Murder on the Minneapolis (15 page)

Flora?’ Cynthia called from the sitting room. ‘Your coffee will get cold.’

‘Coming.’ The gown forgotten, Flora thrust the paper back into her pocket and went to join Cynthia.

F
LORA PACED THE
suite and read the newspaper clipping again, staring at the stark print long after she reached the end. Her thoughts whirling, she was vaguely aware of the slap of horizontal rain that lashed the deck outside, accompanied by the scream of the wind. That Eloise had changed her name came as no surprise, though the fact her husband had died less than a week after their secret wedding sent chills through her. No wonder his family were suspicious; anyone would be.

The question remained as to how ‘Theo’ had died. Was Eloise telling the truth when she claimed to have nothing to do with it? If so, then why was she so worried Mr Hersch might discover who she was? That Parnell kept the clipping gave credence to Eloise’s claim he had tried to blackmail her.

She recalled the raised voices on her first night on board and tried to picture Eloise battering Parnell with an ashtray, but dismissed it.

Alerted to the sound of repeated knocking at the suite door, her progress across the room was hampered by the fierce bucking of the ship. Finally, she flung it open to reveal Bunny.

Stepping inside, he smoothed his wet hair back with cupped hands, removed his steamed-up glasses and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief produced from a pocket.

Flora fetched a towel from the bathroom, their hands connecting as he took it. She drew hers back sharply, hoping he did not notice the impeding blush that prickled her skin.

‘Is the storm getting worse?’ Flora asked, self-conscious. He would think her gauche if she coloured at every innocent contact, though at times she caught a sudden sparkle in his eyes that implied he felt it too.

He nodded. ‘Looks like it, though Matilda is secure, thank goodness.’ He emerged from under the towel, still giving his scalp a vigorous scrub. ‘Everything all right? You seem a bit distracted.’

Silently, she handed him the clipping. ‘Read this.’

He handed back the towel without speaking, and took the page from her.

‘The night Eloise and I searched Parnell’s cabin—’

‘Broke into,’ he corrected her.

‘Yes, all right then, broke into. That fell on the floor with the photograph.’

Bunny wasn’t listening, his gaze scanned the paper swiftly then looked up, his expression unfathomable. The deck lurched and he staggered slightly, a hand on the back of a chair to steady himself, while rain sluiced the window like a hosepipe being aimed at the glass.

‘I’ve never heard the names van Elder or Montgomery before.’ He paused and narrowed his eyes. ‘Unless …’

‘Think, Bunny, you must have made the connection by now.’ She twirled her hand in a circular motion as encouragement.

‘Oh. I see. Eloise is this Estelle van Elder.’

‘Exactly!’ Flora took the clipping from him and waved it under his nose. ‘I’m going to demand Eloise explain this, and everything else she’s been hiding since we came aboard.’

‘That might not produce the result you wish for.’

‘What do you mean?’ Flora lowered herself into the nearest chair, waving him into one opposite.

‘If Eloise thinks you’re nosing into her affairs.’ The deck lurched sharply as he lowered himself into a chair, and he fell the rest of the way. ‘Suppose she complains to the captain? It’s not as if you have the authority to question people.’

‘I doubt it. She’s too scared. But you have a point.’

‘As I recall, I have quite a number of points, but you always manage to circumvent them.’ He flicked the page with a finger. ‘It says here van Elder died days after they eloped. No wonder she’s keeping you guessing.’

‘I know it looks bad, but—’

‘But what? How come you’ve become her champion? You hardly know the woman.’

Flora was about to remind him she didn’t know him either, but left the words unspoken. Instead, she said, ‘Eloise, or Estelle, or whatever her name is, thinks Mr Hersch is working for the van Elder family.’

‘I warned you to be careful of that man.’ Bunny threw her an ‘I told you so’ look. ‘He might look like an amiable old uncle, but there’s more to him than that.’

‘He’s not that old.’ Nothing about Mr Hersch had made her distrust him thus far, but then she had felt the same about Eloise.

‘I don’t see what we could do, although …’ Bunny paused and stroked his chin.

‘What?’ Flora urged.

‘A friend of mine is a reporter for the
New York Times
. I could ask him to discover what he can about this Theodore van Elder chap, including the circumstances surrounding his death. In the meantime, I suggest we don’t say anything to anyone.’

‘Even Mr Hersch?’

‘Especially him. We have no idea what’s he’s up to or why.’

Flora chewed her bottom lip, torn between her promise to the German, and her wish to stay in Bunny’s favour. Finally, she nodded. ‘All right. I won’t say anything.’

‘Come on then!’ Bunny heaved himself to his feet and made his way to the door.

‘You want to go to the telegraph office now? In this?’ Flora waved at the darkened window which showed a slate grey lowering sky and an angry sea.

‘Why not? Most of the passengers are holed up in their staterooms.’

Flora shrugged into her coat, while Bunny braced the door open with his hip and led the way out onto the promenade deck.

‘Who would care if we sent a telegram anyway?’ Flora said, as a blast of salt spray stung her cheeks and the stiff wind plastered her skirt to her legs.

‘Most people wouldn’t,’ Bunny shouted above the scream of the wind. ‘Though the killer might.’ He released the door behind them which slammed into its frame with a deafening bang.

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Flora murmured to herself.

Bunny’s knock on the wireless room door was answered by a fresh-faced crewman whom Flora thought looked
vaguely familiar; his brass name plate identifying him as Seaman Crofts.

‘You’re lucky to catch me, sir, miss.’ He ushered them inside and leaned a shoulder against the door when it threatened to spring open again. ‘I was seeing to the bells, and have just this moment got back.’

The cramped room held an oversized wooden desk sat below a rack of tightly packed shelves, the atmosphere permeated with aromas of paper and wet wool.

‘What were you doing to the bells?’ Flora raised her hand to adjust her disarranged hair but gave up when she saw there was no mirror.

‘Muffling them, miss. Bells on board ship are considered bad luck as they signify funerals.’

‘I thought they were essential to sound the watches?’ Bunny said, frowning.

‘Yes, sir, that’s true. But if they ring of their own accord, as in a storm, it means somebody is going to die.’ His youthful face showed complete acceptance of this superstition. ‘The deck bell was clanging away like a good’un in this wind.’

Flora had no time for omens or superstitions. She preferred to rely on practicality combined with a keen sense of her own survival. The look she exchanged with Bunny told her his philosophy ran along similar lines, and he muttered a dismissive ‘I see’, before explaining why they were there.

The crewman dragged a pad of paper towards him.

‘You say this wire is to go to the
New York Times
office?’ His expression changed from eagerness to wary suspicion. ‘You’re not a reporter are you, sir? Because the captain said I wasn’t to send details of the death of that passenger to anyone—’

‘No, not at all,’ Bunny reassured him. ‘This is a personal matter I wish treated with the utmost privacy.’

‘As you say, sir.’ Crofts gave a curt nod, apparently satisfied as he took down the words Bunny dictated.

‘There’s no mention here of the gentleman who died,’ the sailor said when he had finished. ‘So I don’t reckon it can do any harm. Pounds or dollars, sir?’ He scribbled a few symbols on a scrap of paper before handing it to Bunny.

‘Oh, er, pounds if you don’t mind,’ Bunny replied. ‘I don’t have any American currency left.’

‘Then that’s twenty-two words, sir, at eight shillings four pence for ten words. The signature is included, so that will be sixteen shillings eight pence.’

‘Can’t you put it on my account?’ Bunny asked, frantically searching his pockets.

‘I’m sorry, sir. All wireless telegraphy charges are strictly pre-paid.’

‘Well, I’m not sure I – ah!’ Bunny withdrew a pound note from an inside pocket and handed it over.

Flora waited as Seaman Crofts counted out change from a cash box into Bunny’s hand, her attention caught by a sheet of notepaper on the desk, with “Telegraph Request – Urgent” on the top and Carl Hersch’s name beneath. The word “Sent” in sketchy block capitals scrawled across it.

‘How does the telegraph machine work?’ Flora feigned interest in the contraption on the desk, while taking a closer look at the page.

Seaman Crofts launched into a lively description of the wireless telegraphy machine, with its three cylinders of various sizes joined by cogs and strips of metal above an ivory and black keyboard that resembled a small pianoforte.

Paying cursory attention to the combination of metal,
wood and wires, Flora squinted at the words
Montana
Land Deal 1890
.

Suddenly, the sailor broke off from his explanation and cleared his throat while he slid his elbow over the page, obscuring its contents.

‘Time to go, Flora,’ Bunny said from behind her.

Flora was about to obey when she realised when she had seen the sailor before. ‘Didn’t I see you talking with Mr Crowe yesterday in the upstairs lobby?’

He bent his head to a pile of papers, his cheeks flushed. ‘I speak to most of the passengers at one time or another, miss.’

‘I’m sure you remember this one. He was being unpleasant, wasn’t he?’ she asked, drawing an enquiring look from Bunny. ‘He does have an unfortunate manner sometimes.’

‘Um – well, he was a bit cross.’ A sheen of sweat appeared on the sailor’s forehead. ‘We settled the matter, though, miss. I think you’ll find he has no complaints.’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t. You must have to deal with all sorts of people in your job.’

‘I do, miss. Now if you don’t mind, I have to get on.’ He waved Bunny’s telegram in the air.

‘Of course, and we must get along to our luncheon.’ She grabbed Bunny’s arm and hustled him into the lobby.

‘What was that all about?’ Bunny asked, when the door closed behind them.

‘I’m not sure.’ Flora tapped her teeth with a fingernail. ‘It could be nothing at all. Then again …’

The wind continued to howl as Flora made her way along the interior corridor, while Bunny lurched from one handrail to another in an effort to remain upright. Flora was
grateful for Bunny’s steadying arm, as they emerged into the lobby outside the dining room.

Braced against the door that led onto the deck, she paused to allow a stream of unsteady diners through the doors ahead of them.

‘What’s that chap doing?’ Bunny pointed through the window onto a deck barely visible through a wall of spray that crashed over the rail.

‘Where?’ Flora peered through the mist, where she could just make out the figure of a man in a long overcoat. Bent almost double, he concentrated on planting one foot in front of the other on the steeply angled boards. ‘He’s making for the aft deck.’

Bunny narrowed his eyes but did not answer.

Flora gripped the handrail as the crest of a running wave lifted the floor beneath her feet, hovered, then plunged the ship downwards again, taking her stomach with it.

The man on deck staggered, just as a wave twice the size of the one before rolled over the rail.

He looked over his shoulder, his face suffusing with terror as the water rushed towards him. At the last second, he made a grab for the ladder to the promenade deck, but his hand closed on thin air and the wall of water crashed over him, obscuring him completely.

‘Stay here!’ Bunny commanded, flinging open the outside door.

‘No! Bunny. It’s too dangerous!’ Flora called into the wind, aware he couldn’t possibly have heard her.

Cold water slammed into her eyes and her skirt billowed out like a sail, her shawl whipping painfully round her shoulders. Knowing she would be blown off her feet if she stayed there, she was left with no option but to
heave the door shut again.

Water dripped from her hair as she stared through the glazed door to where Bunny waded through knee-high seawater, using the fenders on the lifeboats as handholds.

Her gaze jumped forwards to the man, who with nothing to hold on to was being pulled towards the rail in the grip of fast flowing water being sucked back into the sea.

A loud creak sounded from the far side of the deck, and Flora gasped in horror as Bunny’s motor car slid inexorably across the boards towards both men, its canvas cover billowing in the wind, the straps trailing behind it like streamers.

The deck tilted to the starboard side, and the metal monster gathered speed. The creak and squeal must have alerted Bunny, for he gave the moving car one hesitant look before he plunged past it, straight for the half-submerged man.

A rush of tender admiration filled Flora’s chest at what it must have cost him to ignore his beloved motor car and go to the man’s aid. Another wave submerged them both beneath a giant grey hand that threatened to pluck them both from the deck. Together, they rolled sideways, dragged towards the gap below the bottom rung, where nothing stood between them and the ferocious sea.

A small crowd had rapidly gathered behind Flora in the lobby, issuing murmured gasps of dismay, while a line of sailors, heedless of the storm, clambered down the outside companionway, heads down against the wind and rain.

The deluge swirled and receded from the boards, leaving the two figures huddled against a massive circular winch riveted to the deck.

‘He’s got him!’ someone yelled.

Flora’s breath hitched and she mouthed silent bargains with God for Bunny’s safe return.

The deck levelled out and Bunny hauled the man upright, then clutched together, they limped towards the lobby door. Behind them, the motor car came to a shuddering rest against a pile of folded steamer chairs jammed tight against a lifeboat.