Murder on the Lusitania (15 page)

“Lord Carradine.”

“That’s him. Both men were hanging on her every word.”

“You’re very observant.”

“I was so jealous of her, George. How does she do it? I’d love to dine at the captain’s table like that. Do you have any pull with her? Reckon she could wangle
me
an invitation to join the elite?”

“You’re already one of the elite,” he said gallantly.

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“But the truthful answer is no. I have no pull at all with Miss Masefield. It was pure coincidence that we had breakfast together.”

“That’s not how it looked to me.”

“Appearances can deceive,” he said easily, looking around. “Is your father not with you this morning?”

“No, he wanted to rest his bad leg. I left him reading in his cabin. This voyage hasn’t been much fun for him so far.”

“But you’re enjoying it, aren’t you?”

“Every moment. Apart from the time when I had to stop a runaway American at full speed the other night.” She grinned amiably. “And even that had its pleasanter side. I got to make a new friend.”

“That cuts both ways.”

She looked at him quizzically, and a wistful look came into her eye.

“New Jersey will sure seem dull after all this.”

“You’ll liven it up, Ellen.”

“I daresay I will at that!”

“I’ll let you get on with your drawing. Good-bye.”

“Nice to see you again, George.”

She returned to her sketch and Dillman walked away, pondering the differences between Genevieve Masefield and Ellen Tolley and deciding that his ideal woman would be a subtle blend of the two. It was not a thought on which he allowed himself to dwell.
Private pleasures had to be subdued beneath the call of duty. Wearing only a suit, he became aware how cold it was now that the sun had been smothered by another cloud, but he was glad that he had taken an exploratory walk around the boat deck. The brief meeting with Ellen Tolley had been a delight, following on, as it did, from breakfast with Genevieve Masefield. He hoped that he had not used up all of his good fortune for the day.

When he went down to the promenade deck, he was in search of Jeremiah Erskine but it was the man’s wife whom he first encountered. Clad in a fur-collared coat, Dorothea was standing at the rail with Ada Weekes, whose wide-brimmed hat was flapping gently in the breeze. Both women gave him a cordial welcome.

“You must be very hardy, Mr. Dillman,” said Ada Weekes. “No coat, no hat, no scarf. We’re in northern latitudes.”

“I’ve always had warm blood, Mrs. Weekes,” he said.

“We suspected that,” commented the other woman with a twinkle. “Jeremiah is the same. He refuses to wear thick vests or anything of that sort. He thinks it’s a sign of weakness.”

“Cyril is the opposite,” confided Ada Weekes. “He never stirs out without proper underwear. When we went to the Grand National last year, it was so cold that he wore three vests and two pairs of socks. You’d have thought we were going to Siberia.”

“Does he hope to see any racing in America?” asked Dillman.

“Oh, yes. He loves it. We both do.”

“So does Jeremiah,” explained Dorothea Erskine. “He’s a great fan of all sports. You may not think it to look at him but he was quite an athlete in his day. And a skillful boxer.”

Dillman was interested. “Boxer? Mr. Erskine?”

“Yes, in fact—” She broke off with a laugh. “No, I won’t tell you that. You’ll think that it’s so ridiculous. Yet it did happen. I can’t deny it.”

“Deny what?” pressed Ada Weekes.

“It seemed so unromantic when he first asked me.”

“Go on.”

“Oh, no. It will sound so absurd to anyone else.” She turned
to Dillman. “Have you ever made a proposal of marriage, Mr. Dillman?”

“Not exactly.”

“But I expect that you will one day.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“And where would you like it to take place?”

“That depends on the lady,” he said, “though I can’t think of a better setting than the
Lusitania
by moonlight. It’s so evocative. Given the opportunity, I reckon I could propose at least three times a week on a ship like is.” The women laughed. “Without any effort.”

“You have a wicked side to you, Mr. Dillman,” said Ada Weekes. “But I have to admit that I’d find it hard to resist a man who proposed to me on board an ocean liner. As it was, I had to settle for the potting shed. It was the only place where Cyril and I could be sure of being alone.”

“At least it was somewhere private,” said Dorothea Erskine with a smile. “Jeremiah proposed to me in public. At a boxing match.”

“Heavens!” shrieked the other woman. “What were you doing there?”

“I can’t really remember except that he was so keen for me to go there with him. Jeremiah hates opera, you see. And he’d sat through so many just to please me that I felt I owed it to him. The curious thing was that I rather enjoyed it. Strong young men, fighting each other like demons. Not that I’d wish to go again, of course,” she said quickly, anxious to dispel any possible misunderstanding. “It’s not an experience one cares to repeat. But it did produce a proposal of marriage. During a heavyweight bout, actually. I think that Jeremiah felt he was on home ground, so to speak. He would have lost his nerve in a box at the opera.”

“But not in the middle of a boxing match,” said Ada Weekes.

“It could have been worse, I suppose. He proposed to his first wife on a crowded railway platform in Birmingham.”

“Oh, Mr. Erskine was married before, was he?”

“Yes. His first wife died some years ago.”

“I see.”

“I understand that your husband was involved in a card game last night,” said Dillman, starting to fish. “How did he get on?”

“Very badly, I think.”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“No, he wouldn’t talk about it when he got back.”

“Was he too upset?”

“He was still so angry with himself.”

“I wouldn’t mind them playing cards if they didn’t go on so late,” said Ada Weekes, clicking her tongue. “It was well past midnight when Cyril came back to our cabin.”

“Jeremiah was a little earlier than that. But he hadn’t come straight from the card game. He’d been for a walk on deck. I could see that by the look of him.”

“In what way?” said Dillman.

“His face was pinched, as if he’d been out in a cold wind. And his clothing was soiled. I think he must have brushed against something dirty in the gloom out here.” She smiled loyally. “He loves playing cards. It’s such a pity that’s he’s not very good at it.”

It was an awkward meeting. Rosemary Hilliard was just about to leave the second-class lounge when Philip Garrow walked into it. They all but collided. The unexpected encounter compounded their embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized.

“It was my fault.”

“Mine. I should have looked where I was going.”

“Yes,” said Rosemary quietly. “Perhaps we’ve both been rather guilty of doing that.” She manufactured a smile. “Good morning, anyway.”

“Hello. I didn’t see you over breakfast.”

“I stayed in my cabin.”

“I had half a mind to come in search of you.”

“Perhaps it’s just as well you didn’t.”

“Why?”

She moved aside as four people came into the lounge.

“We’re blocking the entrance. And I must go.”

“But I want to talk to you, Rosemary.”

“After last night?”

“Can’t we forget that?” he said earnestly. “I was to blame and I apologize.” Two more people brushed past them. “Look, can we sit down and have a proper conversation?”

“I’d rather not, Philip.”

“Then at least come for a walk on deck with me.”

She considered the offer. “Five minutes,” she said at length.

“Am I being rationed now?”

“It’s all I’m prepared to give you.”

“Then I won’t waste a second of it. Let’s go.”

Repeating his apology all the way, Philip Garrow escorted her to the boat deck and found a quiet place beside the rail. He could tell that her pride had been injured and he did his best to assuage her wounded feelings. Rosemary Hilliard slowly relaxed but she still kept him at a distance. In the bright morning light, she looked older and more tired.

“It was a mistake, Philip,” she said bluntly.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“We should never have let it get that far.”

“But it was what we both wanted Rosemary. You know that. Be honest with yourself.”

“I’ve spent hours being honest with myself. Long, painful hours. They’ve left me feeling rather silly and very ashamed.”

“What is there to be ashamed about?”

“We met, we had a pleasant time together, and that should have been that. Instead of which …” She bit her lip. “Instead of which, I let myself behave very foolishly and I’m old enough to know better. I’m a respectable woman, Philip. I just can’t imagine how I let myself get into a situation like that.”

“It all seemed so natural.”

“That was the trouble.”

“I kicked myself for letting you down like that. If I’d had any sense, I’d have taken you into my cabin when I had the chance and then we’d both have been happy this morning.”

“No, Philip. I’d have felt far worse.”

“Worse?”

“I’ve got enough guilt as it is.”

“Why should you feel guilty?”

“I’m a married woman. Or, at least, I was. I have a social position. I can’t get involved with a man I hardly know, especially when he’s so much younger than I.” She held up a hand to rebut the protest he was about to make. “We went too far, too fast. I was shocked.”

“Well, I was delighted,” he said, stung by her words and going on the attack with a passionate declaration. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in ages, Rosemary. I don’t care if I’ve known you for five minutes or five years. You’re a very special lady and it pains me to think I’ve upset you in any way. Nobody could respect you more than I do. I wasn’t making assmptions about you last night. I was just praying that I’d have the courage to go through with it. The courage and the luck.”

Touched by his words, Rosemary reached out to clutch his arm but she took a step back when he brought up a hand to brush her cheek. Not yet ready for a proper reconciliation, she was embarrassed by a display of affection in public. Doubt and apprehension still lingered. She looked at him steadily for a long time, then gave a wan smile.

“You’ve had more than five minutes, Philip.”

“Don’t go!”

“I need some time on my own.”

“Can we meet later?”

“I’ll have to think about that.

“In the lounge, perhaps? Over dinner?”

“Make some other friends.”

“But you’re the one I want, Rosemary.”

She fixed him with a cool stare for a moment before turning on her heel and walking away. Philip Garrow was tempted to go after her but common sense held him back. Rosemary was in no state to be talked around. She needed to be given space and time.
Only then would there be a possibility of reeling her back in again.

He gazed idly around the boat deck, surprised at the number of people who were milling about, noting with dismay that almost everyone but he seemed to be part of a group or a family. He recognized some of the passengers who had joined the ship with him at Queenstown. They were not simply visiting America out of curiosity. Necessity was forcing them to emigrate there. Like them, Garrow was facing an uncertain future, traveling between two worlds, searching for a security that had so far eluded him.

His thoughts turned to Violet Rymer but no sooner did she enter his mind than she appeared before his eyes. He was startled. Warmly attired in a coat and hat, she was strolling along the deck with a plump woman whom Garrow remembered seeing at Violet’s home. A sense of joy competed with feelings of remorse. Pleased to see her at last, he was detemined not to let her see him, especially as her companion would also observe him. With his head turned away from the two women, he hurried to the nearest staircase and plunged down it, grateful that they had not come on the scene two minutes earlier. It was a narrow escape.

Dillman did not track down Jeremiah Erskine until well after noon. The man was seated alone in the corner of the smoking room, puffing absentmindedly at a cigar and reading a book with halfhearted interest. Erksine looked subdued. He was not in a sociable mood.

“What’s the book, Mr. Erskine?” asked Dillman, going over to him.

Erskine looked up. “Nothing that would appeal to you.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s a book on photography, Mr. Dillman.”

“Then you’re probably right. It’s a subject I know little about.” He indicated the chair beside Erskine. “May I join you for a moment?”

“If you must.”

“I didn’t realize that you were a photographer,” said Dillman as
he lowered himself down. “You’re a man of many parts, Mr. Erskine. Your wife was telling us earlier about your passion for boxing.”

“The noble art of self-defense.”

“There hasn’t been much nobility in the fights I’ve witnessed. It’s been more a case of the ignoble art of attack.”

“Then you haven’t seen real boxers, sir. They rely on speed, balance, and fast hands. They don’t stand toe-to-toe and slug it out like two drunken sailors. Boxers have style. Panache.” He closed his book and stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “Does the name Byron mean anything to you?”

“Lord Byron? Of course.”

“Read his poems, I suppose.”

“Some of them.”

“Did you know that he took boxing lessons?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, he did,” said Erskine knowledgeably. “From the best possible teacher. A man called Gentleman John Jackson. Champion of England. Jackson had a boxing school on Bond Street. Lord Byron was only one of his famous pupils. What he learned was pugilism of the highest order.”

“Mrs. Erskine said that you fought yourself at one time.”

“Oh, that was a long time ago, Mr. Dillman. When I was much younger. These days, I fear, my sporting prowess is confined to the golf and tennis.”

“Lawn tennis?”

“We have our own court.”

“Then I envy you, sir.”

“Keeps me fit in summer months.” Erskine pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Almost time for luncheon. My stomach never lies.” He shot Dillman a searching glare. “What else did my wife say about me?”