by Conrad Allen
“Yes,” replied Sophie, looking up. “That’s me.”
“My name is Genevieve Masefield. I believe that we have a mutual acquaintance on board.”
“Oh, who might that be?”
“Mrs. Burbridge.”
“Yes, I know dear Thoda!” said Sophie, her face lighting up. “In fact, this is the exact spot where I first met her. I came in search of books on spiritualism.”
“That’s precisely why I’m here. Mrs. Burbridge was kind enough to recommend a couple of books that she said I’d find here.”
“Do you have an interest in the subject as well?”
“Yes,” said Genevieve. “I’ll be joining you at the séance tonight.”
“Wonderful!”
Genevieve had liked the woman on sight and Sophie clearly accepted her without any reservation. They were soon chatting amiably. Genevieve indicated the chairs.
“Why don’t we sit down for a moment?”
“Good idea.” They sat at either side of a table. “Oh, I’m so glad to have the chance to meet you, Miss Masefield. Mother and I both noticed that dress you wore at dinner last night.”
“It does seem to have caught the eye.”
“It’s the person wearing it who does that,” said Sophie. “Even at your age, I would never have dared to wear anything like that. I lacked both the figure and the courage.”
“You don’t strike me as a woman who’s short of courage,” said Genevieve. “You have such an air of determination about you. Once you set your mind on something, I’ll wager that you’re bold and single-minded.”
“I am, Miss Masefield, and always have been. I had to be bold to undertake this trip in the first place. Mother and I have traveled thousands of miles on our own, you know. And we did so without a tremor,” she said proudly.
“Good for you.”
“But you’re even more courageous.”
“Am I?”
“If, as it appears, you’re sailing on your own.”
“One soon makes friends on a ship, Mrs. Trouncer. It’s one of the pleasures of crossing the Atlantic. But tell me what happened last night,” she said. “I understand that the séance was something of a disappointment.”
“Not to me. I was so privileged to be there.”
“Were you?”
“Thoda is such an extraordinary person. As we sat around the table with her, I could feel the power she had. Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle were there as well,” she said, “and they had the same impression as me. Thoda is a true medium.”
“What about the other person involved?”
“Mr. Agnew?” She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t say that I took to the gentleman. He was too loud. Americans sometimes are, I fear.”
“Not all of them,” said Genevieve, thinking of her husband.
“He didn’t like it when Thoda demonstrated her gift.”
“Yes, I had a demonstration of that as well.”
“Mr. Agnew took exception to it. Luckily, it was before Sir Arthur and his wife joined us, and the argument was over by then.”
“Argument?”
“Thoda can sense things about people. She knew facts about me that I’d long forgotten and I was quite shaken when she disclosed them. But I didn’t deny that they were true,” she said. “Mr. Agnew thought it was all a trick. At one point, he got quite defiant.”
“Why?”
“He more or less challenged Thoda to tell him something hidden in his own past. Yet when she did, he refused to admit that the facts were accurate.”
“What sort of facts?”
“That he grew up in Utah as part of a Mormon community. Thoda was even able to name the town where he was born, but Mr. Agnew refused to discuss it. If you want my opinion, Miss Masefield,” she said, wagging an index finger, “that was what ruined the séance. Mr. Agnew had created the wrong atmosphere. Sir Arthur and his wife were unaware of it but I wasn’t. The evening was spoiled by that noisy American.”
“I’m afraid that Philip Agnew will be there again tonight.”
“Then I hope he behaves himself. Thoda was a saint. She was so tolerant with him. She let him rant on, then apologized for making a mistake about his past. But I don’t think it was a mistake.”
Genevieve knew why the medium had not mentioned the incident to her. Thoda Burbridge had been as good as her word. Confidentiality was maintained. Genevieve’s respect for the woman increased. She had not only coped with the protesting Philip Agnew and the ebullient Sophie Trouncer, she had never lost her composure while doing so. The prospect of being present at the next séance took on an additional interest for Genevieve. She felt that it could be a memorable experience.
“I was hoping that he might join us,” said Sophie.
“Who?”
“A handsome gentleman we’ve befriended. He’s the kind of refined American who could almost pass as an Englishman. Mother adores him and he certainly makes my heart flutter. He’s the complete antithesis of Mr. Agnew.”
“Really?”
“He’s kind, considerate, well mannered and highly educated. I invited him to come this evening, but unfortunately he’s too busy.” A dreamy look came into her eyes. “I’d have loved to walk into Thoda’s cabin with George Dillman beside me. He’s so good-looking.”
Genevieve stifled a comment.
Later that afternoon, George Dillman tracked him down in the first-class smoking room. Philip Agnew was one of the few people still there, stubbing out the remains of a cigar in the ashtray. He was a big, heavy man in his fifties with a weather-beaten face and a balding pate. When the detective approached, Agnew was reading a magazine.
“You’re missing the concert,” said Dillman.
“On purpose.”
“Don’t you like entertainment?”
“Not when amateurs are involved,” said Agnew, tossing the magazine aside. “Why are you dodging it?”
“For much the same reason. When I crossed on the Oceanic, I had to sit through an accordionist, a man who recited humorous monologues and two people who did bird impressions.”
“Then I’m glad I wasn’t there. I care about birds.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Be my guest, sir,” said Agnew, indicating the chair beside him.
The detective offered his hand. “George Dillman.”
“Philip Agnew.”
They shook hands, then Dillman took a seat. He noticed that the discarded magazine had a picture of a lion on the front of it.
“Are you interested in animals, Mr. Agnew?”
“I have to be — it’s my job.”
“Oh?”
“I own a menagerie on the outskirts of Chicago. We’re in the process of extending it so that we can have more species on display. That’s the main reason I’m going to Europe.”
“I would have thought Africa would be the best place.”
“No, I’ve got all the big cats I need and a couple of hippos. Last year I bought a rhino from a zoo in Michigan. What I’m really after on this trip are birds and small mammals.”
“Where will you get them from?” asked Dillman.
“All over the place. I deal with zoos, private collectors, breeders. In most cases, I pay cash, but some folk prefer to trade.”
“You’ve brought animals with you?”
“Native American species,” said Agnew. “Any animal that could be transported in a cage without making too much noise or stinking the whole ship out. That’s why I drew the line at coyotes and skunks.”
Dillman smiled. “We’re all grateful to you for that.”
“What do you do, Mr. Dillman?”
“Exactly what I’m doing at the moment — I sail. We have a family business in Boston making oceangoing yachts. I get to put them through their paces before we sell them.”
“That means you’re a good sailor. I envy you.”
“Do you have trouble with seasickness?”
“Only on the first day.”
�
��So how have you been passing the time on the Celtic?”
“Eating plenty, drinking even more. And I do a lot of walking,” said Agnew. “When I’m on a ship, I’m like an animal in a cage. I’m always on the prowl.”
“Exercise is important. I’ve been round the deck dozens of times each day. It’s been a very enjoyable voyage so far. The weather’s been kind to us and I’ve met some nice people. The person I’d really like to meet, however,” he said artlessly, “is that famous British author.”
“Which one?”
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Save yourself the trouble. I know him. He’s nothing special.”
“But he created Sherlock Holmes.”
“I’ve got no time for writers.”
“Why not?”
“I only respect a man who does a real job, Mr. Dillman.”
“Then you ought to respect Sir Arthur. Before he became an author he was a qualified doctor. At one stage, I believe, he acted as a ship’s surgeon on a whaling boat so that he could get some money to continue his medical studies.”
“Yes,” said Agnew with a sneer. “He mentioned that. It was one of the reasons I took against the man.”
Dillman was shocked. “You object to his being a doctor?”
“What I object to is the random killing of animals. Sir Arthur actually harpooned a whale himself and he helped to club dozens of seals to death. That was brutal,” he said with feeling. “I keep seals in my menagerie. They’re lovely creatures. Only a cruel man would want to kill them.”
When they had met, Conan Doyle had struck Dillman as a gentle, considerate man, but he did not say so to Agnew. The latter was clearly passionate about the care of animals. He had contempt for hunters of any kind. A writer who had been involved in killing animals aroused particular disgust. Agnew’s cheeks became inflamed.
“And now,” he said with scorn, “he leads the life of a country squire. That means he goes hunting, shooting and fishing. I know that we all have to eat and that certain animals have to be slaughtered, but anyone who kills for sport should be arrested.”
“How did you meet Sir Arthur?”
“At a séance.”
“Here on the ship?” said Dillman, feigning surprise.
“Yes. There’s a woman on board called Thoda Burbridge. She claims to be a medium. But I didn’t see any proof of it last night.” He looked Dillman in the eye. “Do you believe in spiritualism?”
“I try to keep an open mind on the subject.”
“I thought it was all nonsense, and that the people who tried to make contact with the dead were fools. Then my wife passed away,” Agnew recalled with a sigh, “and I began to take it more seriously. I had a friend in the same position as me and he swears that he spoke to his late wife at a séance. That set me thinking.”
“I can see how it would.”
“When I met this woman on board who just happens to be a medium, I began to wonder if it was more than a coincidence.”
“Is that why you decided to go to the séance?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman. My wife was everything to me. If I could reach her in any way, however briefly, I’d be overjoyed. Mrs. Burbridge seemed quite genuine when we spoke, and she obviously has powers of some sort. So I asked if I could join in.”
“But the event was a failure.”
“I thought so,” said Agnew, “but maybe I was expecting too much. One of the people there — Mrs. Trouncer — reckoned that it was an honor just to be present, but I didn’t feel that.”
“What did you feel, Mr. Agnew?”
“Well — that I’d been sort of cheated.”
“Did the medium ask for a fee?”
“No. In fairness, she didn’t. Mrs. Burbridge only takes money from people who get what they want.”
“And you were not happy with the way things went?”
“Not at all.”
“Would you attend another séance?”
“I don’t think so,” said Agnew. “I agreed to go back again this evening, but I won’t bother. I couldn’t face that kind of letdown again, and I don’t really want to sit shoulder to shoulder with a man like Sir Arthur who kills dumb animals. No,” he added with a grim smile, “from now on, I’ll get all my spirits out of a bottle.”
Like most of the people in first class, Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle decided to attend the concert that afternoon. As they filed into their seats, his mind was still on the lost book.
“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” he said.
“I thought you had faith in Mr. Dillman.”
“I do, Jean, but I quail at the size of his task.”
“How would Sherlock Holmes solve the crime?”
“If he was looking for a needle, he’d burn down the haystack.”
“That’s rather impractical when there’s a book inside,” said Lady Conan Doyle. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. I know how much that book means to you, and I can remember the thrill I felt when I first read it.”
“Did you ever imagine that you’d one day marry the author?”
“That would have seemed like an absurd fantasy.”
“And now?” he asked.
She squeezed his hand by way of reply. Other people came to sit beside them, so their conversation became more neutral, but both of them still kept thinking about the copy of A Study in Scarlet. It was not long before the chairman took charge and the concert began. Although the artistes were drawn primarily from the passengers and the crew, the standard of performance was fairly high. A talented pianist was the first to delight the audience, then one of the engineers told a series of hilarious nautical anecdotes. After two young girls had done their tap dance routine, Nelson Rutherford reappeared to play a medley of tunes on his clarinet.
Three vocalists were featured, but in the opinion of Conan Doyle, not one of them could match the beauty of his wife’s singing. It was toward the end of the concert that the real surprise came.
“And now,” announced the chairman, “we bring you something quite different. Nobby Ruggles is one of the barbers on the Celtic. He’s also a master of the monologue. Please give Nobby a warm welcome as he recites the stirring ballad ‘Corporal Dick’s Promotion.’ ”
A round of applause came, but Conan Doyle did not contribute toward it. The poem chosen was one of his own, written for a collection called Songs of Action, an anthology of narrative ballads about soldiers and sportsmen. He wondered why that particular poem had been selected. Dressed in army uniform, Nobby Ruggles marched into view and saluted to the audience as he halted. He was a stocky man of medium height with the face and manner of someone who had seen military action. When he launched into his recitation, he did so with immense gusto.
“The eastern day was well-nigh o’er
When, parched with thirst, and travel sore,
Two of McPherson’s flanking corps
Across the desert were tramping.
They had wandered off from the beaten track
And now were wearily harking back,
Ever staring round for the signal jack
That marked their comrades camping.”
What made the performance so compelling was the way the ballad had been dramatized. By using graphic gestures, clever movements and endless changes of voice, Ruggles brought the story alive for them. He delivered the lines as if declaiming a Shakespearean soliloquy and he fully deserved the ovation that followed. He cut it short by semaphoring wildly.
“No, no, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with patent humility. “I merely brought the message to you. The person to applaud is the man who actually wrote it, and he’s sitting in this very room. A generous hand, please, for the creator of ‘Corporal Dick’s Promotion,’ ” he went on, “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!”
Cheers rang out and everyone turned in the direction to which Ruggles pointed. Many passengers had not even realized that the author was on board the ship, and those who did had not seen very much of him. Much to his discomfo
rt, Conan Doyle was forced to rise to his feet in acknowledgment of the applause. It was only when the clapping began to die down that Nobby Ruggles saluted him and marched off. Conan Doyle gratefully resumed his seat. His hopes of traveling in comparative anonymity had been shattered. When the concert eventually came to an end, everyone close to him wanted to congratulate him. Few of them had known that the man whose name was inextricably linked with Sherlock Holmes was also a poet.
As the crowd began to thin out, he pulled a face. “I knew that it was a mistake to come,” he said ruefully.
“You weren’t to know what would happen, Arthur,” said his wife. “Besides, I thought he performed it very well.”
“Far too well, Jean. When he revealed my name, I felt as if I had a dozen searchlights trained on me. It was gruesome.”
“Noblesse oblige.”
“I suppose you could put it that way.”
All he wanted to do was to steal quietly away to the safety of their stateroom, but they were not allowed to do so. As soon as they stepped out of the room, Nobby Ruggles confronted them. He had changed back into the white coat and dark trousers he wore when on duty as a barber. The glow in his eyes was akin to hero-worship.
“Norman Ruggles — at your service, Sir Arthur!”
“You did extremely well, Mr. Ruggles,” said Conan Doyle. “I’ve never heard that ballad given such a stirring recitation before.”
“Thank you, Sir Arthur.” He turned to Conan Doyle’s wife. “Your husband is a genius, Lady Conan Doyle.”
“I don’t need to be told that, Mr. Ruggles,” she said with a smile.
“He and I have met before. Sir Arthur won’t remember me, but I remember him. We all did, every last man of us.”
“Did you by any chance serve in the Boer War?” asked Conan Doyle. Ruggles stood proudly to attention. “Good for you, my man. I tried to enlist myself, but they turned me down on the grounds of age. I was determined to get to South Africa somehow, so I became part of a medical unit.”
“And you did sterling work, Sir Arthur,” said Ruggles. “I was in Bloemfontein when that typhoid epidemic broke out. I helped to recapture the water pumps from the Boers.”
“We must have ridden out together in that freezing weather.”