Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  Sophie grabbed her mother’s arm before May could respond with another gibe. It was going to be a long and uncomfortable afternoon. Sophie felt as if she were sitting on eggshells. When the chairman finally appeared to introduce the first artiste, she let out a huge sigh of relief.

  He was the third to perform. When his moment came, Nobby Ruggles seized it gratefully. He was not dressed as a soldier this time. Carrying a broom, he was wearing a pair of old trousers, a shirt and a flat cap. He removed the cap to wipe imaginary sweat from his brow in order to give the impression that he had been cleaning out the stables. Then he launched himself into “The Groom’s Story,” scanning the room as he did so to see if the poem’s author was there. Realizing that Conan Doyle and his wife were absent from the great occasion, he nevertheless gave a committed performance, rounding off the last verse with a chuckle in his voice.

  “And master? Well, it cured ’im. ’E altered from that day.

  And come back to ’is ’orses in the good old-fashioned way.

  And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far

  Is to ’int as ’ow you think he ought to keep a motor car.”

  The applause was mingled with a torrent of laughter at the comic recital and Ruggles feasted on it until it began to die away. He did not linger. By the time the next performer was in action, the barber had collected a book and was on his way along a corridor that led to some of the first-class staterooms. Since he was not allowed in that area, he moved furtively until he reached his destination. Looking down at his book, he flipped open the cover and read the title page as if staring at Holy Writ. Then he tapped respectfully on the door.

  “Sir Arthur?” he called. “It’s Nobby Ruggles. Are you there?”

  ______

  Nelson Rutherford had refused the invitation to take part in another concert so that someone else could have the opportunity to show off his talents. In any case, he could not spare the time. The purser had never had to cope with such a spate of crimes before and it put him under severe pressure. In one way the concert was a blessing. Since it attracted the majority of passengers in first class, it meant that he was liberated from the endless stream of people who knocked on his door to make requests or to register complaints. He took advantage of his temporary freedom to meet with the two detectives in George Dillman’s cabin. When the purser arrived, only Dillman was there.

  “How did you get on?” asked the purser.

  “Jean-Paul Fourier was heartbroken at the loss of his clock and accepts that he was foolish to keep it in his cabin. Tom McCabe was the same,” said Dillman, “though I had to listen to the tale of how he got a birdie on the final hole to win before he’d let me out of there. Two nice, friendly, trusting people, who assumed that everyone else lived by the same rules.”

  “Did you learn anything of value?”

  “Not from our golfer. He’s told all and sundry about winning that big tournament and having the cup on display in his cabin. In fact, he actually took it with him into the lounge one day.”

  “What about the Frenchman?”

  “He was more cautious,” said Dillman, “though he did talk about his clock to the man who sat opposite him at his table.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Philip Agnew.”

  “That name has cropped up more than once.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rutherford, I may need to have another talk with him. But there’s a second name that caught my ear as well. According to M. Fourier, he was chatting to someone in the smoking room who expressed an interest in seeing the clock. The man said that he might make an offer for it,” Dillman reported, “but M. Fourier refused to part with it. The man in question was Frank Spurrier.”

  There was a knock on the door and Dillman opened it to let Genevieve in. She gave Rutherford a smile of recognition.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “You came at the perfect time,” said Dillman.

  He recounted what he had just told the purser about his interview with Jean-Paul Fourier. Genevieve was not surprised.

  “I don’t see anything sinister there,” she said. “Mr. Spurrier does all the buying for his auction house. He’s always looking for bargains.”

  “He was aware that the clock was in that cabin.”

  “So was Philip Agnew,” Rutherford put in.

  “What use would he have for a French Empire carriage clock?”

  “I don’t see Mr. Spurrier as a thief either,” said Genevieve.

  “Neither do I,” Dillman agreed. “In his position, he has to look and sound like a pillar of respectability. But it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he has an accomplice aboard. If he can’t acquire certain items by fair means, perhaps he resorts to illegal ones.” Genevieve looked doubtful. “It’s only a suggestion.”

  “Follow it through,” she said. “If he was involved in one theft, Frank Spurrier must have been involved in them all. How would he dispose of the stolen items?”

  “In the case of the carriage clock, it would be easy. He’d sell it at auction when M. Fourier would be safely out of the way in France.”

  “What about the diamond necklace and the tiara? If he advertised any of those in his catalog, there’s always the chance they’d be recognized by their owners. I know, from having just talked to her, that Mrs. Nettlefold frequents auctions.”

  “Spurrier would have a means of disposing of stolen goods,” said Dillman. “He deals with jewelers all the time, so he must be aware of the ones engaged in shady practices.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Rutherford, trying to piece it together in his mind. “Why has Mr. Spurrier become a main suspect? I thought you told me that the murder and most of the thefts were the work of Edward Hammond. Are you hinting that the two men are working together? One steals, the other picks out the targets?”

  “It’s an idea we ought to look at, Mr. Rutherford. But we’re jumping ahead of ourselves,” said Dillman, turning to Genevieve. “We haven’t heard about the visit to Griselda Nettlefold.”

  “She was utterly charming,” said Genevieve.

  The purser gulped. “Really? I thought she’d eat you alive.”

  “You were unlucky. Mrs. Nettlefold expended most of her bile on you, Mr. Rutherford. She regrets that now and asked me to pass on her apologies.”

  “My scars still show.”

  “Well, she didn’t attack me,” said Genevieve. “Her only concern was to get the tiara back. It’s been in the family for three generations. What annoys her is that she was warned to keep it in the safe whenever she was not wearing it. One of her dinner companions told her, in so many words, that it would be stolen.”

  “A prediction?”

  “Yes.”

  “From whom?”

  “Thoda Burbridge, the medium who held the séance I went to.”

  “Does she have a crystal ball or something?”

  “Psychic gifts.”

  “I’d say that it was plain common sense,” said Dillman. “Anyone with a diamond tiara that valuable is going to tempt a jewel thief.”

  “Only if we have one aboard, Mr. Dillman,” added the purser, “and I’ve never had that misfortune on previous voyages. It looks as if I’m paying for all those trouble-free crossings now. The Celtic has been hit by an outbreak of serious crime.”

  “The murder still comes first. If we can solve that, we can solve all the other crimes. Apart from the theft of Sir Arthur’s book, that is,” said Dillman. “I see that as quite separate.”

  “So do I,” said Genevieve.

  “Where’s that list of names that Mrs. Lowbury gave you?”

  “Right here, George.” She took it from her purse and passed it to him. “I haven’t had time to take a close look at it.”

  Dillman unfolded the paper. “It will repay study,” he said. “When I heard that Edward Hammond might be aboard, I thought it unlikely that he’d travel in first class. I was wrong. He’s here under a false name.” He held up the list. �
�Somewhere on here is the man who killed David Lowbury. All that we have to do is to unmask him.”

  “You had no right to set him onto me,” protested Leonard Rush.

  “That’s not what I did,” said Saul Pinnick.

  “Then why did he come after me?”

  “He was interested that you slept on deck.”

  “So do a few other people. Did he hound them as well?”

  “All I did was to point you out to him, Mr. Rush.”

  “You should be grateful to Saul,” said Miriam. “At least he’s shown sympathy for you. Nobody else on this ship has. They’ve got none to spare. I know I haven’t.”

  “Stay out of this, Mirry,” advised her husband.

  “I’m not having anyone shouting at you.”

  “Mr. Rush is entitled to voice his opinion.”

  “That doesn’t mean he can threaten you.”

  They were in the lounge in steerage. Pinnick and his wife were seated, but Rush was standing over them and he had been gesticulating at the old man. He was chastened by Miriam’s comment. He had not meant to intimidate Pinnick, merely to make a complaint. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter and more measured.

  “I just want to be left alone.”

  “That’s what you think now,” said Pinnick sagely, “but that will change. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen so many times.”

  “Seen what?” asked Rush.

  “Grief. Unhappiness. Pain.”

  “I know only too well what they feel like,” Miriam grumbled.

  “When someone you love dearly passes away, you’re in a daze for weeks afterward — months, in some cases. You can’t see the point of going on without them.”

  “That’s how we were when Sharan died.”

  “Our eldest daughter. Sharan was only nine at the time.”

  “It broke my heart,” said Miriam, eyes moistening.

  “But we had to go on,” explained Pinnick. “People depended on us — our other children, relatives, friends, neighbors, customers. We had to go on until we eventually managed to come out of that daze. You’re still in it, Mr. Rush. That’s why we want to help.”

  His wife nudged him. “It was your idea, Saul, not mine.”

  “We both know what bereavement is, Mirry.”

  “I’ve had over fifty years of knowing what it is.”

  “It’s not the same,” bleated Rush. “You had your problems and I’m sorry for that, but it’s not the same as me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I had nobody else but my wife.”

  “No children?”

  “Two were stillborn. We lost the third.”

  “You must have friends and relatives.”

  “We left,” said Rush. “We cut off all our ties. We wanted to start that new life in America that we’d heard so much about. It was our last chance of a little happiness.”

  “You think this wasn’t our last chance?”

  “I can’t go back home in disgrace.”

  “That’s what we’re doing,” said Pinnick, “and there’s plenty more in steerage doing the same. America didn’t want us. So,” he went on resignedly, “we go back to England and pick up our old lives somehow. Let people laugh at us, if they wish. We did at least get to sail across an ocean and see New York.”

  “Only from a distance,” said Miriam.

  “It was an experience, Mirry.”

  “I hated it.”

  “You’ll forget it in time.”

  “Well, I won’t,” said Rush soulfully. “Being turned away told me the truth about myself. It was like looking in a mirror. I’m finished. I’ve got nothing to offer anymore. I might as well be dead.”

  “But you’re not, are you?” said Pinnick with a smile. “You think about it but you’ve got too much sense to do it. You’re still with us, Mr. Rush, and I’m glad that you are. So is Mirry.”

  “Yes,” she muttered, responding to his prod.

  Rush swallowed hard and shifted his feet. Nobody else in steerage had taken the slightest notice of him. It was churlish to get angry with the two people who did bother about him. Mourning his wife so compulsively, he had ignored the fact that others had their own share of anguish and disappointment. They coped with their grief somehow. Leonard Rush had not yet learned to do so.

  “Keep that man away from me,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to talk to anyone. I simply want to be alone with my thoughts.”

  ______

  Philip Agnew was not inclined to hide his emotions. When he learned that George Dillman was a detective, his anger swelled immediately.

  “Is that why you talked to me the other day?” he demanded.

  “Yes, Mr. Agnew.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me? I hate being lied to.”

  “I didn’t lie to you, Mr. Agnew,” said Dillman. “Not in the way that you imply. I just wanted to talk to you about that séance.”

  “You were spying on me.”

  “Do you have anything to make you feel guilty?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

  Dillman was glad that the conversation was taking place in the other man’s cabin. Agnew’s raised voice would have ignited too much attention in a public room. Unlike their previous meeting, this one had perforce to be more private.

  “There was something you didn’t tell me about the séance,” said Dillman. “You left earlier than anyone else.”

  “Out of sheer disgust. That woman was useless. She did nothing at all for me. Mrs. Burbridge doesn’t have any psychic gifts at all.”

  “Other people would disagree.”

  “Misguided fools!”

  “A second séance, by all accounts, was much more successful. Since I wasn’t there, I can’t verify that. What is certain is that the lady definitely has some powers. She can sense things about people,” said Dillman. “Private things that they’d rather keep to themselves. I think that you know what I’m talking about, Mr. Agnew.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Were you ever involved with the Mormon Church?”

  “Who told you that?” he retorted.

  “Mrs. Burbridge was certain of it.”

  “Don’t believe a word that fake medium tells you.”

  “She made extremely accurate observations about other people. They had the courage to admit that she was right. For some reason, Mr. Agnew, you can’t do that.”

  “There’s nothing to admit.”

  “Are you quite sure of that?”

  “Look,” said Agnew, squaring up to him, “I want to know what’s going on here. You’ve got no call to come banging on my door so that you can ask me a lot of questions.”

  “I feel that I have, sir.”

  Agnew thrust out his jaw. “Prove it!”

  “Very well,” said Dillman calmly. “During the séance in which you were involved, something of considerable personal value was stolen from the stateroom belonging to Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle. The thief must have known they were absent. You, Mr. Agnew,” he continued, “left that séance early, having had a row with Sir Arthur about his attitude toward killing animals.”

  “What he did on that whaling boat sickened me.”

  “That’s irrelevant. The stolen item was a book that, quite apart from anything else, contains a virulent attack on Mormon doctrines. I have to examine the possibility that it may have been taken in the spirit of vengeance by someone of that religious persuasion.”

  Dillman expected a vigorous denial. Instead, Agnew became sullen and took a pace backward. As he weighed his words, he studied the detective resentfully. Dillman pressed on.

  “Since then,” he said, “your name has come to my attention more than once, and never in the most flattering circumstances. Mrs. Lowbury informed a colleague of mine that she found your manner quite objectionable, and she’s not a lady to make such a complaint lightly.” He waited for a reply but none came. “Do you agree that you met Jan
e Lowbury?”

  “Yes,” said Agnew. “I met her. She is a pretty woman.”

  “You managed to upset her somehow.”

  He scowled. “What am I supposed to have done?”

  “I’m investigating the theft of a carriage clock from Jean-Paul Fourier,” Dillman resumed. “I believe that he mentioned the fact that it was kept in his cabin.”

  “So? Does that make me a thief?”

  “Let’s go back to Thoda Burbridge. Why did she upset you?”

  “She cheated me, Mr. Dillman, that’s why.”

  “I think it was because she found you out.”

  “No!”

  “You did have a connection with the Mormons, didn’t you?”

  “Don’t keep on about it.”

  “Why are you so ashamed of the fact?”

  Agnew’s temper flared up and he bunched his fists. For a moment Dillman thought he was going to have to defend himself but the danger soon passed. Turning away, Agnew slumped into a chair, his hands clasped, his elbows resting on his knees. After lengthy contemplation, he looked up.

  “If I tell you the truth,” he said wearily, “it goes no further than this cabin. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Mr. Agnew.”

  “Then I want a second promise from you. When I finish, you get out of here and stay clear of me for the rest of the voyage.”

  “That depends on what you have to tell me.”

  “Sit down.”

  Dillman obeyed and waited while Agnew collected his thoughts.

  “I did not steal a book from that animal hunter,” said Agnew. “I wouldn’t touch anything that man has written. And I didn’t steal a clock from that funny little Frenchman either. Yes, he told me about it because all he could talk about was his collection of clocks. Has he accused me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “He’d better not, Mr. Dillman.”

  “I’m not accusing you either. I’m just pointing to certain facts.”

  “I can see how it looks,” Agnew conceded, “but you’re on the wrong track. I left that séance because I felt let down. I came straight back here and did some damage to a bottle of brandy I always keep at hand. Are you a drinking man, Mr. Dillman?”

  “Now and then, sir.”