Murder on the Celtic

by Conrad Allen

  “No,” said the man, tapping the page. “Leonard Rush is here. I met him on deck only five minutes ago. He’s not the missing man.”

  “That’s good news,” declared Pinnick.

  Miriam was contentious. “Is it?” she said through a mouthful of food. “I don’t see why.”

  She knocked hard on the cabin door and waited. When it was heard, Jane Lowbury’s voice sounded timid and cautious.

  “Who’s there?” she said.

  “It’s Genevieve Masefield.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “I need to speak to you, Mrs. Lowbury.”

  The door was unlocked and Jane opened it. Her expression of suffering changed to one of surprise when she saw that Dillman was standing there as well. Without waiting for an invitation, they went into the cabin and closed the door behind them.

  “We’re going to move you from here,” said Genevieve.

  “But I’d rather stay,” insisted Jane.

  “This is not for your safety, Mrs. Lowbury, it’s for ours.”

  “Yes,” said Dillman pointedly. “As long as your husband is on the loose, we’re both in danger.”

  “On the loose?” Jane’s face registered puzzlement. “What are you talking about? David was murdered. You told me so yourself. He was pushed over the side of the ship.”

  “That’s what you both wanted us to believe, Mrs. Lowbury, and the trick worked very well at first. But there were always worrying aspects to your story.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I think you do,” said Dillman. “Take that nonsense about your pills, for instance. I don’t believe they ever existed. If you really needed important medication, you’d be certain to carry it with you.”

  “You’d also have asked for some replacement pills from the doctor,” Genevieve pointed out, “yet you refused to take anything at all. We know why now — your husband was still alive.”

  “Except that we don’t believe he was your husband. The man with whom you’ve been sharing your cabin is known to the police as Edward Hammond.” Dillman loomed over her. “He’s wanted for the murder of Horace Pooley and for that of a steerage passenger who died in his place. Mr. Hammond deliberately left his coat in that lifeboat to deceive us. It was a clever ruse but it had some fatal flaws.” He gave her a cold smile. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Jane tried to brazen it out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said with righteous indignation, “and I’ll be certain to complain to the purser. I’ll thank you both to leave my cabin at once.”

  “You’ve nothing to hide, then?”

  “Nothing at all, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Then you won’t object if I search the cabin, will you?”

  “Wait!”

  Jane lunged forward to stop him but she was grabbed from behind. Genevieve held her in a firm grip. Dillman did not have to look far. Opening a leather chest, he rummaged through some clothing and produced a sparkling gold cup. He read the inscription on it.

  “When did you win a golf tournament, Mrs. Lowbury?” he asked.

  Jane’s scream of rage reverberated around the cabin.

  Edward Hammond congratulated himself on his success. Having shed one false identity, he had acquired another in its place and it did not involve sustained pretense on his part. The man whom he had killed and pushed overboard had been a lone steerage passenger who preferred to sleep on deck. All that Hammond had had to do was to rob him of his clothing and his passport, and he had the perfect disguise for the remainder of the journey. He might have to endure days of boredom in steerage, but his nights were spent in the arms of his lover in first class. Posing as a heartbroken widow, Jane had been looking after the property he had stolen from various people. It was, Hammond reasoned, the last place that the ship’s detectives would ever think of looking.

  He had another cause for contentment. When the names of all passengers were being checked, he was able to give that of Ronald Coveney. In his ragged clothes and with his unshaven face, he easily passed for the man he had murdered nights before. Avoiding meals in the saloon, he subsisted on food that Jane saved for him. When he saw her that evening, he knew that a delicious meal would be waiting in the cabin. His return was carefully timed to coincide with dinner in first class. After changing into the steward’s uniform he had stolen, he hid his clothing in steerage and went up the companionway reserved for the crew. By the time he reached the first-class areas, cabin stewards had finished turning down the beds. The coast was clear.

  Hammond moved swiftly to his cabin and knocked three times. Two knocks came in reply to confirm that Jane was alone. Hammond tapped on the door once more to complete the agreed code. As the door opened, he dived in and turned to embrace Jane. But she was no longer there. In her place was George Dillman.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hammond,” he said. “Remember me?”

  “Where’s Jane?” demanded Hammond.

  “Where she belongs — under lock and key.”

  Hammond did not even try to talk himself out of the situation. The game was up and his only chance of escape lay in overpowering the detective. Launching himself at Dillman, he tried to grab him by the throat, but the latter was ready for him this time. He moved smartly sideways and delivered a left hook that caught Hammond on the ear and made his head ring. Hurt and enraged, Hammond swore and rushed in again. Dillman knew how strong he was and gave him no chance to grapple. With a well-aimed kick, he caught Hammond in the crotch and made him double up in agony. Hammond expelled a string of expletives like a blast of hot steam. Before the man could recover, Dillman felled him with an uppercut to the chin.

  “Now, then, Mr. Hammond,” he said, standing over him with his revolver in his hand, “I think you have a little explaining to do.”

  Nelson Rutherford was far too excited to sit down. He jumped around behind his desk as he congratulated Dillman and Genevieve.

  “Now I know how the real Nelson felt when he won a battle,” he said happily. “It’s exhilarating. Except that I didn’t actually win this battle. You were kind enough to do it for me.”

  “It was something of a Pyrrhic victory,” admitted Dillman, putting a gentle hand to the back of his head. “We had casualties. I still have the scars by way of testimony.”

  “But you and Miss Masefield succeeded in the end.”

  “We were determined to do so,” said Genevieve. “We knew that Hammond had to be on the ship somewhere.”

  “It just never occurred to us that he was traveling under the name of David Lowbury,” said Dillman. “He and his partner were very convincing. Jane Lowbury has obviously had acting experience. That was how she met Horace Pooley, you see.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Rutherford,” said Genevieve. “I got the whole story out of her. He saw her on the stage, contrived an introduction and showered her with gifts. She quickly became his mistress and enjoyed all the trappings that went with it. Then he found someone else and dropped her like a stone.”

  “No wonder she wanted revenge.”

  “She wanted Pooley hurt but not killed. Since she’d visited his house often while his wife was away, she knew exactly where he kept his valuables. When she teamed up with Hammond,” said Genevieve, “she was able to give him precise instructions about where to go.”

  “He claims that Pooley disturbed him during the burglary,” said Dillman, “but I’d question that. My feeling is that Hammond killed him out of spite, having already set up his escape on the Celtic. They brought a small fortune on board with them.”

  “And added to it while they were here,” noted the purser. “The captain sends you his warmest congratulations. You not only solved a murder, you returned every item of stolen property to its rightful owner. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has been singing your praises ever since,” he went on, “though he is sad about Ruggles.”

  “The barber who recited Sir Arthur’s poems?” said Genevieve.

  “That’s
him. He was sorely tempted. Ruggles was so guilt-ridden that he confessed to Sir Arthur. It all started when he gave David Lowbury a haircut.”

  “Edward Hammond,” corrected Dillman.

  “He knew him as Lowbury at the time. Nobby Ruggles yields to none in his worship of Sir Arthur, so he naturally began to talk about him to his customers. Lowbury was very interested, especially when Ruggles told him that he kept an album of cuttings about his hero.”

  “I bet that Lowbury — Hammond, that is — asked to see it.”

  “He did,” said Rutherford. “And there were several photographs of Sir Arthur. Some of them showed him holding his copy of A Study in Scarlet. The captions always explained that he never gave a lecture on Sherlock Holmes without it.”

  “In other words,” Genevieve remarked, “Hammond knew that the novel would be in his cabin.”

  “And having talked to Frank Spurrier, he had some idea of its value. When he mentioned a figure to Ruggles, the barber was amazed. He has a first edition of Songs of Action, it seems, an anthology of Sir Arthur’s poems. Since he left the army,” continued the purser, “Ruggles has fallen on hard times. Barbers are not well paid. Having heard that an author’s signature added to the value of any book, he got his copy of Songs of Action autographed, then took it to Lowbury’s cabin to offer it to him.”

  “But he wasn’t there,” said Dillman. “He was skulking in steerage. And I doubt if Jane Lowbury opened the door to him.”

  “She didn’t, Mr. Dillman. She told him to go away. Ruggles was chastened. That book of poetry is the only thing of value he owns, yet, in a weak moment, he had been ready to part with it. He felt ashamed.”

  “Is that why he owned up to Sir Arthur?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Then it was very noble of him.”

  “Sir Arthur felt the same,” said Rutherford. “He even invited him in to recite one of the poems. Nobby Ruggles will brag about that for the rest of his life. I, of course, would prefer to brag about the way that George Dillman and Genevieve Masefield cleaned up the crime spree on the Celtic.”

  “That won’t be possible,” said Dillman seriously. “Trumpet our success and we’d never be able to work for the White Star Line again. Every villain would know who we were and take steps to avoid us.”

  “I accept that. It’s such a pity we can’t divulge details of the crimes to Sir Arthur. Think of the novel he could write about it.”

  “That’s exactly why he must never know,” said Genevieve.

  “No,” added Dillman. “As far as he’s concerned, this voyage was all about two séances, a performing barber and a missing copy of A Study in Scarlet. There’s enough material there for a good author.”

  CONRAD ALLEN is the author of seven previous mysteries in this series featuring sleuths George Porter Dillman and Genevieve Masefield investigating murder aboard some of the most famous luxury liners of the early twentieth century, including the Lusitania, Mauretania, Minnesota, Caronia, Marmora, Salsette, and Oceanic. He lives in England.