Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  “I’ll be glad to see how it’s done, Rupert.”

  Genevieve was aware of the manipulation that lay behind the invitation. Though Cleves was no longer engaged in a subtle courtship of her, he had carefully set up two events — visits, respectively, to the Bulstrode country seat and to the Derby — that would draw Genevieve and him closer together. She had no doubt that he would attempt to devise other schemes before the end of the voyage, and that Frank Spurrier would do the same as well. The time would come when they would both have to be firmly rebuffed.

  Having finished his meal, Spurrier made a point of coming across to their table and standing behind Genevieve so that she could not see him properly. He thanked Lord and Lady Bulstrode for including him in their private party earlier on, then exchanged a few words with them.

  “Shall I see you in the smoking room, Josh?” he asked.

  “I’ll come with you right now,” said Cleves, getting up and excusing himself from the others. “There’s something I want to discuss with you, Frank.”

  Genevieve was convinced that she would be the main subject of their discussion and they had gone off for a tactical debate. It was demeaning for her to be fought over by two men who were more interested in the tussle itself than in her. Evidently she was the designated prize and it made her seethe with anger. She decided that it was the last meal she would share with Joshua Cleves. Hiding her annoyance behind a smile, she took her leave of her other dinner companions and walked toward the door.

  As she left the saloon, someone stepped out from behind a pillar and beckoned her across. Thoda Burbridge was patently worried. Her face was etched with concern and her voice trembled.

  “I must speak with you, Miss Masefield,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “Your husband is in danger.”

  “You told me that before,” said Genevieve, “and I passed on the warning. My husband pointed out, quite rightly, that the job we do is bound to have its hazards.”

  “I’m talking about now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have a very strong feeling that something is about to happen to him,” explained Thoda. “Where is he — still in the dining saloon?”

  “No, Mrs. Burbridge. He had work to do elsewhere.”

  “Find him, Miss Masefield.”

  “Why?”

  “Find him at once,” urged Thoda, taking her by both shoulders. “Go in search of him now — before it’s too late.”

  After his visit to the main deck, George Dillman spent a long time trying to work out how the killer could have taken his victim from the first-class area to the point where he shoved him overboard. He went through a maze of corridors and up and down a confusing series of companionways. The most direct route was one used only by the crew and Dillman timed the journey from David Lowbury’s cabin to the lifeboat on the main deck. If he had been held at gunpoint, Lowbury could have been hustled quickly from first class to steerage and beyond. The only person to see them was Leonard Rush.

  As he tried to envisage the scene once again, Dillman retraced his steps. He was soon walking past the cabin to which Lowbury had returned when he was sent to fetch some pills. Jane Lowbury would still be inside and Dillman was tempted to knock on the door to see how she was, and to tell her what he had learned from Rush. In the end he decided against it, not wishing to disturb her and needing to have more complete evidence of what had actually occurred before talking to her. He walked on past and turned a corner.

  Dillman did not hear the footsteps behind him. The first hint he had of trouble was when something hard struck the back of his head. Dazed by the blow, he stumbled forward but managed to steady himself by putting both hands out wide against the wall. His attacker was on him in a flash, holding him tight with one arm while clamping the other against his throat and applying pressure. Too groggy to respond at first, Dillman was revived by the sharp pain in his neck. All the breath was being slowly choked out of him and he started to splutter. Time was rapidly running out for him.

  With a supreme effort he turned sideways, then flung himself backward with all his might, ramming the other man against the wall and forcing him to weaken his hold. Dillman pummeled fiercely with both elbows and heard his adversary grunt in pain. Then he got both hands on the arm around his throat and slowly pried it away. The man changed the point of attack at once. Grabbing the detective by the shoulders, he hurled him against the opposite wall, then delivered a punch to the ear that sent Dillman reeling.

  Someone came into the corridor at the far end and walked toward them. There was a witness. The attacker had to get away. Using both fists, he clubbed Dillman to the floor, kicked him a few times, then fled in the opposite direction and vanished around the corner. Blood streaming down the back of his head, and limbs feeling like lead, Dillman drifted slowly into oblivion.

  TWELVE

  Lord Bulstrode was so shocked by what he had just seen that he came to a sudden halt. He was scandalized. A man had just been violently attacked in front of him. Such things simply did not happen in first class on ocean liners. The victim clearly needed help. Lord Bulstrode forced himself into action. Moving as fast as his body would allow on a full stomach, he hurried along the corridor and with great difficulty lowered himself to one knee. He stared down at Dillman with dismay.

  “Are you all right, old chap?” he asked.

  He saw the blood for the first time and blanched. Taking a white handkerchief from his pocket, he held it against the scalp wound. Lord Bulstrode was made painfully aware of his age and of the fact that he had drunk far too much that evening. His back and legs were hurting because of the unaccustomed position in which he had put himself, and his mind was fuzzy. Unsure what to do, he hovered uncertainly over Dillman and uttered unheard words of sympathy.

  “You just lie there, my friend. You’ll be fine when we get some help. It looks far worse than it really is. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Hold on. I’ll fetch a doctor.”

  With a supreme effort he got to his feet and winced at the tremors he felt in his left knee. His head was starting to pound and his eyesight was blurred. While he gathered his strength he leaned against the wall, panting noisily and wishing that he were in better physical condition. When a young woman came into the corridor at the far end, he did not immediately recognize her. It was only when she came running toward him that he realized it was Genevieve Masefield. She flung herself down beside the body.

  “What happened?” she gasped.

  “He was beaten to the floor by some blackguard,” said Lord Bulstrode. “The coward ran away when I came along. I was about to go in search of a doctor.”

  Genevieve was relieved to see obvious signs of life in her husband. Dillman was breathing normally and his eyelids were starting to flicker. Apart from the scalp wound she could see no other injury. Holding his face tenderly in her hands, she spoke to him.

  “George,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  “You know the fellow?” asked Lord Bulstrode, touched by the affection in her voice.

  “Very well.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A friend of mine — George Dillman.”

  “I’m glad that I arrived when I did, Miss Masefield, or that rogue might have finished the poor man off. Murder on the White Star Line!” he exclaimed, waving his arms. “It’s unthinkable.”

  “He’s coming round,” said Genevieve, bending over Dillman.

  “Feel free to use my handkerchief. We don’t want any blood on that lovely dress of yours.”

  “He’s far more important than a dress.”

  “Of course.”

  “George,” she said. “It’s me, Genevieve.”

  Dillman struggled to open his eyes. “Where am I?”

  “Someone attacked you. Lord Bulstrode was a witness.”

  “I was,” attested the peer. “He was a real brute.”

  As he regained consciousness, Dillman was acutely aware of the searing pain
at the back of his skull. He put a hand to his head and felt the handkerchief that Genevieve was now using to stem the flow of blood. Memories began to come back. He chided himself for having been caught off guard.

  “I was hit from behind,” he said, trying to master the pain. “When I came around a corner, someone must have followed me.”

  “He did,” confirmed Lord Bulstrode.

  “You saw him?”

  “As large as life.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?” said Genevieve.

  “Afraid not, Miss Masefield. He was too far away.”

  “But you can tell us something about him, surely?”

  “I think so.”

  “How old was he?” asked Dillman, sitting up with Genevieve’s help. “And how tall?”

  “I only got a brief glimpse of him,” explained Lord Bulstrode, “but I’d say that he was somewhat older than you, Mr. Dillman. And he was nowhere near your height.”

  “What sort of build did he have?”

  “Thickset.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “Very little. It was over so quickly. I was appalled to think that such an unconscionable thug could be employed on the Celtic.”

  Dillman was perplexed. “He’s a member of the crew?”

  “Yes,” said Lord Bulstrode confidently. “It’s one thing I do recall. The man who attacked you was dressed as a cabin steward.”

  Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle did not linger in any of the public rooms. Now that everyone was aware of their presence on the ship, they were under constant surveillance, either watched in admiration from afar or approached directly by those wishing to boast to their friends that they had met a famous British author. Sir Arthur yearned for the privacy of their stateroom. As they walked along the corridor toward it, he thought he had shaken off his devotees for the night when the most fanatical of them suddenly stepped out of an alcove to confront him. Nobby Ruggles stood to attention.

  “Good evening, Sir Arthur,” he said.

  “Oh — hello there, Ruggles.”

  The barber bestowed an obsequious smile on Sir Arthur’s wife. “Good evening to you, Lady Conan Doyle.”

  “Good evening,” she said with some misgiving.

  “I know that it’s late,” said Ruggles, “but I wondered if you’d like to round off the evening by listening to my rendition of The Groom’s Story’? It was much appreciated at the concert.”

  “No doubt about that, Ruggles,” said Sir Arthur. “We’ve heard glowing reports of your performance.”

  “I’d be happy to re-create it for you.”

  “Not now.”

  “It won’t take long, sir.”

  “We’re both feeling very tired,” said Lady Conan Doyle, “and it’s a poem that deserves a larger audience than two.”

  Ruggles was persistent. “Then why not invite some friends into your stateroom?” he suggested. “You could all enjoy a glass of brandy while I recite the work of the greatest poet since Shakespeare.”

  “Heavens above!” cried Sir Arthur with embarrassment. “Let’s not exaggerate. Compared to Shakespeare I’m a crude versifier. And there are many better poets among my contemporaries. I can’t hold a candle to Kipling,” he admitted frankly. “On my first visit to America I played golf with him and told him how his work had inspired me. Rudyard Kipling is a true poet. I’m really a novelist who strayed into verse by way of experiment.”

  “Well, it was a very good experiment, Sir Arthur.”

  “That may be so, Mr. Ruggles,” said Lady Conan Doyle, gracious yet firm. “However, this is neither the time nor place to discuss the matter. My husband and I simply wish to retire to bed, so I fear that we must decline your kind offer.”

  “Oh, I see.” Ruggles was deflated. Reviving quickly, he held up the book that had been tucked under his arm. “Then perhaps you’ll favor me with your signature, Sir Arthur. You did promise.”

  “Yes,” agreed the other wearily. “I suppose I did.”

  “That, too, can wait,” said his wife, determined to rescue him. “When Sir Arthur is ready, Mr. Ruggles, he will contact you.”

  “But it would only take a second,” argued Ruggles.

  “That second will be of my husband’s own choosing.”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps,” said Sir Arthur.

  “Why not now?”

  “I’ve already told you,” said Lady Conan Doyle.

  “Yes, you have.” There was a flash of resentment in the barber’s eye, then the obsequious smile returned. “I seem to have come at a bad time,” he said, taking a step backward. “Tomorrow it shall be — or any other time Sir Arthur chooses. And we must arrange a private performance of ‘The Groom’s Story.’ I recited it in tribute to you. If you wish, I can give you an encore of ‘Corporal Dick’s Promotion’ as well.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Sir Arthur.

  “Then we’ll stick to the groom. He always gets a laugh.”

  “Another time, Ruggles.”

  “Of course, Sir Arthur. Good night to you both.”

  “Good night,” they caroled.

  Tucking the book back under his arm, Nobby Ruggles walked off smartly as if on the parade ground.

  Sir Arthur used the key to let them into the stateroom. After switching on the light, he shut the door behind them.

  “ ‘The Groom’s Story,’ ” he said with a remorseful roll of his eyes. “I’m beginning to wish I’d never written that blessed poem.”

  “It’s a lovely poem, Arthur — light, humorous and diverting. What I regret,” said Lady Conan Doyle, removing her stole with a flourish, “is that it ever fell into the hands of Nobby Ruggles.”

  George Dillman recovered quickly. When they had helped him back to his cabin, the ship’s doctor had been summoned by Lord Bulstrode to treat the wound. Having cleaned away the blood, he inserted sutures and urged the detective to take to his bed. The advice was instantly disregarded. As soon as the doctor had left, Dillman was eager to return to work.

  “It must have been Edward Hammond,” he declared.

  “Working as a steward?” asked Genevieve with disbelief.

  “No, that was a convenient disguise to allow him to move freely around the ship. He’ll have discarded it by now. Tonight’s little episode may have been painful, but it’s also encouraging.”

  “Encouraging? He almost killed you.”

  “He proved that we’re on the right track, Genevieve. The reason he attacked me is that I’m breathing down his neck.”

  “I’m only interested in saving your neck,” she said.

  “I’ll be more careful in future,” he assured her, “and I won’t be taken unawares again.” He unlocked a valise and took out a revolver. “Mr. Hammond and I can fight on equal terms now.”

  “Take care, George!”

  “We must both do that from now on.”

  Dillman’s head ached unrelentingly but his brain was crystal clear. After listening to what Genevieve had done in the time they had been apart, he related his conversation with Leonard Rush and was convinced that what the miner actually saw was the body of David Lowbury being pushed into the sea. Instead of being an assisted suicide, it was a calculated act of murder.

  “We still haven’t found a motive,” Genevieve observed.

  “Then you must go in search of one.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Genevieve,” he said. “There’s something we should have done earlier and that was to mention a certain name to Mrs. Lowbury.”

  “And what name was that?”

  “Horace Pooley.”

  “Wasn’t he the man killed by Hammond in New York?”

  “Exactly. I want you to find out if Jane Lowbury had ever heard of him. Pooley was a wealthy financier. He and Lowbury were birds of a feather. They may have been friends. And while you’re at it,” he told her, “bring up the name of Edward Hammond.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s an outside
chance she may know it.”

  “I don’t see how, George.”

  “Hammond’s victims had a similar background. The connection between the two crimes must lie somewhere in the financial world.”

  “Perhaps it does,” said Genevieve, “but Mrs. Lowbury is unlikely to lead us to it. She and her husband haven’t known each other all that long. How much will she have picked up about his business affairs in that time?”

  He crossed to the door. “Ask her.”

  “Now?”

  “There was a light in her cabin when I went past earlier,” he said, “and she deserves to know what I discovered on the main deck. Since her husband was definitely thrown overboard, it’s unfair to let her go on thinking he’s still alive and on the ship.”

  “What will you do, George?”

  He grinned. “Keep looking over my shoulder.”

  While they were in the lounge together, Frank Spurrier was unable to express his full anger to Joshua Cleves. He was obliged to take part in a conversation with two elderly Swedish passengers and a London impresario. Cleves had arranged to play cards that evening in the cabin of an acquaintance. When he excused himself, Spurrier also got up from his chair. Once the two of them were outside, the pretense of affability could be cast aside. Spurrier was simmering.

  “Why the hell did you do it, Josh?” he demanded.

  “Do what?”

  “Tell Genevieve Masefield that we had that argument.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a state secret, Frank.”

  “You should have kept your mouth shut.”

  “I’ll do as I choose fit,” said Cleves angrily. “I certainly won’t ask you what I can and can’t divulge. It’s good that Genevieve should know the truth about you and not mistake you for the English gentleman you pretend to be.”

  “By the same token she recognizes you as a Polish Jew who tries to conceal his background out of a sense of shame.”

  “You’re the person who’s ashamed, Frank.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then why are you so annoyed that I told Genevieve about the quarrel we had with David Lowbury — and where is the man, anyway? Have you hidden him away somewhere?”