Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  “Through my father. He was a buyer for a London auction house and decided to set up on his own. The firm prospered. He taught me all I know and I’m eternally grateful to him for that.” He looked at his companion through the swirling smoke. “What about you?”

  “Oh, I just drifted into a job as a stockbroker. I always had a good head for figures. And I learned quickly — that helped.”

  “How did you meet your wife?”

  “Quite by accident,” said Lowbury with a fond smile. “Jane had come to New York on a shopping trip and we started talking to each other while waiting for service in a store. The conversation is still going on.”

  “She’s a charming lady. You’re a lucky man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mind if I join you?” asked Joshua Cleves, lowering himself into the armchair opposite the two men. He leaned forward and stretched out a hand to Lowbury. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, sir.”

  “David Lowbury,” said the other.

  “My name is Josh Cleves.”

  “Gentleman of leisure,” Spurrier explained.

  “I’ve been called worse, Frank.”

  “I’m sure that you have.”

  “I enjoy life to the hilt,” said Cleves blithely. “What’s wrong with that? I was saying as much over dinner to Rupert and Agnes — that’s Lord and Lady Bulstrode,” he added for Lowbury’s benefit. “In England, you need a title to have the edge over everyone else. All it takes in America is money.”

  “I’m very happy with that situation,” said Lowbury.

  “Then we speak the same language, my friend.” Cleves drew on his cigar before emitted a cloud of aromatic smoke. “By the way, I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Frank.”

  “Over what?”

  “Miss Genevieve Masefield.”

  “Isn’t that the lady I met?” asked Lowbury.

  “Yes,” said Spurrier. “I introduced you to her.”

  “Once seen, never forgotten.”

  “I’ve had the good fortune to dine with her twice,” boasted Cleves, “along with Rupert and Agnes. I discovered this evening that Frank had been telling her all kinds of lies about me.”

  “That’s not true, Josh,” said Spurrier quickly. “I made a few observations about you, that’s all.”

  “Unkind observations, by the sound of it.”

  “Is that what Miss Masefield told you?”

  “No, but I could read it in her eyes.”

  “And damned fine eyes, they are!” Lowbury commented.

  “Did she tell you that we went to the concert together?” asked Spurrier, trying to goad his rival. “We discussed it at length afterward. I was surprised you weren’t there, Josh.”

  “I was too busy playing chess against Rupert.”

  “You preferred that to an afternoon with Miss Masefield?”

  “Of course. I knew that I’d be sitting beside her again this evening — and it won’t be the last time that we break bread together.”

  “Really?”

  “When we get to England,” said Cleves, striking a proprietary note, “Genevieve and I have arranged to have luncheon at the Ritz.” He deposited some cigar ash in the tray nearby. “It’s the sort of thing we gentlemen of leisure do.”

  It was quite late before George Dillman met up with the purser again. After dinner the detective had wandered down to the second-class area of the ship so that he could take stock of the men in the public rooms. Though they were fewer in number than in first class, he was able to identify over half a dozen who might conceivably fit the description of Edward Hammond. None of them wore a beard, but he was certain that it would have been the first thing to be removed by the wanted man. In the convivial atmosphere of the lounge and smoking room, it was difficult to believe that a killer was lurking. Yet he could well be part of the immaculately dressed assembly, and where violent crime was concerned, Dillman had long ago learned to discount nobody.

  He finally caught up with Nelson Rutherford in his office.

  “Congratulations!” he said. “I hear that you excelled yourself in the concert this afternoon.”

  Rutherford laughed. “I was only there as comic relief.”

  “That’s not what I heard. By all accounts, you played the clarinet like a trained musician.”

  “I did my best, Mr. Dillman.”

  “I hope to hear you perform again at some point.”

  “I daresay I will,” said the purser jovially. “Well, everything seems to be going very smoothly so far.”

  “That was my impression.”

  “No calls for help from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”

  “None at all,” said Dillman. “People seem to be respecting his privacy. If he does encounter a problem, it will come from another source altogether.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sir Arthur had a quiet word with me earlier. It seems that he and his wife have been invited to attend a séance this evening. Knowing of their interest in such things, Lady Conan Doyle was approached by a Mrs. Thoda Burbridge, who claims to be a medium.”

  “It’s a world I know little about,” admitted Rutherford. “Except that it does attract fraudsters.”

  “Sir Arthur has unmasked one or two of them in his time.”

  “Does he think this lady is a fake as well?”

  “He hasn’t met her yet,” said Dillman, “so he’s giving her the benefit of the doubt. If she is a bogus medium, tricking money out of people, he’ll report her to me at once.”

  “And if she’s genuine?”

  “Then I won’t hear a word from him.”

  “My guess is that you won’t,” said Rutherford confidently. “Indeed, I think you’ll have very little to do on this voyage beyond staying on patrol. The Celtic has a tradition to uphold, Mr. Dillman. We’ve never had a serious crime committed on board.”

  “Don’t forget Edward Hammond.”

  “I’ve stopped worrying about him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the police were misled. I don’t believe that he’s on the ship at all. I remember what you told me about him.”

  “What was that, Mr. Rutherford?”

  “That a professional thief like Hammond just couldn’t resist the rich pickings on a White Star liner. He’d have made his first strike by now, surely?”

  “He could simply be biding his time.”

  “I doubt it,” said the purser breezily. “I think we can forget about Edward Hammond — and about any other criminal, for that matter. The only turbulence we’ll get on this crossing will come from the Atlantic Ocean. We’re completely safe, Mr. Dillman.”

  Letting himself into the stateroom, the man switched on the light and began a thorough search. It did not take him long to find what he sought. He concealed the object under his coat and went back to the door. Inching it open, he saw that nobody was in the corridor outside. Within seconds he had vanished down a companionway.

  SIX

  The theft did not come to light until the following morning. It was immediately reported to the purser and he dispatched George Dillman to investigate. The detective was invited into the stateroom occupied by Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle. They were clearly upset.

  “I blame myself,” said Conan Doyle, shaking his head dolefully. “I should have had it locked safely away with my wife’s jewelry box instead of leaving it in here. It never occurred to me that anyone would actually steal the book.”

  “That’s all that was taken?” asked Dillman. “A single book?”

  “It’s not just any book, Mr. Dillman,” explained Lady Conan Doyle. “It’s the one Arthur quotes from during his lectures. It has the most enormous sentimental value for him.”

  “What about its pecuniary value?”

  “I should imagine that it would fetch a high price.”

  “It was a copy of A Study in Scarlet,” said its author sadly. “That was the story that introduced Sherlock Holmes to the world by means of the reminiscences of his friend,
Dr. Watson.”

  “I know, Sir Arthur. I’ve read and enjoyed it.”

  “It first appeared in 1887 in Beeton’s Christmas Annual, with a rather garish illustration on the front cover. I was thrilled when it was published in book form the following year by Ward, Lock and Company.”

  “I had the American edition from Lippincott.”

  “That came out in 1890 and won me a lot of welcome attention in your country. Magazine publication is important, but it doesn’t give anything like the intense satisfaction you get from seeing your work between the hard covers of a book.”

  “The stolen copy, I assume, was a first edition?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Did it have your signature on the flyleaf?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dillman,” said Conan Doyle. “It also had pages of notes inserted in chapters I read to my audiences — jottings that would be incomprehensible to anyone but me.”

  “Nevertheless,” Dillman pointed out, “they would certainly add to its value. What we are talking about is a unique edition of the book, signed by the author and containing his notes on the text. It would be eagerly sought after by certain collectors.”

  “But they’d be handling stolen goods,” said Lady Conan Doyle with exasperation. “That book is my husband’s property. Nobody else has the right to touch it.”

  “I agree.”

  “It must be recovered as soon as possible.”

  “I hope that it will be, Lady Conan Doyle.”

  “We know that it’s on the ship somewhere,” she said with a sweeping gesture. “You must search every cabin until you find it.”

  “Mr. Dillman will have his own methods,” said Conan Doyle with a hand on her arm. “We mustn’t presume to tell him his job.”

  “That book has great symbolic importance, Arthur.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “The thief must be caught and punished.”

  “I’m sure that he will be, Jean.” He smiled at the detective. “And I’m equally sure that Mr. Dillman will know the procedure to follow.”

  “I do, Sir Arthur,” said Dillman, “though I should warn you that I lack the deductive powers of Sherlock Holmes. I’d like to be able to tell you that the thief was a redheaded Scotsman with a squint, a fondness for quoting Balzac in the original French and three fingers missing from his left hand, and that he had recently retired from the British army after seeing service in India, where he met and married a Parsi princess educated in Switzerland.” He gave a shrug. “The truth is that I have very few clues to assist me.”

  “You must have reached some conclusions.”

  “Only the obvious ones. The probability is that the thief is traveling in first class because it’s unlikely that other passengers even know that you’re on board the Celtic. Also, of course, they’re forbidden access to this part of the vessel.”

  “That’s a start, Mr. Dillman. What else do you deduce?”

  “The man is not a professional criminal.”

  “He must be,” protested Lady Conan Doyle. “How else did he get in and out of here so easily?”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Dillman, looking around. “The simple fact is that, having gained entry, he only stole a single item when there are many other things he might have taken.”

  “There’s no money or jewelry in here.”

  “Perhaps not, Lady Conan Doyle, but there’s expensive clothing, souvenirs from your lecture tour, leather suitcases, writing materials and so on. Thieves will take anything that can be resold for a profit. In that sense, you’ve been fortunate.”

  “I don’t feel it, Mr. Dillman,” she said with a slight shiver. “It’s very distressing to be robbed like this. We feel invaded.”

  Dillman nodded sympathetically. “That may be so,” he said, “but you’d feel even more aggrieved if, for instance, someone had taken that fur coat and hat I saw you wearing on deck earlier this evening.”

  “And I’d have been mortified if someone had stolen this,” said Conan Doyle, opening a satchel to take out a sheaf of papers. “These are notes for a new book. I had the inspiration for it aboard this ship.” He waved the papers. “These are irreplaceable.”

  “Then it’s just as well the thief was unaware that they existed because he came specifically in search of work by a famous British author.” Dillman indicated three books on the table. “He had no interest in those written by someone else.”

  “They’re books on spiritualism that we bought in Boston.”

  Dillman’s ears pricked up. “That’s my hometown, Sir Arthur,” he said. “Where did you stay?”

  “At the Parker House.”

  “I know it well. Number sixty, School Street, one block north of Boston Common. It was built on the site of the original Latin School founded in 1635.”

  “They told us it was the oldest public school in America.”

  “That’s what you’d call the oldest state school in England. Public schools are actually private ones in your country. It’s one of the many peculiarities of the English language I could never quite comprehend. Coming back to spiritualism,” he went on, “I need to ask you what happened at the séance last night.”

  “That’s hardly relevant, Mr. Dillman,” said Lady Conan Doyle.

  “You never know. It could be. The simple fact is that someone entered this stateroom when you were elsewhere.”

  “They could have done that while we were having dinner.”

  “They could, indeed,” Dillman conceded, “but I have my doubts. Cabin stewards are at their busiest during dinner. Yours would have come in here to turn down the beds and been responsible for adjacent staterooms as well. A thief would be more likely to choose a time when fewer people were about. And since he may well be a first-class passenger,” he continued, “he would have been eating his own dinner at the same time as you. No, I fancy that the theft may have occurred while you were visiting Mrs. Thoda Burbridge.”

  Conan Doyle blinked. “You’re surely not suggesting that she was in any way implicated in this?”

  “No, Sir Arthur. There’s no evidence to suggest that. But it’s possible that the thief was aware that the séance was taking place. How many of you were involved?”

  “Five, including the medium herself.”

  “Mrs. Trouncer was one of them, I believe.”

  “That’s true,” said Conan Doyle. “The fifth person around the table was an American gentleman from Chicago. Mr. Agnew Philip Agnew.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “But how did you know that Mrs. Trouncer was there?”

  “She sat opposite me at dinner and mentioned the fact that she’d be attending the séance. Her mother, with whom she’s traveling, was very skeptical about the whole notion.”

  “Yes, we heard about Mrs. Hoyland.”

  “Would she have remained skeptical, had she been there?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why is that, Sir Arthur?”

  “Because very little happened,” replied Conan Doyle. “You cannot expect successful results from every séance. The spirit world is not something you can reach instantly with a telephone call. Contact can only be made under strict conditions.”

  “Were they lacking last night?” asked Dillman.

  “So it would appear.”

  “And what was your opinion of Mrs. Burbridge?”

  “The lady has unmistakable gifts.”

  “There’s no question about that,” said his wife. “She’s a member of the Society for Psychical Research and has written many articles for its journal. Mrs. Burbridge had been to Philadelphia to attend an international conference on psychic phenomena.”

  “So she was not a fraud?”

  “No, Mr. Dillman.”

  “We’d have spotted any trickery,” said Conan Doyle.

  “Tell me about Mr. Agnew. What sort of person is he?”

  “Brash, larger than life and about my own age.”

  “Did you discover his occupation?”

  �
�He owns a menagerie of some sort and is going to Europe in search of animals to buy. The other thing we learned about him is that Philip Agnew is most definitely not a reading man.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he’d never even heard of my husband,” said Lady Conan Doyle with slight irritation. “I thought that extraordinary. Everyone knows the creator of Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I found it rather refreshing,” said Conan Doyle. “He treated me as a complete stranger. I was able to be anonymous for once.”

  “You were certainly not anonymous to the thief,” said Dillman. “He either stole A Study in Scarlet in order to sell it for a good price or to cherish it as the work of a favorite author.”

  “Whatever the truth, I feel duly humbled.”

  “Do you, Sir Arthur?”

  “Yes. When I sit down at my desk, I can solve the most complicated crimes with ridiculous ease. Now that I’m confronted with a real mystery, I’m completely baffled. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Where will you start, Mr. Dillman?” asked Lady Conan Doyle.

  “With your steward. He’ll be able to give me precise times when he was either in here or in the vicinity. I’ll want to know if he saw any sign of disturbance when he came in.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll speak to the other stewards on this deck in case any of them noticed something that aroused their suspicions. After that, I may well have a word with Mr. Philip Agnew.”

  “What about Mrs. Burbridge?”

  “Oh, I’ll leave her to my partner,” said Dillman. “She’s far more adept at interviewing women.”

  Conan Doyle was curious. “You have a female partner?”

  “A highly effective one, Sir Arthur. I’ll make sure that she speaks to Mrs. Trouncer as well. If I did so, I’d have to reveal that I’m actually employed by the White Star Line and I’m very reluctant to do that. I try to lower my mask as little as possible.”

  “I understand.”

  “What I’m trying to establish is who knew that you’d both be at that séance. Mrs. Burbridge may inadvertently have mentioned in company that you and your wife would be joining her in her cabin. That information would have given the thief his opportunity.”