Murder on the Lusitania (10 page)

“It’s from Violet?” He snatched it from him. “Give it to me.”

“I was told to wait for an answer.”

Philip Garrow nodded, unlocked his cabin door, and ushered his visitor inside before closing the door behind them. He tore open the missive and read it with his back to Dillman. The latter could see the tension slowly ease out of the man’s shoulders. Garrow spun round.

“Tell her that I’ll be here tomorrow at the time suggested.”

“Nothing else?”

“Violet already knows that I love her,” said the other irritably. “But you can tell her that, if you wish. By the way, what’s your name?”

“George Dillman.”

“How do you know Violet?”

“We met on the train to Liverpool.”

“She must trust you to let you bring this.”

“I was happy to oblige, Mr. Garrow.”

“How much has Violet told you?”

“Very little,” said Dillman reassuringly. “I’ll get back to her at once. She’ll be anxious to know that her letter was delivered safely.”

He gave a nod and left the cabin before Garrow could ask any more questions. On his journey back to first-class, there were questions of his own now nagging at him. Why was Philip Garrow quite unlike the person Violet had described to him? How could a man with no money afford to travel on the
Lusitania
and buy a new suit for the occasion? And, more to the point, where was the romantic ardor that had impelled him to get aboard the ship in the first place?

An afternoon in the hairdressing saloon had been followed by tea with the Hubermann sisters and then a relaxing bath in the privacy of her cabin. Genevieve Masefield wanted to look her best when she joined Lord Carradine for dinner at the captain’s table that evening. She spent an hour in front of the mirror, experimenting with different dresses and various pieces of jewelry until she found the ones that matched the best and satisfied her the most. Still in her underwear, she then applied her cosmetics sparingly, taking due account of the lighting in the dining saloon. When she put on her dress, she added the velvet choker and the emerald brooch, standing back to admire the finished result and to assess how she would look beneath the grand dome.

Genevieve was on the brink of leaving when she noticed Henry Barcroft’s article on the table. If it remained there, he would have an excuse to come to the cabin in search of it. Though he had no dining privileges in first class, there was every chance that he would be hanging around the saloon before dinner, if only to ingratiate himself with those he had befriended or wished to interview.
Genevieve decided to take the article with her, and slipped it into her purse. When she returned it, she promised herself, she would sever all contact with the journalist. Henry Barcroft could look elsewhere for invitations to a lady’s cabin.

On the walk to the dining saloon, she passed several mirrors and checked her appearance each time. She was content. Genevieve soon had independent confirmation. Carlotta Hubermann came out of a cabin ahead of her and turned to her appraise her.

“My!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you look just great!”

“Thank you, Carlotta.”

“Who’s the lucky man?”

“Captain Watt.”

“Far too old for you, dear,” said the other with a playful nudge. “He’s much more my vintage. And if Abigail were not with me, I might just do something about it. I’ve always liked seafaring men.”

Genevieve grinned. “Shall I mention it to him?”

“Don’t you dare, you wicked girl! Besides, you’ll be too busy fending off Lord Carradine. I saw the look in his eye—the one with the monocle, that is. Unless I’m mistaken, you’ve made a conquest.”

“I hardly know him, Carlotta.”

“What has that got to do with it?”

“Everything, in my book.”

“Abigail thinks he’s rather sinister.”

“Lord Carradine? He’s not sinister at all. He’s extremely nice.”

“That’s my feeling, but Abigail is very critical of men. So few of them meet her standards, I fear. Look at that young man we met in the café this morning. Mr. Dillman. I have to admit that he grew on me, yet Abigail had no time for him. There’s a touch of the sailor about George Porter Dillman,” she recalled, winking at Genevieve. “Perhaps that’s what attracted me. What I do know is this. He was a paragon beside that dreadful journalist. What was his name again?”

“Henry Barcroft.”

“Both of us loathed
him
. So damned sure of himself.”

“I can’t say that I found him very appealing either.”

The older woman fell in beside her and they walked on together.

“Stick with Lord Carradine, honey. More your class. So gracious. I just can’t agree with Abigail’s opinion. What’s so sinister about having a large amount of money?” She gave a cackle of delight. “I’d call that the most attractive quality in a man.”

“Why did you never marry, Carlotta?”

“How do you know that I didn’t?”

“Well?” asked Genevieve. “Did you or didn’t you?”

A louder cackle. “That would be telling!”

When they reached the saloon, they came to an involuntary halt. Just inside the room, chatting familiarly to Jeremiah Erskine as if they were close friends, was Henry Barcroft, wearing evening dress in order to blend with his surroundings even though he would leave as soon as the meal was actually served. Genevieve forgot about the article in her purse and simply wanted to avoid the man. Carlotta read her mind. Keeping herself between Genevieve and the journalist, she shielded her friend from the latter’s attention and escorted her all the way to the captain’s table. Lord Carradine was waiting to welcome her and to introduce her to Captain Watt himself, resplendent in his uniform and accompanied by a few senior officers.

Genevieve was able to relax at last. Male attention helped her to blossom and she was soon fielding compliments from all sides. By the time she finally glanced around the room, she saw that Barcroft had vanished. A sense of relief flooded through her. His presence unsettled her. Now that he was gone, she could really enjoy herself. She had a coveted seat at the captain’s table and intended to take the fullest advantage of it. When the Champagne arrived, she joined in the first toast with enthusiasm. All thought of Henry Barcroft had disappeared.

She did not know that she would never see him alive again.

EIGHT

A
gainst his better judgment, Dillman agreed to share a table with the Rymers that evening. They ventured out of their suite to sample the fare in the dining saloon and to allow Sylvia Rymer to display her new hairstyle, a mass of tight curls devoid of any parting and reminiscent of the style favored by Queen Alexandra. When he arrived at the saloon, Dillman got his first real sighting of Mildred, the Rymers’ maidservant, a plump woman in her forties with dark brown hair brushed back severely into a bun to reveal a pleasant, homely face. During the supper in their suite on the first night, Dillman had caught only the merest glimpse of the maidservant, so he was interested to see her more clearly, especially as she was one of the designated watchers of Violet Rymer.

Mildred wore a white apron over a light gray dress. A small white cap sat on her head. She had been dispatched to the hairdressing salon to retrieve an item that Sylvia Rymer had inadvertently left there during her visit that afternoon. Dillman could not quite make out what it was but he saw Mildred hand it over and collect a nod of thanks before heading back to the regal suite. He followed the Rymers into the dining saloon and joined a table that
included a honeymoon couple, a Spanish artist, a rural dean with his wife, a retired barrister, and an elderly couple from Scotland. Dillman found himself seated between the female members of the Rymer family, both of whom seemed to be in excellent spirits, Sylvia, because of the compliments that her hairstyle and dress were eliciting, and Violet, for a reason that Dillman alone knew about.

Matthew Rymer was the revelation. He was positively buoyant, initiating conversation, retailing anecdotes, and generally acting as the focal point of the table. Gone was his earlier pomposity and, in spite of the presence of an American and a Spaniard, he refrained from any disparaging remarks about their respective countries. In appearance and manner, he still embodied British superiority but he no longer trumpeted it so loudly. Dillman was astounded by the improvement in the man and put it down to his daughter’s apparent change of heart. Now that Violet had started to enjoy the voyage, both parents were filled with relief, confident that she had at last accepted the banishment of Philip Garrow and was ready to face a future without him.

Dillman wondered how jovial Matthew Rymer would be if he knew that their daughter’s unwanted suitor was on board the same ship, and he doubted whether a new hairstyle and a silk evening gown would be enough to sustain Sylvia Rymer through the discovery. Violet herself was bubbling with suppressed excitement, taking an interest in each subject under discussion while savoring the thought that a tryst with her lover had been arranged for the following day. When relaying Garrow’s reply to her, Dillman had tactfully omitted any mention of his own reservations about the man. Messengers carried messages. Comment was outside their remit. He just hoped that Garrow was truly worthy of her.

The menu was printed on a beautifully embossed card with an elaborate design framing the actual bill of fare, turning the card itself into a cherished souvenir. The main course consisted of sirloin and ribs of beef served with green peas; rice; cauliflower à la crème; boiled, mashed, and château potatoes. They were in the
middle of eating it when Sylvia Rymer finally found a moment to explain how the table had been put together. Adjusting her silver tiara, she leaned across to him.

“I sat next to Mrs. Mackintosh in the hairdressing salon,” she said, indicating the elderly Scotswoman. “Her husband owns five thousand acres in the Highlands. I knew that they’d be our sort. They bought some of Miguel’s paintings when they visited Spain last year and became good friends of his. He’s taking some of his work to New York in the hope of selling it there. In his own country, Mrs. Mackintosh tells me, Miguel is very famous.” Her eyes moved to the rural dean’s wife. “I also met Janet Palgrave in the salon. A delightful person. Her husband’s diocese is in Warwickshire somewhere. Ordinarily, of course, a man of the cloth like him would not be able to afford to travel first-class but it turns out that he has private wealth. He also owns a number of properties in the Midlands, so I simply had to get him together with Matthew.” She gave a complacent smile. “Don’t you think it’s a splendid table, Mr. Dillman?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rymer,” he agreed, looking around. “Your visit to the hairdressing salon was productive.”

“I met two other charming ladies there as well and put their names in my notebook for another time. And then—silly me!—I went and left my notebook in the salon by mistake.”

“Is that what your maidservant gave to you earlier?”

“Yes, thank heaven for Mildred! I’m always forgetting something or other. Mildred is my faithful retriever.”

“What about the Latimers?” he asked, glancing at the honeymoon couple. “I don’t imagine that you met the two of them in the salon.”

“Oh, no. They’re friends of the Palgraves. Stuart Latimer comes from a landed family in Warwickshire, I’m told. His young bride is so pretty, isn’t she? There’s such a bloom on her. This is the first time they’ve been coaxed into the dining saloon. Shyness, I expect. Being on honeymoon makes you so self-conscious. It did in my case, anyway.” She gave a breathy laugh. “But they seem to
be getting on well with everybody. There’s nothing quite so romantic as a society wedding. When I look at someone like Anna Latimer, I see Violet in a year or two’s time.”

“That only leaves our barrister.”

“My husband collected him this morning when he went for a stroll on the promenade deck. Geoffrey Unsworth and he got into conversation. My husband took to him. That so rarely happens.”

“Does it?” said Dillman, keeping sarcasm out of his voice.

The rural dean suddenly took control of the conversation and adopted his pulpit manner as he described an unfortunate incident with a warming pan during his own honeymoon. The memoir stayed well within the bounds of decency but it still brought a blush from his wife. While the clergyman held the rest of them in thrall, Dillman surveyed the room with more than usual curiosity. His gaze went first to Genevieve Masefield, seated at the captain’s table between Lord Carradine and Itzak Weiss, clearly entrancing the aristocrat and the violinist simultaneously and making the other ladies in the group fade into invisibility. Dillman noted how much Genevieve was enjoying her position as cynosure.

Her erstwhile companions, the Hubermanns, were at a nearby table so top-heavy with elderly diners that it made Carlotta Hubermann seem relatively young. Dillman searched for Cyril and Ada Weekes and eventually spotted them among the potted palms, sharing a table with, among others, the Erskines. Not far away, at another table, was Edward Collins, looking supremely distinguished in his evening dress and chatting affably to his neighbor. Dillman was certain that another poker game would later reunite the card-playing fraternity and he reminded himself to look in on it when it was fully established.

There were dozens of other passengers whom Dillman recognized but the one on whom his eye finally settled was Ellen Tolley. Even though she was on the far side of the room, he could see enough of her to be impressed once again by the winning simplicity of her beauty. She wore little makeup, no jewelry, and had felt no need of a visit to the hairdressing salon in order to prepare
herself for dinner. She was dressed in a plain but well-cut gown made of a cream-colored material that caught the lights and gave off a muted glow. Dillman surmised that her figure needed none of the corsetry so vital to most of the women present as they sought to reduce bulging midriffs into a fashionable slimness around the waist.

Ellen Tolley’s natural vivacity made her a lively dinner companion but her father also appeared to have come out of his shell. As Dillman watched, it was the latter who was holding forth and drawing laughter from everyone else at the table. He cut an almost dashing figure in his evening dress, looking very different from the man who had hobbled along the deck with the aid of a walking stick. There was a faintly military air about him now and Dillman wondered if his disability had been the result of a war wound. His real interest, however, was not in the father but in the daughter, and his gaze soon returned to Ellen Tolley.

To his surprise, she was now looking in his direction and their eyes locked for an instant. Ellen gave him a broad smile. Dillman answered with a grin of pleasure as he felt a bargain being sealed. There was a tacit agreement to meet later. He turned back to his dinner companions.

“Who were you smiling at?” wondered Violet Rymer.

“Oh, a friend, that’s all,” he said.

“Anyone I know?”

“No, Miss Rymer.”

“You seem to have made so many friends on board.”

“Acquaintances more than friends,” he corrected quietly, “but I do like to mingle with my fellow passengers. It’s one of the joys of travel.”

“You do it so well. I noticed that on the train.”

“Thank you.”

She became serious. “I was thinking about what you told us on that first night. Did you really leave the family business?”

“Oh, yes.”

“It must have been a big decision for you.”

“It was. I turned my back on security and tradition.”

“Was your father very upset?”

“That’s an understatement, Miss Rymer. He almost went berserk. It was what was expected of me, you see. To be the next in line as keeper of the flame. The politest things my father accused me of were desertion and betrayal. After that, his language became a little more hysterical.”

“Yet you still held out against him?”

Dillman shrugged. “It was a case of acting for myself rather than against him. It may look strange from the outside, but the truth is that I wanted to strike out on my own. To forge my own destiny. Not to have it decided in advance by inheritance.”

“You’re so brave!” she said.

“It didn’t feel like bravery at the time,” he admitted. “And I had several qualms about it, believe me. But I stuck by my decision. The fact of the matter is that it was time to outgrow my family. Be myself.”

Violet nodded solemnly, then brooded in silence. Dillman sensed that she was contemplating a break with her own parents. It was odd that she should choose a moment when they were revealing themselves to be normal human beings. Sylvia Rymer emerged from her chrysalis as an engaging social butterfly and her husband, affable to a fault, was showing a gregariousness hitherto hidden beneath his stern Victorian exterior. At a time when they were more amenable, Violet Rymer was trying to advance her own interests. Dillman hoped that she would not involve him again in her private act of rebellion.

“And what do you intend to do when you get to New York?” she asked.

“Make contact with our business associates.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“At a hotel in Manhattan. It’s all been arranged for me.”

“It must be wonderful to have minions who’ll do that sort of thing for you. My husband always took care of accommodation whenever we traveled. Now I have to arrange everything myself.”

“Well, I’m so glad that you chose to sail on the
Lusitania
.”

“Do you mean that, Philip?”

“Of course. Meeting you has been the highlight of this voyage.”

“Thank you.”

“No,” he said, raising his glass in tribute, “Thank
you
, Rosemary.”

They were sharing a table in the second-class dining saloon with eight other people but spent most of the time conversing with each other. Philip Garrow felt no guilt about befriending another woman. Rosemary Hilliard helped the time to pass in the most pleasurable way. He found it easy to impress her and was led on from one lie to another as he built up a false picture of himself for her benefit. For all her worldliness, there was a gullible streak in her and he instinctively exploited it. Violet Rymer was the person who brought him aboard in the first place but Rosemary Hilliard was the one who was turning a long voyage into a real treat.

“Do you have any plans to settle down?” she probed.

“I’m far too young for that, Rosemary.”

“So there’s no young lady on the immediate horizon?”

“None in particular,” he said dismissively.

“But plenty in general, I daresay.” She gave him a smile and spoke in a whisper. “And why not? Every young man is entitled to sow a few wild oats. I just wish that privilege had been extended in my day to young women. We were so fettered by convention.”

“I can’t imagine you being fettered by anything.”

“It’s true.”

“People should be able to do exactly what they want.”

“That’s something I’m only just learning, Philip.”

“Never too late.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am,” he said, gently squeezing her arm. “I know that I am.”

“How long will you be in New York?” she asked.

“Two or three weeks, probably. It depends.”

“On what?”

“How much there is to detain me.”

“I’ll be in Manhattan for a little while myself,” she said
tentatively. “Perhaps we can get together at some point, Philip.”

“Perhaps.”

“You sound uncertain.”

“I’m not completely sure what my plans are, Rosemary.”

“If they rule me out, I won’t be offended.”

Garrow was suddenly put on the spot, being asked to make a commitment that was quite out of the question. Violet Rymer took priority and eliminated Rosemary Hilliard. Yet he was loath to discard his new friend and did not wish to hurt her feelings in any way. The relationship with Violet brought nothing but tension and frustration whereas he could be completely at ease with Rosemary. His mind was racing as he searched for a way to appease his companion without making a commitment that he knew he could not honor. Violet had to be pushed firmly to the back of his mind until the next day. A more immediate pleasure beckoned.

“Be honest,” she prodded. “You don’t wish to see me in New York.”

“That isn’t true at all.”

“Then why did you look so doubtful just now?”

“Listen,” he said, his confidence surging once more. “Why talk about New York when it’s still such a long way away? America will wait. I think you’re a marvelous woman and I’m so glad we met. And yes, maybe we will get together in Manhattan. Who knows? Fact is, Rosemary, I don’t want to look too far ahead. I’d rather take it one day at a time.” It was his turn to whisper. “One day at a time, one night at a time.”