Murder on the Minneapolis (5 page)

‘How am I going to present myself to Mr Cyril Maude without Frank?’ She stared morosely out at the ocean, apparently not expecting an answer.

Flora tried to think of something profound to keep the conversation going, finally settling on flattery. ‘Perhaps you don’t need his influence to get you the part. I mean, I imagine you could impress this Mr Maude by your acting ability alone.’

At first, Flora thought she had overdone it, but Eloise gave an acknowledging nod and puffed out her boyish chest. ‘You’re right. I don’t need Frank. I’ll attend that audition and prove to him what a wonderful Lady Teazle I’ll make.’ A beatific smile softened her expression as she consigned Mr Parnell to the past.

Flora smiled back, though as she far as she remembered, Lady Teazle did not speak with a Southern accent.

‘I only wish I’d realized that before, I—’ Eloise broke off as gust of wind unravelled the knot in her scarf.

‘Before what?’ Flora watched her as she caught the billowing end.

Eloise’s eyes hardened. ‘It’s nothing. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

Flora wasn’t going to let that go. ‘Even if you were most
probably the last person to see him alive?’

Her head whipped round, pinning Flora with a direct stare. ‘What are you talking about?’

Flora hesitated. To challenge her directly was a gamble, but this verbal dance was getting her nowhere. ‘I don’t mean to imply anything, but I heard you arguing with him last night.’ She broke eye contact and pretended to study a group of children playing hopscotch on the deck below.

‘Oh, I remember now.’ Eloise’s feigned memory lapse indicated she had been caught out. ‘Frank arrived at some ungodly hour last night wanting to talk. He smelled of whisky, so after a few sharp words I sent him away. That’s what you must have heard.’

Flora was about to probe further, but Eloise had already turned away. ‘I think I’ll go and lie down. It’s been a stressful morning and this wind is giving me a headache. Maybe we’ll see each other later.’

‘I expect so.’ Flora watched her go, unsure whether to believe her or not. Thoughtful, she pushed away from the rail, turned and came up short.

A woman whom Flora judged to be a few years older than herself stood several feet away, apparently studying the horizon with fierce intensity.

In a drab grey dress that clung to her ample curves, and a shapeless hat that hid her hair, Flora couldn’t recall having seen her before. Briefly she wondered if the woman had overheard her conversation with Eloise? But then, why would she?

Flora raised a hand in greeting, but instead of acknowledging her, the woman turned abruptly away and marched off down the deck.

Dismissing her as the nosy, but unfriendly sort, Flora let herself into the suite.

F
LORA UNEARTHED HER
copy of
Northanger Abbey
and descended to the steamer chairs stood lined up facing the rail, and located the one with her name attached. When Lady Vaughn had suggested she pay the eight shillings for two chairs, Flora had ventured this unnecessary as Eddy was unlikely to use one. Lady Vaughn had insisted, suggesting Flora might find someone congenial to sit with in the afternoons; though she doubted Bunny Harrington had featured in her ladyship’s calculations.

She settled down to read and having reached the part where Catherine had endured Mr Tilney’s indignant tirade for trespassing in a private area of the house, Flora slapped the book face down in her lap with a sigh.

‘I would have gone looking too,’ she murmured, her sympathies lodged firmly with the misunderstood heroine.

‘Talking to yourself?’ a voice asked.

Flora flung a hand over her eyes to where Bunny stood, the sun at his back.

‘Sort of. Won’t you join me?’

‘Hmm, better not occupy someone else’s seat, or I’ll be in disgrace for the rest of the voyage.’

‘Borrow Eddy’s, I doubt he’ll notice. He’s at divine
service with the Gilmores.’

Bunny dragged the nearest chair closer, tugged up his trousers and sat.

‘I suppose everyone is still talking about this morning’s drama?’ Flora said darkly, having studiously ignored several curious looks from passers-by.

‘Does that surprise you?’ Bunny plucked a cushion from a pile beside his chair and tucked it behind his neck, his head tilted back to receive the morning sun.

‘No, I suppose not,’ she said, distracted by a savoury aroma that drifted towards her on the wind. ‘What’s that wonderful smell?’ She sniffed appreciatively.

‘Bouillon.’ Bunny indicated to where a steward moved along the line of chairs, pausing at each one. ‘Would you like some?’

Without waiting for an answer, he beckoned the man over and requested two cups. Handing one to Flora, he tossed a coin onto the tray.

The steward examined the coin so closely, Flora half expected him to bite it.

‘Thank you very much, sir!’ Pocketing it with a flourish, the steward withdrew.

‘I see you’re a generous tipper.’ Flora wrapped both hands round the cup, allowing the steam to drift over her face.

‘The work is demanding for the Southampton boys. Long hours for derisory pay, so they tend to rely on passenger’s tips.’

‘The housemaids at Cleeve Abbey work equally hard, but they never get more than a day-old cake or cut of left-over pork to take to their mothers on a Sunday.’ She looked up from her cup and took in his expression. ‘Oh dear, that sounds bitter, doesn’t it?’

‘Not really. I’m impressed you consider those less fortunate than yourself with some charity. So many people don’t.’

‘The same applies to yourself, I think. Anyway, don’t stewards have to hand their tips in to the steamship treasury?’ Flora repeated what Lord Vaughn had used as an excuse for a measly gratuity on the outward voyage. ‘It’s not all added to their wages, either.’

‘Really? I didn’t know that.’ He adjusted his spectacles with a disgruntled sniff. ‘I’d like to think good tips keep them honest. The temptation to cheat must be irresistible amongst all this luxury.’

Flora spotted Gus Crowe at the other end of the deck in conversation with a prosperous looking man in a fur coat.

‘Talking of cheating,’ she began, changing the subject, ‘you told the captain Mr Crowe was angry when he lost at cards. Is it possible he suspected Parnell of double-dealing?’

‘Ah, we’re back to that, are we?’

‘I don’t like mysteries,’ Flora said, mildly disgruntled at being dismissed by yet another man, however politely.

Bunny shook his head. ‘I doubt Parnell employed sleight of hand. He was just lucky. Biscuit?’ He held up one of the flat beige roundels, twirling it like a conjurer.

Flora took it eagerly, surprised at how hungry she was, despite her breakfast.

‘What did the ladies do while the men played poker last night?’ She bit into the still warm, floury biscuit, following it with a mouthful of hot, salty bouillon that slid warmly into her stomach.

‘The old lady from Baltimore loudly disapproved of card games played for money.’

‘The old lady who didn’t make an appearance at
breakfast?’ Flora asked round a mouthful of crumbs.

‘Mrs Penry-Jones. That’s right. Claims to be one of the four hundred.’

‘Forgive my ignorance, but what’s the four hundred?’

‘Fascinating American idiosyncrasy.’ Bunny chewed his biscuit and swallowed. ‘Four hundred was the number of guests who could fit into Mrs William Backhouse Astor Junior’s ballroom. Thus the number of New York society considered the elite.’

‘Really.’ Flora silently resolved to avoid Mrs Penry-Jones, then remembered that she was seated at the same dining table.

Bunny grinned at Flora over the rim of his cup. ‘Perhaps she tripped Parnell with her cane and sent him to the bottom of the stairs because she objected to gambling.’

‘I shan’t rise to that, Mr Harrington.’ Flora narrowed her eyes. ‘And you? What did you do all evening?’

‘Me?’ He blinked, then thought for a moment. ‘I chatted to Cynthia for a while, and then Mr Hersch joined us.’

‘An interesting man, I thought. He’s German, isn’t he?’

Bunny swallowed a mouthful of bouillon, nodding. ‘Originally. He’s been a resident in New York this past twenty years, or so he said. Affable chap, but, well, buttoned-up is a good description.’

‘Did he play cards last night?’ Flora asked, not sure of the relevance of this card game. But it was somewhere to begin.

‘For a while, but folded early on. He was winning too, which struck me as odd. I asked him what he did for a living at one point, but he was vague. It wasn’t until later I realized he hadn’t answered my question.’ Bunny shrugged. ‘I suppose he only agreed to play to be sociable. Not like Parnell.’

‘What about Parnell?’

‘Hah! He played as if his life depended on it.’ He caught her eye and winced. ‘Sorry, bit inappropriate in the circumstances. Ah, here’s young Eddy.’ He looked pointedly at his watch.

‘What are you doing here, Eddy?’ Flora asked, her ear cocked to the strains of ‘Eternal Father Strong to Save’ drifting from the deck above. ‘Divine Service hasn’t finished yet.’

‘Um.’ Eddy shuffled his feet, rubbing both hands down the side of his trousers. ‘Me and Ozzy didn’t go.’ He indicated a boy with blunt-cut straight blond hair and mouse-brown eyes beside him. ‘We played shuffleboard instead.’

‘I see.’ A reprimand died on her lips. She could hardly chastise Eddy when she had not attended service herself. ‘I’ll forgive you this once, though you’ll be expected to display more conspicuous devotion at Marlborough.’

Eddy’s shoulders slumped in relief. ‘Oh, I will, I promise.’

Bunny mouthed the words ‘conspicuous devotion’ behind the boy’s back with a mock-horrified expression that made Flora clamp her lips together to prevent herself laughing.

‘Did you really find the body, Miss Maguire?’ Ozzy could evidently not hold in the question a second longer.

‘I did. However, I trust neither of you have discussed the gentleman’s demise with the other boys. It’s disrespectful.’

‘How would he know if we talked about him or not?’ Eddy demanded, with all the straightforwardness of youth. ‘He’s dead.’

Bunny chortled and Flora sighed.

‘Captain Gates told my father that card sharps might be on board.’ Ozzy peered at her myopically. ‘Perhaps Mr Parnell was a professional gambler.’

‘It was simply an accident,’ Flora insisted, despite her own thoughts on the subject.

‘They’ll bury him at sea, you know,’ Ozzy announced with dispassionate authority. ‘Wrap his body in a sail and sew it up like a parcel with the last stitch right through his nose.’

‘Really?’ Eddy’s eyes widened. ‘Straight through the bony bit, or just the soft end?’

‘Eddy!’ Flora spluttered on her bouillon.

Bunny’s shoulders shook with ill-concealed mirth, at which Flora threw him a ‘don’t just sit there’ look.

‘How would you boys like an ice cream?’ Bunny withdrew a dollar note from his wallet and waved it in front of them.

‘Jolly decent of you, Mr Harrington.’ Eddy palmed the note with the speed of an illusionist. ‘See you at luncheon then.’

The boys were halfway along the deck before Flora spoke. ‘You do know ice cream on this ship is complimentary?’

‘Is it really? I had no idea.’ Bunny’s lips twitched as he dipped his nose into his cup, then immediately held it at arm’s length, grimacing. ‘Dash it, my bouillon has gone cold.’

Flora spent more time than usual selecting what to wear for luncheon, finally settling on a sage green blouse in soft cotton with pale grey trim over a grey skirt. While fastening a gold and garnet brooch left to her by her mother, a gentle rap came at the door.

Assuming it was the stewardess with clean linen, Flora’s welcoming smile froze in place at the sight of Bunny Harrington in a dark blazer and buff slacks, one arm braced above his head against the door frame.

‘I thought I would offer my services as your escort to luncheon.’ His smile betrayed he was not totally confident of his welcome.

‘That’s most kind of you.’ Her voice came out surprisingly calm, considering how his slow, appraising gaze unsettled her. Flora pulled the suite door closed behind her and fell into step beside him. His rimless glasses made him seem less studious than the horn-rimmed ones. ‘How many pairs of glasses do you own, exactly?’

He slid them off his nose, peering at them as he walked as if he had never seen them before. ‘Several. They’re an indulgence of mine.’ He replaced them on his nose, then reached past her to push open the door that led into the staircase lobby.

‘Actually, I have a small confession to make,’ he said as they descended the oak staircase side by side. ‘I ran into young Eddy earlier, who suggested I call on you.’

‘I see.’ Her stomach did a tiny dip of disappointment, suspecting Eddy did so to assuage his guilt at preferring Ozzy’s company to hers.

‘Although I imagine every unattached man on board will be lining up to be your escort soon,’ he went on. ‘I simply thought to steal a march on them.’ He stood to one side at the dining room doors to allow a line of passengers to pass them.

‘Well recovered,’ she murmured, acknowledging Officer Martin as they passed him on their way to the table. The sailor’s benign smile reminded Flora of something she had meant to ask Bunny, and by the time he had settled her into
her chair, the thought had solidified.

‘Bunny? When Officer Martin asked about last night’s card game, you looked about to say something, but changed your mind.’

‘What? Ah, yes, that.’ He grimaced. ‘Thought better of it. A chap shouldn’t gossip if it’s likely to stir things up for anyone.’

‘For whom exactly?’

‘Max Cavendish. He said something to Parnell, I didn’t hear what, but for a moment I thought Parnell was about to punch him.’

‘Why didn’t you mention that to the captain?’

‘Don’t know really, but why spoil the man’s honeymoon by suggesting he held a grudge against a dead man?’

His exaggerated shrug was reminiscent of Eddy when caught out in a misdemeanour.

Flora was about to suggest he had implied exactly that, when a voice sounded at her elbow.

‘Miss Maguire.’ Dr Fletcher paused beside her. ‘I’m glad to see you have recovered from our little upset this morning.’

‘Not much recovering was necessary.’ Flora regarded him steadily, pleased when he looked away first. ‘I had never met Mr Parnell.’

‘Quite so. Though some of the other ladies on board don’t possess your constitution. I’ve been handing out sedatives all morning.’ He gave a curt nod and then strode in the direction of the captain’s table, pausing to talk to passengers on the way.

‘What are you thinking?’ Bunny asked, his head tilted toward her.

‘That he’s a handsome, amenable man with good
manners. I’m simply not convinced of his professional ability.’

‘Because he dismissed your question about the blood on the deck?’

‘Lack of blood.’

She looked to where Monica Gilmore approached and greeted them both like old friends, with planted kisses on cheeks and pressed hands. Having noisily persuaded her husband to re-arrange the seats, her attention shifted past Flora’s shoulder.

‘Here’s someone you haven’t yet met, Flora. Mrs Penry-Jones and that odd companion of hers.’

Flora turned to where an angular elderly lady limped towards them, leaning heavily on a black cane, a large black bag hooked over her other arm. Three rows of pearls the size of hazelnuts encased her wrinkled neck above a forest green taffeta gown in the style of some ten years previously.

‘Assist me, won’t you, Hester?’ she demanded of the woman who followed close behind. ‘Take my bag and place my cane where I can reach it.’

Flora recognised the companion who rushed to obey as the same woman who had been listening to her conversation with Eloise on deck. Her mousy brown hair was scraped back from her round face into a severe chignon which gave her eyes a cat-like tilt.

In response to Monica’s introduction, the old lady pressed the ends of Flora’s fingertips, muttering, ‘Adele Penry-Jones,’ in a tone which intimated Flora should have heard of her. ‘My companion, Hester Smith.’ She directed a backwards wave at the woman beside her without looking at her.

‘Maguire,’ Mrs Penry-Jones turned the word over on
her tongue, then added, ‘Irish?’

‘Somewhere in my ancestry perhaps,’ Flora replied. Scottish grandfathers notwithstanding.

‘Every hansom driver and waitress we came across in New York was Irish,’ Monica said.

Flora groaned inwardly. Already the odds were stacked against her. Wait until they found out she was a governess.

A heavy-set young man with floppy hair and slightly bulging eyes weaved between tables towards them, his face brightening when Bunny introduced him to Flora.

‘Max Cavendish.’ He pumped her hand with enthusiasm, his gaze constantly searching the room. ‘I’m travelling with my wife, but she appears somewhat tardy.’