Murder on the Lusitania (4 page)

“Not at all,” said Dillman. “It has been unusually kind during my stay. I was warned about the likelihood of rain but it kept off for the most part. No, my most treasured memories are my visits to the theater.”

“What did you see?”

“Whatever I could, Mrs. Rymer.”

“We went to the theater ourselves last night,” she explained.

“To the Hicks Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. A play by Henry Arthur Jones.”

“Yes.
The Hypocrites
.”

“You saw it as well, Mr. Dillman?”

“I enjoyed it immensely.”

“So did we,” said Rymer, and then he flung a glance at his daughter. “Some of us, anyway. It was a waste of a ticket to take Violet.”

“I was not in the mood, Father,” she muttered.

“You might have preferred the play at the Duke of York’s Theatre,” said Dillman helpfully. “
Brewster’s Millions
. It’s a hilarious farce about the business of making money.”

“There is nothing farcical about making money,” said Rymer seriously. “Who wrote the play?”

“A fellow countryman of mine called Byron Ongley.”

“Ah! An
American
play!”

“And not the only one in town, sir. Had you gone to the Comedy Theatre, as I did, you could have seen Miss Marie Tempest in
The Truth
, an astonishing performance in a fine play by Clyde Fitch. He is perhaps best remembered for a play called
Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines
, another comedy about American social life. Believe it or not, we do have our own dramatists, you know.”

“But they pale to insignificance beside our playwrights.”

“That is a matter of opinion, Mr. Rymer.”

“No American can hold a candle to Pinero or Henry Arthur Jones.”

“I would dispute that, sir, though I would happily yield the palm to another British dramatist. He is a comic genius. We certainly have nobody who can get within touching distance of him.”

“Do you refer to this new fellow—whatsisname? The one who wrote a play called
The Golden Box
?”

“The
Silver Box
, Matthew,” reminded his wife. “We saw it last year. The author’s name was John Galsworthy.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call him a comic genius.”

“No more would I,” said Dillman patiently. “The man who has
really taken the stage by storm is George Bernard Shaw. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing his work both here and in New York. Mark my words, he is the playwright of the future.”

Rymer was appalled. “But the fellow is an
Irishman
.”

Dillman could see that it would be unwise to take a discussion of drama any further and he swiftly backpedaled. After thanking them for their hospitality, he took his leave. As they waved him off, Sylvia Rymer was gracious and her husband uncommonly civil, but their daughter was hurt by his departure and shot him a wounded look. Violet obviously did not wish to be delivered up once more to the less-than-tender mercies of her parents.

Pleased that she had identified him as a friend, Dillman felt a twinge of guilt at having to abandon her. He consoled himself with the thought that there would be time to make amends in the days ahead. Meanwhile, he felt the need of a stroll on deck to clear his lungs. At the end of their meal, Matthew Rymer had smoked a cigar and its acrid smell still haunted Dillman’s nostrils and clung to his clothes. It was a mild night with a welcome breeze. As he walked along the promenade deck, he inhaled deeply. Most passengers had started to disperse to their cabins by now but a few were still on deck. Dillman strode past them until he spotted a uniformed figure at the rail. He recognized the profile.

“Rather late for you to be up, isn’t it?” he said jokingly.

Lionel Osborne turned round. “Oh, hello there, Mr. Dillman.”

“Early to bed. Doctor’s orders.”

“What is the point of being the ship’s surgeon if you can’t ignore your own advice?” said Osborne with a grin. “Besides, who could resist being on deck on an historic night like this? Sea air is so bracing.”

Osborne was a dapper man in his forties with a clean-shaven face that tapered to a point at the chin. Dillman had only met him once but had taken to him immediately. Osborne had a blend of expertise and resilience that was vital in his profession. Unlike some of the ship’s complement, he treated Dillman as an equal and not as a rather minor employee whose presence was a necessary insurance.

“Do you expect to be busy?” said the American.

“Doctors are always busy on transatlantic crossings.”

“Seasickness?”

“That is the least of my worries, Mr. Dillman. No, what we are up against is the law of averages.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Work it out for yourself, old chap. Five days on board with over two thousand passengers. There’s bound to be at least one heart attack, brain hemorrhage, or other serious problem. And some people will overindulge in the dining saloon, so there’ll be everything from cases of acute indigestion to more serious gastric disorders.” He waved a hand at the rolling waves. “I’m enjoying the view while I have the chance.”

“There is not much to see in the darkness.”

“Maybe not,” said Osborne, “but it is an improvement on the swollen ankles, inflamed throats, and distended stomachs which I’ll have to look at in due course. Not to mention the odd broken bone. Whenever I’m on duty, someone always manages to fall down some steps. It’s uncanny.”

“What is the worst emergency you had to face?”

“Difficult to say, Mr. Dillman. If you pressed me, I think it would be a toss-up between performing a tracheotomy on the floor of a cabin and delivering a baby in a force nine gale. Oh,” he recalled, “then there was the lady with the sick poodle.”

“Are you expected to be a vet as well?”

“A ship’s surgeon is supposed to be able to cure anything from malaria to foot-and-mouth disease.” Osborne grimaced at the memory. “But that poodle was vicious. It almost bit off my finger. When I told its owner that there was nothing wrong with the animal, she turned on me as well. I had the pair of them yapping away at me.”

“Occupational hazards.”

“I daresay that you have your share of those, old chap.”

Dillman smiled. “I enjoy a spot of action.”

“Has there been any to report so far?”

“Not really. I conducted one brief search of the ship earlier on
but found nothing untoward. To be honest, I still haven’t mastered the layout of the vessel.”

“Nor I. It’s like the Hampton Court maze.”

They chatted amiably for a while, then Dillman excused himself and resumed his walk. Seven decks were designed for use by the passengers, from the lower deck up to boat deck. Though his responsibility was largely confined to the first-class areas, Dillman had an interest in the whole vessel and he spent some time exploring it while it was relatively uncluttered by passengers. Eventually, he made his way up to the boat deck, the largest open area on the ship and the one that would be most populated during good weather. It was almost deserted now and the cooling breeze he felt on the covered promenade deck had stiffened markedly now that he was more exposed. Dillman liked the way that it ruffled his hair and tugged at his clothing. It brought back happy memories of his yachting days.

The only people he could see were a young couple, arms entwined, gazing into the void over the stern of the ship. They were far too much in love to notice the cold. Dillman glanced at the lifeboats, secure on the davits and covered with tarpaulins. In the days to come, he knew, they would assuredly be brought into use for clandestine assignations. Those who had designed the boats showed little consideration for the needs of lovers but true passion made light of discomfort. During his crossing to England on the
Lucania
, Dillman had found a stowaway in one of the boats but he knew that the
Lusitania
’s set had been carefully searched before leaving port.

He raised a palm to cover an involuntary yawn. After a valedictory glance around the boat deck, he made his way back to his cabin, feeling the need for sleep. On his way, he had to walk past the first-class lounge and he popped his head in to see if anybody was still there. Several people were still up, talking in groups or, in one case, dozing fiftfully in an armchair, but the people who immediately caught his attention were beside the fireplace. There were four of them. Two were elderly ladies and a spasm of excitement went through him when he looked at the fair-haired
young woman seated between them. He had seen her once before, at Euston Station, a blur of loveliness. Shorn of her straw hat, she was even more beautiful and had a natural poise that defied the late hour.

Unfortunately, she was deep in conversation with a man whom Dillman also recognized. Henry Barcroft was in his element, quizzing her and simultaneously showing off by displaying his knowledge of the first-class passenger list. To Dillman’s jaundiced eye, they seemed almost like a couple. It was galling. The young woman he most wanted to meet was ensnared by the journalist he most wished to avoid.

It was time to go to bed.

The superior speed of the
Lusitania
allowed her to overhaul her sister ship, the
Lucania
, at 4:30
A.M.
the following morning before a blanket of fog obliged both vessels to slow down considerably. Not long after 9:00
A.M.
, the
Lusitania
anchored at the entrance to Queenstown Harbor. Fifteen minutes later, the
Lucania
floated past it to take up its berth. Large crowds had been gathering since dawn on both east and west headlands around the harbor and craft of every shape and size had assembled to give the ships a true nautical salutation. On that southernmost tip of Ireland, sailors and citizens alike appreciated the real significance of the maiden voyage of the
Lusitania
and they were determined not to miss a sighting.

After taking on board passengers and mail, the
Lucania
set sail first and passed Daunts Rock Lighthouse at 11:35
A.M.
The
Lusitania
took on more than a hundred passengers and almost eight hundred bags of mail before setting off, shortly after noon, in pursuit of the other ship. The watching crowd cheered themselves hoarse as the narrow beam of the new vessel cut cleanly and purposefully through the dark water. An attempt to win back the Blue Riband, and the enormous kudos that went with it, was now properly under way.

The new passengers were eager to stow their luggage in their cabins so that they could get swiftly back up on deck in order to
enjoy the true, heartwarming Irish send-off they were being given. One of them, however, showed no interest in the proceedings. He was a tall, slim young man with a swarthy complexion and large brown eyes. While others had tripped excitedly up the gangplank, he had more or less slunk aboard the ship, head down and face largely covered by the peak of his cap. When he was shown to his cabin in the second-class quarter, he locked the door behind him before swinging his suitcase up onto the bed. Opening it at once, he took out a small photograph of a young woman and kissed it softly before placing it on his table.

From inside a silver frame, Violet Rymer smiled back at him.

FOUR

B
y midafternoon, the
Lusitania
was steaming across the Atlantic Ocean with thick black smoke belching furiously from three of her funnels. Passengers on the boat deck who wondered why no smoke came from the fourth funnel were unaware of the fact that its function was purely decorative and that it had been added by the ship’s designer for reasons of symmetry. A vessel on that scale needed massive funnels, each one so large that it was possible for two cars to drive through them side by side when their individual sections had been riveted together at the shipyard. Photographic proof of this capability had been released to the press and many newspapers had startled their readers with the pictures. Other details of the ship’s construction, however, were jealously guarded. The giant was ready to display its muscles to the world, but its vital organs were kept largely secret so they could not be copied by rivals.

It did not seem like a Sunday. Though services had been held aboard and hymns sung with Christian gusto, there were few outward signs of the Sabbath. People promenaded on the decks or made use of the various leisure facilities. Cameras were much in evidence and a few amateur artists worked on their first sketches.
The busiest men aboard were the trimmers and stokers down in the engine room, the former making sure that the latter had an endless supply of highly combustible bituminous coal from the bunkers. There were almost two hundred furnaces and their appetite was voracious. In order to maintain the top cruising speed of twenty-five knots, the best part of a thousand tons of coal a day had to be shoveled into the flames. For those down below, the Sabbath was no day of rest.

George Porter Dillman spent most of the morning familiarizing himself with the vessel and mingling with the other passengers. Some new acquaintances were made and he was on nodding terms with several other people. Though technically a member of the crew, it was important for him to be accepted as just one more first-class passenger so that he could move unseen around his territory and monitor it more effectively. Late afternoon found him taking tea in the Veranda Café with Cyril and Ada Weekes. The couple had acquired a new friend in Jeremiah Erskine, a big, ponderous man of middle years with a luxuriant black beard and a scattering of ugly warts on a high forehead. Extensive business interests in the United States made Erskine a regular transatlantic traveler but he seemed to derive no pleasure from his voyages.

“I sense trouble ahead,” he said darkly. “Everything has gone far too smoothly so far. That is a bad omen.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Erskine?” asked Weekes.

“The Cunard Line is fraught with danger, sir.”

“That is not true at all,” said Dillman defensively. “Its safety record is beyond reproach and no more stable vessel has ever been launched than the
Lusitania
.”

Erskine remained lugubrious. “They said the same of the
Umbria
when it came into service over twenty years ago. Yet it went badly adrift in 1892 and was later involved in a major collision in New York Harbor. As for the much-vaunted
Etruria
,” he continued, hitting his stride, “that, too, was involved in a collision. When I sailed on her four years ago, she was the target for gangsters who tried to blow her up.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Ada Weekes.

“You are causing unnecessary alarm, sir,” warned Dillman.

Erskine was unrepentant. “I believe in facing facts, Mr. Dillman.”

“What was that about gangsters?” asked Weekes. “Who were they?”

“Italians,” said Erskine. “Members of the Mafia Society. An evil organization which swore to destroy all British ships leaving New York.”

“But they failed miserably,” said Dillman, wanting to reassure the others. “Security aboard all Cunard vessels was far too tight. On the occasion to which Mr. Erskine refers, the
Etruria
crossed the Atlantic without incident.”

“That was not the case earlier this year,” said Erskine solemnly, scratching at his beard. “Did you know that two members of its crew were killed during bad weather in January? Then there is the
Campania
, another Cunard ship with a reputation for safety. It was involved in a bad collision in 1900 and, a mere two years ago, it was struck by a freak wave which killed some of its passengers.”

“That’s dreadful!” cried Ada Weekes.

“But highly atypical,” insisted Dillman.

“I had no idea that an Atlantic crossing was so perilous.”

“It’s not, Mrs. Weekes. Believe me.”

“Inclement weather is only one hazard,” said Erskine, settling into his role as a prophet of doom. “Bad seamanship is another problem. Only two years ago, the
Caronia
, biggest and newest ship of the line, ran aground off Sandy Hook. Size is no guarantee of safety.”

“So it seems,” said a meditative Weekes, patting his wife’s arm to calm her. “But I am sure we are in no danger here. The Cunard Line will have learned from its earlier mistakes.”

“Indeed it has,” emphasized Dillman, wondering how two such affable people as Cyril and Ada Weekes had been drawn to such a melancholy individual as Jeremiah Erskine. “What you have heard are isolated examples. Hundreds of thousands of people have sailed across the Atlantic without any whiff of danger. As for the tragedy aboard the
Campania
, it was caused, as Mr. Erskine
told us, by a freak wave. What he did not say was that it was the first time in sixty years that any passengers were killed on the Cunard Line.”

“You seem to know a great deal about this subject, sir,” said Erskine, annoyed at being robbed of his ability to spread unease. “May I ask what allows you to speak with such apparent authority?”

“I come from a maritime family, Mr. Erskine.”

“You have been an officer aboard a liner?”

“No, sir. But I have helped to build oceangoing yachts and that has given me great insight into the safety features of any vessel as well as the vagaries of weather.”

“Yet you have not crossed the Atlantic as often as I have.”

“I concede that,” said Dillman. “What suprises me is that a veteran like yourself would not wish to offer a degree of reassurance to passengers, like our friends here, who are crossing for the first time.”

“When I sense disaster, Mr. Dillman, I must speak out.”

“Even if it causes willful distress?”

“I have a premonition, sir.”

“Then why sail on the vessel in the first place?”

“It is a business necessity.”

Weekes stepped in to change the subject to the dinner menu for that evening and Erskine was diverted from his gloomy prognostications. Ada Weekes visibly relaxed. Dillman took the opportunity to excuse himself. The teatime session with Jeremiah Erskine had left him feeling the need for more cheerful company. Since the weather was still relatively mild, one side of the café had been opened up so Dillman simply had to step a few yards before he was out on deck. Many passengers were sauntering along in the sunshine, some with dogs on leashes. Dillman strolled in the direction of the stern but he did not get very far before he recognized the two people who were coming toward him. They were the elderly ladies whom he had seen in the lounge on the previous evening with the mysterious young woman and the egregious
journalist. It gave him the chance to do some detective work on his own account.

Wearing coats, hats, and scarves to ward off the breeze, the Hubermanns walked along arm in arm. They had slept well the night before, eaten a hearty breakfast and an even more delicious luncheon, then spent the afternoon in a leisurely tour of the ship. When the tall young man confronted them with a polite smile, they came to a halt. Dillman touched the brim of his hat.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” they chorused.

“Ah, fellow Americans!”

“There seem to be a lot of us aboard, sir,” said Carlotta, eyeing him with approval and noting his immaculate suit. “My sister and I are thinking of forming an American Society aboard the
Lusitania
.”

“It was only a fanciful notion,” said Abigail dismissively.

“An interesting one nevertheless,” observed Dillman. “I’m sorry to interrupt your stroll but I have the feeling that I saw you both in the lounge last night, talking with a British journalist.”

“Yes!” said Carlotta ruefully. “He kept us up until all hours.”

“Both you and the young lady with you.”

“He was far more interested in her than in us.”

“What did you make of Mr. Henry Barcroft?”

“Why do you ask?” said Abigail suspiciously.

“Because he set on me earlier in the voyage. I must say, I found him uncomfortably persistent. His manner was far too intrusive for my liking. I shook him off as soon as I could.”

“I wish that we had done the same,” said Carlotta.

“Yet your companion seemed to find his conversation interesting.”

“It was for her sake that we tolerated him.”

“Is the young lady traveling with you?”

“Oh no. We met her on the train to Liverpool.”

“She looks oddly familiar.”

“Does she?” said Abigail, eyelids narrowing.

“Her name would not happen to be Violet Weekes, would it?”

“No,” said Carlotta. “It is—”

“It is not,” said Abigail, interrupting firmly. “But, then, you already know that, sir. Had she really been the person whom you mention, you would have come across and spoken to her in the lounge last night. Let us be honest here,” she said, fixing Dillman with a withering gaze. “You caught sight of a beautiful young lady and wondered what her name was. That is why you accosted us just now, in the hope that you could trick the information out of us.” She took a tighter grip on her sister’s arm. “You have not succeeded.”

“Allow me to explain,” he said.

“No, sir. Allow
me
to explain. You are the fourth man today who has tried to wrest her name from us under false pretenses and you will not be the last. It is very ignoble of you. Stand aside, please.” Dillman moved out of their way. “Come along, Carlotta.”

They swept past him and he touched his hat once more. His plan had gone awry but he was not abashed. His brief encounter with the Hubermann sisters had been stimulating. They were a formidable pair and seemed to be the self-appointed guardians of the young woman in question. If they kept him at arm’s length, they would also protect their friend from the attentions of Henry Barcroft. It was some consolation.

Barcroft was ubiquitous. Having talked to a wide variety of first-class passengers, he spoke to several officers and crew members, even taking the trouble to chat to deckhands, window cleaners, stewards, linen keepers, hairdressers, and musicians. But the man he was most anxious to interview was the chief engineer. Fergus Rourke seemed to have been designed in proportion with the vessel. He was a huge man with a barrel chest and shoulders so wide they they looked as if they were about to break free from his uniform. A red beard fringed his chin. Proud of his appointment as chief engineer, he was keen to fulfill his duties and found the visit by the journalist increasingly irritating.

The clamor of the engine room obliged them to raise their voices.

“It’s very warm down here, Mr. Rourke!” shouted Barcroft.

“You get used to it, sir.”

“Those pistons are earsplitting.”

“They go with the job, Mr. Barcroft.”

“It’s not one that I would care to have. But I take my hat off to you and your men. It takes the most enormous effort to keep the ship sailing at this speed. What sort of power is generated exactly?”

“We have four direct-drive steam turbines, sir. In all, the machinery develops some sixty-eight thousand IHP and revolves at a hundred eighty RPM.” Rourke towered over him. “Do you need me to explain exactly what that means?”

“No, sir. I did my homework before I came aboard. I think I’ve mastered most of the technical terms. Including PSI.”

“Steam is provided at one hundred ninety-five PSI by twenty-three double-ended and two single-ended cylindrical boilers, situated in four separate boiler rooms. That’s how the
Lusitania
can travel at such a lick.”

“Could I take a closer look at the boilers?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“But my editor is a stickler for detail.”

“No passenger is allowed beyond this point.”

“I’m a journalist, Mr. Rourke. A man with an inquiring mind.”

“Then I suggest you take it back up on deck, sir. I was happy to answer your questions but you are now interfering with my work.”

Barcroft would not be shaken off. “Keeping the British press well informed is
part
of your work, surely?” he said. “Don’t you want us to celebrate this engineering marvel? We can hardly do it if we are not given the complete freedom of the ship.”

“Take the matter up with Captain Watt, sir.”

“This is the domain of Chief Engineer Rourke. I was told that you rule the roost down here. Only you can give me permission.”

“No chance of that, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I must ask you to go back up on deck.”

“May I come again, Mr. Rourke?”

“I’ve told you all that I may.”

“One final question. What happens during the night?”

“The night?”

“Do these stokers still work at the same manic pace?”

“Of course, sir,” said Rourke. “These furnaces are tended twenty-four hours a day. My men work in shifts throughout the night. While you and the other passengers are tucked up in your cabins, the engine room will be as busy as ever.”

Henry Barcroft looked at the dust-covered trimmers and the gleaming sweat on the arms and faces of the stokers. Each time a furnace door was opened, he felt the heat surge up at him like a punch.

“It’s hell down here,” he concluded. “Thank you, Mr. Rourke. You’ve been extremely helpful. But I’m ready to go back up to the other place now. Yes,” he said brightening, “that could be the opening line of my article. ‘The difference between the boiler room and the first-class areas is the difference between hell and heaven.’ Now, what does that make you, Mr. Rourke?”

The chief engineer gritted his teeth, held back a stream of ripe expletives, and hid his exasperation behind a gruff civility.