Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  “When I was in America,” Thoda continued, “I had the privilege of meeting Mrs. Piper. I’m sure that name is known to you, Sir Arthur.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “I’ve read a great deal about her and spoken to people who attended sittings with her when she came to England. A truly remarkable woman.” He looked at Genevieve. “Are you familiar with the name of Leonora Piper, by any chance?”

  “No,” admitted Genevieve.

  “She’s mentioned in the book I’ve been reading,” said Sophie.

  “Quite rightly,” said Conan Doyle. “Some of the things she’s been able to communicate during her trances are quite astounding. Mrs. Piper has her detractors, but the eminent psychologists who have examined her, on both sides of the Atlantic, have all come to the conclusion that she has extraordinary powers.”

  “Professor James was one of them,” Thoda observed, saying the name with exaggerated respect. “As a literary man, Sir Arthur, I daresay that you’ve met his brother, Henry.”

  “A number of times.”

  “That’s another phenomenon that defies explanation. How can the human brain produce the sort of brilliant work for which you and Henry James are justly celebrated? Who taught you such intellectual dexterity? From where did you get such profound insights into human behavior? It’s a form of magic.”

  “No,” said Lady Conan Doyle. “My husband is no magician. His books are the product of hard work and innate genius.”

  “Some of them, anyway,” he said modestly.

  “Your stories have given untold pleasure to a huge audience,” said Thoda, “and I’m sure that audience will continue to grow.”

  Genevieve could see what she was doing. Thoda Burbridge pretended to be engaging in casual conversation, but she was making sure that her guests were thoroughly relaxed. The longer they talked, the more control she seemed to exert. Without raising her voice or dominating openly, she nevertheless became the central figure in the room. It was almost as if she had grown in size. Like the others, Genevieve found herself submitting without resistance to her will.

  Thoda Burbridge remained a comforting presence. Offsetting her voluminous black gown of taffeta was a string of pearls that rested on her ample bosom. Pearl earrings matched the necklace. Sophie Trouncer had also chosen a black dress while Lady Conan Doyle wore a gown of dark green velvet. In her red silk evening dress, it was left to Genevieve to bring real color and style to the occasion. Thoda was at her most maternal. With her warm smile and affectionate manner she looked less like a medium than a proud mother presiding over her family during a meal. She beamed at Genevieve.

  “You must be wondering what to expect, Miss Masefield.”

  “I am,” confessed Genevieve.

  “Then you are in the same boat as the rest of us, if you’ll forgive a hideous pun. None of us really knows what is going to happen.”

  “It’s a psychic adventure,” said Conan Doyle.

  “That’s how I always view it. The procedure is quite simple, Miss Masefield,” said the medium. “There are no apparitions and no ectoplasmic manifestations of any kind. There will be no levitation and no objects flying around the cabin. All that will happen — when I turn out the light — is that I will attempt to go into a trance. It may take time, so I ask you all to be patient with me.” Her tone sharpened a little. “Please put your hands on the table, palms downward. That’s right,” she said approvingly as they all obeyed. “Now move your hands outward so that your fingers are touching those of the people on either side of you.”

  Genevieve was sitting between Lady Conan Doyle and Sophie Trouncer. As she spread her hands, she made contact with their fingers. Thoda walked across to the light switch.

  “Are we all ready?” she asked.

  Then the cabin was plunged into darkness.

  George Dillman acted swiftly. After escorting Jane Lowbury back to her cabin, he took charge of the search party that the purser had assembled for him. It consisted largely of stewards, trained men and women who knew every nook and cranny of the ship. Gathering them together, Dillman gave them a description of the missing man. He then deployed them throughout the various decks of the Celtic. Nelson Rutherford was impressed with the way the detective had supervised operations. They were standing outside the first-class dining saloon as the search party went about its business.

  “You’ve done this before, Mr. Dillman,” he commented.

  “Once or twice.”

  “How is Mrs. Lowbury?”

  “Still very upset. Ideally, I’d like my partner to be with her but she’s attending a séance at the moment. When she comes back I’ll ask her to visit Mrs. Lowbury.”

  “Did you see anything in the cabin?”

  “There was nothing to see,” said Dillman. “I thought there might be signs of a struggle or at least some small clue as to what might have occurred, but it was in exactly the state that Mrs. Lowbury left it.”

  “What about their steward?”

  “I’ve spoken to him, Mr. Rutherford. He’d finished work by the time Mr. Lowbury went back to the cabin to get his wife’s pills, so he was unable to help us. Since the pills are missing, we can assume that Mr. Lowbury took them.”

  “But that was almost two hours ago now,” said Rutherford, checking his watch. “No wonder his poor wife is so alarmed.”

  “Yes,” said Dillman. “I feel so sorry for her.”

  “Why did you ask about her husband’s frame of mind?”

  “Because I wondered if they’d had a row over something. It does happen — even on a honeymoon. I don’t know Mr. Lowbury, so it would be wrong to speculate about him, but I can think of some husbands who might deliberately go missing.”

  “We had one like that on the Baltic,” said the purser. “He and his wife had a violent argument and he stalked out. After she’d failed to find him, she came running to me, certain that something dreadful had happened to him.”

  “And had it?”

  “Not in my opinion. He was holed up in a cabin with three other men, drinking whiskey and playing cards. I seem to remember that he won a packet of money. That helped to placate his wife.”

  “We’re dealing with a different situation here.”

  “Exactly. No man in his right mind is going to walk out on someone as gorgeous as Jane Lowbury.”

  “Especially on their honeymoon.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “With two main possibilities,” said Dillman, thinking it through. “It may be that Mrs. Lowbury is deceiving us and that her husband is not in his right mind. He may be disturbed in some way and therefore not responsible for his behavior.”

  “And the other possibility?”

  “Someone stopped him from returning to his wife. The fact that he picked up those pills suggests that he intended to go back to her. Before he could do that, he might have been intercepted.”

  “By whom?” asked Rutherford, stroking his chin meditatively. “You heard his wife. He’s gregarious and even-tempered. David Lowbury made friends easily.”

  “If he’s engaged in high finance, he must have a ruthless streak as well. Business rivals may not look so kindly on him.”

  “We can’t be certain that he has any of them on board.”

  “Not at the moment, Mr. Rutherford, but who knows what we’ll find when we start to dig beneath the surface?”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “I’d like to have a word with Frank Spurrier. If he deserted them at dinner, he must have had a good reason for doing so. In any case,” said Dillman, thinking about Genevieve, “it’s high time I met the man. I’ve heard a lot about him.”

  “If the search party finds Mr. Lowbury, I’ll contact you at once.”

  “Thank you.”

  “One last question before you go,” said the purser. “Why is Miss Masefield taking part in a séance?”

  “By way of research.”

  “I see.”

  “Sir Arthur and Lady Conan D
oyle will be there as well.”

  “I’ll be interested to hear how she gets on.”

  “So will I,” said Dillman. “Very interested.”

  Their eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness. Still touching the hands on either side of her, Genevieve could make out the shape of Thoda Burbridge sitting bolt upright and lost in a trance. What she could not see was that the medium was holding a pencil and that it was poised over a sheet of paper in front of her. Minutes passed by, then Genevieve felt a vibration under her hands. At first she thought it was caused by one of the people sitting on either side of her, but when she experienced it again she realized that the table had moved slightly of its own accord. She was both disturbed and intrigued. Even if she had wanted it, there was no means of escape. The intense concentration of the group was an unbreakable bond. Because her fingers were touching those of Lady Conan Doyle and Sophie Trouncer, she was effectively manacled.

  When the table moved for the third time, it trembled beneath their palms. It was an odd sensation that Genevieve could not begin to explain. Clear, arresting, almost playful, it did not induce any real fear. Then, when she least expected it, she heard Thoda break the prolonged silence, but it was not in the voice she had used before. Thoda spoke in a weird, high-pitched whine, her head thrust back as she addressed an unseen listener.

  “Are you there?” she called. “Will you speak to me?”

  Whatever the replies, only Thoda could hear them. Even though she was not even looking at the paper, she began to write.

  “Yes, the lady is here,” she said, scribbling away. “You have the correct name. Do you have a message for her?”

  Genevieve’s mouth went dry and her cheeks burned with embarrassment. The thought that Thoda Burbridge might be talking about her was very disquieting, and she began to wish that she had not come to the cabin that evening. She did not have the genuine interest that had impelled the others. Genevieve was very much the outsider in the gathering. Could it be that, by some bizarre trick of fate, she was the one who had been picked out?

  By whom?

  “What else do you wish to say to her?” asked Thoda, the pencil moving ever more rapidly in her hand. “Yes, I’ll pass that message on. Do you have something more to tell me?”

  Genevieve was squirming in discomfort. Unseen forces were keeping her in her seat and the notion that she had been singled out only compounded her agony. The questions kept coming and the answers were duly noted down on the paper. Who was talking to the medium, and what was he or she saying? The dialogue seemed to be endless. Thoda had filled page after page. Genevieve prayed that the ordeal would come to an end.

  “Good-bye!” said Thoda.

  She breathed in deeply through her nose, then lapsed back into silence. Several minutes passed. Genevieve wondered if Thoda had fallen asleep. Conan Doyle offered some reassurance.

  “We have to wait while she comes out of the trance,” he said.

  “Is it always like this?” asked Genevieve.

  “A seance takes a lot out of her. Be patient.”

  They sat there for a few more minutes, their fingers still touching as if held there by some sort of spell. Genevieve was grateful that the table did not move again. With a grunt of surprise, Thoda suddenly jerked her head as if coming out of a dream. She took a moment to get her bearings, then she let out a quiet laugh.

  “It happened,” she said, reverting to her normal voice. “Oh, I’m so glad that it worked this time.” She got to her feet. “You can let go of the table now.” They withdrew their hands. “Be warned. I’m going to switch on the light again. It will seem quite fierce on your eyes at first. Here it comes.”

  She switched on the light and they all shaded their eyes against its glare. Resuming her seat, Thoda began to sort through the pages to put them in the correct order.

  “I only have a message for one of you, I’m afraid,” said Thoda. “He was very anxious to make contact.”

  “With whom?” asked Lady Conan Doyle.

  Convinced that it would be her, Genevieve braced herself.

  “With Mrs. Trouncer,” replied the medium, turning to her. “This is a private message, Mrs. Trouncer, and you may not want anyone else to hear it. The decision is yours.”

  “No, no,” said Sophie breathily. “Read it out. Share it.”

  “As you wish.”

  “May I ask how you could write in the dark?” said Conan Doyle.

  “A more pertinent question is how I can write in shorthand,” said the medium, “for I never learned it. Yet I have pages of squiggles and can read them with ease.”

  “Who spoke to me?” said Sophie.

  “Geoffrey Trouncer.”

  “My husband!”

  “He asked you to take good care of the garden.”

  “Oh, I always do. It was his pride and joy. A gardener comes three times a week and keeps it exactly as Geoffrey would want it.”

  “Don’t cut down any of the sycamores.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “And plant some more roses by that new trellis.”

  “How did he know that I had that trellis put up?” she said in wonderment. “It has to be Geoffrey you spoke to. It was my husband.”

  More information about the garden followed, then the comments became more personal. Sophie was enjoined to continue her various activities in the village where she lived and to visit his grave often. Though they were only listening to domestic trivia, Genevieve and the others were enthralled. There could be no doubting the fact that Thoda Burbridge had made contact with the spirit world. She could not possibly have known the details that poured out.

  Sophie Trouncer was elated. She hung on every word that was read out, making frequent comments or simply sighing with joy. Her face was radiant. Genevieve was happy on her behalf, though mystified as to how the medium had collected the messages. When the last page came into view, Sophie craned forward to see if she could make sense of the shorthand. Her excitement was building all the time.

  “Geoffrey sends his love,” said Thoda. “He misses you badly.”

  “I miss him!” cried Sophie.

  “But he has one important piece of advice for you.”

  “Go on.”

  “He does not want you to pine for him any longer, Mrs. Trouncer. You have mourned enough.”

  “It’s my duty.”

  “And you’ve done it very well. The time has now come to think about yourself for a change. That was his message.”

  “Myself?”

  “He thinks that you should get married again.”

  Sophie Trouncer let out a gasp of surprise and leaped to her feet so quickly that she knocked over her chair. Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open and both hands came up to her throat. Then, without any warning, she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  The séance was over.

  ______

  Saul Pinnick was a sociable man. Since they had sailed from New York he had made a number of friends and offered warm sympathy to anyone who, like himself, had been refused entry into America. He was also a willing guide to anyone visiting England for the first time, speaking about the country with such enthusiasm that people wondered why he had been ready to emigrate from it. Miriam Pinnick, however, was too caught up in her own distress to care overmuch about others. In her mind, England was simply the place where they would soon wither and die.

  “I think I should go and speak to him,” said her husband.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Rush.”

  “Why do you worry so much about him?” she complained. “You should take more notice of your wife and less of complete strangers. What’s so special about him?”

  “You know very well, Mirry.”

  “He has nothing like the worries I have.”

  “You’re not talking about suicide,” he reminded her. “He is.”

  “What’s this if it’s not a kind of suicide?” she asked with a touch of belligerence. “We’re going back to
nothing — no house, no job, no money, no future. We’re killing ourselves, Saul. The only difference is that it will take us a little longer than Mr. Rush.”

  “Don’t you care, Mirry? Taking your own life is the most awful thing a man can do. Imagine how he must be feeling. And before you tell me about your despair,” he went on with a flash of anger, “just remember that you have someone to share that with you. Mr. Rush doesn’t. He’s all alone.”

  They were huddled side by side in the lounge, two weary figures among the hundreds of steerage passengers who were still up. It was time to go to bed, but Pinnick was more concerned about Leonard Rush’s sleeping arrangements.

  “Would you stay out on deck all night?” he challenged.

  “You know I wouldn’t, Saul.”

  “Then have some concern for someone who does.”

  “He’s not the only one,” she argued. “There’s others who’d rather sleep under the stars because their cabins are too crowded.”

  “Younger people, Mirry. Fitter people. You heard him cough. The man is ill. That’s why they turned him back at Ellis Island.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Show him that he has friends.”

  “We’ve already done that.”

  “We have to keep doing it — especially at night. That’s the worst time for him. That’s when the death of his wife preys on his mind.”

  She gave a tired smile. “You’re a good man, Saul Pinnick.”

  “I hate to see someone suffer like that.”

  “You’re not his keeper.”

  “I just want to make sure that he’s all right.” He got to his feet. “Or, to be honest — that he’s still aboard. Will you come with me?”

  “I think you’d rather go on your own, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, Mirry. I would.”

  “You know how to talk to him — I don’t.”

  “Wait for me here, my love.”

  “Ha! Where else can I go?”

  Picking his way between the seats, Pinnick made for the door. He went out onto the main deck and walked along it. Several people were about, enjoying a stroll before bedtime or standing at the rail and watching the reflection of the moon on the sea. Pinnick saw three or four passengers, curled up under blankets in places where they had some protection from the wind, but there was no sign of Leonard Rush. The old man went twice around the deck, peering into the darkest corners in search of his friend. Rush had last been seen in the dining saloon where he had wolfed down his meal before leaving early. Pinnick could not believe that he would have bothered to eat if his mind had been set on suicide.