Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

“My two best friends,” he announced.

  “I thought your closest friends were Rupert and Agnes,” said Spurrier, pronouncing the names with a sarcastic edge. “What’s happened, Josh? Has the British aristocracy dropped you?”

  “No, they’ve clutched me to their bosom. Am I right, Genevieve?”

  “They do seem to like you,” she agreed.

  “I’m a very likable man. Now,” he said, “what bunkum has Frank been telling you about me this time?”

  “Your name hardly entered the conversation,” said Spurrier. “Genevieve and I were just having a quiet chat. It’s what English people do on transatlantic voyages.”

  “Thanks for reminding me that I’m an American — or, if you prefer, the son of Jewish immigrants from Poland. In both countries, oddly enough, a quiet chat is not unknown.”

  “I was asking about David Lowbury,” said Genevieve.

  “I’ve no time for the man.”

  “He seems to have vanished.”

  “You won’t find me complaining about that, Genevieve.”

  “What do you have against him?”

  “Nothing,” said Spurrier, jumping in before Cleves could speak. “Lowbury is a disagreeable fellow. Why don’t we order coffee and talk about someone more palatable?”

  “Yes,” consented Cleves amiably. “We can talk about me.”

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was overjoyed to have his copy of A Study in Scarlet returned to him. When Dillman called on him in his stateroom, he pumped the detective’s hand by way of thanks.

  “Where on earth did you find it?” he inquired.

  “I’d rather not say until the full facts have emerged. Collusion is at work, Sir Arthur. The man in whose cabin I found the book is not the thief. He had a confederate.”

  “Well, I trust that they’ll both be punished,” said Lady Conan Doyle. “This whole business has been very distressing.”

  “It’s over now, Jean,” her husband declared, opening the book to look inside. “My lecture notes are all here — splendid!”

  “I must ask two things of you, Sir Arthur,” said Dillman. “First, please deposit the book in a safe so that I don’t have to hunt for it again.” Conan Doyle signaled agreement. “Second, don’t mention the fact of its theft and retrieval to anyone else.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Dillman.”

  “We owe you profound gratitude,” said Lady Conan Doyle, “and I must add an apology for doubting you. My husband was convinced that you would find the book in time, but I did not share his faith.”

  “I’ll let you in to a secret, Lady Conan Doyle,” said Dillman. “Neither did I at first. The point is that book and author have been happily reunited. By the way,” he went on, “I hear that we have an expert on your work aboard, Sir Arthur. One of the barbers has been reciting your poems at various concerts.”

  Conan Doyle sighed. “His name is Nobby Ruggles.”

  “And he’s a confounded nuisance,” added his wife.

  “Oh, he’s not that bad, Jean.”

  “Yes, he is. He keeps snapping at your heels like a terrier, desperate for you to autograph his book of poems.”

  Dillman was alerted. “A book of poems?”

  “It is called Songs of Action.”

  “And would it be a first edition?”

  “I’m sure that it would,” said Conan Doyle. “Ruggles has been sitting on it for years like a mother hen on her eggs. He claims to know every poem by heart.”

  “What an extraordinary compliment to you, Sir Arthur.”

  “That’s what I thought at first.”

  “Mr. Ruggles overstepped the mark,” said Lady Conan Doyle. “He doesn’t seem to know the difference between hero-worship and polite conduct. He did everything he could to wheedle his way in here.”

  “Into your stateroom?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dillman. It was so intrusive.”

  “The fellow is too eager to please,” said Conan Doyle, adopting a more tolerant tone. “Because we missed his performance of one of my poems, he wanted to recite it to us in private.”

  “In here?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Dillman. He was most insistent.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” said Dillman. “I may need to talk to this barber myself. What manner of man is he, Sir Arthur?”

  “An old soldier who misses the excitement of army life.”

  Nobby Ruggles was allowed a mid-morning break of fifteen minutes. Instead of enjoying his usual rest and refreshment, he slipped out of the salon and hurried to the nearest companionway. Making sure that nobody saw him, he climbed the steps that led to the promenade deck. At the top he inched the door open and checked that nobody was in the vicinity. Then he darted out and made his way along a corridor. When a passenger came out of a cabin ahead of him, Ruggles gave him a deferential smile and went past. He turned a corner, walked another five yards, then stopped to look in both directions. Relieved to see that he was alone, he rapped on the door.

  “Who is it?” asked a voice from inside the cabin.

  Genevieve was astounded by the revelation about Frank Spurrier. When she met up with Dillman she had not expected such a dramatic development. Her jaw dropped.

  “You found the book in his cabin?” she said incredulously.

  “Cunningly concealed beneath the desk.”

  “I’d never have accused him of being a thief.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he stole the novel,” said Dillman. “Someone else did that and sold it to him. Spurrier is a receiver of stolen goods.”

  “That still makes him a criminal, George. Why should he want to buy the book? He runs a respectable auction house. It’s not an item that he could sell openly without causing suspicion.”

  “That’s why it will go to a private collector. He would never accept something like that unless he knew exactly where to place it. I’m sure that he knows people willing to pay a high price for a unique copy of A Study in Scarlet — people who don’t ask questions about how he acquired such an item. I had a glimpse into that world when I was a Pinkerton agent,” said Dillman reflectively. “If a famous painting disappeared, it never turned up on the open market. It was offered to private collectors with no scruples about buying stolen property.”

  “Is Sir Arthur’s book that valuable?”

  “It doesn’t compare with an Old Master, but it would certainly tempt a bibliophile. The longer he keeps the book, the more its value would grow. It’s always possible, of course, that Spurrier intended to keep it himself until it could command a higher price.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?”

  “I thought that you might like that honor, Genevieve,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve an idea how we should go about it.”

  “Where’s the book now?”

  “Restored to its grateful owner.”

  “Frank Spurrier will have noticed that it’s missing, then.”

  “I hardly think so.”

  “Why is that, George?”

  “Because it was hidden in a box that was taped to the underside of the desk. All I had to do was to replace the box in the same position. If he chances to look under the desk, he’ll think that his booty is intact.”

  “I look forward to confronting him,” said Genevieve with relish. “Arresting him is the best way possible to stop him pestering me.”

  “I feel that Joshua Cleves should be there as well. Then you’ll be able to rid yourself of his attentions at the same time. I think he’ll be shocked to learn that he’s been pursuing a ship’s detective all this while. Invite them both here, Genevieve.”

  “To my cabin?”

  “What better place?” he said. “They’ll both come running.”

  Genevieve was intrigued by the notion. She could make an arrest and reject her self-appointed suitors at the same time. She told Dillman about the conversation she had had with the two men in the lounge, and how they had been vying for her favors.

  “I’m glad that all
that will come to an end,” she said. “But if Frank Spurrier didn’t steal that book, then who did?”

  “That’s the first question I’ll ask him, Genevieve. I thought it was an isolated crime, completely detached from all the other things that have happened on the ship. I’ve revised that judgment now.”

  “All the crimes are the work of the same man?”

  “The same man and his accomplice. There are two of them.”

  “Do you have any idea who they are?”

  “Not yet,” he said, “but I’m hoping that Frank Spurrier will be able to point us in the right direction.” He winked at her. “Perhaps you should send him a little note, Genevieve.”

  Thoda Burbridge was strolling along the promenade deck when she was accosted by one of her admirers. Sophie Trouncer was delighted to have a moment alone with her.

  “Oh, Mrs. Burbridge,” she said, “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “All I did was to pass on a message to you.”

  “But it’s one that I desperately needed to hear. I’ve been so immersed in mourning the death of my husband that I felt guilty if another man aroused my interest in however casual a way. It was as if I was betraying Geoffrey.”

  “Not at all,” said Thoda.

  “Mother always urged me to marry again, but it seemed wrong.”

  “Each of us mourns in a different way, Mrs. Trouncer. In your case, you allowed much more than a decent interval, so you should have no qualms about countenancing the idea of a second husband.”

  “But I needed to be given permission.”

  “I’m glad that I was able to help.”

  “I needed Geoffrey to release me,” Sophie went on. “We were so close that life with another man was never an option. Now, it is.”

  “Good.”

  “More to the point, I believe that I’ve met him.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve shared the same table and got to know each other very well. He’s a little younger than I am,” she confided with a giggle, “but Mother dismisses that as a mathematical quibble.”

  Thoda laughed. “Mrs. Hoyland has a robust attitude to life.”

  “She’s always been so forthright and full of energy.”

  “Does she approve of your choice?”

  “In every possible way.”

  “Then I wish you well, Mrs. Trouncer,” said Thoda. “When we sat around that table in my cabin, I can assure you that I did not set out to act as a matchmaker. If that is what I turned out to be, then I’m happy for you.”

  “I’m hoping that you might help.”

  “In what way?”

  “You sense things about people, Mrs. Burbridge. You knew about the circumstances of my birth and you guessed that that odious Mr. Agnew had been involved with a Mormon community at one point.”

  “That wasn’t a guess, Mrs. Trouncer — I was certain of the fact.”

  “I wondered if I could trespass on you,” said Sophie impulsively. “I know that’s it’s a misuse of your gift and that I should be ashamed to ask this, but I’m finding it hard to contain my excitement. I want you to tell me if this particular gentleman is really the one for me.”

  Thoda was insulted. “I’m not a fortune-teller in a booth at a funfair,” she said haughtily. “I’m an acknowledged medium. I do not predict people’s marital arrangements.”

  “Would you at least agree to meet Mr. Dillman?”

  “No, Mrs. Trouncer. What I will tell you is this, however. If you do marry again, I can promise you that it will not be to anyone who is sailing on this ship.” She swept off. “Good day to you!”

  When the steward brought him the note, Frank Spurrier was still in the lounge. Genevieve Masefield wanted to see him in her cabin as soon as possible. Leaping up, he went off to obey the request at once, convinced that his subtle wooing was at last about to pay dividends. The feeling of elation lasted all the way to her cabin door. It was then dispersed by the arrival of Joshua Cleves.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Spurrier challenged.

  “I was about to ask you the same question, Frank.”

  “Genevieve sent me a note.”

  “I had one as well,” said Cleves, taking it from his pocket. “She wanted to see me here. Ah, I think I know what’s going on,” he continued smugly. “The day of decision has come. Genevieve is going to choose between the two of us and that means you’ll be ousted.”

  “You’re the one to be rejected, Josh.”

  Before they could debate the issue the door suddenly opened and Genevieve beckoned them in. Cleves went boldly over the threshold but his confidence faltered when he saw that George Dillman was already in the cabin. Spurrier followed him in. After shutting the door, Genevieve went to stand beside her husband.

  “I believe that you’ve both met George Dillman,” she said, taking his hand. “What he forgot to mention is that we’re married.”

  Cleves spluttered and Spurrier goggled. Both were crestfallen. Two men who prided themselves on their instinctive knowledge of women had been completely fooled.

  “You’re married to a ship’s detective?” said Cleves, agog.

  “It’s worse than that,” explained Dillman. “Genevieve is both wife and partner. She, too, is employed by the White Star Line as a detective.”

  Spurrier was fuming. “Then why didn’t she have the grace to tell us?” he said vehemently. “And why drag us here to watch this absurd little charade?”

  “It’s no charade, Mr. Spurrier. You were invited for a specific reason and Mr. Cleves is here as an observer.”

  “And what am I supposed to observe?” said Cleves grumpily.

  “The arrest of your friend.”

  “Frank Spurrier,” said Genevieve, taking over, “it’s my duty to arrest you on a charge of receiving stolen goods. A copy of a book that was taken from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was found in your cabin. As a result you’ll have to spend the rest of the voyage in the custody of the sergeant-at-arms.”

  Cleves was rocked. “Is this true, Frank?”

  “No,” retorted the other. “There’s been some grotesque mistake here. I know nothing about a stolen book.”

  “Then why was it found by my husband,” said Genevieve, “hidden in a box that bore your name?”

  “It must have been planted there by someone.”

  “And I’m looking at the person who planted it.”

  “Frank — a crook!” said Cleves with a guffaw. “This is priceless! I’m so glad I was here to witness the arrest.”

  “Shut up, Josh!” snarled Spurrier.

  “Yes,” said Dillman, “I think we can dispense with your presence now, Mr. Cleves.” He shepherded him out of the cabin. “Good-bye.”

  Dillman shut the door but they could still hear Cleves’s laughter as he walked off down the corridor. Frank Spurrier’s humiliation was intensified. As he stared at Genevieve, his eyes blazed.

  “You’ll need a lot more evidence to convict me,” he said.

  “We’ll have it when we arrest your accomplice.”

  “I have no accomplice, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Do you confess to the theft of Sir Arthur’s book?”

  “No, of course not!”

  “Then you worked in league with a professional criminal,” said Dillman. “The disappearance of A Study in Scarlet was only one of a number of thefts on board this ship, and the spate of crimes culminated in murder.”

  “Murder!” yelled Spurrier. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “What about the other thefts?”

  “All I did was to buy one item that was offered to me and I did so in good faith. I didn’t ask where it came from and was quite unaware that any crime had taken place.”

  “Then why did you feel it necessary to hide the book?” asked Genevieve. “If there was nothing improper in the transaction, you had no reason to go to such lengths to conceal it.” Spurrier looked uneasy. “I think you knew that you were being offered stolen property.”
<
br />   “I deny that.”

  “You can do so again in court,” said Dillman. “The point is this, Mr. Spurrier. One man is responsible for all the crimes committed on the Celtic, but he needed a confederate.”

  “Well, it was not me — I swear it!”

  “You accepted stolen goods from him.”

  “That was a foolish error.”

  “How many other foolish errors did you make?”

  “None!” howled Spurrier. “I was involved in one small deal with him, that’s all. I’m not his confederate. I don’t even like the man.”

  “What man?” asked Dillman.

  “David Lowbury.”

  Luncheon in steerage was the same clamorous event to which they had all become accustomed. Saul Pinnick, however, noticed that it had a different feature this time. Armed with sheaves of paper, members of the crew were working their way along the tables.

  “It looks as if they’re doing a head count, Mirry,” he said.

  “What?”

  “They seem to be checking off names.”

  “I can’t see anybody,” said his wife, screwing up her eyes. “Unless something is happening right in front of me, I can’t see it.”

  “That’s why you’ve got me, my love. I’m your eyesight.”

  She popped a chunk of bread into her mouth and chewed it hungrily. A man soon came level with them. He consulted his list.

  “Names, please?” he invited.

  “Saul and Mirry Pinnick,” said Pinnick. “Mirry as in Miriam.”

  The man put ticks on his list. “Thank you.”

  “What’s going on?” said Miriam.

  “We think someone may be missing.”

  “It’ll be him, Saul. I know it.”

  “My wife means Len Rush,” said Pinnick. “He lost his wife on the voyage to America, then got turned back. He was in despair. He was talking about throwing himself overboard.”

  “What was that name, sir?” asked the man.

  “Len Rush — that’s Len as in Leonard.”

  After working his way down the list, the man flicked over the page to study the next one. Pinnick was saddened by the thought that Rush might have committed suicide and he reproached himself for not doing more to revive the man’s spirits. Rush had not been seen all morning. It looked as if he had finally fulfilled his threat.