Murder on the Celtic (13 page)

As the crowd began to thin out, he pulled a face. “I knew that it was a mistake to come,” he said ruefully.

“You weren't to know what would happen, Arthur,” said his wife. “Besides, I thought he performed it very well.”

“Far too well, Jean. When he revealed my name, I felt as if I had a dozen searchlights trained on me. It was gruesome.”

“
Noblesse oblige.
”

“I suppose you could put it that way.”

All he wanted to do was to steal quietly away to the safety of their stateroom, but they were not allowed to do so. As soon as they stepped out of the room, Nobby Ruggles confronted them. He had changed back into the white coat and dark trousers he wore when on duty as a barber. The glow in his eyes was akin to hero-worship.

“Norman Ruggles — at your service, Sir Arthur!”

“You did extremely well, Mr. Ruggles,” said Conan Doyle. “I've never heard that ballad given such a stirring recitation before.”

“Thank you, Sir Arthur.” He turned to Conan Doyle's wife. “Your husband is a genius, Lady Conan Doyle.”

“I don't need to be told that, Mr. Ruggles,” she said with a smile.

“He and I have met before. Sir Arthur won't remember me, but I remember him. We all did, every last man of us.”

“Did you by any chance serve in the Boer War?” asked Conan Doyle. Ruggles stood proudly to attention. “Good for you, my man. I tried to enlist myself, but they turned me down on the grounds of age. I was determined to get to South Africa somehow, so I became part of a medical unit.”

“And you did sterling work, Sir Arthur,” said Ruggles. “I was in Bloemfontein when that typhoid epidemic broke out. I helped to recapture the water pumps from the Boers.”

“We must have ridden out together in that freezing weather.”

“The night before the battle was the coldest I'd ever known. Shall I tell you how I kept myself warm, Sir Arthur?”

“How?”

“By reciting your poems to myself. They inspired me. The one
about Corporal Dick was my favorite. Still,” he said, stepping aside, “I won't hold you and Lady Conan Doyle up any longer. I just wanted you to know that we appreciated what you did for us. Your book on the Boer War was the best thing ever written about it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ruggles.”

“If you ever want a free haircut, you know where to come.”

The barber gave a final salute before walking away. Conan Doyle led his wife down the corridor, glad to be alone with her at last but pleased to have made contact with the former soldier.

“Ruggles was one of the lucky ones,” he said.

“Was he?”

“Yes — he survived. Bloemfontein was a hellhole. The epidemic went on for a month. At the height of the contagion they were burying sixty men a day in shallow graves.”

“How horrible!”

“We set up our hospital in the pavilion of the Ramblers' Cricket Club and erected marquees all over the playing field. Our men suffered hideous deaths. That's why I was so keen to write a book about my experiences in South Africa.”

“The army did come in for a lot of criticism at the time.”

“I defended them, Jean. They deserved it.”

“At least one old soldier appreciates what you did.”

“Yes,” said Conan Doyle. “It was rather touching. I just wish that he hadn't exposed me in public like that this afternoon. It was excruciating. Next time he stands up in front of an audience,” he decided, “I'll insist that he recite Rudyard Kipling instead.”

Sophie Trouncer was at her most animated over dinner that evening. Delighted to have another opportunity to talk to Dillman again, she was also highly excited at the prospect of another séance.

“Something dramatic will happen tonight,” she predicted.

“Yes,” said her mother dryly. “You'll discover that the medium is nothing but a well-bred confidence trickster.”

“That's not true. Mrs. Burbridge has amazing powers.”

“I've heard that,” said Dillman.

“Then you heard correctly,” said Sophie. “The first time I met her she told me that I'd been born in London during a thunderstorm. How could she possibly have known that?”

“A wild guess,” said May Hoyland.

“She
sensed
it, Mother.”

“She also sensed that you could easily be taken in. If this lady has such wondrous powers, why did nothing happen last night?”

“I blame Mr. Agnew for that.”

“You always make excuses, Sophie.”

“It's not an excuse, it's an explanation.”

“Ha!”

The two women bickered throughout much of the meal and allowed Dillman to survey the room at regular intervals. There was a much more settled feel to the saloon now. After the first tentative dinner, when most people were strangers to one another, friendships had been formed and an air of familiarity prevailed. Genevieve was chatting to Lord and Lady Bulstrode as if she had known them for years, and so relaxed was he in their company, Joshua Cleves might have been a neighbor of theirs. Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle had now become more conspicuous and Dillman noticed how many people glanced in their direction. The disapproving Philip Agnew was not among them. He spurned the British author.

Anxious to get to the séance, Sophie was the first to leave the table, ignoring the prickly remark that her mother made by way of a farewell. When her daughter was out of earshot, May looked across the table at Dillman. She became contrite.

“You must think it's beastly of me to taunt her like that,” she said, “but I'm doing it for her own good.”

“You and your daughter must agree to differ, Mrs. Hoyland.”

“Sophie just won't see how silly it all is.”

“It's wrong to condemn something that you've never experienced yourself,” said Dillman. “You've dismissed it out of hand.”

“But I haven't, Mr. Dillman. That's the trouble.”

“Oh?”

“I'm not that narrow-minded,” she said, leaning forward. “For all I know, there may very well be something in spiritualism. But I still don't want my daughter to be involved in it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's silly — and it's also unhealthy.”

“I don't see why.”

“The dead are dead, Mr. Dillman. We have to accept that. I don't think it's right to try to get in touch with someone beyond the grave.” She shivered involuntarily. “It's eerie. It's unhealthy. It's not right.”

“That's a matter of opinion, Mrs. Hoyland.”

“Would
you
want to speak to someone who'd passed away?”

“Probably not,” he admitted.

“Neither would I. Life is for the living. That's what upsets me about Sophie. It's silly to look back all the time. She had a happy marriage that came to an untimely end. A period of mourning was only proper. But,” she continued, “my daughter should be turning her eyes to the future now. Geoffrey was a devoted husband to her, but he's not the only man in the world.”

“No, there are a lot of us about.”

“That's what I keep telling her. She must do what I did.”

“You, Mrs. Hoyland?”

“Yes,” she said, fixing him with a stare. “My first husband died of smallpox when we'd only been married for two years. I was stricken down with grief. But I learned a valuable lesson from that ordeal, Mr. Dillman.”

“Did you?”

“The way to get over the loss of a first husband is to marry a second one. That's exactly what I did. My second husband was Sophie's father and — yes, she was right — she
was
born in London during a thunderstorm. I want her to follow my example while she's still young enough to do so.” Her gaze intensified. “Sophie is a very attractive prospect in every way.”

May Hoyland tried to prod him into making flattering comments about her daughter, but Dillman was too adroit. Since he might be one of her targets, he was quite content for Sophie Trouncer to seek a reunion with her late husband rather than search for his replacement. The last thing the detective needed was pursuit by an eager female with aspirations to marriage. Now that May Hoyland had shown her hand as a self-appointed matchmaker, Dillman had no conscience about manufacturing an excuse and withdrawing from the table.

The first place he went to was the lounge so that he could continue the search for the stolen book. Following a process of elimination, he had already discarded most of the names from the list of passengers. By meeting new people, if only casually, he could soon decide if they were potential thieves. Aware that a female hand could have spirited Conan Doyle's book away, he was as interested in the women as the men. By the time he had finished chatting to various people, he had crossed another dozen names off his list.

After spending a productive hour in the lounge he elected to call on Nelson Rutherford in his office to apprise him of developments. The purser was pleased to see him. Having shown off
his musical talent at the concert that afternoon, he was now in uniform and back on duty. He rubbed his hands together.

“How are things going, Mr. Dillman?” he asked.

“Slowly but surely.”

“Do you have any suspects yet?”

“A handful of them,” said Dillman. “When I get down to the last three, I'll let you know who they are.”

“Sir Arthur is desperate to get that book back again.”

“Understandably.”

“I keep telling him that he must put his trust in you.”

“And in my partner. There are two of us, remember.”

“Yes,” said Rutherford. “A man and a woman make a good team. You can go places where Miss Masefield cannot, and vice versa. That way, you have access to anywhere on the ship.”

“In this case, our activities will be confined to first class.”

“What about Edward Hammond? It must have crossed your mind that he may turn out to be the thief.”

“Not for an instant, Mr. Rutherford.”

“No?”

“The one thing we do know about the man is that he's a professional criminal. He stole a small fortune from the house that he burgled in New York. If you get away with a hundred thousand dollars in cash and jewelry,” Dillman argued, “are you going to be bothered about a copy of
A Study in Scarlet
?”

“I suppose not.”

“My feeling is that he's not even on board. We'd have been aware of him if he was. No, I think you can rule out Hammond right now.”

“That's a relief,” said the purser. “The thought that we had a killer on board was rather unnerving. Someone who simply takes a book is very different. We've no reason to fear him.” There was a loud knock on the door. “Come in!” he called.

The door opened and Jane Lowbury burst in. She was in such distress that she did not even notice Dillman there. Panting for breath, she went across to the purser's desk.

“I need your help, Mr. Rutherford,” she gasped.

“Of course,” he said. “What's the problem?”

“It's my husband — he's disappeared!”

“That sounds highly unlikely. Could I have his name, please?”

“David — David Lowbury.”

“What makes you think he's disappeared, Mrs. Lowbury?”

“In the middle of dinner he went back to the cabin to get something for me and he never returned. I've searched everywhere for him. And before you tell me that he might be playing a game with me,” she said, “I can assure you that he's not. David would never do that.” She took a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “We're on our honeymoon, Mr. Rutherford. We've never been apart for more than a few minutes.” She suddenly became conscious that Dillman was standing behind her. “Oh, excuse me. I didn't see you there.”

“This is George Dillman, the ship's detective,” said Rutherford, motioning him forward. “You can speak freely in front of him.”

“How long has your husband been missing?” asked Dillman.

“Well over an hour.”

“It wouldn't take him that long to go to your cabin and back.”

“That's what alarms me, Mr. Dillman. I looked for him in all the public rooms but there was no sign of him.” Jane wrung her hands. “It's so unlike David to go astray. He's always so reliable.”

“What did you send him to get?”

“Some pills that I forgot.”

“And were they in the cabin when you went back there?”

“No,” she replied. “They were gone. David obviously got that far.”

“I'm sure there's a perfectly simply explanation for all this,” said Rutherford, trying to soothe her. “We've never lost a passenger on the
Celtic
yet. Take heart, Mrs. Lowbury. Your husband simply must be on the ship
somewhere.
”

“He's not,” she wailed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I know it. Something terrible has happened to him. David has vanished.”

Eased over the gunwale, the body fell swiftly through the darkness until it hit the water with a splash. The noise went unheard beneath the insistent roar of the engines and the repeated smack of the waves. Unaware that she had just lost a passenger, the
Celtic
steamed on regardless into the night.

EIGHT

T
he first thing they tried to do was to calm Jane Lowbury down. She was shaking all over and sobbing uncontrollably. Her shoulders were hunched. Her pretty face was distorted by pain. Dillman eased her into a chair and crouched solicitously beside her.

“Can I offer you a drink, Mrs. Lowbury?” asked the purser, taking a bottle from a drawer in his desk. “A drop of brandy works wonders sometimes.”

“No, thank you,” she said.

“A glass of water, perhaps?”

“Nothing at all, Mr. Rutherford.”

“This must have come as a terrible shock.”

“It has, believe me.”

“We'll do everything we can to help.”

“Thank you.” She made a visible effort to steady herself. “I just want to know what's happened to my husband.”

“We'll institute a thorough search,” Dillman assured her. “I
know that you've looked for him yourself, but you only searched the first-class areas of the ship.” He stood up. “He may inadvertently have strayed into one of the other areas and got lost.”

“That can easily happen on a vessel this size,” said Rutherford. “When I first joined the
Celtic
I was always getting confused. It takes time to work out her geography.”

“If he got lost,” she reasoned, wiping the last tears away, “David would have asked someone the way. He's very practical like that. He'd never have been away
this
long.”

“Perhaps not,” Dillman conceded. “On the other hand, he can't have just vanished into thin air. There are thousands of people on board. Someone must have seen him.”

“I asked everyone I met, Mr. Dillman.”

“Did you describe what your husband looks like?”

“Of course.”

“We'll need the same description ourselves so that we can pass it on to the search team. Before we do that, however, I want you to retrace your steps for us. The last time you saw Mr. Lowbury was when he left you in the dining saloon. Is that right?”

“Yes, I told you.”

“And what happened before you got there?”

She was bewildered. “Before?”

“What sort of a mood was your husband in?” asked Dillman gently. “Was he on edge? Did he seem worried in any way? Can you remember him doing anything uncharacteristic?”

“No, Mr. Dillman.”

“Think back very carefully.”

“I don't need to. He was exactly as he always is — completely at ease. David had no cause to be worried.”

“So he had no problems of any kind?”

“None at all.”

“Had he had any disagreements with anyone?”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “David was very easygoing. He could get along with almost anybody. He made lots of friends on board. That was the sort of person he was. You can ask Mr. Spurrier.”

“Who?” said the purser.

“Frank Spurrier,” replied Dillman. “He's a gentleman who runs an auction house in London. I gather that he's returning from a buying expedition in America.”

“You know him?” asked Jane.

“Only by repute.”

“He's a very interesting man.”

“How did you come to meet him, Mrs. Lowbury?”

“We sat at the same table,” she explained. “David talked to him a lot. My husband is a financier, you see, and he's always looking for shrewd investments. He was fascinated to hear about the world of antiques. He and Mr. Spurrier seemed to have a lot in common.”

“Did you dine with Mr. Spurrier this evening?”

“No, that was the odd thing.”

“Odd?”

“He deserted us.”

“Oh?”

“I'm not even sure if he came into the dining saloon. I certainly didn't see him. All I know is that he wasn't in his usual seat.” Her face puckered. “I wonder why.”

“I may need to ask him, Mrs. Lowbury.” Dillman extracted a small notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Could you describe your husband for us, please?” he requested. “As soon as you've done that, I'll organize the search for him.”

______

Genevieve Masefield entered the cabin with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Eager to find out what actually happened at a séance, she realized that she would be taking part in an exercise over which she had no control. That was unsettling. She needed to put complete trust in Thoda Burbridge, and although she had seen evidence of the woman's psychic powers, she was not convinced that anyone could make contact with the spirits of the dead. Did the medium possess such gifts or was she simply dabbling in the supernatural?

“Come on in, Miss Masefield,” said Thoda, shaking her hand. “It's so nice of you to join us. I believe that you've met Mrs. Trouncer already?” she went on, indicating Sophie. “Allow me to introduce Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle.”

“It's an honor,” said Genevieve, exchanging handshakes with each of them. She looked around. “But I understood that there would be six of us here this evening.”

“Mr. Agnew decided to withdraw,” said Thoda.

“That's no great loss,” Conan Doyle opined. “Mr. Agnew was far too impatient. He expected instant results. He also appeared to believe that the séance was arranged solely for his benefit.”

“Be that as it may, Sir Arthur, we have an able deputy in Miss Masefield. I have high hopes of a more successful outcome this time.” She waved a hand. “Shall we take our seats?”

Since the furniture in most cabins was secured to the floor as a precaution, Genevieve had wondered how they could all sit around a table. She now had her answer. Five free-standing chairs had been borrowed and set out around a folding table erected for the occasion. A series of strange markings were etched around the circumference of the table. Genevieve peered at them but was unable to decipher their meaning.

“I always travel with my own table,” explained Thoda. “It's very cumbersome, but I could not conduct a séance without it. A Ouija
board would be easier to carry but I'm not able to use one.”

“The medium I visited in London had a Ouija board,” said Sophie, tingling at the memory. “I'd never seen one before. It was uncanny. It spelled out my late husband's name.”

“Each of us works in different ways, Mrs. Trouncer.”

“Naturally.”

“What is important is the end result.”

“I was astonished by what the other lady was able to reveal.”

Thoda smiled benignly. “I'm glad that it was so satisfactory.”

Genevieve admired the way that Thoda Burbridge gave the impression of validating the séances Sophie Trouncer had attended even though she was convinced — on the basis of what she had heard about them — that the medium in question was a fraud. No hint of criticism came from her. It would have been too hurtful to suggest that Mrs. Trouncer had been the victim of a hoax.

“When I was in America,” Thoda continued, “I had the privilege of meeting Mrs. Piper. I'm sure that name is known to you, Sir Arthur.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I've read a great deal about her and spoken to people who attended sittings with her when she came to England. A truly remarkable woman.” He looked at Genevieve. “Are you familiar with the name of Leonora Piper, by any chance?”

“No,” admitted Genevieve.

“She's mentioned in the book I've been reading,” said Sophie.

“Quite rightly,” said Conan Doyle. “Some of the things she's been able to communicate during her trances are quite astounding. Mrs. Piper has her detractors, but the eminent psychologists who have examined her, on both sides of the Atlantic, have all come to the conclusion that she has extraordinary powers.”

“Professor James was one of them,” Thoda observed, saying
the name with exaggerated respect. “As a literary man, Sir Arthur, I daresay that you've met his brother, Henry.”

“A number of times.”

“That's another phenomenon that defies explanation. How can the human brain produce the sort of brilliant work for which you and Henry James are justly celebrated? Who taught you such intellectual dexterity? From where did you get such profound insights into human behavior? It's a form of magic.”

“No,” said Lady Conan Doyle. “My husband is no magician. His books are the product of hard work and innate genius.”

“Some of them, anyway,” he said modestly.

“Your stories have given untold pleasure to a huge audience,” said Thoda, “and I'm sure that audience will continue to grow.”

Genevieve could see what she was doing. Thoda Burbridge pretended to be engaging in casual conversation, but she was making sure that her guests were thoroughly relaxed. The longer they talked, the more control she seemed to exert. Without raising her voice or dominating openly, she nevertheless became the central figure in the room. It was almost as if she had grown in size. Like the others, Genevieve found herself submitting without resistance to her will.

Thoda Burbridge remained a comforting presence. Offsetting her voluminous black gown of taffeta was a string of pearls that rested on her ample bosom. Pearl earrings matched the necklace. Sophie Trouncer had also chosen a black dress while Lady Conan Doyle wore a gown of dark green velvet. In her red silk evening dress, it was left to Genevieve to bring real color and style to the occasion. Thoda was at her most maternal. With her warm smile and affectionate manner she looked less like a medium than a proud mother presiding over her family during a meal. She beamed at Genevieve.

“You must be wondering what to expect, Miss Masefield.”

“I am,” confessed Genevieve.

“Then you are in the same boat as the rest of us, if you'll forgive a hideous pun. None of us really knows what is going to happen.”

“It's a psychic adventure,” said Conan Doyle.

“That's how I always view it. The procedure is quite simple, Miss Masefield,” said the medium. “There are no apparitions and no ectoplasmic manifestations of any kind. There will be no levitation and no objects flying around the cabin. All that will happen — when I turn out the light — is that I will attempt to go into a trance. It may take time, so I ask you all to be patient with me.” Her tone sharpened a little. “Please put your hands on the table, palms downward. That's right,” she said approvingly as they all obeyed. “Now move your hands outward so that your fingers are touching those of the people on either side of you.”

Genevieve was sitting between Lady Conan Doyle and Sophie Trouncer. As she spread her hands, she made contact with their fingers. Thoda walked across to the light switch.

“Are we all ready?” she asked.

Then the cabin was plunged into darkness.

George Dillman acted swiftly. After escorting Jane Lowbury back to her cabin, he took charge of the search party that the purser had assembled for him. It consisted largely of stewards, trained men and women who knew every nook and cranny of the ship. Gathering them together, Dillman gave them a description of the missing man. He then deployed them throughout the various decks of the
Celtic.
Nelson Rutherford was impressed with the way the detective had supervised operations. They were standing outside the first-class dining saloon as the search party went about its business.

“You've done this before, Mr. Dillman,” he commented.

“Once or twice.”

“How is Mrs. Lowbury?”

“Still very upset. Ideally, I'd like my partner to be with her but she's attending a séance at the moment. When she comes back I'll ask her to visit Mrs. Lowbury.”

“Did you see anything in the cabin?”

“There was nothing to see,” said Dillman. “I thought there might be signs of a struggle or at least some small clue as to what might have occurred, but it was in exactly the state that Mrs. Lowbury left it.”

“What about their steward?”

“I've spoken to him, Mr. Rutherford. He'd finished work by the time Mr. Lowbury went back to the cabin to get his wife's pills, so he was unable to help us. Since the pills are missing, we can assume that Mr. Lowbury took them.”

“But that was almost two hours ago now,” said Rutherford, checking his watch. “No wonder his poor wife is so alarmed.”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “I feel so sorry for her.”

“Why did you ask about her husband's frame of mind?”

“Because I wondered if they'd had a row over something. It does happen — even on a honeymoon. I don't know Mr. Lowbury, so it would be wrong to speculate about him, but I can think of some husbands who might deliberately go missing.”

“We had one like that on the
Baltic,
” said the purser. “He and his wife had a violent argument and he stalked out. After she'd failed to find him, she came running to me, certain that something dreadful had happened to him.”

“And had it?”

“Not in my opinion. He was holed up in a cabin with three other men, drinking whiskey and playing cards. I seem to remember that he won a packet of money. That helped to placate his wife.”

“We're dealing with a different situation here.”

“Exactly. No man in his right mind is going to walk out on someone as gorgeous as Jane Lowbury.”

“Especially on their honeymoon.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“With two main possibilities,” said Dillman, thinking it through. “It may be that Mrs. Lowbury is deceiving us and that her husband is
not
in his right mind. He may be disturbed in some way and therefore not responsible for his behavior.”

“And the other possibility?”

“Someone stopped him from returning to his wife. The fact that he picked up those pills suggests that he intended to go back to her. Before he could do that, he might have been intercepted.”

“By whom?” asked Rutherford, stroking his chin meditatively. “You heard his wife. He's gregarious and even-tempered. David Lowbury made friends easily.”