Murder on the Caronia (8 page)

“You’re the best friend I have aboard.”

“All the more reason for you to meet some new people,” said Genevieve.

Isadora was hurt. “I thought you liked me.”

“I do, Isadora. I’m very fond of you, but I don’t think we should live in each other’s pockets. The truth is that I’d feel embarrassed if I went along this evening as part of your family. Don’t ask me to explain why. It’s one of the penalties of an English education, I’m afraid. We’re obsessed with decorum.”

“So are we. Boston society thrives on it.”

“Then you’ll understand how I feel,” said Genevieve. “Let’s reach a compromise, shall we? You go along to the Openshaws with your parents and I’ll promise to sit next to you at dinner. How does that sound?”

“I’d prefer you to be there beforehand.”

“I can’t be. It’s as simple as that.”

“Oh.”

Isadora was dejected. Genevieve was sorry to have disappointed her but there was no alternative. If it were left to her, Isadora would spend the bulk of each day in her friend’s company and that would be a great inconvenience to Genevieve. The girl needed to be weaned off her, to extend her social circle, and to learn the pleasures of being more independent. Before
Genevieve could decide how to achieve those ends, she saw someone come into the lounge and look around with a nervous smile. It was Cecilia Robart. She was wearing the pearl necklace but not the gold earrings. When she recognized Genevieve, she gave a friendly wave before moving off to sit with two elderly female passengers.

Isadora studied the woman. “Who is that?” she asked with faint jealousy.

“Oh,” said Genevieve casually, “just somebody I bumped into earlier.”

It took only a couple of minutes for George Porter Dillman to deal with the matter. Having found the man in his cabin, he did not even need to reveal his identity as a detective. One look at Mostyn Morris was enough to explain the misunderstanding. Short, shriveled, and gaunt, the Welshman had large eyes that seemed to be on the point of leaving their sockets at any moment. It was as if he were in a continuous state of alarm. He looked up at Dillman.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Mr. Morris?”

“That’s correct.”

“My name is George Dillman. I’m sorry to disturb you but I just wanted to give you a word of warning. I noticed that you were sitting opposite Mrs. Anstruther at lunch.”

“Yes,” said Morris. “Not the most appetizing experience in any way. She’s a handsome woman but Mrs. Anstruther does tend to hog the conversation.”

“That’s what I wanted to whisper in your ear, Mr. Morris. I had to endure her over a meal yesterday. She means well but, as you found out, she is inclined to talk too much.”

“A torrent of meaningless words, Mr. Dillman.”

“There is another problem.”

“Oh.”

“She’s a widow, desperate for male company. She never quite got over the death of Mr. Anstruther. She did hint to me that
she came on this voyage on the hope of finding a replacement for him.”

“Saints preserve us!”

“I just thought you ought to know that.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

“You seemed so hypnotized by what she was saying.”

“The woman just wouldn’t take her eyes off me.”

“I had the same trouble,” confided Dillman. “That’s why I’ve steered clear of the lady ever since. It might be wise if you did the same.”

“I will,” Morris vowed. “She terrifies me.”

“I hope you didn’t mind my speaking to you.”

“Not at all. You’ve only said what I secretly feared. Thank you, Mr. Dillman.”

Eyes bulging more than ever, Mostyn Morris retreated into his cabin and locked the door behind him. Dillman suspected the man would regret that he had no drawbridge to raise and no portcullis to lower as well. Defenses against Mrs. Anstruther needed to be as formidable as possible. One thing was certain. Those staring eyes would never again get close enough to make her think Morris was having improper thoughts about her. Mrs. Anstruther would have to find another complaint to take to the purser.

Having sorted out a small problem, Dillman made his way down to the second-class deck to address himself to the more serious task of finding a pickpocket. The wallet had been stolen in the lounge. All the victim could remember was that he had been part of a large group of people who had left together. Shoulders had rubbed and there had been some good-natured jostling between the men. It was only when he was back in his cabin that the victim realized someone had deprived him of his wallet. Dillman intended to spend an hour in the lounge, relaxing in a quiet corner from which he could keep the room under surveillance and familiarize himself with the faces of the passengers who were there.

But he got no farther than the shelter deck. Blocking his way,
as he descended the stairs, was Sergeant Mulcaster. Instead of giving a warning, it was Dillman’s turn to receive one, and it was not issued in the spirit of friendship.

“Keep your nose out of our affairs,” growled Mulcaster.

“That’s what I’ve tried to do, Sergeant.”

“Then why did you suggest that Miss Masefield should speak to one of the suspects? That’s what I’d call unwarranted interference.”

“I’d call it an offer of help,” said Dillman. “No more, no less.”

“We don’t need you.”

“Inspector Redfern made that point, though in a less hostile way.”

Mulcaster squared up to him. “Who do you think you are?” he demanded.

“I’m an employee of the Cunard Line,” replied Dillman, meeting his gaze, “which means that I have some jurisdiction aboard this vessel. You have none, Sergeant. You may be traveling in an official capacity but you are, technically, a mere passenger. That means you come within my sphere of influence. I am paid to look after you.”

“Clear off!”

“Not until you tell me why you’ve gotten so riled up.”

“I don’t like people trespassing on my patch.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“Of course it was,” Mulcaster said bitterly. “When you ask if Miss Masefield can talk to Carrie Peterson, what you’re really saying is that we’ve failed, so why not let your precious assistant show us how it’s done? That’s a professional insult.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. Inspector Redfern understood that.”

“I see your offer for what it was.”

“Then I withdraw it unconditionally.”

“You don’t have to, Mr. Dillman. It’s been met with total rejection. We didn’t come all this way to hand over the interrogation of our prisoners to someone as wet behind the ears as Miss Masefield.”

“She’s an experienced detective, believe me.”

“I’d rather believe the evidence of my own eyes.”

“Genevieve would surprise you.”

“She won’t get the chance,” said Mulcaster. “Nor will you. Do you understand? You and Miss Masefield may be able to track down someone’s missing collar-stud in first class, but this is a murder investigation. It’s way beyond the pair of you. Clear off, Mr. Dillman. You’re out of your depth. I won’t warn you again.”

“I hope that you won’t,” Dillman replied coolly. “For your sake.”

The relaxed and easygoing Theodore Wright came close to losing his temper for once. He and his coach were standing on the boat deck when it happened.

“This is nothing to do with you,” he said.

“Oh, yes it is,” retorted Odell.

“You’re my coach and manager. That’s all.”

“My job is to get you past that finishing line first.”

“And you’re doing it, Wes. You devise the training schedule and I stick to it. But that doesn’t give you the right to take over my life.”

“We can’t afford distractions.”

“Who’s being distracted?”

“You are, Theo—or you soon will be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not blind,” said Odell. “I saw the way you were mooning over her. I’ve heard the number of times you manage to bring the name of Genevieve Masefield into the conversation.”

“I like her.”

“You’re hooked on the woman.”

“That’s my business.”

“Not if it affects your training program.”

“It doesn’t, Wes. You know that. I haven’t let up for a moment.”

“Keep it that way.”

“I’m not going to spend the entire voyage in the saddle.”

“Metaphorically, you are.”

Wright grinned. “ ‘Metaphorically,’ eh? That’s a big word for you. Where did you pick it up from, Wes? More to the point, what the hell does it mean?”

“It means that you keep away from Miss Masefield.”

“Who says so?”

“I do, Theo. You’re a wonderful athlete but there are two things that can ruin you. Drink and women. I’ve seen it happen time and again. A guy gets to the top in this game then throws it all away for the sake of booze or, even worse”—he stressed—“because some pretty girl smiles at him.”

“Genevieve is not only pretty,” Wright said loyally, “she’s beautiful.”

“Far too beautiful for you.”

Wright was stung. “In what way?”

“In every way, Theo. Look at her, will you? She’s an English thoroughbred. She’s got real class. Miss Masefield is way beyond the reach of someone like you. Can’t you see what will happen, Theo?” he urged. “If you start chasing her, you’ll only end up being given a polite brush-off and then where will I be? Trying to coach a cyclist with a broken heart.”

“It’s not like that.”

“I don’t work with losers.”

“I’m a winner,” asserted Wright. “On
and
off a bicycle saddle.”

Odell stiffened. “I’m ordering you to stay away from that woman.”

“And I’m telling you to mind your own business.” Pushing his coach aside, he stormed off angrily.

Odell wondered if he should go after him or wait until his ire had subsided. Before he could make up his mind, he became aware of someone standing by his side. Stanley Chase looked apologetic.

“I seem to have come at the wrong moment,” he said.

Odell forced a laugh. “Not at all. Theo always blows off steam like that.”

“He sounded as if he was really upset.”

“It was nothing. Now, then, Mr. Chase. What can I do for you?”

Chase lowered his voice. “I wondered if I might have a word with you.”

Dinner that evening provided everyone in first class with an excuse to dress up and show off. The men wore white ties and tails while the women ransacked their wardrobes to find their most striking evening gowns. Jewelry of all kinds was reclaimed from the purser’s safe. Expensive perfume was sprayed in discreet amounts and cosmetics used sparingly yet artfully. When the first batch of guests swept into the dining room, it was clear the hairdressers had been busy that afternoon. There was a distinct sense of occasion, heightened by the fact that a small orchestra was playing for the first time. Dinner on the
Caronia
was the special event around which the rest of the day revolved. Everyone entered into the spirit of it.

Genevieve caught only a fleeting glimpse of Dillman but she was struck anew by his elegance. Suave and graceful, he seemed completely at home in his surroundings. She liked to believe that she, too, blended in well. Once again, she sat opposite Waldo and Maria Singleton with their daughter beside her. Whenever her parents were preoccupied, Isadora passed on her comments about the earlier gathering.

“It was a terrible ordeal,” she confided. “Far too many people.”

“Just as well that I didn’t barge in, then,” said Genevieve.

“Mother insisted on introducing me to every man under the age of thirty.”

“Did you find any of them at all appealing?”

“Not really. They all looked the same.”

“What about Lord and Lady Eddington? Did you meet them?”

“I had no choice,” said Isadora. “Lord Eddington wore a monocle and his wife looked at me as if I were one of her domestic servants. It was rather unsettling.”

“Take that kind of thing in your stride,” Genevieve advised.

“The strange thing is that I made a good impression on them. According to Mother, that is. She was triumphant. Lord Eddington owns a string of racehorses, it seems. When he invited us to share his box at Royal Ascot, I thought Mother would faint with joy.”

Genevieve was interested to hear all the gossip and offered what support she could. But she also took care to speak to the person on the other side of her, a middle-aged Englishwoman named Pamela Clyne, who was so lacking in confidence that she hardly ventured a word for the first half an hour. She was a plump, round-shouldered woman in a black dress that looked hopelessly old-fashioned. She wore neither jewelry nor cosmetics. Her gray hair was brushed back into a bun that was skewered in place by two bone pins. On her hands were thick black lace gloves. When Isadora spoke to her parents, Genevieve eventually managed to have something approximating a conversation with her other neighbor.

“Was this your first trip to America, Miss Clyne?”

“Yes,” whispered the other.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much.”

“Where did you stay?”

The question embarrassed her. “With a friend,” she admitted.

“And what did you see?”

“New York, principally. It took my breath away, Miss Masefield.”

“It is rather splendid, isn’t it?”

“I found it a little intimidating.”

“So did I, at first.”

“They were nice people,” said Pamela Clyne. “Very friendly.”

“That’s what I found. Will you be going back again one day?”

“Oh, no! There’s no possibility of that. This visit was very special. People like me don’t get to visit America more than once.” She looked around uneasily. “Especially in first class. I just don’t belong here.”

“Yes, you do,” said Genevieve, with a smile of encouragement. “Savor every moment of it, Miss Clyne. Think of the stories you’ll be able to tell your friends.”

“There is that.”

Isadora soon reclaimed her but Genevieve did not forget Pamela Clyne. She wondered why such a tense and frightened woman had chosen to cross the Atlantic on her own, among people with whom she had so little in common. A week in the Lake District would have been more suited to her character. What impulse had taken her on a lengthy visit to a foreign country? It was baffling.

Dinner in the second-class restaurant was also a rather grand affair but it was a treat the two detectives had to forgo. Inspector Redfern and Sergeant Mulcaster ate in their own cabin then took a tray of food apiece in to their prisoners. Redfern chose to visit Carrie Peterson and was pleased when she cleaned her plate for the first time. When he got back to his cabin, Redfern passed on the information to Mulcaster.