Murder on the Celtic (5 page)

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“How did you get on with Miss Masefield?”

“A gentleman does not talk about such things.”

“Oh, come on, Josh. Don't be so irritating.”

“I'm serious,” said Cleves with condescension. “It would be quite wrong to breach confidentiality.”

“You dined in a public room — what's confidential about that?”

“You wouldn't understand, Frank.”

“Did you speak to the lady?”

“Of course.”

“Then what was said?”

“It was more a question of what was not said.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“It does to a true huntsman,” Cleves told him. “Looks, smiles and gestures can be far more eloquent than words.”

“So what did you divine from them?”

“I told you — I'm not prepared to discuss it.”

“I think you're bluffing,” decided Spurrier. “Miss Masefield kept you at arm's length. If you and she established such a bond, why did she leave the table so early?”

“I'll ask her tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” said Cleves smugly. “It's the one thing I am prepared to disclose. Genevieve and I will be having breakfast together.”

Frank Spurrier felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

FOUR

W
hen dinner was over, most of the passengers made their way either to the public rooms or to their respective cabins. A few ventured out on deck, but a stiff breeze deterred all but the really determined and the hopelessly romantic. Nelson Rutherford stood outside the door of the first-class dining saloon so that he could be seen and recognized by those who went past. Like anyone who held the post, he felt it was important for the purser to be a visible presence on the voyage. Rutherford had an extraordinary memory for faces, and people he had already met in the course of the first day were hailed by name. Some stopped to chat, others merely gave him a nod of acknowledgment. Inevitably, he had to listen to a few minor complaints. As the mass exodus slowed to a dribble, George Dillman sauntered across to the purser.

“Good evening,” he said.

“I haven't spotted him yet,” admitted Rutherford.

“Who?”

“The wanted man — Edward Hammond.”

“He may not be aboard.”

“That's my fervent hope, Mr. Dillman.”

“And even if he is, he won't necessarily be traveling first class.”

“True.”

“We've the best part of three thousand passengers on the ship,” said Dillman. “That makes the job of finding him much more difficult.”

“What do you suggest?”

“That we wait until he shows his hand.”

“I don't follow.”

“Remember that first telegraph message, Mr. Rutherford? It said that the murder was committed during a burglary at the victim's home. Hammond went to that house in order to steal something, not to kill anyone. He's a professional thief. If he
is
aboard the
Celtic,
I don't think he'll be able to resist practicing his trade.”

“In his place, I'd just want to hide.”

“Oh, he probably thinks he's safe now that we're afloat,” said Dillman. “I fancy that the temptation will be too strong. There are a lot of wealthy people on this ship, and not all of them have the sense to keep their valuables in a safe. If Edward Hammond is here, then sooner or later we'll know about it.”

“I take your word for it, Mr. Dillman.”

“The main thing is that nobody else is made aware of the fact that we may — just may, of course — have a killer aboard. If it became common knowledge it would unsettle everyone.”

“I agree,” said Rutherford, breaking off to exchange greetings with the last of the diners. He turned back to the detective. “Well — so far, so good.”

“We've a long way to go yet, Mr. Rutherford.”

“I accept that but I remain sanguine.” They strolled away from the dining saloon. “Did you enjoy your meal?”

“Very much.”

“We pride ourselves on the quality of our cuisine.”

“Quite rightly,” said Dillman. “It was delicious. Though I wasn't there to appreciate the skills of your chefs. Like you, I'm always on duty. That's why I chose a table near the far wall and sat with my back to it. While talking to those nearest me, I could also keep an eye on the whole saloon.”

“Did you see anything of interest?”

“A great deal.”

“Such as?”

“Well, it's always intriguing to watch people forming into groups early on. Some are traveling with friends, or as part of larger parties, but the majority are not. It's amazing how quickly they make new acquaintances and create bonds. At the start of the meal,” Dillman recalled, “it was fairly subdued in there. By the end of the evening there was a constant babble. A good sign.”

“Did you notice Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle?”

“At his request, I paid particular attention to them. Sir Arthur asked for some assistance if I saw him surrounded by over-eager admirers at any stage.”

“Yes,” said Rutherford with a sigh. “Fame can be a real problem at times. We've carried celebrated writers, actors and politicians before, and some of them do get besieged.”

“I don't think that will happen to Sir Arthur somehow. Most of the passengers will not even know who he is. Sherlock Holmes is far more famous than the man who actually brought him to life. On the other hand,” Dillman continued, “Sir Arthur has just completed a long lecture tour. His photograph will have been in many American newspapers. Someone will recognize him.”

“As long as they don't pester him unnecessarily.”

“I'll be on hand to make sure that doesn't happen.”

“Did you meet Lady Conan Doyle?”

“No, she was resting when I visited their stateroom.”

“A charming lady,” said Rutherford, “though quite a bit younger than her husband. I understand that she's his second wife.”

“She is,” confirmed Dillman. “His first wife died after a long illness. He seems very happy with the new Lady Conan Doyle. In fact, when they came into the dining saloon, that was the first thing that struck me about them.”

“What was?”

“They had a wonderful air of contentment, as if quietly delighted in each other's company. It was rather touching. They looked like the perfect advertisement for marriage.”

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had been pleasantly surprised over dinner. Once he had yielded up his name to the people opposite them at the table, he braced himself for the usual questions about Sherlock Holmes, but, miraculously, they never came. His dinner companions clearly knew who he was, but they spared him any interrogation about his work and deliberately introduced neutral topics of conversation.

“I was reminded of the first time we met,” he said as he and his wife entered their stateroom. “I had the identical sense of relief then. It was at an afternoon tea party on March 15, 1897.”

Lady Conan Doyle smiled nostalgically. “Do you think I'll ever forget a date like that?”

“As with this evening, I thought I'd have to deal with the same tedious cross-examination about my work. Instead, you asked me if I'd seen the exhibition of photographs of Nansen's expedition to the Far North. It was the last question I expected.”

“I knew that you'd once sailed to the Arctic on a whaling ship, so I assumed that you'd be interested in Nansen's voyage.”

“I was fascinated by it. That's why I went to hear him lecture at the Albert Hall where he received a medal from the Prince of Wales. The remarkable thing is that
you
were there as well.”

“Pure coincidence.”

“Oh, it had a deeper significance than that, Jean.”

“But we didn't know each other then.”

“We were destined to meet. We were drawn together.”

“Well,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek, “I won't argue with that. What I can tell you is that, when I went to hear Nansen at that meeting of the Royal Geographical Society, it never crossed my mind for a second that I would one day end up as your wife.”

“Do you have any regrets?”

“None at all, Arthur.”

“Neither do I, my darling.”

“Good.”

Lady Conan Doyle was a striking woman in her thirties with a pretty face framed by curly dark-blond hair. Her bright green eyes shone with intelligence and he had discovered at that fateful first meeting how quick-witted and well read she was. The former Jean Leckie had been trained as a mezzo-soprano. When he heard her singing Beethoven's Scottish songs, he had been enchanted. The fact that her family claimed lineal descent from Rob Roy, one of the nation's greatest heroes, was another powerful source of attraction for him.

“I always feel proud when I walk into a room with you on my arm,” he confided. “It was a joy to have you with me on the tour.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope you weren't too bored, having to listen to me spout on.”

“Not at all,” she said. “Besides, you didn't only talk on literary
subjects. You gave lectures on spiritualism as well and we share a profound interest in that.”

“I just wish that the schedule had not been quite so full.”

“People wanted to hear you, Arthur,” she said. “That's why so many different venues had to be fitted in. Now that we're on the way home, you'll have time for a nice rest.”

“So will you.” He slipped off his coat and put it on the back of a chair. “What do you make of the
Celtic
?”

“She's luxurious.”

“Much more so than the
Elbe,
the German ship I sailed on the first time I came to America.”

“I thought you sailed on the Cunard line.”

“No,” he explained, “that was on the return voyage to Liverpool. The ship was the
Etruria
— nowhere near as large and lavish as this.”

“Which lecture tour did you prefer?” she asked, turning her back so that he could unhook her necklace. “The first or the second?”

“Oh, this one, without a doubt.”

“Why?”

“You were with me, for a start. Last time, I was very lonely. I had nobody to look after me.”

“Is that the only reason you brought me?” she teased. “So that I could act as your nursemaid?”

“Of course not,” he said, holding the necklace in the palm of his hand. “You inspire me, Jean. You know that.” As she turned to face him, he gave her the necklace. “When you're beside me, I feel complete.”

“What a lovely compliment!”

“And I didn't just want your companionship. I was desperately keen to show off America to you, like a child showing off a new toy.”

She laughed. “A rather large toy!”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do, Arthur, and I'm so grateful that you brought me. It was an education from start to finish.”

“I wouldn't have come without you.”

“I wouldn't have
let
you come.” She kissed him again, then put the necklace down on a small table and began to remove her earrings. “What are we going to do on the voyage?”

“Sleep, for the most part.”

“We're neither of us suited to hibernation.”

“Then we'll enjoy the facilities of the vessel. There's a whole program of events, including a concert tomorrow afternoon. You ought to be singing in that, Jean.”

“I've retired from public performance.”

“As long as I can still have private ones,” insisted Conan Doyle. “I love to hear your voice.”

She stifled a yawn. “Oh, I do beg your pardon!”

“You're tired. Go to bed.”

“What about you?”

“I thought I might just stay up for a little while.”

“You want to write something, don't you?” she said with an understanding smile. “I know that look in your eye. When you have a new idea, you're burning to put it down on paper.”

“I've trained myself to write whenever inspiration strikes, and in whatever circumstances. I'm not the kind of author who locks himself away in an ivory tower to wait for the prompting of his Muse. I can work almost anywhere,” he said, opening a bag to take out a sheaf of paper. “If we'd stayed any longer in the dining saloon, I'd have reached for the menu and started writing on the back of it.”

“What's this idea for, Arthur — a short story or a novel?”

“Wait and see.”

“As long as you don't stay up too late.”

“I'm a slave to the creative flow, Jean.”

“You also need your sleep as much as I do,” she warned. “You'll have plenty of time to write on this voyage. If you confine it to daylight hours, it will be much easier on both of us.”

But her husband was not listening. Seated at the table, he was already jotting down the first few lines that had come into his mind. His wife did not protest. She knew how much his work meant to him. Leaving him to it, she withdrew quietly into the bedroom.

Genevieve Masefield rose early the next morning and glanced through the porthole. It looked as if they were blessed by a fine day. Bright sunshine was already burnishing the sea. On the horizon she caught a glimpse of another liner. After having a bath, she dressed and made her way to the dining saloon for breakfast. Before she could enter the room, Frank Spurrier materialized at her elbow.

“Good morning, Stella,” he said.

“Oh,” she replied, startled by his sudden appearance. “Good morning. But, as I told you, my name is not Stella Jameson.”

“I know. It's Miss Genevieve Masefield.”

“How did you find that out?”

“I have my spies.”

“I don't like being spied on, Mr. Spurrier,” she said firmly.

“Then you shouldn't be such an object of fascination,” he said with a disarming smile. “You turned a lot of heads over dinner last evening. I was by no means the only man who wondered who you were and what your name was. Since you were dining with Lord and Lady Bulstrode, you were even more conspicuous.”

“I can see that your spies have been working hard.”

“In truth, there's only one of them, Miss Masefield. I suppose that you might call him an unpaid informer.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

“Your other dinner companion — Joshua Cleves.”

“You know the gentleman?”

“We've done business on many occasions,” said Spurrier, producing a card from his waistcoat pocket and handing it to her. “We've bought from each other.”

“An auction house,” Genevieve noted, studying the card. “It must be a successful one if you cross the Atlantic so often in first class.” She slipped the card into her bag. “Mr. Cleves was very personable.”

“Yes, Josh can be very charming when he wishes to be.”

“Do I detect a note of disapproval?”

“Not at all,” he said blandly. “We're old friends. I'm very fond of him. It's just that — like the rest of us, I suppose — he does tend to suppress certain facts about himself.”

“You mean that he has a dark secret?”

“There's nothing sinister in his past — as far as I know, anyway. Though he dislikes being reminded of the fact that he's the child of Polish refugees. I'll wager that he made no mention of it over dinner.”