by Conrad Allen
“Perhaps you left it on.”
“I’d never do that, sir,” said Carr indignantly. “I follow a strict routine every evening and I never leave lights on. Somebody else must have been in there.” As the truth dawned on him, his eyes tried to escape from their sockets. “It was that bleeding thief, wasn’t it?”
Saul and Miriam Pinnick braved the wind to walk arm in arm around the main deck. Though he tried continuously to cheer her up, his wife remained resolutely miserable. Even the sight of another tug-of-war contest between two teams of brawny passengers did not attract more than a cursory glance from her.
“We’ve another concert this afternoon,” said Pinnick.
“What use is that?”
“It’s good entertainment to while away the time.”
“I don’t want concerts,” she said bitterly. “I want to spend my old age in America. I’ve worked hard all my life. I deserved it.”
“You did, Mirry.”
“We both did. They betrayed us.”
“I felt the pain as much as you,” he said, “but there’s no point in going on about it. We’ve been turned away before where our faces didn’t fit. We simply go somewhere else and carry on our lives.”
“We don’t have lives, Saul.”
“Of course we do.”
“No,” she moaned. “We just exist.”
“Then we’ll exist side by side, Mirry, as we’ve always done. You won’t hear me complain about that. I count my blessings.”
She frowned. “I’ve got none to count.”
“You’ve got more than some people.”
“Who?”
“Him, for instance.”
Coming to a halt, Pinnick indicated the man at the rail in the stern of the ship. Leonard Rush cut a sorry figure. Hunched up against the wind, he gazed intently down at the sea as if searching for something. There were numerous passengers on the deck, but he was cut off from all of them, imprisoned in a private world that nobody else could enter. Pinnick and his wife went across to him.
“Good morning, Mr. Rush,” said Pinnick. There was no reply. He touched the man on the shoulder. “Good morning to you.”
Rush spun round as if he’d been struck and bunched his fists as if to protect himself. When he recognized the others, he lowered his arms and relaxed slightly.
“It’s only Mirry and me,” said Pinnick. “You’re among friends.”
“I thought it was him again,” Rush muttered.
“Who?”
“The man who tried to steal my blanket last night.”
“You shouldn’t have slept on deck,” said Miriam.
“I had to, Mrs. Pinnick. It’s the only place for me. I was woken up when I felt someone tugging at my blanket. I had to hit the man hard to get rid of him.”
“There must be somewhere else you can sleep,” said Pinnick.
“There isn’t. I have to keep a vigil.”
Miriam was perplexed. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I know what he means,” said her husband softly. “Mr. Rush lost his wife on the voyage to America. She was buried at sea.”
“It was wrong,” protested Rush. “Ellen deserved a proper grave, not to be dumped into the water like a sack of rotten potatoes. I should have done more for her. I should have got her some respect.”
“She was given respect. I was at the funeral along with hundreds of others, and we were all moved by the dignity of the service. We shared your grief, Mr. Rush. We wept with you. It may have seemed cruel to bury your wife at sea, but it was the right thing to do.” Pinnick spread his arms in a vivid gesture. “Did you really want to arrive in New York with her body in a coffin?”
“They’d never have let you bury her there,” said Miriam.
“Would you want her laid to rest in a foreign country?”
“No,” confessed Rush.
“There you are, then.”
“I should have taken her back to England. It was my duty.”
“No man could have been expected to undergo that suffering, my friend. Think how dreadful it would have been for you, knowing that your wife’s body was somewhere down in the hold. And, of course,” Pinnick reminded him, “costs would have been involved.”
Rush nodded and withdrew into his shell. When he and his wife had set out from Southampton, their resources had been limited. He had been relying on getting some menial work once they were allowed into America. But his wife had died of pneumonia somewhere in the mid-Atlantic and he had neither the money nor the presence of mind to hold out for a proper funeral on land. Saul Pinnick was right about one thing. Though quite short, the burial service had been conducted with great reverence and a host of strangers had turned up in a collective show of sympathy.
At the time, Rush had been deeply moved. On reflection, however, he felt that he had let his wife down and he was consumed with guilt. Brushing a tear away with the back of his hand, he turned to stare out across the waves again.
“I’ll find it sooner or later,” he promised.
“Find what?” asked Miriam.
“The place where they tipped my wife overboard.”
“You can never do that, Mr. Rush.”
“I must. It’s the least I can do for Ellen.”
“Try to put those thoughts out of your head,” Pinnick advised. “I know that it’s hard because we’ve lost loved ones ourselves — far too many of them. But you have to think of yourself, Mr. Rush. Whatever your despair, life must go on.”
“Not when it’s so pointless.”
“But it’s not. There’s always some hope, however faint.”
“No, Mr. Pinnick. I’m not interested in hope. All I can think about is doing right by Ellen. When we reach the place where her body was dropped into the sea, I’ll know it for sure.”
Pinnick was alarmed. “Then what will you do?”
“I’ll join her,” said Rush.
SEVEN
In order to discuss the progress of their investigation, they forsook luncheon in the first-class saloon that day and met in Dillman’s cabin. Referring to her notebook, Genevieve gave a detailed account of her visit to Thoda Burbridge and explained that she had been invited to attend the séance that evening.
“I’ve always wanted to see what goes on at one of those things,” she said, “and now I have the opportunity.”
“I’m glad that you accepted. Sophie Trouncer tried to persuade me to join her at the séance but I thought better of it.”
“Why?”
“To be honest, I don’t wish to get any closer to Mrs. Trouncer.”
She was amused. “Do you think she has designs on you?”
“I don’t want to be in a position where I might find out.”
“You’d enjoy meeting Thoda Burbridge. She’s an interesting character. I’m usually dubious about people who claim to possess psychic gifts, but not in her case. She really does have strange powers. She saw right through me.”
“It must have come as something of a shock.”
“It did, George. I wonder what else she divined about me.”
Dillman smiled. “She was obviously too polite to tell you,” he said. “But she’s given you the perfect camouflage for talking to Sophie Trouncer. Instead of confiding that you work for the White Star Line, you can approach her as someone who’ll be sitting around the table with her in Mrs. Burbridge’s cabin.”
“Yes,” said Genevieve. “And because Philip Agnew will be there as well, I’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone.”
“I’d still like to have a chat with him myself.”
“He’s not the thief, George. I can vouch for that.”
“He could still be the person who unwittingly passed on details of the séance to the thief. I talked to the steward who looks after Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle’s stateroom. The theft almost certainly occurred while they were with Thoda Burbridge.”
“What else did you learn?”
“Only that the crew are trained to take s
ecurity very seriously. If they have the slightest suspicion about anything,” said Dillman, “they report it immediately to the chief steward. Wilf Carr — the man I spoke to — was very disturbed to hear that something had been stolen from a stateroom that he looked after. It’s never happened before. He took it as a personal insult.”
“Did you talk to anyone else?”
“I questioned all the stewards who work on that deck, male and female. Every one said the same. They saw nothing.”
“Were there any possible suspects among them?”
“No, Genevieve,” he said firmly. “They struck me as a dedicated body of people. To work in first class, they have to be highly efficient and trustworthy. Besides, what would any of them want with a copy of A Study in Scarlet? If there was a thief in their ranks, he’d steal something far more valuable than a single book.”
They broke off to eat some of the sandwiches that Dillman had had sent to the cabin. Tea had also been provided. He poured two cups and passed one to Genevieve.
“Luncheon would have been more tempting than this,” he said.
“Yes, George, but it would come with certain dangers.”
“Are you still being hounded by Joshua Cleves?”
“He doesn’t really hound me,” she replied, “that’s the trouble. He’s effortlessly polite and scrupulously well behaved. He knows just how far to go. Nevertheless,” she added, stirring sugar in her cup, “I have a few worries about him.”
“If he becomes a nuisance, let me know.”
“Oh, I have no qualms about handling him.”
“What about your other suitor?”
“I don’t have any suitors,” she said with a laugh.
“I was thinking about Frank Spurrier.”
“Ah, now he’s a little more problematical.”
“I had a feeling that he might be,” said Dillman.
“He keeps popping up when I least expect him. I told you about the way he sat directly behind me at the concert yesterday afternoon. He also intercepted me as I went into the dining saloon last night, and he did the same this morning.”
“So he was waiting in ambush for you?”
“It didn’t seem like that, George,” she said. “Mr. Spurrier was just there. He has this uncanny knack of appearing out of nowhere.” She took a first sip of her tea. “Then there’s the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“The way he always makes critical remarks about Mr. Cleves.”
“He obviously views him as a rival,” Dillman observed, “and is trying to warn you off. What about Cleves? Does he snipe at his friend in the same way?”
“On the contrary, he speaks well of him.”
“Does he realize he’s being traduced by Spurrier?”
“Oh, yes. He rather enjoys it.”
Dillman was taken aback. “Enjoys it?”
“Apparently,” said Genevieve. “He takes it in his stride. And he makes no attempt to hit back — I admire him for that. He’s a model of restraint and he has definite charm. It’s the reason he gets on so well with Lord and Lady Bulstrode. When it comes to friends, they’re very selective.”
“That’s why they chose to share a table with you.”
“They’ll have to miss me today — I had a better offer.”
He blew her a kiss. “Thank you.”
“As for Frank Spurrier, I’ll try to dodge him in future. He’s turned up once too often for my liking.”
“Didn’t you say that he runs an auction house in London?”
“Yes,” said Genevieve, “and he’s a very astute businessman, according to Mr. Cleves. He’s an expert on furniture and china, but his real love is for …” She paused as she realized the import of what she was about to say. “His real love is for rare books and modern first editions. Heavens!” she cried. “I should have thought of him before. He’d know the true value of a book.”
“How much would he pay for A Study in Scarlet?”
“Where are you staying in London?” asked Joshua Cleves.
“At the Savoy Hotel,” said David Lowbury.
“You’ll like it there. Excellent food. Make sure they give you a room overlooking the river. The great thing about the Savoy is that it has far more bathrooms than the average hotel.”
“You’ve stayed there?”
“Two or three times. It’s where I first met Frank Spurrier.”
“I can never make out if you two love or hate each other.”
“A bit of both, I guess,” said Cleves with a chuckle.
They were sitting in the first-class lounge after luncheon and it was beginning to fill up as other passengers came in from the dining saloon. Cleves waved to Lord and Lady Bulstrode as they went past. Lowbury acknowledged a few people with whom he had become acquainted. He turned back to his companion.
“He’s an odd fellow, isn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Frank Spurrier,” said Lowbury. “I mean, if I had a face like that, I’m sure that I’d scare the ladies away. Yet he doesn’t seem to do that. They’re drawn to him. Jane — my wife, that is — went so far as to say that he’s almost handsome in a perverse sort of way.”
“He lives up to his nickname.”
“What’s that?”
“John Wilkes.”
Lowbury shrugged. “The name means nothing to me.”
“Nor to me at first,” confessed Cleves. “It turns out that Wilkes was a political firebrand in the eighteenth century. He was also a member of parliament until he fell foul of George the Third — but, then, we Americans didn’t exactly see eye to eye with the king either.”
“Where’s the link with Mr. Spurrier?”
“I’m coming to it. Among his many talents, Wilkes was very fond of the ladies, in spite of the fact that he was rumored to be the ugliest man in England.”
“Did he have any success with them?”
“A tremendous amount, from what I hear,” said Cleves with a grin. “He was a real libertine. He boasted that he could talk away his face in half an hour. Frank is the same — hence the nickname.”
“Does he like it?”
“No, Mr. Lowbury. He detests it.”
“I can understand why.”
“He gets very touchy if you call him John Wilkes.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that.” He glanced toward door. “Talk of the devil — here he is!”
Frank Spurrier had just entered the lounge and was looking around in every direction. As he got level with them, Cleves put out a hand to stop him.
“She’s not here, Frank,” he announced.
“How do you know I was searching for someone?” said Spurrier.
“Because you have the concentrated expression of a hunter on the trail of his quarry. But the bird has flown. Miss Masefield didn’t even turn up for luncheon today.”
“I noticed that,” said Lowbury.
“She must have got fed up with sitting beside you, Josh,” said Spurrier, lowering himself into a chair. “And who can blame her?”
“Lady Bulstrode did,” Cleves answered. “She missed her badly.”
“Anyone would miss a woman like Miss Masefield,” said Lowbury with admiration. “I’ve watched her. She has real class. If I wasn’t already spoken for, I might even join you two in this little competition of yours.”
“What competition?”
“Come off it, Mr. Cleves. I’m not blind. The pair of you have set your sights on Miss Masefield and you’re both chafing at the bit.”
“That’s a rather inelegant way of putting it,” said Spurrier.
“But it’s near enough to the truth.”
“No, Mr. Lowbury.”
“We’re just having some fun at each other’s expense,” said Cleves. “We always do that if we sail on the same liner. It adds a bit of spice to the trip. Isn’t that so, Frank?”
“Yes, Josh,” Spurrier agreed.
“All that we admit to being is interested observers.”
<
br /> “Well, I’ve been doing a spot of observing myself,” said Lowbury, “and I know a contest when I see one.” Before they could speak, he raised both palms to silence them. “No need to protest. Believe me, I don’t blame you for trying. I wish you good luck. The way to add a bit of real spice to the trip is to entice Miss Masefield into your cabin for a spot of hanky-panky.”
“Do you have to express it quite so vulgarly?” said Spurrier with evident disapproval. “In your position, I’d have thought you’d be far too preoccupied with your wife to worry about any other woman.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about her — only about the two of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“That neither of you stands a chance.”
Cleves was purposeful. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Lowbury.”
“Would you put money on it?”
“Yes, I would.”
“You’re sounding like much more than an observer now.”
“That’s none of your business!”
“I just wanted to offer you some friendly advice, that’s all,” said Lowbury, relishing the hostility he had aroused. “She’s way beyond your reach, gentlemen, and always will be. Find someone else to add to your list of conquests.”
Spurrier was stung. “This conversation is starting to get very unseemly,” he complained. “I’ve no wish to continue it.”
“Then I’ll gladly withdraw,” said Lowbury, rising to his feet. “But don’t forget what I said. Neither of you will claim the prize. You’re both courting rejection. Why? To put it bluntly,” he went on, looking down at Cleves, “you’re much too old for her.”
“Damn you, sir!” exclaimed Cleves.
“And as for you, Mr. Spurrier,” he said with a provocative smile at the other man, “this is one occasion when you won’t be able to talk your face away like John Wilkes. Good day, gentlemen.”
David Lowbury left the pair of them fuming.
Genevieve had no difficulty in recognizing Sophie Trouncer. The latter’s appearance was very distinctive and Dillman had given a very accurate description of her. Sophie was in the library, reaching down a book from the shelf so that she could leaf through it. Genevieve was pleased that nobody else was there that afternoon. It meant that they could talk in private.
“Mrs. Trouncer?” she began.