Murder on the Minneapolis (2 page)

‘Um – it’s Flora. Flora Maguire,’ she stammered, disarmed by the intensity of his stare.

‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Maguire.’

‘What are you going to do with the horseless carriage once you are back in England?’

‘I plan to manufacture similar vehicles. Not the first to do so, you understand. The Daimler Company beat me to that particular accolade. At present, I’m seeking partners to provide the engineering expertise, while I—’ He checked himself again with a self-conscious cough. ‘I do apologize, but when I get started, there’s no stopping me.’

‘I’m fascinated, but this is all quite new to me, I’m afraid.’ Flora bent to study the front mounted lamps that looked like eyes peering back at her. ‘It looks as if it has a personality.’

‘Splendid!’ His face lit up like a schoolboy’s. ‘I’m so glad you see it too. Most people think it’s ridiculous that I should attribute a character to a pile of metal, wood and rubber.’ He leaned towards her, his breath warm on her cheek, ‘I’ve named her Matilda.’

‘That’s not so outrageous.’ Flora closed her eyes briefly, enjoying his closeness, though he was a stranger. ‘After all, they call boats “she” and give them feminine names.’

‘Exactly.’

‘There you are, Flora.’ Eddy’s rapid footsteps clattered across the boards. ‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere. I thought you’d fallen overboard.’

‘There’s no need for melodrama, Eddy.’ Flora’s governess tone emerged by habit. ‘I was merely taking a walk when I happened to meet Mr Harrington here.’

Eddy wasn’t listening. ‘Golly, it’s a motor car.’ He eased
between them, his feet trampling the canvas to get to the vehicle.

‘A Panhard-Leva-um,’ Flora began, failing miserably in her attempt to display her knowledge.

‘Panhard-Levassor Landaulet,’ Bunny corrected, following Eddy’s progress round to the rear.

‘Mr Harrington plans to open a factory in England making them,’ Flora said, wondering when, if ever, she would be able to call him Bunny. Then remembered he hadn’t asked her to.

‘Well, perhaps not these,’ Bunny said. ‘I hope to make one from a design of my own.’

Eddy’s head appeared above the rear canopy. ‘Do you have your designs with you?’

‘I do as a matter of fact. I would be happy to show them to you sometime.’

‘Oh, yes please.’ Eddy ran a hand along the bodywork as he circled the motor car, firing rapid questions, while Bunny responded with enthusiasm.

Flora stepped back, an observer to these two males, who, though physically dissimilar, their confident air of knowing their own place in the world marked them as from the same mould.

She began to feel invisible; rarely remembered and easily replaced. Lord Vaughn called the housemaid who made up the fires Molly, despite the fact Molly had left two years before and her post had been held by several others since.

The night air had grown colder and goose bumps erupted on Flora’s arms beneath her shawl. She cleared her throat. ‘Eddy, I think we should leave Mr Harrington in peace. Perhaps, he will allow you to see the motor car another time?’

‘Of–of course. Any time he wishes.’ Bunny opened his mouth as if on the verge of saying something, but changed his mind and closed it again.

‘Come along, Eddy.’ Flora strode away, aware of Bunny’s perplexed stare boring into her back.

‘What did you think of Mr Harrington?’ Eddy caught up with her on the metal steps up to the promenade deck.

‘He seems pleasant enough.’

‘I think he’s a really good chap.’ His voice held disappointment at her lack of enthusiasm.

‘Because he has a motor car?’

‘No. I had a long talk with him at dinner.’ Eddy opened the door of their suite, standing aside to let her enter. ‘He’s seated at our table.’

O
VER CUPS OF
hot cocoa delivered by the stewardess, Flora anticipated her next encounter with Bunny Harrington would be at breakfast. He would have concluded by now she wasn’t simply another passenger, and secretly hoped it would make no difference.

Eddy hovered at her shoulder, shuffling his feet, a well-known precursor to a confession.

‘Isn’t it time you got ready for bed, Eddy?’

‘In a minute, I wanted to ask you something first. There’s this grand chap on our table at dinner tonight. His name is Ozymandias.’

‘Really?’ Flora raised her brows. ‘Does his mother have a fondness for Shelley by any chance?’

‘What?’ Eddy frowned.

‘Don’t say, “what”, Eddy. Say “pardon”.’ She gathered their empty cups onto a tray. ‘“I met a traveller from an antique land,”’ she quoted.

‘I don’t like poetry. It’s sissy.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Besides, he likes to be called Ozzy. It was that old lady’s suggestion. Mrs Penry-Jones.’

‘What was?’ Flora looked up at him and frowned. ‘Calling him Ozzy?’

‘No, not that.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘She said Ozzy and me ought to take meals with the other young people on board and not in the main dining room.’

Flora whipped round to face him. ‘This Mrs Penry-something said that? How presumptuous of her. I’ve a good mind to—’

‘No, Flora, really.’ Eddy bounced on his heels. ‘Mrs Gilmore, that’s Ozzy’s mother, was annoyed too, but Ozzy said there’ll be other boys our age there. They eat an hour earlier than the other passengers.’

An image of a woman with a thrusting bosom and chicken-lipped mouth puckered like a schoolteacher filled Flora’s head.

‘I’d rather eat with the other boys, Flora, honestly,’ Eddy went on. ‘The old people are stuffy and spent the entire time at dinner discussing whether or not McKinley will be re-elected as President. I’ll have more fun with Ozzy. He’s a trump.’

‘I’m glad you’ve found a friend of whom you think so highly.’ Flora placed the tray on the bureau by the door ready for the stewardess to collect. ‘Incidentally, did this Mrs Penry-Jones happen to have an opinion about where governesses should eat?’

‘That’s an odd question.’ Eddy tucked in his chin and regarded her with his head on one side. ‘Papa bought you a ticket. You’ve every right to eat with the other passengers.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to whine.’ She smoothed his hair where it stuck up at the back. ‘If that’s what you prefer, then it’s fine with me. Now go to bed, it’s after ten o’clock.’

‘Gosh, thanks, Flora. Goodnight.’

She released a sigh as his bedroom door banged shut. Now she would have to face all those stuffy people on her own.

Flora woke with a start, then lay still in the darkness, relieved only by a thin beam of light beneath the door from a lamp left on in the sitting room.

The thump that had woken her came again, as if something had been thrown against the bulkhead above her head. Pushing her hair away from her face, she flicked on the bedside light and peered at the hands on her travelling clock.

Twenty minutes past midnight.

Sighing, she flopped back against the pillows, when a man’s voice came clearly through the bedroom wall.

‘Things change …’

‘… I thought we agreed …’ a high, female voice said.

Flora drew her knees up into a crouch and pressed her ear to the bulkhead. A brief surge of shame ran through her, immediately suppressed. Anyone vociferous enough to wake her in the middle of the night must expect eavesdropping.

In a lower, more menacing timbre, the man next door spoke again, although Flora couldn’t make out the words.

Then a door slammed, followed by silence. No rapid footsteps, or enraged sobbing, just the tick of the mantle clock that now read 12.26.

Muttering to herself about the selfishness of others, Flora turned over, and slapped the pillows into submission in an effort to settle back to sleep.

Raised voices were a common occurrence at Cleeve Abbey, where Lord and Lady Vaughn’s arguments were legendary. Apart from a stifled giggle or two amongst the younger housemaids, nothing was said about the pieces of broken china or glass left on floors.

The night passed slowly, alternating with periods of
wakeful restlessness, accompanied by the persistent low thrum of the engines below.

When she woke, her cabin was bathed in weak daylight, although still unsociably early. With no pressing need to rise, she relaxed, enjoying the comfort of the soft mattress and crisp linen.

A vague recollection of shouts from the cabin next door came back to her. Had she dreamed it? What she did recall with clarity was the charming young man with the uninhibited laugh she had met on deck, whose eyes had a way of looking right into her soul.

A warm flush spread through her when she recalled her abruptness towards him when Eddy arrived. Annoyed, but resigned, she threw off the bedclothes and padded to the bathroom. She had simply saved him the embarrassment of having flirted with a governess.

He would thank her later.

After the luxury of a hot bath where the water geyser didn’t splutter and bang like her one at home, Flora dressed, then eased open the door of Eddy’s room. He lay spread-eagled among rumpled covers, snoring gently.

The stewardess wouldn’t arrive with morning tea for almost an hour, so throwing a shawl around her shoulders, Flora let herself out onto the promenade deck, where a sprinkling of white-flecked waves below a milky blue sky augured the beginning of a calm day.

She paused beside the door next to hers, where the label read
Miss E Lane
.

Flora chewed her lip. A woman travelling alone? Then
who was the man she had argued with the night before? Another passenger, or a member of the crew?

A voice called from somewhere above, followed by a slammed door, but no one appeared, so she continued along the deck, staggering a little against the gentle rise and fall of the ship.

An outside companionway, surrounded on three sides by a rail above a set of narrow metal steps, dropped steeply to the boat deck below, with what appeared to be a bundle of clothes at the bottom. A closer look revealed the figure of a man lying prone on the boards.

Flora clattered down the step, her boots ringing on the metal treads and the words, ‘Are you hurt?’ dying on her lips.

The man lay unnaturally still, eyes open and sightless; and quite dead.

His features, though slack and colourless, were recognizable as the worried-looking man she had seen talking to the lady in the claret coat when they boarded.

Was he here alone? Would anyone be looking for him? Whom should she call?

She swept the deck on both sides with a frantic gaze, but nothing moved; the only sounds the wind and a distant engine noise as the ship glided over a calm ocean.

Horror turned to curiosity. She crept closer, taking in his black dinner suit and scuffed shoes. A large purple bruise had formed on his right cheek. Her gaze slid to a three-inch long gash at the base of his skull. She winced, then looked again as something struck her as wrong. The open edges gaped a deep liverish red, but apart from a dried smear of red-brown on his shirt collar, there was no sign of blood. The boards beneath him looked clean, if damp.

‘Are you all right, miss?’ a male voice said, making her jump.

Flora looked up into the frowning features of a man in naval officer’s uniform, a much younger crewman at his shoulder. Without waiting for her to respond, he bent to the figure on the deck.

‘Has the gentleman had a fall?’ the first man enquired.

‘I-I don’t know,’ she addressed the crouching officer’s back. ‘I simply found him like this. I think he’s dead.’

‘Blimey!’ the younger sailor muttered, his eyes wide.

‘Fetch Dr Fletcher immediately,’ the officer cocked his chin at the younger man.

‘Aye, sir.’ The sailor backed away, turned and pounded down the deck.

The officer rose to his full height and touched a hand to his cap. ‘Second Officer Martin, at your service, miss…?’

‘Maguire. Flora Maguire.’

He blinked, distracted, as if making a mental search of the sailor’s manual but couldn’t find the part about dead bodies. Then he appeared to make up his mind and straightened, taking her arm. ‘Perhaps you should step away, Miss Maguire.’

‘I’m fine, truly.’ Flora rolled her shoulder out of his grasp. She was staying where she was for now. The sound of running feet signalled the return of the young crewman in the company of a man Flora assumed was the doctor, confirmed when he rested a finger on the man’s neck and then his wrist.

‘I’m Dr Fletcher,’ he announced once his examination was complete. ‘Did you see the gentleman fall, miss?’ His gaze slid over Flora as if trying to assess what part she had played in the incident. His nut-brown hair was short, well cut, but untidy, as if he’d just got out of bed.

Two more sailors and a steward appeared from somewhere and hovered a few feet away.

‘I didn’t see it happen, no, but …’ Flora lowered her voice, adding, ‘Are you sure he fell?’

The doctor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you say that?’ He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fishing float.

‘Well,’ Flora began, ‘if he fell forwards, the way he’s lying now, how did he get that wound on the back of his head?’

‘He most probably hit the handrail on the way down.’ Dr Fletcher turned away, dismissing her.

‘Maybe. But if so, wouldn’t he have tried to save himself? His arms are by his sides as if—’

‘You’ve clearly had a shock, Miss Maguire.’ Officer Martin stepped in front of her, blocking her view. ‘I suggest you return to your suite while we deal with this.’

Flora bridled, but resisted. ‘Why do you keep trying to get rid of me? I’m not hysterical, and I asked a perfectly reasonable question.’ She directed a look of enquiry at the crewmen, each of whom studied her with varying degrees of scepticism.

Heavy footsteps approached. Flora braced herself for yet more censure, but the startled, ‘Good grief, what’s happened?’ came in a voice both familiar and reassuring.

‘Mr Harrington, thank goodness.’ Flora grabbed hold of his sleeve, urging him forwards. ‘I found this man on the deck.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘He’s dead, and not only will the crew not answer my questions, they keep trying to make me leave.’

‘Did you see it happen?’ Bunny slid an arm around her waist, though she was in no danger of falling. She left it there, his touch comforting, and safe.

‘No, he was just lying here,’ Flora said. ‘The doctor
thinks he fell down the steps, but I’m not so sure.’

‘The lady is a trifle distraught, Mr, er—’ Officer Martin took her arm again with one hand and saluted Bunny with the other, a brow raised in enquiry.

‘Harrington.’

‘Mr Harrington. Coming upon a body like that could upset anyone, especially a young lady.’

‘I am not upset!’ Flora glared at him.

Officer Martin removed his hand from her arm as if burned. ‘It appears to be a simple, but regrettable accident, sir. Easily done when one isn’t used to the motions of the ship. Added to which, the companionway is quite steep.’

‘Do fatal accidents occur often on board ships?’ Bunny’s penetrating gaze made him flinch.

‘Not at all!’ Officer Martin’s voice held affront. ‘Falls do, especially in rough seas, but I cannot say we have many deaths. This gentleman must have been extremely unlucky.’

Flora frowned. Was his bland reassurance an attempt to shield the other passengers? Or to allay blame that the companionways weren’t safe? A metal rail ran around three sides of the hole, but the steps were thin and metal, thus quite slippery. They had also been washed recently, judging by the sheen of water that clung to the treads.

‘Do either of you recognize him?’ the doctor asked, fastening his jacket.

Flora hesitated. ‘N-no, I don’t know him.’ Her attempt to eavesdrop on his conversation with the lady in the red coat hardly counted as an acquaintance. Nor was she certain the argument she had heard was with the same one who occupied the stateroom next door to hers.

‘His name is Parnell,’ Bunny interjected. ‘Frank, I think.’

‘You knew him, Mr Harrington?’ Officer Martin’s expression hardened to suspicion.

‘We met for the first time at dinner last evening,’ Bunny said. ‘He was travelling in the company of a young lady. An actress, I believe.’

Flora frowned. The woman in the claret coat didn’t strike her as being an actress. Not that she knew any.

‘I see, now if you would excuse me, sir.’ Dr Fletcher beckoned two members of the crew who proceeded to maneuver the dead man onto a sheet of tarpaulin.

‘Shouldn’t the captain see the body before it’s moved?’ Flora whispered to Bunny.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what the procedure is. I assume they know what they are doing.’ He addressed the nearest sailor. ‘Where are you taking him?’

‘To my office for the time being,’ Dr Fletcher said over his shoulder before following.

‘The matter is out of our hands now,’ Bunny said with a sigh, turning back to Flora. ‘Won’t you allow me to escort you back to your suite?’

‘But—’ she halted and exhaled, resigned. After all, she hadn’t known the dead man, and whatever had happened to him was none of her concern. ‘All right, if you insist. I mean – thank you.’ She accepted his proffered arm, and started to climb the steps, pausing halfway up, her gaze roving the metal treads.

‘Are you looking for something?’ He halted beside her, followed her gaze, one arm of his spectacles gripped by the edges between a thumb and forefinger.

‘There’s no blood on these steps,’ Flora said slowly. ‘Or on the deck. In fact there’s not a drop anywhere.’

‘Perhaps one of the sailors cleaned it up. Can’t leave it there for the passengers to see.’

‘No one came near us with anything resembling a mop,’ Flora murmured as she resumed her climb. ‘Besides, there was none to remove.’

Her confusion made the walk along the deck a silent one. Why did no one else wonder about the absence of blood on steps that had inflicted a wound deep enough to kill a man?