Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  It was a gentleman’s frock coat.

  NINE

  Holding it up in one hand, George Dillman examined the coat with care. He was in the purser’s office with Nelson Rutherford and Wilfred Carr, both of whom looked on with interest.

  “Nothing in the pockets?” asked Rutherford.

  “Nothing at all,” replied Dillman.

  “Then he was robbed before he was killed.”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. We can’t be certain that this coat belonged to Mr. Lowbury, and even if it did, we’ve no proof that he was murdered. He may still be on the ship somewhere.”

  “I wish that was true, sir,” said Carr gloomily, “but I doubt it. We’ve searched everywhere except under the bunk in the captain’s cabin.”

  “But you did find the coat,” Rutherford noted, “and that’s to your credit. Well done, Carr. It’s the only real clue we have.”

  “Yes,” said Dillman, examining a tear under one of the armpits of the coat, “and it’s a very valuable one. Can you see where this is torn?” he asked, pointing. “Nobody would have worn it in that condition. I think the person who owned this coat may well have been involved in a struggle of some sort.”

  “One that he lost, by the look of it.”

  “Yes. Where exactly did you find this, Mr. Carr?”

  “In one of the lifeboats,” said the steward.

  “I’ll need you to show me the exact spot.”

  “Now, sir?”

  “No,” said Dillman. “We’ll need to get the coat identified by Mrs. Lowbury first. That’s the next step. In the meantime, I don’t want you to spread news of what you found.”

  “You can count on me, Mr. Dillman.”

  “And on the others,” said the purser. “Before they began their search I impressed upon them that they were to do nothing to raise alarm among the passengers. If people know that we have a possible murder on our hands, it will unsettle the whole ship.”

  Carr sniffed. “Then it’s just as well we didn’t take Roley.”

  “Who?”

  “Roland Finn, sir — first-class bedroom steward. The less he knows about this, the better. Roley has a wagging tongue. In fact, I’ve been meaning to talk to Mr. Dillman about him.”

  “Why?” asked the detective.

  “Because he’s sweet on Mrs. Burbridge’s stewardess, Hannah Jympson, that’s why. They’re close friends.”

  “I don’t want to hear any tittle-tattle about the private lives of the crew,” said Rutherford irritably.

  “But it’s important, sir. Hannah told Roley, you see, and my guess is that Roley told every Tom, Dick and Harry on board.”

  “Told them what?”

  “About that séance being held in Mrs. Burbridge’s cabin. When she heard that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was going to be there, Hannah couldn’t wait to pass on the news.”

  “This could be relevant,” said Dillman. “That book was stolen from Sir Arthur’s cabin while he and Lady Conan Doyle were at that séance. I assumed that only a few people were aware it was taking place, but it now seems the news reached a wider audience.”

  “I’d forgotten about the stolen book,” admitted Rutherford.

  “It’s something we have to keep in mind. Obviously, this latest development must take priority, but that doesn’t mean we stop looking for that copy of A Study in Scarlet.”

  “Quite.”

  “Unlike Mr. Lowbury, it’s something that we can be confident is still on the Celtic. Well,” he continued, folding the coat over his arm, “I’d better show this to his wife.”

  “Would you like me to go with you?” said the purser.

  “No, thank you. If our worst fears are realized, what she will really need is some female company.”

  “That’s one thing I can’t provide.”

  “My partner will certainly be with her by now,” said Dillman. “In situations like this, she comes into her own.”

  “What about me, sir?” asked Carr.

  “I’ll come for you in due course so that you can show me where you found the coat. You’ve got very sharp eyes. We’re very grateful that you were in that search party tonight.”

  “I do my best, Mr. Dillman. Can I go now, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know where to find me.”

  Rutherford waited until the steward had left the room.

  “This is all very disturbing,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “A killer on board? It’s unthinkable. The captain will have to be informed immediately.”

  “Wait until we have a positive identification,” advised Dillman. “If this coat did belong to David Lowbury, we may well be involved in a murder investigation — unless, of course, the gentleman took his own life. In theory, that’s not impossible.”

  “Is it likely?”

  “No, Mr. Rutherford. Someone who’s about to jump overboard would hardly take off his coat first and roll it up so that it can be hidden inside a lifeboat. And from what we know of David Lowbury, he was not a man of suicidal inclination.”

  “What’s your honest feeling about this case?”

  “Let me speak to Mrs. Lowbury first.”

  “And after that?”

  “I’ll start hunting for the killer,” said Dillman.

  Jane Lowbury was still very agitated. Though she was now sitting down, she could not relax. Her face was a mask of concern, her body kept twitching nervously and she twisted a handkerchief between her fingers. Genevieve Masefield did her best to comfort her but without any real success. She continued to probe for detail.

  “Who else did your husband meet in the smoking room?”

  “I’ve given you all the names I can remember, Miss Masefield.”

  “You say that he took a particular interest in Frank Spurrier.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why was that?” asked Genevieve, thinking about her own encounters with Spurrier. “Did your husband wish to buy antiques?”

  “He thought that we might go to an auction in London.”

  “Did he get a direct invitation from Mr. Spurrier?”

  “Yes,” said Jane. “He gave David his card.”

  “And what was your opinion of him?”

  “He’s a most unusual person, Miss Masefield. When you first meet him his face looks rather unsightly. Yet after you’ve talked to him for a few minutes he doesn’t seem so ugly at all. Mr. Spurrier has a most engaging manner.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve met him.”

  “He’s strangely attractive, isn’t he?”

  Genevieve did not commit herself, and in any case would not have had the time to do so. There was a tap on the door and Jane leaped from her seat to rush across to it. Genevieve also got up. When the door was opened they saw Dillman standing there.

  “Have you found him?” asked Jane eagerly.

  “Not exactly,” said Dillman. “May I come in, please?”

  “Yes, of course.” She stood back to let him in, then noticed the coat that he carried over his arm. “What’s that?”

  “I hope that you’ll be able to tell us.” He closed the door behind him, then handed the coat to Jane. “Do you recognize it?”

  She inspected it hurriedly. “I’m not sure,” she said. “It could be David’s coat, I suppose. Was there anything in the pockets?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Where was it found?”

  “On the main deck.”

  Jane noticed the torn armpit. “How did this happen?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Lowbury.”

  Having looked at the outside of the coat, she could not be certain that it belonged to her husband. When she turned her attention to the inside, however, it was a different matter.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed, swaying slightly.

  “Are you all right?” asked Genevieve, moving in to support her.

  “It’s his — this coat is David’s.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

&n
bsp; “Yes,” said Jane, pointing to the maker’s name. “This was my husband’s tailor in New York. It has to be his.” She burst into tears. “What’s happened to him?”

  “Come and sit down again,” said Genevieve, helping her to the nearest chair and lowering her into it.

  “I want to know where my husband is!”

  “The truthful answer,” Dillman confessed, “is that we don’t know at this stage. But we’ll find out, Mrs. Lowbury, I promise you that. If you’re absolutely convinced that this coat belonged to your husband, then I’m afraid that we must suspect foul play.”

  “No!” shrieked Jane. “Who could want to harm David?”

  “It could be someone you know,” said Genevieve with an arm around her shoulder. “That’s why I was asking you about the people you’d met on board.”

  “But he didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

  “It appears that he did, Mrs. Lowbury,” said Dillman quietly.

  “Why?” demanded Jane, increasingly distraught. “Why would anyone want to kill him?”

  “His billfold is missing. It could be murder for gain.”

  “What was he doing on the main deck in the first place?”

  “He may not have gone there of his own volition,” said Dillman.

  “Somebody forced him to go? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It seems a possibility, Mrs. Lowbury.”

  “This is unbearable!” howled Jane, staring down at the coat. “They’ve stolen David from me. They’ve murdered my husband!”

  With a cry of despair she buried her head in the coat.

  Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle had been the last to leave Thoda Burbridge. When they returned to their stateroom they were at last able to discuss what had happened during the séance.

  “What a singular experience,” he remarked. “I’m so glad that we were able to be present.”

  “It was extraordinary. It removed all my doubts about Mrs. Burbridge. She really can commune with spirits.”

  “I reserve my judgment on that.”

  “But you were there, Arthur. You saw what happened.”

  “I did, but I’m not entirely ready to take it at face value.”

  “Why not?”

  “I suppose that there’s always that nagging suspicion at the back of my mind that collusion is involved. I want to believe, Jean. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that we witnessed a genuine example of psychic powers this evening. But,” he added, stroking his mustache, “I wish that the messages had not been solely for Mrs. Trouncer.”

  “You don’t begrudge her, do you?”

  “Not at all. I shared in her delight.”

  “Yet you still think collusion is possible?”

  “Unwitting collusion,” said Conan Doyle. “Mrs. Trouncer is a nice lady, but she does rather let her tongue run away with her sometimes. The first time I met her she told me about her late husband’s love of his garden. I daresay she confided similar information to Mrs. Burbridge without even realizing that she was doing so.”

  “Well, I have no qualms about what we saw in that cabin.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Then what do you have?”

  “A minuscule amount of distrust,” he said. “I’ll be interested to know what Miss Masefield made of it all.”

  “Yes — what an enchanting young lady! I’m so grateful that she came in place of that odious Mr. Agnew. He spoiled everything yesterday.” She began to take off her jewelry. “Miss Masefield was a much more suitable member of the group. Don’t you agree?”

  Conan Doyle chuckled. “I never complain about sitting in the dark holding hands with attractive women.”

  “Arthur!”

  “I’m just sorry that Genevieve Masefield wasn’t one of them.”

  “We were there for a serious purpose.”

  “I know that, Jean,” he said, mollifying her with a kiss on the cheek, “and I was thrilled at the way it turned out. I was also relieved that nobody leveled the usual charge against me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The apparent contradiction between what I write and what I believe. Most people simply can’t accept that I can create an apostle of cold logic like Sherlock Holmes while at the same time espousing the cause of spiritualism.”

  “I see no contradiction.”

  “That’s because you know me, Jean.”

  “You’re the most consistent person I’ve ever met.”

  “Tell that to my critics.”

  “I always do,” she said loyally, putting her earrings on the table. “Just because you went to medical school doesn’t mean that you have to agree with everything that science tells you.”

  “Science tells me that spiritualism is a futile pursuit.”

  “That hasn’t put you off.”

  “Nor you, Jean.”

  “To a logical mind, it’s ludicrous even to consider the notion that someone can make contact with those who’ve passed away. Yet that’s exactly what Mrs. Burbridge did this evening,” she affirmed. “I saw her do it. I heard her speak. I felt I was present at a significant event. How would a scientist have reacted?”

  “With complete disbelief, I should imagine.”

  “Will spiritualism ever be accepted as having validity?”

  “No, Jean.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s something beyond the bounds of science,” he said, “and therefore beyond its control. Science is always very skeptical. It sneered at Newton and his outlandish theories for twenty years. I remember pointing that out in a book of mine.”

  “I know — it was The Mystery of Cloomber.”

  “Do you recall what else I wrote?”

  “Yes, Arthur,” she said, turning to face him. “You reminded your readers that science refused to believe at first that an iron ship could float, let alone steam its way across the Atlantic.”

  He laughed. “So why aren’t we all at the bottom of the sea?”

  Having shed his tails in favor of an overcoat, George Dillman climbed into the lifeboat, and using a lantern, subjected it to a thorough search. He found nothing. When he clambered out he helped Wilfred Carr to tie the tarpaulin back in place. The wind had stiffened and the swell had increased. The main deck was not a very hospitable place to be at that time of night.

  “Is this where it happened, Mr. Dillman?” asked the steward.

  “Possibly. It would be an ideal place. It’s isolated and largely shielded from sight. I’ll come back again in daylight,” said Dillman. “If there was a struggle here, there may be more evidence of it.”

  “Mr. Lowbury must have been a very rich man.”

  “He was a financier.”

  “That coat of his cost more than I earn in a year.”

  “Does that make you envious?”

  “No,” said Carr levelly. “I’m alive to spend my wages. He’s never going to wear that coat again, is he?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “His wife must have been stunned when you told her.”

  “She was,” said the other. “Mrs. Lowbury is still in a state of shock. We sent for the doctor to see if he could prescribe something.”

  “Poor lady!”

  “I don’t know how she’s going to cope with this situation. What makes it worse, of course, is that she doesn’t know the truth of what actually happened.”

  “Perhaps it’s better if she doesn’t, Mr. Dillman.”

  “She deserves the full facts and somehow I don’t think that she’ll flinch from them. It will bring some sort of closure.”

  “What does that mean, sir?”

  “Mrs. Lowbury will be able to lay her husband to rest — in her mind, anyway. It would be intolerable if she had to spend the rest of her life brooding on how he might or might not have died.” He looked at the steward. “Has there ever been a murder on any of the ships you’ve sailed on before?”

  “No, sir,” declared Carr. “We’ve had deaths from natural cause
s, mind you, especially in winter. In fact, a woman in steerage died on the westbound voyage. She was buried at sea.”

  “So, I fear, was Mr. Lowbury.”

  “Yes.”

  “And without a proper burial service, by the look of it.” Dillman turned to walk away and the steward fell in beside him. “Good-bye, Mr. Carr. I shan’t need you again tonight. You’ve set this investigation in motion. I can’t thank you enough for that.”

  “Find the bastard who did this, sir,” said Carr with feeling, “and find him soon. That’s all the thanks I want.”

  Joshua Cleves pored over the chessboard as he considered his next move. Sipping his brandy, Lord Bulstrode watched him with hawklike intensity. Cleves had more pieces intact but he had lost both knights, a bishop and, crucially, his queen. His opponent had sacrificed all his pawns and both castles while retaining what he thought of as his heavy artillery. After patient tactical play, he had Cleves in check.

  “Come on,” he encouraged.

  “Don’t rush me, Rupert. I need time.”

  “I thought we agreed to a maximum of five minutes before each move. You’ve already exceeded the limit, Joshua.”

  “Only because you’ve put me in a damnably awkward position.”

  “I think you did that yourself,” said Lord Bulstrode with contentment. “You didn’t anticipate my gambit.”

  “Call it by its proper name. It was a feat of low cunning.”

  “That, too, has its place in the game of chess.”

  Knowing that he could only gain temporary respite, Cleves finally moved his king to get out of check. Lord Bulstrode responded immediately. Two minutes later, it was all over. Checkmate.

  “Nice to know we can still beat the Americans at something,” said the old man, gathering up the pieces to put in the box. “Thank you, Joshua. It was a good game.”

  “You caught me on a bad night.”

  “I had to get my revenge. You won two games this afternoon.”

  “Then why was I so hopeless now?” asked Cleves, picking up his glass and staring into it. “Did you put something in my brandy?”

  “No excuses. You lost fair and square.”

  “I admit that, Rupert. I was outthought and outgunned.”