by Conrad Allen
Cleves sipped his brandy. The two of them were among the small number of survivors in the first-class lounge. Most people had retired to their cabins, but they had stayed up to continue their rivalry on the chessboard.
“Our stateroom would have been more private,” said Lord Bulstrode apologetically, “but Agnes wanted to play cards in there with her friends.”
“For money?”
“I think that they only use matchsticks. My wife is not a true gambler. She only plays games for the pleasure of it.” He gurgled down the last of his drink. “Agnes had hoped that Genevieve Masefield would join her at the card table but she had other plans.”
“A meeting of some sort, I believe.”
“I suppose you might call it that.”
“Go on,” said Cleves, intrigued by the mischievous twinkle in the other man’s eye. “You know something, don’t you?”
“I might do.”
“Then share it with a friend.”
Lord Bulstrode leaned forward “A little bird tells me that the meeting Miss Masefield went to this evening was actually a séance.”
“Can this be true?” said Cleves in astonishment.
“According to my wife, it is. Agnes heard it from our steward, who had, in turn, picked it up from another member of the staff. I first learned about it when I went to collect the chess set. We have a medium aboard, it transpires.”
“A crook, more likely.”
“Miss Masefield obviously trusts the lady.”
“That’s what amazes me,” said Cleves. “How can someone as level-headed as her believe in all that nonsense about talking to people beyond the grave? It’s lunacy.”
“Not if you happen to be a lunatic.”
“You’re surely not defending spiritualism.”
“No, but I’m not attacking it either.”
“Show me a medium and I’ll show you a complete charlatan. How can any intelligent person take an interest in such hogwash?”
“You’ll have to ask Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Why?”
“Because he was at the séance as well. I never touch detective fiction myself,” said Lord Bulstrode grandly, “because I regard it as one of the lower forms of literature. But I did read what Sir Arthur had to say about the Boer War and I admired the fellow for it. His book was lucid, cogent and extremely well written. In short, we are talking about a highly intelligent man.”
“Then how has he been tricked into attending a séance?”
“I should have thought you’d be more interested in how Miss Masefield came to be there.”
“I am,” said Cleves.
“We’ve both noticed that you’ve taken a liking to her.”
“What sane man could fail to do that?”
“One sitting beside his wife,” said the old man with a wicked smile. “I hope that this revelation about Miss Masefield hasn’t made you think any the less of her.”
“Nothing could do that, Rupert.”
“Then why do you seem to be so disappointed?”
“I don’t know,” said Cleves, sitting back in his chair. “I suppose that I thought her above that sort of thing. Genevieve Masefield is so poised and sophisticated. How on earth could she be taken in by that nonsense?”
“You obviously misjudged her.”
“So it appears. Thank you, Rupert. Thank you very much.”
“For what?”
“Showing me that the young lady is not as well defended as I thought. If she believes in spiritualism, there’s a definite chink in her armor.” He rolled his brandy glass between his palms. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”
“What did the doctor advise?” asked Dillman.
“He suggested a sedative but Mrs. Lowbury refused to take it.”
“Why?”
“She doesn’t want to sleep, George. She feels that she’d be betraying her husband if she does that. She’d rather stay awake and mourn.” Genevieve heaved a sigh. “There was no persuading her.”
“Is she on her own now?”
“Yes. I offered to stay with her but she insisted on being left alone. I told her that she could call on me at any time in the night.”
“That was kind of you, Genevieve.”
“I hate to see anyone in such anguish.”
They were in Dillman’s cabin. She had met him there to hear about his visit to the main deck and to report on Jane Lowbury’s condition. Genevieve was worried about her.
“She wouldn’t even ask for some pills from him, George.”
“Pills?”
“Mrs. Lowbury has mild palpitations from time to time. That’s why she asked her husband to fetch the pills from their cabin. Everything that’s happened in the past few hours must have made her heart pound, yet she wouldn’t take anything from the doctor.”
“Why not?”
“Because she feared he might slip her a sedative.”
“Did he examine her?”
“She wouldn’t allow it,” said Genevieve. “When she stopped crying she walked up and down that cabin as if trying to wear out the carpet. She talked incessantly about her husband and how happy they’d been together. They hadn’t known each other all that long.”
“Perhaps that was the problem.”
“In what way?”
“I fancy that Mrs. Lowbury is only aware of her husband’s virtues,” he said. “She hasn’t found out if he had any vices yet or if there are things in his past that might have put him in jeopardy.”
“She loved him, George.”
“It blinded her to his faults.”
“Not necessarily,” she said, stroking his arm. “I love you but it hasn’t blinded me to your faults.”
“I don’t have any, Genevieve.”
“That’s the first of them — complacence.”
“Then I’m not going to ask what the others are,” he said with a laugh, slipping his arms around her waist. “I’ve missed you.”
“So I should hope.”
“I really needed you when the alarm was first raised.”
“Yes,” said Genevieve, “I feel so bad about that. I should have been here to help, not sitting in Thoda Burbridge’s cabin.”
“What happened at the séance? We’ve been so busy since you got back that I haven’t had time to ask. Was it a success?”
“I think so.”
“What about the others?”
“Oh, they were equally impressed,” said Genevieve. “In fact, Mrs. Trouncer was almost ecstatic.”
“Why?”
“She received messages from her late husband.”
Genevieve explained what had taken place at the séance and how her prejudices against spiritualism had been slowly eroded. The demonstration by Thoda Burbridge had won her over completely.
“Even you would have been convinced, George.”
“I don’t convince very easily.”
“I know. It’s another of those faults I mentioned.”
“Stop teasing,” he said, pulling her close and kissing her. “And you’ve no need to feel guilty about going. You not only met Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle, you gathered useful intelligence.”
“Yes, I did. I’m able to alert you.”
“To what?”
“Sophie Trouncer,” she said. “The last thing her husband said to her was that it was time for her to start afresh with a second husband.” She grinned. “You’ll have to learn to dodge her.”
“I will, have no fear.” He hugged her. “I’m sorry, darling.”
“For what?”
“I promised you this voyage would be free of any of the usual complications. Yet here we are with a murder on our hands.”
“Not to mention a theft.”
“Yes,” he said, “we mustn’t let one crime obscure the other. As it happens, I’ve been thinking about A Study in Scarlet.”
“Have you?”
“I’m wondering if we’re looking in the right direction.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, we’ve assumed that the thief is either an admirer of the book or someone who wants to exploit its commercial value.”
“Who else could it be, George?”
“Someone who despises the book.”
“I haven’t read it,” said Genevieve, “so I’m not really qualified to judge, but I thought that it was universally praised.”
“So did I.”
“Then why should anyone despise it?”
“Because of its unrelenting attack on their beliefs,” he told her. “The first half of the book is about some murders that baffle Scotland Yard. By using deductive reasoning, Sherlock Holmes, who describes himself as a consulting detective, eventually solves the crimes.”
“What about the second half of the book?”
“That’s set very largely in America.”
“America?”
“In Utah, to be exact,” he told her. “Actually, it’s the only part of the novel where Sir Arthur falters a little. He doesn’t really have complete control of the American idiom. It leads to a few jarring moments. But that’s a minor complaint,” he went on. “What he gives us is a thrilling story that clearly explains why the murders were committed.”
“And why were they?”
“Because of what happened in a Mormon community in Utah.”
Genevieve was curious. “There are Mormons in the book?”
“The whole plot turns on their doctrine of polygamy. Sir Arthur pours scorn on it, arguing that women are forced into marriages that have no right to bear the name. He portrays the Mormons as cruel, inflexible and intimidating. How true that is I can’t say,” admitted Dillman, “but I know that I’d be deeply offended by the novel if I was a devout Mormon. Perhaps we have one on board.”
“We do, George.”
“Really?”
“Philip Agnew was raised in the Mormon Church. At least, that’s what Thoda Burbridge sensed about him. According to Mrs. Trouncer, he denied it hotly, but I wonder if he was lying.”
“Running a menagerie is hardly a Mormon activity.”
“No,” she said, “but he might still have loyalties to the Church. A Study in Scarlet could still cause him offense.”
“How could it when he’s never even read it?”
“He doesn’t have to read it to be aware of its harsh criticism of Mormon doctrines. Most churches have a list of banned books.”
“Mine certainly did,” he said reflectively. “Our preacher was always condemning certain writers from the pulpit because he felt they were unchristian. I used to sneak off to the library to find out why those books had upset him so much.”
“And did you?”
“No, I always enjoyed the books immensely.”
“So you disobeyed your preacher.”
He smiled. “You’ll have to add that to my list of faults.”
“Coming back to the theft, do you take my point, George?”
“I can see that a Mormon might be outraged by A Study in Scarlet, but how could Mr. Agnew possibly know that Sir Arthur had a copy with him?”
“Perhaps he didn’t,” she argued. “By way of revenge, he went to steal anything written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and happened on that particular novel.”
“But he was taking part in the séance.”
“Not for the whole time. Mr. Agnew was so disappointed with what happened that he stalked out early on.”
“Knowing that Sir Arthur and his wife were still absent from their stateroom.” Dillman pursed his lips in thought. “This may have nothing to do with him being a Mormon,” he continued. “Philip Agnew had another reason to detest Sir Arthur — he’s killed animals. If he did steal that book, he might have done it out of sheer spite.”
“Would you describe Mr. Agnew as a spiteful man?”
“Oh, yes. Extremely spiteful.”
Nobby Ruggles waited until his first customer had settled into the chair before putting a cape of crisp white linen around him. Tying it at the back of the man’s neck, he glanced in the mirror so that he could see Philip Agnew’s face.
“A trim, sir?”
“Yes, but don’t take too much off. I’ve got little enough hair as it is. Just tidy it up, please.”
“Of course, sir.”
Ruggles swiveled the chair slightly so that he could look at his customer from the front, then he used his comb to train a few wayward strands back into place. Most of the surviving hair had retreated to the fringes, but there was still a narrow band stretching across the top of his head like a hirsute bridge across a dome of baldness. Having sized up his task, Ruggles reached for his scissors and began work.
“Did you go to the concert yesterday, sir?” he asked.
“No,” said Agnew bluntly.
“Then you missed some wonderful entertainment. The purser always takes part. Mr. Rutherford plays the clarinet.”
“I’ve got no time for music.”
“Then you would have enjoyed the conjurer.”
“I doubt it.”
“The act that everyone really enjoyed was the lady with the performing dog. It was a poodle and she’s taught it lots of tricks.”
“Then I’m glad I wasn’t there,” said Agnew brusquely. “I hate performing animals of any kind. I own a menagerie where I give my animals as much dignity as I can. Circuses are the worst. They make lions, tigers, elephants and seals do things that the creatures would never do in the wild. I think it’s shameful. I love animals. I’d never humiliate them.”
“But the dog seemed to enjoy doing the tricks.”
“Why couldn’t the owner just let it be a dog?”
During his years as a barber Nobby Ruggles had learned never to upset a customer. To that end he never talked about politics, religion or marriage, three subjects that could easily become too controversial. If any of his customers broached them, Ruggles took the line of least resistance and agreed with everything they said. Agnew was evidently not a man with whom to pick an argument. Instead, Ruggles asked politely about the menagerie and heard how it had been set up and developed.
When the topic had been exhausted, Ruggles brought the conversation back to the concert. He beamed proudly.
“There’ll be another concert this afternoon, sir.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“I only mention it because I’ll be one of the artistes.”
“What do you do?” asked Agnew. “Cut someone’s hair on stage?”
“No, sir. I recite poems.”
“That’s worse than watching a poodle stand on its hind legs.”
“My work has been well received,” said Ruggles defensively. “At yesterday’s concert I gave a performance of ‘Corporal Dick’s Promotion’ and got a big round of applause. The man who wrote the poem also congratulated me and you can’t have higher praise than that. Sir Arthur thought I had a real talent.”
Agnew grimaced. “Would that be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I dislike the man.”
“He’s one of my idols.”
“I don’t approve of any man who slaughters animals.”
“You should have seen what he did for us during the Boer War.”
“Who cares about that?”
“I do, sir. I was there, in the British army.”
“Then show your medals to someone else,” said Agnew sourly. “All I know about the Boer War is that the British army went to South Africa and killed thousands of wild animals.”
“We had to eat, sir.”
“Live off fruit and vegetables as I do. It’s healthier for you.”
“Shall I tell you why I respect Sir Arthur so much?”
“Not unless you want me to call for another barber. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Ruggles, sir. Nobby Ruggles.”
“Are you allowed to take tips?”
Ruggles’s face brightened. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, you won’t get one if
you mention that man’s name again.”
“Sir Arthur?”
“I told you not to mention it!” bellowed Agnew.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“How much longer are you going to be, Ruggles?”
“I’m almost finished.”
“Then hurry up and let me out of this chair,” said Agnew, glaring angrily into the mirror. “Hearing about the lady and her poodle was bad enough. But I’m not going to sit here and listen to you talking about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I loathe the man.”
George Dillman went back to the main deck that morning to take a closer look at the lifeboat in which the frock coat had been found, and to search in its vicinity. The light rain did not deter him. Having peeped into the boat again, he secured the tarpaulin.
“You won’t find him in there,” said a voice behind him.
Dillman turned to face Saul Pinnick. “Who?”
“Mr. Rush.”
“I wasn’t looking for anyone of that name.”
“He did think about it,” said Pinnick. “Sleeping in one of the lifeboats, that is. But he found it too uncomfortable. Sorry,” he went on. “We haven’t met, have we? I’m Saul Pinnick.”
“Pleased to meet you. My name is George Dillman.”
“What brought you out here in the rain?”
“I wanted some exercise,” said Dillman, careful not to disclose his reason for being there. “You mentioned a Mr. Rush.”
“Yes,” said Pinnick, “he’s like us. He was turned back at Ellis Island because of his bad chest. Mr. Rush was a miner, you see. It’s a job that plays havoc with your lungs. He took it hard, being refused entry to America. I’m sorry for him. He’d suffered enough already.”
“Had he, Mr. Pinnick?”
“Yes, his wife died on the way to America. Cruel. Mr. Rush was supposed to be the invalid in the family, but she was the one who passed away. It was a real tragedy. She was buried at sea.”
“I think I heard about that,” said Dillman, recalling what Carr had told him. “Is this gentleman a friend of yours?”
“Not really, but I like to keep an eye on him.”
“Why?”
“He worries me, Mr. Dillman,” said the old man, pulling up the collar of his overcoat and adjusting his hat. “To lose his wife was a savage blow, but he felt that she’d have wanted him to go on to be an American citizen.”
“But he was rejected on health grounds.”