Murder on the Mauretania (9 page)

But the parental decree had already been forgotten. Alexandra went rushing off along a passageway, then turned a corner. Her brother set off in pursuit, wondering what could possibly have made her bolt like that. When he reached the corner, he turned into another long passageway, but it was quite deserted. Where had his sister gone? There were so many options. Companionways led up and down. At the far end of the passageway was a T junction that gave her further possibilities. Was it conceivable that Alexandra had gone into one of the cabins? Noel was puzzled and anxious. He knew that he would get a stinging reprimand from his parents if he returned to the lounge alone. They would blame him for Alexandra’s disappearance. He began a hasty search.

The girl, meanwhile, was on the deck above, scampering toward a half-open door at the far end of a passageway. She was almost out of breath when she reached it. When she tapped on the door, it was opened immediately by one of the officers.

“Hello, Alexandra,” he said. “I had a feeling that you might turn up.”

“You told me that Bobo was always fed at set times.”

“Oh, yes. He never misses his grub. You could set your watch by him.”

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“Of course.”

The officer stood back so that Alexandra could step into the cabin. On the floor in a corner was a plate with a few remnants of scraps that had just been eaten by the cat. With an urgent tongue, Bobo was now lapping up milk from a bowl. Alexandra waited until he had finished before she bent down to touch him. Licking his lips with satisfaction, he turned to look at the girl; then, with no warning, he hopped up onto her knee. Alexandra cradled him and stroked his fur with a gentle hand. The purring was like the revving of an engine.

“Hello, Bobo,” she said. “Did you enjoy your meal?”

“He’s never let anyone pick him up before,” observed the officer. “Not even me.”

Alexandra giggled. “Bobo is my friend. Aren’t you, Bobo?”

By way of reply, the black cat rubbed his head softly against her arm.

Her patience was finally rewarded. Genevieve Masefield had no difficulty in identifying her. The woman had a natural beauty that was subtly enhanced by a sparing use of cosmetics and a stylish silk dress in a shade of green that matched her eyes. Though she seemed to be in her early twenties, there was a poise and maturity about her that hinted at more years than were at first apparent. Her smile, frugally used, seemed to light up her whole face. Genevieve watched her talking to a distinguished-looking man with a dark beard. Their conversation was long and intense. When it finally came to a close, the man rose to his feet, kissed her hand with great courtesy, then left the room. Genevieve got up from her own seat and glided across to the woman.

“Excuse me,” she said affably. “I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

“Of course,” replied the other. “Please sit down.”

“Thank you.” Genevieve lowered herself into the chair beside her. “My name is Genevieve Masefield, by the way.”

“Katherine Wymark,” said the other, appraising her. “To be honest, I was rather hoping for the opportunity to meet you, Miss Masefield. You aroused the envy of every woman in the dining saloon. Myself included.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Oh, come on. You must surely have grown used to being the center of attention by now. The women were envious because the men couldn’t take their eyes off you. There’s nothing to touch that classical English beauty,” she said with a confiding smile. “It has such purity. An all-American girl like me just can’t compete with that.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that you had any shortage of male attention,” remarked Genevieve pleasantly. “There are probably dozens of jealous women here who’d be only too glad to scratch your eyes out as well.”

“Not really, Miss Masefield. I’m spoken for, you’re not.” She held out her left hand to show off the gold wedding ring, partnered by an engagement ring that featured a large sapphire in a circle of diamonds. “It’s amazing what a difference that makes. But,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, “I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about that. What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I’ve come on behalf of a friend,” said Genevieve. “Mrs. Dalkeith.”

“I don’t believe I know the lady.”

“Your paths did cross yesterday evening. In the ladies’ room.”

Katherine Wymark gave a laugh. “My! This conversation is taking a strange turn,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Who is this friend of yours?”

“Mrs. Dalkeith is an elderly Scots lady. Gray-haired and dignified.”

“Oh, yes. I think I remember her. We exchanged a word or two.”

“Did you happen to notice that she removed her rings and her watch?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because the watch has gone astray,” said Genevieve, “and Mrs. Dalkeith wonders if she simply forgot to put it back on again after she’d washed her hands. She is rather prone to do something like that. But she’s dreadfully upset about the disappearance of the watch, so I offered to try to track it down.” She looked into the green eyes. “Do you recall seeing her leave the room without a gold watch?”

“No, Miss Masefield,” said the other firmly. “If I had, I’d have picked it straight up and gone after her. The truth is that I hardly looked at her. It’s not the kind of thing you do in those circumstances.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Though I do seem to recall someone else in there at the time. A French lady.”

“Madam Coutance. I’ve already spoken to her.”

“You
have
been diligent.”

“I promised to help Mrs. Dalkeith,” said Genevieve. “She’s very distressed.”

“Was this Madame Coutance able to help you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“And nothing was found in the ladies’ room when it was cleaned?”

“No, Mrs. Wymark. That was the first thing I checked.”

“Then the mystery thickens.” Katherine gave a wry smile. “I stepped in there only to brush my hair. I didn’t realize that I’d get involved in a search for a gold watch. Incidentally,” she wondered, “how did you know that I was even in the room? I didn’t give my name to your friend.”

“Mrs. Dalkeith gave me a clear description of you.”

“Yet she can’t remember if she put her watch back on or not. What a curious thing memory is! Well, Miss Masefield, I’m sorry I can’t help you.” Her eyes twinkled. “And I won’t embarrass you by asking what this ‘clear description’ of me was. Besides, I’m not sure I want to know how I’m viewed by an absentminded elderly Scots lady.”

“Very favorably.”

“I’ll settle for that and ask no more. So where will you go from here?”

Genevieve gave a shrug. “I’m not sure, to be honest.”

“Dozens of women must have been in and out of that room after we left. If the watch was there, any one of them might have picked it up. You could be in for a long search, Miss Masefield.”

“I know.”

“Good luck!”

“Thank you for talking with me, anyway.”

“My pleasure.”

Disappointed that she had made no progress in the search, Genevieve was nevertheless pleased to have met Katherine Wymark. She was an interesting woman, with an easy drawl in her voice and a relaxed manner. There was none of the reserve and formality that might have been encountered in an Englishwoman of the same age. Katherine had a sophistication that made friends like Theodora Belfrage and Susan Faulconbridge seem almost naïve. Even the worldly Ruth Constantine would have looked inexperienced beside her. There was a composure about Katherine Wymark that was formidable. Only one thing was troublesome: The woman was far too intelligent to believe that Genevieve was acting on behalf of an elderly lady out of the kindness of her heart. Genevieve’s disguise had been penetrated.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man approaching them and turned to face him. Orvill Delaney bore down on them with a magazine in his hand.

“Pardon this intrusion, ladies,” he said, distributing a smile evenly between the two of them. “I just wanted to give you this, Miss Masefield,” he explained, handing the magazine to her. “It has a story by O. Henry in it. I think you’ll appreciate it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Delaney.”

“And while I’m here, Mrs. Wymark,” he said, turning to face her, “could I ask you a favor, please? Remind your husband about that game of chess he promised me.”

“I will, Mr. Delaney.”

“No better way to end the day than with a game of chess.” He looked back at Genevieve. “And with a story by O. Henry, of course.”

“So, on balance, Mr. Dillman,” she concluded, “you’d prefer the
Lusitania
.”

“I didn’t say that, Mrs. Littlejohn.”

“But that’s what it amounts to. From what you’ve told me, it was obviously a memorable and exciting maiden voyage.”

“Yes,” agreed Dillman, “it certainly didn’t lack for excitement. And it gave me some very precious memories,” he confessed, thinking of Genevieve Masefield and the firstlings of their romance. “But that doesn’t mean I’d rate the
Lusitania
as the finer vessel. It’s far too early to judge. Ask me when we reach New York.”

“What about the interior decoration of the two ships?”

“I’d have to say that the
Mauretania
has the edge there. I hold the highest esteem for what Mr. Peto has done. He was known for his work on country houses before he got this commission, and he’s incorporated a lot of ideas from stately homes into the design. The paneling throughout is a revelation, and those lavish plaster ceilings are works of art. Everywhere you look,” he said with admiration, “there’s an arresting design feature.”

“I know,” said Hester Littlejohn. “I’ve used up half a dozen pencils just trying to list them. Harold Peto will certainly get a mention in my magazine. He’s left the stamp of his genius on this ship.”

“Even though that stamp can be a little too firm at times.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Dillman?”

“Well, he does tend to gild the lily,” argued Dillman. “In the first-class smoking room, for instance, the Italian Renaissance style is a trifle forced, I think. And I do have my doubts about those encrusted mullions.”

They were seated in the second-class lounge, sharing a pot of tea and their impressions of the vessel. Hester Littlejohn had a pad on her lab, but she was committing far more to memory than to the page. She was also making no secret of the fact that she enjoyed Dillman’s company, grinning at regular intervals and even touching his arm when he made a polite joke. Dillman gave a highly edited version of the maiden voyage of the
Lusitania
, concealing the fact that it was essentially a work assignment for him. There had been little time to relish the event.

Hester Littlejohn was as irrepressible as ever, wearing a traveling dress of a reddish hue that softened the contours of her body, and a
brown cloth-and-felt hat shaded with plumes. Her eyes sparkled over the top of her glasses.

“Tell me about the things I can’t see, Mr. Dillman,” she invited.

“I’m not sure that I understand you,” he said.

“Well, I looked at all the public rooms when I was given a tour of the ship this morning with the rest of the scribblers. We were even given a glimpse of the bridge and allowed two minutes with Captain Pritchard. But it’s difficult to get the proper measure of a vessel when you’re being shunted around in a group.”

“What else would you like to know?”

“What happens out of sight. In the boiler rooms, for example.”

“I don’t think your readers would be interested in that.”

“I am, Mr. Dillman.”

“Then you’ll need some basic knowledge of engineering to understand how the steam turbines work. They’re geared to quadruple screw propellers that are capable of generating a speed of approximately twenty-five knots under good conditions.”

“Such as we have now.”

“Exactly,” he confirmed. “The
Mauretania
has twenty-five boilers, a hundred and ninety-two furnaces, and a storage capacity for six thousand tons of coal. That may sound like a lot, but then we use up a thousand tons of coal a day. Think of how much shoveling is involved in that, Mrs. Littlejohn,” he said solemnly. “While you and I are sitting here, those boilers are being fed by the real heroes aboard this ship. Out of sight.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. How much are they paid?”

“Who?”

“The men who sweat away in the boiler room.”

“The different grades have different wages. The chief engineer and his officers will obviously be at the top of the tree.”

“I’m talking about the men who do the hard work. How many of them are there?”

“Oh,” he said, scratching his head, “I couldn’t give you an exact figure. My guess is that we have around two hundred firemen and over half that number of trimmers. Those are the men who bring the coal from the bunkers to the boilers. Then there are around thirty greasers,
I’d say. All told, I reckon there won’t be far short of four hundred men in the engineering department.”

“Yet I haven’t seen a single one of them.”

“Do you ever see motormen when you ride the train, Mrs. Littlejohn?”

“No, that’s true.”

“It’s a world apart down there in the boiler room. Stokers earn their wages.”

“But do they get their just deserts?” she pressed. “Or are they cruelly exploited by the Cunard Line?” She saw his look of surprise. “I think you have the wrong idea about the
Ladies’ Weekly Journal
, Mr. Dillman. We don’t only give our readers nice recipes and offer them guidance with regard to fashion and etiquette. The magazine does have a conscience as well. Are you familiar with the name of Ida Tarbell?”

“Of course,” he replied. “She published a series of articles in
McClure’s
, exposing the coercion and double-dealing in the oil business. Mr. Rockefeller was hopping mad with the woman they called Miss Tarbarrel. I happen to think she performed a great public service. Standard Oil had a monopoly, and that can so easily lead to corruption.”

“I knew we’d talk the same language!” she said, patting his knee. “My magazine can’t match
McClure’s
or
Munsey’s
, or even the
Ladies’ Home Journal
, but my editor does like to court controversy from time to time. That’s why I’ve been sniffing around, you see. I’ve talked to stewards, cooks, bakers, mail sorters, barbers, even the two typists aboard. Most are too loyal to Cunard, but one of the stewardesses told me what she was paid. It’s pitiful. Without tips, her income would be derisory.”