Murder on the Celtic (17 page)

“Is this where it happened, Mr. Dillman?” asked the steward.

“Possibly. It would be an ideal place. It's isolated and largely shielded from sight. I'll come back again in daylight,” said Dillman. “If there was a struggle here, there may be more evidence of it.”

“Mr. Lowbury must have been a very rich man.”

“He was a financier.”

“That coat of his cost more than I earn in a year.”

“Does that make you envious?”

“No,” said Carr levelly. “I'm alive to spend my wages. He's never going to wear that coat again, is he?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“His wife must have been stunned when you told her.”

“She was,” said the other. “Mrs. Lowbury is still in a state of shock. We sent for the doctor to see if he could prescribe something.”

“Poor lady!”

“I don't know how she's going to cope with this situation. What makes it worse, of course, is that she doesn't know the truth of what actually happened.”

“Perhaps it's better if she doesn't, Mr. Dillman.”

“She deserves the full facts and somehow I don't think that she'll flinch from them. It will bring some sort of closure.”

“What does that mean, sir?”

“Mrs. Lowbury will be able to lay her husband to rest — in her mind, anyway. It would be intolerable if she had to spend the rest of her life brooding on how he might or might not have died.” He looked at the steward. “Has there ever been a murder on any of the ships you've sailed on before?”

“No, sir,” declared Carr. “We've had deaths from natural causes, mind you, especially in winter. In fact, a woman in steerage died on the westbound voyage. She was buried at sea.”

“So, I fear, was Mr. Lowbury.”

“Yes.”

“And without a proper burial service, by the look of it.” Dillman turned to walk away and the steward fell in beside him. “Good-bye, Mr. Carr. I shan't need you again tonight. You've set this investigation in motion. I can't thank you enough for that.”

“Find the bastard who did this, sir,” said Carr with feeling, “and find him soon. That's all the thanks I want.”

Joshua Cleves pored over the chessboard as he considered his next move. Sipping his brandy, Lord Bulstrode watched him with hawklike intensity. Cleves had more pieces intact but he had lost both knights, a bishop and, crucially, his queen. His opponent had sacrificed all his pawns and both castles while retaining what he thought of as his heavy artillery. After patient tactical play, he had Cleves in check.

“Come on,” he encouraged.

“Don't rush me, Rupert. I need time.”

“I thought we agreed to a maximum of five minutes before each move. You've already exceeded the limit, Joshua.”

“Only because you've put me in a damnably awkward position.”

“I think you did that yourself,” said Lord Bulstrode with contentment. “You didn't anticipate my gambit.”

“Call it by its proper name. It was a feat of low cunning.”

“That, too, has its place in the game of chess.”

Knowing that he could only gain temporary respite, Cleves finally moved his king to get out of check. Lord Bulstrode responded immediately. Two minutes later, it was all over. Checkmate.

“Nice to know we can still beat the Americans at something,” said the old man, gathering up the pieces to put in the box. “Thank you, Joshua. It was a good game.”

“You caught me on a bad night.”

“I had to get my revenge. You won two games this afternoon.”

“Then why was I so hopeless now?” asked Cleves, picking up his glass and staring into it. “Did you put something in my brandy?”

“No excuses. You lost fair and square.”

“I admit that, Rupert. I was outthought and outgunned.”

Cleves sipped his brandy. The two of them were among the small number of survivors in the first-class lounge. Most people had retired to their cabins, but they had stayed up to continue their rivalry on the chessboard.

“Our stateroom would have been more private,” said Lord Bulstrode apologetically, “but Agnes wanted to play cards in there with her friends.”

“For money?”

“I think that they only use matchsticks. My wife is not a true gambler. She only plays games for the pleasure of it.” He gurgled down the last of his drink. “Agnes had hoped that Genevieve Masefield would join her at the card table but she had other plans.”

“A meeting of some sort, I believe.”

“I suppose you might call it that.”

“Go on,” said Cleves, intrigued by the mischievous twinkle in the other man's eye. “You know something, don't you?”

“I might do.”

“Then share it with a friend.”

Lord Bulstrode leaned forward “A little bird tells me that the meeting Miss Masefield went to this evening was actually a séance.”

“Can this be true?” said Cleves in astonishment.

“According to my wife, it is. Agnes heard it from our steward, who had, in turn, picked it up from another member of the staff. I first learned about it when I went to collect the chess set. We have a medium aboard, it transpires.”

“A crook, more likely.”

“Miss Masefield obviously trusts the lady.”

“That's what amazes me,” said Cleves. “How can someone as level-headed as her believe in all that nonsense about talking to people beyond the grave? It's lunacy.”

“Not if you happen to be a lunatic.”

“You're surely not defending spiritualism.”

“No, but I'm not attacking it either.”

“Show me a medium and I'll show you a complete charlatan. How can any intelligent person take an interest in such hogwash?”

“You'll have to ask Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Why?”

“Because he was at the séance as well. I never touch detective
fiction myself,” said Lord Bulstrode grandly, “because I regard it as one of the lower forms of literature. But I did read what Sir Arthur had to say about the Boer War and I admired the fellow for it. His book was lucid, cogent and extremely well written. In short, we are talking about a highly intelligent man.”

“Then how has he been tricked into attending a séance?”

“I should have thought you'd be more interested in how Miss Masefield came to be there.”

“I am,” said Cleves.

“We've both noticed that you've taken a liking to her.”

“What sane man could fail to do that?”

“One sitting beside his wife,” said the old man with a wicked smile. “I hope that this revelation about Miss Masefield hasn't made you think any the less of her.”

“Nothing could do that, Rupert.”

“Then why do you seem to be so disappointed?”

“I don't know,” said Cleves, sitting back in his chair. “I suppose that I thought her above that sort of thing. Genevieve Masefield is so poised and sophisticated. How on earth could she be taken in by that nonsense?”

“You obviously misjudged her.”

“So it appears. Thank you, Rupert. Thank you very much.”

“For what?”

“Showing me that the young lady is not as well defended as I thought. If she believes in spiritualism, there's a definite chink in her armor.” He rolled his brandy glass between his palms. “I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to seeing her again.”

“What did the doctor advise?” asked Dillman.

“He suggested a sedative but Mrs. Lowbury refused to take it.”

“Why?”

“She doesn't
want
to sleep, George. She feels that she'd be betraying her husband if she does that. She'd rather stay awake and mourn.” Genevieve heaved a sigh. “There was no persuading her.”

“Is she on her own now?”

“Yes. I offered to stay with her but she insisted on being left alone. I told her that she could call on me at any time in the night.”

“That was kind of you, Genevieve.”

“I hate to see anyone in such anguish.”

They were in Dillman's cabin. She had met him there to hear about his visit to the main deck and to report on Jane Lowbury's condition. Genevieve was worried about her.

“She wouldn't even ask for some pills from him, George.”

“Pills?”

“Mrs. Lowbury has mild palpitations from time to time. That's why she asked her husband to fetch the pills from their cabin. Everything that's happened in the past few hours must have made her heart pound, yet she wouldn't take anything from the doctor.”

“Why not?”

“Because she feared he might slip her a sedative.”

“Did he examine her?”

“She wouldn't allow it,” said Genevieve. “When she stopped crying she walked up and down that cabin as if trying to wear out the carpet. She talked incessantly about her husband and how happy they'd been together. They hadn't known each other all that long.”

“Perhaps that was the problem.”

“In what way?”

“I fancy that Mrs. Lowbury is only aware of her husband's virtues,” he said. “She hasn't found out if he had any vices yet or if there are things in his past that might have put him in jeopardy.”

“She loved him, George.”

“It blinded her to his faults.”

“Not necessarily,” she said, stroking his arm. “I love you but it hasn't blinded me to your faults.”

“I don't have any, Genevieve.”

“That's the first of them — complacence.”

“Then I'm not going to ask what the others are,” he said with a laugh, slipping his arms around her waist. “I've missed you.”

“So I should hope.”

“I really needed you when the alarm was first raised.”

“Yes,” said Genevieve, “I feel so bad about that. I should have been here to help, not sitting in Thoda Burbridge's cabin.”

“What happened at the séance? We've been so busy since you got back that I haven't had time to ask. Was it a success?”

“I think so.”

“What about the others?”

“Oh, they were equally impressed,” said Genevieve. “In fact, Mrs. Trouncer was almost ecstatic.”

“Why?”

“She received messages from her late husband.”

Genevieve explained what had taken place at the séance and how her prejudices against spiritualism had been slowly eroded. The demonstration by Thoda Burbridge had won her over completely.

“Even you would have been convinced, George.”

“I don't convince very easily.”

“I know. It's another of those faults I mentioned.”

“Stop teasing,” he said, pulling her close and kissing her. “And you've no need to feel guilty about going. You not only met Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle, you gathered useful intelligence.”

“Yes, I did. I'm able to alert you.”

“To what?”

“Sophie Trouncer,” she said. “The last thing her husband said to her was that it was time for her to start afresh with a second husband.” She grinned. “You'll have to learn to dodge her.”

“I will, have no fear.” He hugged her. “I'm sorry, darling.”

“For what?”

“I promised you this voyage would be free of any of the usual complications. Yet here we are with a murder on our hands.”

“Not to mention a theft.”

“Yes,” he said, “we mustn't let one crime obscure the other. As it happens, I've been thinking about
A Study in Scarlet.
”

“Have you?”

“I'm wondering if we're looking in the right direction.”

“I don't follow.”

“Well, we've assumed that the thief is either an admirer of the book or someone who wants to exploit its commercial value.”

“Who else could it be, George?”

“Someone who despises the book.”

“I haven't read it,” said Genevieve, “so I'm not really qualified to judge, but I thought that it was universally praised.”

“So did I.”

“Then why should anyone despise it?”

“Because of its unrelenting attack on their beliefs,” he told her. “The first half of the book is about some murders that baffle Scotland Yard. By using deductive reasoning, Sherlock Holmes, who describes himself as a consulting detective, eventually solves the crimes.”

“What about the second half of the book?”

“That's set very largely in America.”

“America?”

“In Utah, to be exact,” he told her. “Actually, it's the only part of the novel where Sir Arthur falters a little. He doesn't really have complete control of the American idiom. It leads to a few
jarring moments. But that's a minor complaint,” he went on. “What he gives us is a thrilling story that clearly explains why the murders were committed.”

“And why were they?”

“Because of what happened in a Mormon community in Utah.”

Genevieve was curious. “There are Mormons in the book?”

“The whole plot turns on their doctrine of polygamy. Sir Arthur pours scorn on it, arguing that women are forced into marriages that have no right to bear the name. He portrays the Mormons as cruel, inflexible and intimidating. How true that is I can't say,” admitted Dillman, “but I know that I'd be deeply offended by the novel if I was a devout Mormon. Perhaps we have one on board.”

“We do, George.”

“Really?”

“Philip Agnew was raised in the Mormon Church. At least, that's what Thoda Burbridge sensed about him. According to Mrs. Trouncer, he denied it hotly, but I wonder if he was lying.”

“Running a menagerie is hardly a Mormon activity.”

“No,” she said, “but he might still have loyalties to the Church. A Study
in Scarlet
could still cause him offense.”

“How could it when he's never even read it?”

“He doesn't have to read it to be aware of its harsh criticism of Mormon doctrines. Most churches have a list of banned books.”