touch Tom Jones.”

  “And there were rival bidders after the book?”

  “Three of them, each one determined to win. When a bid was finally accepted, it was over four times the reserve price we’d set.”

  “Jack London is my favorite author,” Lowbury volunteered. “I guess that his books wouldn’t fetch quite so much.”

  “No,” said Spurrier. “He’s still alive. If he’d been dead for a hundred and fifty years, like Fielding, it would be a different matter.”

  “Yet you told us that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s books were worth a lot and he’s still with us.”

  “First editions of his early work are prized by collectors.”

  Lowbury chuckled. “Maybe I should ask him if he’s got any to spare.” He pulled on his cigarette. “How did you first come into this business, Mr. Spurrier?”