Murder on the Celtic (7 page)

“Do you intend to go?”

“Of course. She could have genuine gifts.”

“Is that often the case, Sir Arthur?”

“Frankly, no. There's a large amount of fraudulence and I've been able to expose it in some instances. I'm sure that you can guess the kind of thing — hidden wires, mirrors, cunning effects. At a séance we attended in Cornwall once,” he remembered, “I dragged out the man who was concealed behind the curtains. He'd been speaking into a megaphone with a ghostly voice.”

“But some people have genuine gifts, you say?”

“No question of it. They act as gatekeepers to the other world.”

“What do you know of this particular lady?”

“Nothing beyond what my wife told me,” said Conan Doyle. “She's English, middle-aged and very plausible. She claims to have held many successful séances in America, but we only have her word for that. On the face of it, the lady is above reproach.”

“Lady Conan Doyle, however, has doubts about her.”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman. That's why I wanted to warn you.”

“I'll be interested to hear how you get on, Sir Arthur. I've dealt with every imaginable crime in my time but I've never encountered this kind of thing. If she is indeed a fraud,” promised Dillman, “then she'll be arrested for obtaining money by deception.”

“The secondary charge carries more weight in my book.”

“Secondary charge?”

“That of willful cruelty.”

“I don't understand.”

“That's because you've never been to a séance. People who do take part place the utmost faith in the medium. They open themselves up, Mr. Dillman, and bare their souls. They are so desperate to make contact with loved ones who have passed on,”
said Conan Doyle, “that they render themselves open to exploitation. They are often utterly defenseless. To take advantage of such vulnerable people is more than cruelty,” he added solemnly. “It's downright brutality.”

FIVE

T
he concert that was held in the first-class lounge that afternoon was a forerunner of a number of performances that would be offered to passengers in the course of the voyage. Featuring the resident orchestra, it was a small-scale event that provided pleasant entertainment on their first full day afloat. Concerts being held simultaneously in second and steerage class relied strongly on the more homespun talents of the passengers or crew and a motley selection of would-be conjurers, impressionists, musicians, comedians, monologuists and singers who competed for applause. The concert in first class was largely a musical affair and it drew a sizable audience. Genevieve Masefield was among those who took their seats. Her companion was Lady Bulstrode, complete with lorgnette and a small box of chocolates.

“Rupert is not fond of music,” said the old lady, surveying the room through her lorgnette. “I have a dreadful job persuading him to go to the opera with me. He's partially deaf, you see, and his eyesight is a trifle impaired, so he misses a great deal.”

“What a pity!”

“That's why I'm so grateful to you, Miss Masefield. It's so vital to have agreeable company at such events as this.”

“It's I who should thank you, Lady Bulstrode. Had I come on my own,” said Genevieve, “I might have felt far less comfortable.”

“You'd not have been alone for long.”

“I know.”

“Something about the sea air seems to bring out the philanderer in some men,” said Lady Bulstrode with a confiding smile. “They cannot help themselves. I noticed it when we sailed to New York. As they enter a public room, certain men immediately look around to see if there are any attractive unaccompanied young ladies on board. Some of those same ladies, of course,” she added in a hoarse whisper, “may not be at all what they seem.”

Genevieve did not need to be told that. During her years as a detective she had identified more than one high-class prostitute, who traveled on liners in order to pick up wealthy clients. Other women, working with a male confederate, had lured gullible men into compromising positions for the purposes of blackmail. Genevieve had also been called upon to apprehend an occasional female thief or pickpocket on board. Crime was by no means limited to the male sex.

“Rupert is playing chess with that nice Mr. Cleves,” said Lady Bulstrode. “I have to confess that I tend to find Americans a little too assertive for my taste, but Mr. Cleves is the exception to the rule. He has such exquisite manners.”

“Yes,” agreed Genevieve. “I liked him.”

“A happy coincidence in both cases.”

“I don't understand, Lady Bulstrode.”

“Well, I met you in the customs shed and discovered that we had mutual friends back in England. When my husband first
chanced upon Joshua Cleves, he not only found someone who is as addicted to racing as he is. Rupert also acquired a fellow chess player.”

“Common interests do draw people together.”

“They're the basis of civilized society, my dear.”

Genevieve had not made a deliberate attempt to befriend the couple. While they chatted in the customs shed, however, Lady Bulstrode had mentioned someone whom Genevieve had actually known. It then transpired that they had other mutual acquaintances among the minor English aristocracy. What Genevieve did not explain was that she had met those people as a result of her engagement to a young man who was set to inherit his father's title. Unforgivable behavior by her fiancé had compelled her to break off the engagement, but she was certainly not going to entrust the details of that episode to Lady Bulstrode. They belonged firmly in her past.

“What did you really think about him?” asked the old lady.

“Mr. Cleves?”

“Yes.”

“I found him friendly, interesting and knowledgeable.”

“Nothing else?”

“I didn't have much conversation with him, Lady Bulstrode. Over dinner last night — and breakfast this morning — he spent most of the time discussing, with your husband, race meetings he'd been to in England. He's been to the Derby three times.”

“Rupert hasn't missed a Derby in fifty years.”

“I've only been to one,” confessed Genevieve.

“You might well improve on that score, Miss Masefield.”

“How?”

“By being invited to attend this year's race,” said Lady Bulstrode with another smile. “You may have thought that Mr.
Cleves was more interested in horses than anything else, but I believe that he's conceived another passion as well.”

“For what?”

“For
you,
my dear. Unless my intuition has deserted me, Joshua Cleves is smitten.” Opening the lid of the box, she offered the chocolates. “May I tempt you?”

“No, thank you.”

“I can't resist them.”

While her companion chewed away, Genevieve reviewed her two meetings with Joshua Cleves. There had been a glint of admiration in his eyes on both occasions, but she was accustomed to that reaction from men. Because he had not tried to monopolize her, she had assumed that Cleves was not overly interested in her. Then she remembered the conversation that morning with Frank Spurrier and the disparaging remarks he had made about his American friend. Like Spurrier himself, she decided, Cleves would need to be watched.

The concert started with a Rossini overture that was followed with piano selections from Beethoven, Chopin and Liszt. A lighter note intruded when one of the senior officers gave a rendition of Stephen Foster songs in a pleasing tenor voice. The orchestra took over again, to be followed by a member of the crew who was a competent amateur ventriloquist. But the real surprise of the afternoon was the appearance of Nelson Rutherford. Accompanied by the piano, the purser revealed himself to be a gifted clarinetist, delighting the audience with a variety of popular melodies.

After the chairman had made his closing remarks, a collection was taken for a seamen's charity, then the concert ended with the playing of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “God Save the King.” The applause was sustained and well earned. Genevieve
clapped as enthusiastically as anyone while Lady Bulstrode took the opportunity to slip another chocolate into her mouth. Eventually, they rose to leave. It was only when she turned around that Genevieve realized with a start that she knew the man who had sat directly behind her.

“Did you enjoy the concert, Miss Masefield?” he asked.

“Very much,” she replied.

“Me, too.”

Frank Spurrier gave her a meaningful smile.

Sophie Trouncer's face was distorted by an expression of disbelief.

“You missed the concert this afternoon?” she said.

“I'm afraid so,” Dillman admitted.

“Then you missed an absolute treat. Didn't he, Mother?”

“Oh, yes,” May Hoyland confirmed with a roll of her eyes. “It was wonderful — especially the purser on his clarinet.”

Dillman was astonished. “Mr. Rutherford took part?”

“He was the star of the whole show.”

Never having met a musical purser before, Dillman found the notion rather difficult to envisage. Playing the clarinet was something that he would never have suspected Nelson Rutherford of doing, but he was prepared to accept the word of two witnesses. They were at their table in the first-class dining saloon, and since formality had taken over, the room was filled with a dazzling array of evening dresses and jewelry. Like the rest of the men, Dillman had donned his white tie and tails. Seated opposite him at the table were Sophie Trouncer and her mother, though, since the latter had taken such great pains with her appearance, May Hoyland could almost pass for an elder sister. Now approaching seventy, she had the manner and carriage of a much younger woman. The resemblance between them was very close. Mother and daughter had the same features and the same unquenchable vivacity.

“Did
you
see the concert, Mr. Gaffney?” asked Dillman, turning to the man beside him. “Or am I the only one who missed it?”

“No,” said Gaffney. “I missed it as well.”

“Are you still having trouble?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman.”

“Speak to the ship's doctor. Perhaps he can help.”

“I've tried every remedy there is. None of them works.”

Liam Gaffney was a taciturn man of Irish descent in his forties who suffered from seasickness. Though he made the effort to come to the dining saloon for meals, he refused far more than he ate and never touched a drop of alcohol. He was a short, skinny, anxious man making his first trip across the Atlantic and having second thoughts about the wisdom of undertaking the voyage.

“Next time we have a concert,” Sophie warned, “I'll insist on taking you, Mr. Dillman.”

“That depends when it is,” he said guardedly.

“Entertainment is there to be enjoyed — isn't it, Mother?”

“Yes,” said May, tapping the table for effect. “You must take full advantage of it, Mr. Dillman. The same goes for you, Mr. Gaffney.”

“I'm not well enough to do so, Mrs. Hoyland,” said Gaffney. “I wish I were. I just can't seem to find my sea legs.”

Dillman was sympathetic. “It takes time.”

“Yes,” said May cheerily. “I had a nephew who used to work for Cunard and he was a martyr to seasickness. You don't think of merchant seamen having that problem, but they often do. The first day of a voyage was always a trial for Donald, then it seemed to ease off.”

“He found that wearing earplugs somehow helped,” said Sophie.

“And a glass of rum. Be sure to have one this evening.”

“To be honest,” said Gaffney, “I'm not in a mood for anything.
I just felt that I had to be here. I hoped that all the activity would somehow distract me.” He put a hand gingerly to his stomach. “So far, I fear, it hasn't.”

When the first course arrived, he waved it politely away, then lapsed into a prolonged silence. Sophie Trouncer and her mother did not complain. It allowed them to concentrate on Dillman. Taking it in turns, they fired so many questions at him that he wondered if they had rehearsed them beforehand.

“Why have you never married?” said May.

“I've never had the time, Mrs. Hoyland.”

“The time or the inclination?” Sophie pressed.

“Neither.”

“But you have no objection to the institution of marriage?”

“None at all, Mrs. Trouncer.”

“That's encouraging to hear,” said May, beaming.

“It is,” said Sophie. “Married life is a joy. I recommend it.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” Dillman promised.

While maintaining a conversation with the two ladies, he kept the rest of the room under surveillance. Genevieve, he observed, was dining with Lord and Lady Bulstrode again, seated beside the fleshy American whom she had described to him. Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle also had the same dinner companions as before and all four were having an animated discussion about something. Dillman had not forgotten Edward Hammond. Though he doubted that the wanted man would be in first class — if, indeed, he was actually aboard — he kept scouring the tables for possible suspects. The description given by the police could fit a number of men in the saloon. Dillman tried to whittle the total down by eliminating potential suspects.

The meal was exceptional and even Gaffney was tempted to try the main course. They were halfway through it when Sophie Trouncer broached a new subject.

“Do you believe in spiritualism, Mr. Dillman?” she asked.

He was tactful. “I'm not entirely sure.”

“Will you accept that some people have psychic powers?”

“I can't say that I've ever met any of them, Mrs. Trouncer.”

“But you don't mock such claims, do you?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“There you are, Mother,” said Sophie, as if scoring a point.

“I think they're charlatans,” said May robustly, “and until I'm proven wrong, I'll go on thinking that. I've seen too many stage mediums and they're always cheats. They've usually been trained as magicians, so they know all the tricks for deceiving the eye.”

“You can't deceive the eye if someone is sitting right next to you.” Sophie flicked a glance at Dillman. “Don't you agree?”

“Up to a point,” he said cautiously.

“Not every medium is an impostor. I've met at least two who had extraordinary psychic powers.”

May was scornful. “All they had was a talent for deception,” she said briskly. “And you were one of their victims.”

“That's unfair, Mother.”

“They cheated you, Sophie.”

“How do you know? You weren't
there.
”

“I had more sense.”

“You'll just have to agree to differ,” said Dillman, trying to calm them down before the argument got out of hand. “From what I've heard, the facts are inconclusive. Many condemn spiritualism, yet its worth is attested by some extremely intelligent people.”

“Intelligent people should know better,” May declared.

“We do,” said Sophie. “That's why we spurn your taunts.”

“They're not taunts. They're fair comments.”

“Maybe we should leave it at that,” Dillman suggested.

“Why don't you be the judge?” asked Sophie.

“The judge?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman. As it happens, we have a medium aboard and she's holding a séance in her cabin after dinner. I've agreed to go,” she said, ignoring the muffled protest from her mother. “Come with me and see for yourself, Mr. Dillman. You decide if Mrs. Burbridge is genuine or a fake.” She reached across the table to touch his hand. “I'd respect your opinion.”

It had taken Saul Pinnick a long time to coax him to join them for the meal, but Leonard Rush had eventually agreed. He was introduced to Pinnick's wife, and in listening to Miriam's mournful complaints about the treatment meted out to her he was able to take his mind off his own troubles. The three of them were part of the huge army of diners in steerage and they ate their food amid the usual tumult.