Murder on the Celtic (27 page)

His tenacity was eventually rewarded. Under the table, invisible from above, was a small box that had been neatly taped to the wood. Even the cabin steward would not have known that it was there. Taking a penknife from his pocket, Dillman slit the tape so that the box fell into his hand. He stood up and flipped open the lid of the box. Inside was a copy of A
Study in Scarlet.

The game was afoot.

______

Genevieve was not looking forward to his company, but she knew how crucial it was to keep Frank Spurrier occupied while his cabin was being searched. She found him in the lounge, reading a magazine.

“Do you mind if I disturb you?” she said.

“Not at all,” he replied, tossing the magazine aside and rising to his feet. “Please take a seat. I'm delighted to see you.”

“Thank you.”

They sat down opposite each other. As he appraised her Genevieve was conscious once more of the strange power that he seemed to exude. There was a fixed smile on his face but she had no notion of what he might be thinking.

“It's good to see you without Josh in tow,” he began.

“Mr. Cleves is not my traveling companion.”

“He boasted that you were on first-name terms.”

“That's a permissible informality on a voyage,” she said.

“Doe that mean I can take advantage of it?”

“If you wish, Mr. Spurrier.”

“I do, Genevieve, and you know what I'd prefer to be called.”

“I believe I do, Frank.”

“That's better,” he said, relaxing. “I had the feeling that I'd never get past your outer fortifications.”

“Have you been laying siege to me, then?”

“Perish the thought!”

“Then what have you been doing?”

“Taking a natural interest in the most beautiful young woman aboard. There you are, Genevieve, I've given you a straight answer.”

“Frank by name and Frank by nature.”

“Give or take the occasional white lie,” he added. “But I'm so glad of this opportunity to put the record straight on one small matter. Whatever Josh told you, I didn't lose my temper with
David Lowbury. I simply took exception at something he said about you.”

“Me?”

“He passed an unpardonable remark. Let's leave it at that.”

“Are you telling me that you were defending my honor?”

“That's what it amounts to.”

“In that case, I owe you my thanks. However, I'm surprised at Mr. Lowbury. I obviously misjudged him.”

“We all did, Genevieve.”

“You got to know him and his wife quite well, didn't you?”

“As well as one can when dining together.”

“I don't recall seeing either of them around recently.”

Spurrier smiled. “They are on honeymoon, after all.”

“Yes,” said Genevieve, thinking of the ordeal that Jane Lowbury was suffering. “I suppose that's the explanation.” She looked up to see Joshua Cleves descending upon them. “Ah, we have company.”

Beaming away, Cleves lowered himself into a seat beside them.

“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.”