“You’re a better man than I am,” said Mr. Kipling, looking relieved. Then, in a louder voice, he said, “Poor Carrie hasn’t been feeling quite herself this morning. I think I’ll take her back to the cabin and let her rest.”
“Sorry to hear it,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding as if in sympathy. “I hope we’ll see you both at lunch.”
“I’m sure a bit of rest will be just the thing,” said Mr. Kipling, taking his wife’s arm. “Good day, sir,” he said, nodding to the prince, who had just come up.
“Good day to you,” said the prince, doffing his hat and bowing to the departing couple. Kipling touched the brim of his hat, and his wife gave a perfunctory nod, and they walked off in the direction of their cabin.
Prinz Karl looked after them, a concerned expression on his face. “I am sorry to hear the lady is unwell,” he said. “It is nothing very serious, I hope.”
“Probably not,” said Mr. Clemens, leaning back against the rail. “I don’t think she’s used to travel.”
“Ah, say no more.” Prinz Karl responded. “I remember my own first venture on a ship, back in my student days. I and a group of my university friends were silly enough to book an English Channel crossing in midwinter, and the waves were higher than the Alps, I thought. We were on a little tub out of Calais, and to take her out in that weather the captain must have been mad. My friends and I were too young to know better, of course. Besides, we had drunk enough wine to float the ship. Before we reached Dover, I thought the ship would capsize at least six times. I was so sick, almost I wished it would capsize and put me out of my misery. If I live to see a hundred, I hope I do not see a storm like that again. But after that crossing, I have never again suffered with the mal de mer.”
“If it takes a storm like that to do it, I hope you never will again,” said Mr. Clemens. Then, after a pause, he added, “At least, not on this trip,” and the prince laughed and nodded.
“But I know what you mean about the old-time steamers,” my employer continued. “At best, they were a real education in discomfort. I remember some mighty rough days on the ship I took on my first trip to Germany, back in ’78 . ..” He shook his head. “But seeing Germany was well worth the trouble, you know? I don’t have to tell you about it, I know. I don’t think I got down to your part of the country, though. Just where is Ruckgarten? Maybe this time I’ll get a chance to visit your country.”
“Oh, it is a very small principality. Many modern maps do not even show it. And I fear there is not much for visitors to see,” said the prince. “We make excellent beer, and very good cheese and sausage, but we have no fine buildings or dramatic landscapes. Still, if you were to visit, you would certainly be welcome. Of that I would make certain.”
“Well, I’ll have to see what my plans turn out to be,” said Mr. Clemens, staring out at the horizon. “Depending on how much I have to work, I may have less time for travel and sightseeing than I’d like. But where precisely is it?” He turned and looked the prince directly in the eye.
The prince appeared uncomfortable at being quizzed in this fashion, but he said, without meeting my employer’s gaze, “It is near the border of Bohemia.”
Mr. Clemens grinned mischievously. “Oh, yes, on the sea coast, I suppose?”
For a moment, Prinz Karl looked at my employer with incomprehension on his face, while I struggled to picture the map in my mind. Geography had never been my strong suit, but I had been under the impression that Bohemia was some distance from the coast. Then the prince laughed and said, “Oho, The Winter’s Tale! You make a literary joke! We are acquainted with Shakespeare in Germany, you know. Thanks to Professor von Schlegel, he is almost one of our own poets.”
“You’re welcome to him,” said Mr. Clemens. “But speaking of literature, I’m afraid I’ve been putting off my own writing too long this morning. If you’ll excuse me and my secretary, we’ll go put our noses to the grindstone for a while.”
“By all means,” said the prince, and Mr. Clemens and I took our leave of him. I wondered what my employer had up his sleeve, since I knew very well that any work he had did not require my assistance.
9
As soon as were out of sight of Prinz Karl, Mr. Clemens said to me, “Wentworth, I want you to go to the ship’s library and find a map of Germany. Look down near Bohemia—do you know where that is?”
I tried again to remember my European geography. “Somewhere inland, isn’t it? Near Austria, I think.”
“Part of Austria, actually. Find Prague and look on the German side of the border, to the north and west. That’ll be close enough, I think. You’re looking for Ruckgarten, or anything that sounds like it. The place is probably small, but if it’s a real place, it still ought to show up on a good map. If they’ll let you borrow the map, bring it to Kipling’s cabin—I’m going there directly. If not, tell us what you find. I can double-check it later.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. “Why are we suddenly so concerned with where it is?”
Mr. Clemens glanced both ways down the deck, making certain no one was close enough to overhear him, then continued in a quiet voice. “I’m not going to spoil our trip, or the Kiplings’, just because we don’t know whether von Ruckgarten is a real prince or an impostor. If we have to keep dodging him, and pretending to be seasick, it’s going to become the only thing on our minds until we’re off the ship. So we need to find out whether Prinz Karl is what he claims to be, or some other kind of critter entirely. Besides, if people see me associating with the prince, they’re going to take him at face value and say, ‘He’s Mark Twain’s friend, so he must be all right.’ Then, if the rascal uses my supposed friendship as collateral to weasel his way into their confidence and rob them, I’m practically an accomplice. I don’t need that on my conscience—I already feel guilty enough about the friends I persuaded in good faith to throw away their money investing in a damned typesetting machine that didn’t work. Let’s erase the doubt, so we can enjoy ourselves.”
I nodded, understanding the reason for his urgency. “I’ll find out what I can,” I promised.
“Good. Cabin seventeen, when you know something.” He sauntered off down the deck, while I turned in at a doorway and went to find the ship’s library, which I remembered was on the same deck, near the Grand Saloon.
The corridor led me past a row of cabins, then a smaller smoking lounge and a ladies’ sitting room, before I reached the ship’s library. I opened the door and entered quietly, knowing from experience that librarians frowned on unnecessary noise. As with libraries on land, the first thing one noticed was a profusion of bookshelves, with several tables and comfortable chairs for reading. There was a good-sized globe on a stand in one corner, and next to it on the wall a large map showing the Atlantic Ocean, the nations bordering it, and the various sea routes between major ports. In the center of the room was a tidy desk for the librarian.
I was impressed; the library would have been the pride of many moderate-sized towns in the United States, although of course it could not compare to what I was used to at Yale. There was only one other person there—a young woman in a blue dress, staring at one of the top shelves, evidently at a book out of her reach. The librarian, I thought at first; then, hearing the door close behind me, she turned to see who had entered, and I recognized Robert Babson’s sister.
“Good morning,” I said quietly. “I thought for a moment you were the librarian.”
She laughed, then put a hand to her mouth and looked around, as if afraid the librarian would suddenly appear to chastise her. “No, I’m afraid she has stepped out of the room for a moment. Although my father sometimes calls me ‘the little librarian’ to tease me,” she said, “I do enjoy reading.” Then she looked at me more closely. “You’re Mr. Mark Twain’s secretary, aren’t you? My father said he met you in New York.”
“Is your father Julius Babson?” I asked, and she nodded, still smiling brightly. “Yes, we met briefly. I’m Wentworth Cabot. And to whom do I have t
he pleasure . . . ?”
“Rebecca Babson,” she said, then turned and looked back up at the shelf. “Oh, I’m lucky that you came in just now, Mr. Cabot. Could you possibly get me down A Portrait of a Lady? It’s on the top shelf, and I can’t quite reach it. I’d be ever so grateful.”
“I’ll be glad to,” I said, pleased that my height had turned out to be useful. I plucked the book off the shelf and handed it to her, noting that it was one of several on the shelf by Henry James, a current writer whom I had heard praised as a model of style. I should have to read some of his work some time.
“Oh, thank you so much,” she said. “Now, at least, I can begin reading it. When the librarian comes back, I can take it out with me.”
“Very much my pleasure, Miss Babson,” I said. “I hope you enjoy it.”
“I expect I shall,” she said, smiling brightly at me again. “Thank you again, Mr. Cabot.” She blushed slightly, then turned and walked to one of the seats, near a porthole admitting the morning sun. The rays striking her blond hair from behind lit it up like a halo, and I must admit that I stared at her for a moment longer than might have been polite, before I remembered my mission for Mr. Clemens.
I found the reference section without any difficulty, next to the map and globe I had spotted upon entering the room. There was a set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and a good selection of dictionaries of various languages (no surprise, considering that the library was designed for the use of travelers). On a bottom shelf filled with oversized books were two or three atlases of the world. Choosing the largest, I took it to a nearby table and spread it out.
While I cannot claim a special familiarity with geography, I have always enjoyed maps and globes. As a child, I used to go into my father’s study and spin the globe there, watching the colors blur and then, as it slowed, poke a finger at it and see where it stopped, imagining the strange people who must live there. The colors and shapes of the maps, as well as the foreign names, had a sort of incantatory magic for me. So it was a brief exercise in nostalgia, and a distinct pleasure, for me to flip through the pages of the atlas. At the same time, I was aware of Miss Babson’s presence near the window. Rebecca Babson—what a lovely name, I thought.
I found the Austrian empire quickly enough, and in the northern part I located Prague, the main city of Bohemia. To the west was Bavaria, and to the north the former kingdom of Saxony, both now in the German empire, and to the east Moravia. I scanned the area, still as amused by the outlandish place names as I had been as a child. Oelsnitz—Sebnitz—Meerane—Zschopau—I hadn’t the least idea how to pronounce them. But I traced the border between Germany and Bohemia all the way from Javernig to Aigen, and unless German pronunciation and spelling were completely divorced from one another, there was not a name on the map I could twist into anything resembling “Ruckgarten.”
The librarian still had not appeared, and I felt uneasy about taking the atlas away without her permission. I was about to return it to its shelf and go report to Mr. Clemens when the door opened, and a little gray-haired woman in a plain dark dress entered. “May I help either of you?” she asked. “I am Mrs. Tremont, the librarian,” she added. Her voice was high-pitched but melodic enough not to be grating, and I thought I detected a hint of Boston in her accent.
“Yes,” said Rebecca Babson, rising from her seat. “I would like to borrow this novel, please.” She brought it to the desk, and Mrs. Tremont noted down her name and cabin number.
“The book must be returned here, in good condition, by noon of the day we dock in Southampton,” said Mrs. Tremont.
“Oh, I expect I’ll be done with it before then,” said Miss Babson. “I read very quickly.”
Mrs. Tremont smiled approvingly at her, then turned to me. “And can I help you with anything, young man?”
“Yes, ma’am. I think I’ve found what I need, but I wonder if it’s possible to check out the atlas for a short time? I would like to show someone one of the maps.”
“Reference books can’t be taken from the library,” said Mrs. Tremont, a stern expression on her face. “The person will have to come here to look at the atlas.”
I had expected as much. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “If Mr. Clemens wants to double-check what I’ve found, I’m sure he can find time to come here himself. What are your hours?”
“We are open from ten until five every day except Sunday, and weekday evenings from seven till nine,” said the librarian. Then she stopped and looked directly up at me. “Is that Mr. Samuel Clemens, the writer Mark Twain? He visited us last night, asking to borrow a dictionary.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am his secretary.”
“How nice,” said Mrs. Tremont, smiling. It made her look much less imposing. “If Mr. Clemens had come in person, I would be happy to let him borrow the atlas, but I fear I cannot take your word that you are here on his business—I hope you understand. Perhaps he could come to the library with you to verify your association? Then I would be happy to let you take him whatever books he needs.”
The librarian paused, and I nodded my understanding; it seemed a reasonable condition. Besides, I had found—or rather, not found—what I had come looking for. Then she continued: “Perhaps you could do me a favor and ask Mr. Clemens a question. He seemed to be in a hurry last night, and so I did not have the chance to ask him myself. I am in charge of our evening cultural program, and I wonder if he would like to present a little talk to his fellow passengers. I can guarantee him a good audience.”
“Well, I can’t answer for Mr. Clemens, of course. But I’ll pass along your invitation,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be flattered.” Actually, I was not at all certain what sort of welcome the invitation would get, but I would let Mr. Clemens make his own decision, and deliver his own response.
“Thank you, young man,” said Mrs. Tremont. She was smiling very sweetly now, and I realized that her blue eyes were sparkling. She must have been quite pretty as a young woman. “Normally, when I learn of a passenger who I think would be an interesting speaker, I seek him out myself. But this will get the message to him all the sooner. And please do urge him to pay us another visit.”
I turned to go, and saw that Miss Babson had waited for me. I was somewhat pleased by this, since I had been hoping that our chance meeting would give me an opportunity to talk to her at greater length. I rather liked the young Philadelphian woman, in spite of her boorish brother.
“I do hope Mr. Clemens will give a lecture,” she said. “Are you doing research for one of his books?”
“He asked me to do some geographical research,” I said, opening the door to let her precede me out of the library. “I really don’t know whether it’ll end up in a book or not.” This was perfectly true, in fact—Mr. Clemens was still busy with revisions of his book on our Mississippi River journey, and had not started a new one. But from what he had told me, the most unexpected things had a way of insinuating themselves into his writing. Perhaps the apparently nonexistent principality of Ruckgarten would somehow set his imagination to work.
“It’s very curious to have a writer on board,” said Miss Babson. We had stepped into the corridor outside the library, and she stopped and turned to look up at me, smiling pleasantly. “When I see Mr. Clemens sitting at dinner, or watching people on deck, I wonder what he’s seeing, and what he thinks of it, and whether he’s planning to put it in a book. I think it would give me a queer feeling if I were to read a book by someone I’d met and find a character in it who spoke and acted like me.”
“You shouldn’t worry about that,” I said. We turned and began walking down the corridor toward the cabins. “He’s written a book about the journey we took down the Mississippi River, and he had almost nothing to say about me, although I was with him nearly the whole time. In any case, I don’t think he’d write anything unflattering about a young lady.”
“How interesting,” she said. “I shall have to find his book about that journey. It will be interesting to compare
what he says about you to my own impressions.” She held her novel against her bosom, a mischievous look in her eyes.
“And what are your impressions, Miss Babson?”
“Oh, I can hardly say, just having met you,” she said. We reached the doorway to one of the ladies’ salons, and she paused. “I think I shall have to get to know you better, so I can form a proper opinion.” She turned to the door, then looked back at me over her shoulder. “Good day, Mr. Cabot.” Her smile was brilliant.
“Good day, Miss Babson,” I said. I watched the door close behind her, then turned down the corridor toward Mr. Kipling’s cabin. On the way I passed the elder Mr. Smythe, the minister, who gave me a very puzzled look. It took me a moment to realize the reason; I was grinning as broadly a schoolboy who’d found a silver dollar on the street.
I knocked on the door of cabin 17, and Mr. Kipling let me in. The cabin was decorated in exactly the same style as ours, but the layout was slightly different, with only one porthole instead of two. As I’d expected, my employer was there, lounging in an armchair. Mrs. Kipling sat on the small couch opposite him, reading some loose papers—one of her husband’s manuscripts, perhaps.
“What’s the verdict, Wentworth?” asked Mr. Clemens.
“There’s no Ruckgarten on the map, as far as I could see,” I replied. “The librarian wouldn’t let me bring the atlas here, but you can check for yourself, any time you want.”
“No reason to doubt you,” said Mr. Clemens. “It was what I expected. So, what do we do about this fellow who wants us to think he’s a prince?”
There was an awkward silence as everyone in the cabin contemplated my news about the prince—I still thought of him by that title, although it was becoming more and more apparent that he might not have any right to it. “I suppose it’s possible I made a mistake,” I said. “Perhaps Ruckgarten is on a section of the map I overlooked.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor Page 9
