Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  “That happened to Mirry and me as well, so I know how it feels. For Mr. Rush, it was like a death sentence. It took away his will to live. He talked about joining his wife in a watery grave.”

  “He threatened to commit suicide?” said Dillman in dismay.

  “In so many words.”

  “You should have reported this, Mr. Pinnick. The chaplain could have spoken to him and tried to give him some peace of mind.”

  “It would have been a waste of time.”

  “Is he still on board?”

  “Oh, yes. I saw him at breakfast earlier on. He was as pale as a ghost,” said Pinnick sorrowfully, “but who wouldn’t be after spending the night on deck?”

  “So he really did sleep out here?”

  “He did, Mr. Dillman, and he wasn’t the only one.”

  It was a useful reminder. Every time Dillman had crossed the Atlantic, some steerage passengers had chosen to remain on deck at night unless a gale was blowing. Instead of sharing a small cabin with three, or even five, other people, they elected to brave the elements to get a measure of privacy. Dillman was bound to wonder if any of those curled up on deck had witnessed anything suspicious the previous night.

  “Where would I find this Mr. Rush?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t say. He comes and goes.”

  “But he turns up for his meals?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dillman. That’s the one hopeful sign I’ve had from him. It’s like I told Mirry — she’s my wife. A condemned man is always given a hearty breakfast before execution, but Mr. Rush has decided that he likes lunch and dinner as well.” He wiped his face as rain was blown in under the brim of his hat. “It’s getting much worse. I’m going back indoors. What about you?”

  “I’ll continue my stroll, Mr. Pinnick.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Dillman waved him off. Pinnick scurried away and disappeared through a door. After pulling his hat down, Dillman carried on with his search, bending down to look under the lifeboat and along the bottom of the bulwark. At first he could see nothing, so he moved a few yards to the left, still without success. He was about to move to the other side of the boat when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a tiny white object floating in a little puddle that had formed against the bulwark. Dillman picked it up and realized what he was holding. Sodden and misshapen, it was a business card.

  He could just make out the name on it — Frank Spurrier.

  When she knocked on the cabin door, Genevieve Masefield had to wait some while before it opened. Jane Lowbury looked tired and forlorn. Having shed her evening dress, she was wearing a dressing gown and slippers. She seemed smaller and frailer than Genevieve recalled.

  “How do you feel today, Mrs. Lowbury?”

  “Not very well.”

  “I spoke to your steward,” said Genevieve. “He told me that you refused to eat any breakfast this morning.”

  “I’m not hungry, Miss Masefield.”

  “You must have something.”

  “Later, perhaps.”

  “Do you want some company?”

  “No, thank you,” said Jane. “I just want to be on my own.” She rallied slightly. “Have you found out anything else?”

  “Mr. Dillman is conducting a search at this moment.”

  “Does he think there’s any chance that David is still alive?”

  “We must never give up hope, Mrs. Lowbury,” said Genevieve, trying to sound optimistic. “I know that this is not the best time for you, but we would like to talk to you again in due course.”

  “Why? What can I tell you?”

  “More than you may realize,” said Genevieve. “You may have information that can help us to solve this crime. We’d like you to reconstruct, in your own mind, everything that happened to you and your husband since you boarded the ship — every last detail. Write it down, if need be. Could you do that for us, please?”

  “I can try, Miss Masefield.”

  “Thank you. And if you need me, don’t hesitate to call. Your steward will soon find me.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “Not really,” said Jane. “I dozed off for an hour or so, but that was all. I keep thinking about what happened to David.” She bit her lip. “Excuse me. I’ll have to go.”

  “Of course.”

  Holding back tears, Jane closed the door. Genevieve wished that she could have offered more comfort to the woman. It made her think of her own situation. Married by the captain on board a P&O cruiser on which they were working at the time, she and Dillman had spent the first weeks of their marriage sailing first-class to Australia. Even though they had duties to discharge, it had been an idyllic time. Genevieve could imagine how she would have felt if her husband had been snatched away from her while they were on their honeymoon.

  She turned away from the cabin and walked down the corridor. Someone came around a corner ahead of her and seeing Genevieve, greeted her with a cheerful wave. Thoda Burbridge hurried forward, her ample frame and double chin wobbling in unison.

  “Good morning!” she called.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Burbridge.”

  “I hoped to see you over breakfast.”

  “I ate it in my cabin today,” said Genevieve. “But I must thank you again for letting me join you at the séance. It was captivating.”

  “Sir Arthur called it mesmerizing, and he chose the word with care. As a doctor he had a particular fascination with Mesmer, a physician who achieved miracle cures with the aid of hypnotism.”

  “You achieved a small miracle yourself last night. To be honest, I came into your cabin as a skeptic, but I left as a believer.”

  “I’m so glad that everything worked,” said Thoda. “I’d have felt such a fool lugging that table of mine aboard without using it in a successful séance. All the vibrations were right, you see.”

  “Unlike the first attempt.”

  “I’d rather forget that, Miss Masefield. I made the mistake of inviting that American gentleman, Mr. Agnew. He was not in sympathy with what the rest of us were trying to do.”

  “I believe that you sensed something about him.”

  “I did — he challenged me to do so. When I proved that I could unearth something about him, he became rather truculent. I knew that he had once been a Mormon and that provoked him.”

  “Why? Is he ashamed of his past?”

  “Who knows?” She stifled a laugh. “There is one explanation, I suppose, but it’s too unkind on him, so perhaps I shouldn’t voice it.”

  “No, no. Do go ahead.”

  “Well, he came to me in the hope that I could put him in touch with his late wife. Since I revealed that he’d been a Mormon, he was afraid I’d ask, ‘Which wife?’ He may have been married to several.” She raised an eloquent eyebrow. “I’m relieved I wasn’t one of them.”

  “I’m told there was some friction between him and Sir Arthur.”

  “That was entirely Mr. Agnew’s fault. Everything was going well until Sir Arthur mentioned that he had once been a surgeon on a whaling boat. The way that Mr. Agnew turned on him you’d have thought he’d committed a heinous crime.”

  “Did he strike you as a man who bears grudges?”

  “Mr. Agnew? Oh, yes,” said Thoda darkly. “He never forgives.”

  “Will you be holding any more séances?”

  “I don’t think so. They always exhaust me.”

  “Then you’re entitled to rest on the remainder of the voyage.”

  “I’m not allowed to, unfortunately, Miss Masefield.”

  “Why not?”

  “Having psychic powers can be a burden sometimes. My mind keeps picking up things when my body would rather just relax. What you saw last night was an example of automatic writing,” she went on. “The words just come to me in a steady flow.”

  “You made Mrs. Trouncer very happy.”

  “If only I could do the same for you!”


  “Oh, I was more than content to be an observer last night.”

  “I’m not talking about the séance, Miss Masefield. When I woke up this morning I had a presentiment and it alarmed me somewhat.”

  “What kind of presentiment?”

  “It concerns your husband.”

  “But you’ve never even met him, Mrs. Burbridge.”

  “Yes, I have — through you, Miss Masefield. You and he are very close, so I sense things that affect both of you.”

  “And what did you learn this morning?”

  “Something very disturbing,” said Thoda, taking her gently by the wrist. “You must warn him before it’s too late.”

  “Warn him about what?” asked Genevieve.

  “The fact that his life is in grave danger.”

  TEN

  Since his wife had an appointment there that morning, Conan Doyle accompanied her to the hair salon, intending to go on to the library. To do so, he had to walk straight past Nobby Ruggles in the men’s salon, and the barber caught sight of him through the window. Excusing himself from his customer, Ruggles brushed some hair from his sleeve and hurried out to waylay the author.

  “Good morning, Sir Arthur,” he said.

  “Ah — hello there, Ruggles.”

  “Have you come for that free haircut?”

  “Not just yet, I’m afraid.”

  “Any time, sir. I’m always here.”

  “I daresay you’re kept very busy in there.”

  “Not as busy as the ladies’ hairdressers,” said Ruggles. “An average haircut for a man will take twenty minutes — half an hour, if it includes a shave as well. In the ladies’ salon, customers can be there for hours. It’s difficult to keep up a conversation for that long.”

  “Yes,” said Conan Doyle, “I suppose that’s part of your stock-in-trade, isn’t it? Being able to chat to your clients.”

  “I listen more than I talk, sir. This job is an education. I’ve learned so much from various customers.”

  “And it’s a lot safer than being in the army.”

  “Safer but not so exciting,” said Ruggles. “I often think of my days in uniform. They gave me so many memories.”

  “Not all of them happy ones, alas,” observed Conan Doyle.

  “No, Sir Arthur.” He stepped in closer. “But while you’re here, I’d like to take this chance of passing on some information.”

  “Information?”

  “It’s about an America gentleman who came for a haircut earlier on. If I were you, sir, I’d keep well out of his way.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a most unpleasant man. He said that he knew you.”

  “Are you talking about Philip Agnew, by any chance?”

  “The very same.”

  “Then you’ve no need to tell me any more,” said Conan Doyle with distaste. “Mr. Agnew and I crossed swords on sight. Because I happened to have killed a few seals in younger days, he thinks I’m the most wicked man since Herod the Great.”

  Ruggles thrust out his chest. “I did speak up for you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “It only seemed to annoy him even more.”

  “Mr. Agnew is rather too easily annoyed. But,” he added with a sigh, “one must be charitable, I suppose. The fellow is still suffering from the death of his wife. I know, from personal experience, how distressing that can be.”

  “He was downright rude,” said Ruggles, “and there’s no excuse for that. I’ll not let anyone run you down.”

  “Good man, Ruggles.”

  “I just thought I ought to mention it to you.” He glanced over his shoulder and made to leave. “I’ve got a customer waiting, so I must go.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He paused. “Oh, I forgot to mention the main thing, Sir Arthur.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This afternoon’s concert. I’ll be taking part again.”

  “Good for you,” said Conan Doyle, dreading what was to come.

  “I thought I’d give them another gem from the master,” said Ruggles with a grin, “so I chose your poem ‘The Groom’s Story.’”

  “Why not recite something from Kipling?”

  “Because there’s nothing to compare with this.”

  Adopting a stance, Ruggles declaimed the first verse at speed.

  “Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done it, sir. That’s true.

  The big bay ’orse in the further stall — the one wot’s next to you.

  I’ve seen some better ’orses; I’ve seldom seen a wuss,

  But ’e ’olds the bloomin’ record, an’ that’s good enough for us.”

  Conan Doyle quailed inwardly. He did not want a repetition of the previous day, when he was dragged reluctantly into the public gaze. Nobby Ruggles hovered as if expecting applause.

  “You won’t be able to miss the concert now, sir.”

  “That depends on my wife,” said Conan Doyle, groping for an excuse. “It’s possible that she may have other plans.”

  “Lady Conan Doyle can’t miss one of your poems.”

  “She’s read them all many times, Ruggles.”

  “But it’s not the same as seeing them brought to life.”

  “Indeed not. You certainly fill them with drama.”

  Ruggles clapped his hands. “I’ve just had an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “If you can’t get to the concert this afternoon,” said the barber helpfully, “I can give you a private performance in your cabin. How does that sound, Sir Arthur?”

  Choking back a reply, Conan Doyle pointed at the salon.

  “Your customer is getting impatient, Ruggles. Go to him.”

  Dillman received the warning with complete equanimity. Genevieve could not believe he was so calm when she herself was so worried.

  “You have to take it seriously, George,” she said.

  “I do,” he replied, “but I didn’t need Mrs. Burbridge to tell me that I was in danger. Whenever we hunt a murderer we put ourselves at risk. If someone has killed once, they’ll have no compunction about killing again. That’s why we have to be on guard all the time.”

  “Perhaps you should go armed.”

  “That’s a last resort, Genevieve. I’ll only be courting peril when I start to get close to the man, and I’m some way off from doing that. I’m still not certain of his motive.”

  “The one you suggested to Mrs. Lowbury.”

  “Murder for gain?”

  “Yes, George. His billfold was stolen.”

  “You don’t have to kill a man in order to steal from him. You could knock him unconscious or simply pick his pocket. No, I think that David Lowbury was singled out for another reason. It’s our job to find out what it was.” He took the business card from his pocket. “We can start with this gentleman.”

  She read the card. “Frank Spurrier?”

  “I found it on the main deck near that lifeboat.”

  “There’s no mystery there. Mrs. Lowbury told me that her husband had Mr. Spurrier’s business card. It must have dropped out of the pocket when his coat was removed.”

  “That’s one explanation.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “David Lowbury was sending a final message.”

  “You mean that he deliberately left the card there?”

  “It’s a possibility we have to consider,” said Dillman. “What puzzled me was how Mr. Lowbury got to the main deck in the first place. If he’d been killed or overpowered near his cabin, it would have taken a strong man to carry him there. But,” he continued, taking the card from her, “if he’d been held at gunpoint, he could have been forced to walk there.”

  “Knowing that he was about to die,” said Genevieve, following his train of thought, “he wanted to identify his killer, so he dropped the card.” She shook her head. “No, George. I don’t believe that Frank Spurrier is implicated. He’s a respectable businessman.”

  “We’ve ar
rested quite a few of those over the years.”

  “He’d befriended David Lowbury. Why kill him?”

  “I don’t know, Genevieve.”

  “In any case, the murder took place while Mr. Spurrier was having dinner. He couldn’t be in two places at once.”

  “Granted,” said Dillman. “Though I’ve yet to confirm that he was actually in the dining saloon last night. He certainly didn’t take up his usual seat opposite David and Jane Lowbury.”

  “Do you know why that was?”

  “Yes, I asked him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he had no wish to eat with Mr. Lowbury. They may have been friends at one point but they seem to have had an argument, and it left a bitter taste in Spurrier’s mouth.”

  “Did he tell you what the argument was over?”

  “No, Genevieve, but the gentleman with whom you’ve been dining was there at the time.”

  “Joshua Cleves?”

  “He, too, spoke harshly of Mr. Lowbury.”

  “Then the argument must have been quite serious. It takes a lot to upset Mr. Cleves. He’s the most tolerant and carefree man I’ve ever met. Nothing seems to trouble him.”

  “David Lowbury did.”

  “Why did you speak to them?”

  “I only intended to talk to Spurrier,” said Dillman, “but he refused a private discussion. Since Cleves was in the lounge with him, he heard everything I had to say. Mrs. Lowbury was puzzled by the fact that Spurrier had not sat at their table. When I asked him if he’d been in the dining saloon earlier, he more or less exploded.”

  “Frank Spurrier?”

  “You’d have thought I’d accused him of high treason.”

  “That’s most unlike him,” said Genevieve. “He’s always so calm and collected. In fact, it’s that icy control of his that unnerved me when I first met him. I can’t imagine him losing his temper.”

  “I was on the receiving end of it.”

  “Did you tell him that David Lowbury had disappeared?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what was his response to that?”

  “Good riddance!”

  Genevieve was puzzled. Everything she had heard was completely at variance with what she knew of Frank Spurrier and, indeed, of Joshua Cleves. She wondered what could possibly have upset them so much. It could not have been the way that Dillman had approached them. He was always tactful and discreet. The argument with David Lowbury had clearly cut deep.