Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  “That’s frightening! I thought we were safe in our cabins.”

  “You are, Mrs. Hoyland, I assure you. He only struck when you weren’t here. It was the same with the other lady,” Genevieve went on, “though, in her case, the theft took place while she was at dinner. She came back to find the contents of her jewelry box missing.”

  “Good gracious!”

  “It makes you afraid to wear any jewelry at all,” said Sophie, putting an instinctive hand to the emerald brooch on her dress. “We’ve been too trusting, Mother.”

  “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “The main reason your diamond necklace was taken,” Genevieve resumed, “was that it has a high commercial value. A jewel thief will only pick out the best, but to do that he must have a close look at it. Now, Mrs. Hoyland, can you think of anyone who took an unusual interest in your necklace, someone who complimented you on it?”

  “Lots of people did that — ladies, mostly.”

  “What about men?”

  “That adorable Mr. Dillman noticed it because he sits opposite us at meals, but I’d never suspect him for a moment.”

  “Nor would I,” said Sophie fervently. “He’s above suspicion.”

  “There was that man you didn’t like, Sophie.”

  “Which one was that?”

  “He stood next to us as we queued to go into the dining saloon last night,” said May. “That big, uncouth American gentleman. Now I think of it, he kept staring at the necklace.”

  “Can you recall his name?” asked Genevieve.

  Sophie was rancorous. “I’d never forget it, Miss Masefield.”

  “Well?”

  “Agnew — Mr. Philip Agnew.”

  “Ah, there you are, Mr. Dillman! This is a fortuitous meeting.”

  “Good to see you again, Sir Arthur.”

  “Do you have any news for me yet?”

  “Only that we remain confident of catching the thief.”

  “And retrieving my book in good condition, I hope.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  George Dillman had been walking past the library as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was about to leave it. The author fell on him with enthusiasm. Dillman took him into a quiet corner.

  “We continue to make inquiries, Sir Arthur,” he said.

  “I don’t expect you to solve the crime in five minutes. Even dear old Sherlock Holmes never perfected that trick.”

  “Detection takes time. It can’t be rushed.”

  “Oh, I’ll put no pressure at all on you, Mr. Dillman,” said Conan Doyle, patting him on the shoulder. “I know your pedigree from having talked to the purser, so I don’t question your methods in any way.”

  “Thank you, sir. Would that every victim of crime had such a helpful attitude! But turning to A Study in Scarlet,” said Dillman, “my memory is that Sherlock Holmes dominates the book, yet is absent from most of the second half of it.”

  “I needed to portray the background to the murders in depth.”

  “That’s exactly what you did.”

  “I made a few mistakes about American geography,” admitted the other candidly, “but most readers seemed ready to forgive me for that and treat it as a minor solecism.”

  “It was the sequence of events in Utah that intrigued me.”

  “Then you’ll know I’m not a great admirer of the Mormon religion. In some respects, I don’t consider it to be a religion at all.”

  “You object to its doctrine of polygamy.”

  “Of course,” said Conan Doyle. “What decent man wouldn’t? It’s against all civilized precepts. I tried to emphasize that in the novel. Because of that unholy doctrine, John Ferrier loses his life and poor Lucy is forced to marry the Elder’s son and become what was, in effect, part of his harem. No wonder she pined away after only a month of such slavery.”

  “Was the book condemned by the Mormon Church?”

  “I doubt if any member of it bothered to read the novel. They’d have no time for what they considered to be literary fripperies.”

  “It was much more than that, Sir Arthur. In retrospect, it was a historic piece of writing. Detective fiction will never be quite the same again. I’m just surprised that you had no indignant protests from Mormons.”

  “Ignoring me completely is a form of protest.”

  “There could be a more direct means,” Dillman suggested.

  “Such as?”

  “Stealing that copy of the novel from you.”

  Conan Doyle was worried. “You think that’s what happened?”

  “It’s a faint possibility.”

  “How would anyone know that I had the book with me?”

  “That’s what puzzled me at first, Sir Arthur. Then I remembered seeing a photograph of you in The New York Times. You were giving a lecture somewhere and holding your copy of A Study in Scarlet in your hands. I could see the title quite clearly,” recalled Dillman. “It was obviously something you’d brought with you.”

  “You’ve made me anxious now, Mr. Dillman,” confessed the other. “The one thing I had counted on was that the novel wouldn’t be damaged in any way. But if it was taken by some vengeful Mormon, heaven knows what may have happened to it.”

  “As I said, it’s only a faint possibility. A very faint one.”

  “Do we have any Mormons aboard?”

  “I’m given to understand that we might have.”

  Conan Doyle’s eyebrows formed a chevron of consternation. He was shaken by the notion that his copy of the novel might have been maliciously destroyed, along with the lecture notes he kept in it. He was still trying to come to terms with the idea when they were suddenly interrupted. Nobby Ruggles strutted along the corridor.

  “Ah, this is lucky,” he said, grinning broadly. “You’ve saved me the trouble of going to your stateroom, Sir Arthur. I was going to slip this under your door.”

  “What is it?” asked Conan Doyle.

  “See for yourself.” He handed over a sheet of paper. “It’s the list of artistes in this afternoon’s concert. As you see, I’m near the top.” He looked at Dillman. “I’m going to recite one of Sir Arthur’s poems.”

  “That’s a fine tribute,” observed Dillman.

  “Yes,” said Conan Doyle. “Thank you, Ruggles.”

  “Will we see you there?” asked the barber.

  “Possibly.”

  “If you are, you can take another bow. Still,” he went on with a gesture of apology, “excuse me for butting in, gentlemen. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He remembered something. “But there was a favor I wanted to ask you, Sir Arthur.”

  “What is it?”

  “Would you be kind enough to autograph my collection of your poems? It would mean so much to me.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Conan Doyle, forcing a smile.

  “Thank you. I’ll bring it this afternoon.”

  After giving him a salute, Ruggles marched swiftly away.

  “Who was that?” said Dillman.

  “One of the barbers, Nobby Ruggles. It turns out that he served in the Boer War. We were both involved in the same military operation in Bloemfontein.” He pulled a face. “He’s a good man, but his enthusiasm for my work is a trifle overwhelming. He caught me unawares yesterday. When he recited one of my poems at the concert I was thrust into the public glare against my will.”

  “He must be one of your greatest fans.”

  “He is, Mr. Dillman. That’s why the fellow troubles me.”

  “Will you be attending the concert?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Conan Doyle. “I don’t wish to go through that ordeal again. Ruggles has offered to give us a private rendition but I’ll fend him off somehow. He reckons that he knows all of my poems by heart.”

  Dillman was pensive. “And he asked for your autograph,” he recalled. He indicated the sheet of paper. “Didn’t he say that he was about to slip that under the door of your stateroom?”

  “Yes, Mr.
Dillman.”

  “As a barber, he’s restricted to certain areas of the ship.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “Something else may not have crossed your mind, Sir Arthur,” said Dillman. “How did he know where your stateroom is?”

  As the first few passengers began to trickle into the dining saloon for luncheon, Frank Spurrier took up his stance behind a pillar near the entrance so that he could watch. It was not long before Joshua Cleves walked over to join him.

  “I thought I’d catch you lurking here,” said Cleves.

  “I’m waiting for a friend.”

  “And we both know her name. My advice is to give her a rest. You’ve already overstepped the mark.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Spurrier.

  “Genevieve is an intelligent woman. Because you kept pouncing on her at every opportunity, she realized that we’re engaged in some sort of tussle over her.”

  “Then the blame lies with you, Josh. You were the one who aroused her suspicions by ingratiating yourself with Lord and Lady Bulstrode. You gave the game away.”

  “It doesn’t mean that it’s over.”

  “Then what does it mean?” said Spurrier.

  “That we both give her some breathing space. Genevieve is on guard against us now. We need to step back.”

  “You can, if you wish.”

  “We both must,” said Cleves.

  “No, Josh. This is another one of your ruses. It’s quite clear to me that you haven’t won her over yet, whereas I’ve been making steady progress with Genevieve. Every time we speak I gain some of those small concessions that pave the way to ultimate success.”

  “Then why did she choose to have coffee with me, not with you?”

  Spurrer was irked. “When was this?”

  “Around mid-morning. Genevieve came looking for me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Strictly speaking,” said Cleves, “she came into the lounge on her own. But when I invited her to coffee she accepted gratefully. We had a long and interesting chat.”

  “About what?”

  “About you, among other things. Genevieve said how irritated she was by the way that you kept popping up when she least expected it. In fact, she was more than irritated.”

  “You’re making this up,” Spurrier accused.

  “You ambushed her once too often, Frank. That’s why we must pull back for a while. She’s worked out that we’re in competition.”

  “We’re not the only ones, Josh. I’ve seen other men paying court to her as well. If a beautiful woman travels alone on a transatlantic liner she’s bound to attract male attention, especially if she dresses the way that Genevieve does. She can’t suddenly turn into a vestal virgin,” said Spurrier tetchily. “By the way she behaves she positively encourages interest.”

  “Genevieve enjoys interest but resents being pestered.”

  “Then why does she share a table with you?”

  “She won’t be doing that now,” said Cleves. “I told Rupert that I’d agreed to have luncheon with some business friends. That should prove to Genevieve that I’ve no wish to harass her. I’d recommend that you keep out of her way as well, Frank.”

  Spurrier became rueful. “What else did she say over coffee?”

  “She spent most of the time on the defense.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I teased her about her little weakness.”

  “What little weakness?”

  “Genevieve Masefield is not the paragon of virtues that we thought. She has a guilty secret, Frank. She believes in spiritualism.”

  Spurrier blinked in surprise. “How do you know?”

  “Because she attended a séance last night,” said Cleves with derision. “There’s a medium aboard, it seems, some woman looking to exploit anyone crazy enough to think that she can summon up the spirits of the dead.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought Genevieve Masefield would be that gullible. What got her involved in spiritualism?”

  “She claimed that she only went along out of curiosity.”

  “Perhaps she did.”

  “Then why was she so sensitive about it?” asked Cleves. “I think she protested far too much. Anyway,” he said conspiratorially, looking over his shoulder as a steady flow of people went past, “I think we should both agree to ease off for a while.”

  “But we’ll be seeing her at that drinks party this evening.”

  “A perfect opportunity to put the new code into practice. We don’t ignore Genevieve but we don’t crowd her either. Is it agreed?”

  Spurrier hesitated. “How do I know this is not a trick?”

  “Because the simplest thing for me to do was to let you carry on as you were doing and ruin your chances completely. Out of the kindness of my heart I’m trying to help you. If we give Genevieve a lot more freedom, we both stand to gain in the end.”

  “You’re such an appalling liar sometimes. Josh.”

  “Trust me. It’s for your own good, Frank.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Genevieve told me that she always found you so cold and undemonstrative. She couldn’t imagine you losing control.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “Only that I’d seen you roused to a pitch of anger. I mentioned that we’d had that argument yesterday with David Lowbury.”

  Spurrier’s eyes darted. “Why on earth did you do that?”

  “I was trying to prove a point.”

  “Genevieve knows that we fell out with Lowbury?”

  “Calm down,” said Cleves with a hand on his arm. “There’s no call to get so riled about it.”

  “I’m not riled,” said Spurrier, pushing the hand away. “I’m just furious with you, Josh. I hope you weren’t rash enough to tell her what the argument was about.”

  “I didn’t need to, Frank. I think she guessed.”

  Spurrier swore under his breath.

  Sophie Trouncer did not let the loss of her mother’s necklace subdue her in any way. She was as buoyant as usual over luncheon and spent the whole meal trying to capture Dillman’s attention. Her mother was an able assistant to her. Since she had been warned by Genevieve to say nothing public about the theft from their cabin, May Hoyland instead concentrated on singing the praises of her daughter.

  “Sophie has always kept very active,” she said. “She takes after me in that way. She swims, plays tennis and goes for long walks.”

  “Do you like walking, Mr. Dillman?” asked Sophie.

  “When I have the time,” he replied.

  “We have the most glorious countryside around us, don’t we, Mother?”

  “Yes,” said May, seizing her cue. “It’s a rambler’s delight. I may be prejudiced but I don’t think there’s a finer sight than the English countryside in spring.”

  “It’s quite inspiring,” said Sophie. “I walk for miles.” She paused to finish the rest of her dessert. “How long are you going to be in England, Mr. Dillman?”

  “A couple of weeks at most,” he answered.

  “And then where will you go?”

  “I’ll be sailing back to New York.”

  “You must find time to visit us before you leave,” said May. “We’ve enjoyed your company so much. Sophie was saying only yesterday that meeting you has been an absolute delight.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Mrs. Hoyland.”

  Sophie laughed gaily. “You’re so kind, Mr. Dillman. It would be lovely if you could spare a moment to call on us. The house is well worth seeing because it’s over three hundred years old and it has a garden at the front and rear.”

  “The gardens are magnificent,” said May. “Photographs of them appeared in a magazine last year. Sophie has green fingers.”

  “I learned everything from my husband. He was the expert.”

  “Is there any chance you could visit us?”

  “To be honest,” said Dillman, “I won’t know until I get to London and decide
what my schedule is going to be. But it’s an offer I’ll certainly bear in mind. Thank you.”

  Though he could not even consider such a visit, he spoke as if it would be one of his priorities. Mother and daughter were thrilled. They exchanged glances before offering him more blandishments. Dillman decided that it was time to contrive a polite excuse to leave. In the event, he did not have to do so. A waiter approached and handed him a note. It was an urgent summons from the purser. Sensing trouble, Dillman got to his feet immediately.

  “Do excuse me, ladies,” he said, looking from one to the other. “As always, it’s been a pleasure to spend time with you. I’m sorry that I’ve been called away.”

  The two women bade him farewell, then watched him fondly until he disappeared through the door. Dillman did not look back. He lengthened his stride until he got to the purser’s office. After knocking on the door he went straight in. Nelson Rutherford was relieved to see him. He stood up from his seat.

  “Thank goodness you’ve come!” he said.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “There’s more than one, unfortunately. I assume you’ve spoken to Miss Masefield today.”

  “Yes,” said Dillman. “I heard about the thefts that took place last night. The diamond necklace was stolen from Mrs. Hoyland. When I had luncheon with her just now I was glad that she followed advice and said nothing about the incident.”

  “If only other passengers had the sense to follow advice!” said Rutherford with feeling. “But they don’t.”

  “More thefts?”

  “Three, Mr. Dillman.”

  “When were they reported?”

  “In the last hour. They all seem to have occurred last night but they were not discovered until later this morning. That means the thief has had plenty of time to go to ground. The trail has gone cold.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “The first victim was a Frenchman,” said the purser, referring to some notes he had made on his pad. “Jean-Paul Fourier. The strange thing is that his cabin is directly opposite the one occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Lowbury.”

  “That may not be a coincidence. What did the man say?”

  “His grasp of English was uncertain, so I may have got a few details wrong. The essence of it is this. His hobby is collecting clocks of all kinds. When he saw a French Empire carriage clock being advertised for sale while he was in New York, he felt obliged to buy it. He said something about it being his patriotic duty to return it to France. What amazed me,” he continued, “was how much he was prepared to pay for it.”