A Poison of Passengers

by Jack Treby

  The Reverend Hamilton-Baynes swirled past us in a blur of energy, his white teeth flashing us a toothy grin. ‘Your husband looks as if he’s enjoying himself,’ I observed, with some surprise. I had never seen a man of the cloth so nimble on his feet. He was outpacing his partner, Miss Wellesley, by some considerable margin. Harry Latimer had already danced with the young woman, and was now over at the bar, talking to some stranger or other. Mrs O’Neill was still on her feet, too, sporting a garish floor length evening dress in yellow and green. I didn’t recognise the fellow she was dancing with. A young American, judging by the hair. I don’t think she had much idea who he was either. She had drunk quite a bit this evening and the alcohol was unshackling the last of her inhibitions. Not that she had had many to start with.

  ‘Joshua loves to dance,’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes informed me, with obvious affection. ‘Any excuse he gets. If we need to raise money to repair the church roof, it will always be a charity ball, not a raffle or a jumble sale.’

  ‘How long have the two of you been married?’

  ‘Nearly thirty years now. We have three children, a girl and two boys. All adults. Doing very well for themselves.’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes spoke with a quiet pride. ‘It’s been a happy marriage.’

  ‘And Lady Jocelyn is your cousin?’

  ‘A distant cousin, yes. The poor relations.’ She smiled again. ‘Sir Richard was kind enough to invite us over. Jocelyn’s husband passed away last August and he thought the trip would help to take her mind off things. Mind you, she only agreed to come if she could bring Matilda with her.’ That blasted cat. Mrs Hamilton-Baynes chuckled quietly. ‘We’ve always been close,’ she said. ‘I think that was why we were invited along. Jocelyn and I grew up together at Burlingford.’

  ‘Burlingford?’ I did not recognise the name.

  ‘Burlingford Hall, in Worcestershire. The country seat. We were like sisters. Jocelyn can seem a little distance at times, especially with strangers, but she has a heart of gold.’

  I’ll take your word for that, I thought. Lady Jocelyn had certainly kept her distance from Harry and I over supper – the Reynolds suite had its own set of tables in the restaurant – and seemed in no hurry to reacquaint herself with us in the ballroom, now that her duties as hostess had been discharged. I glanced across at the great lady, who was sitting at a small table on the opposite side of the hall. Sir Richard was to her left and he at least raised his glass as he caught my eye. From this distance, he really did look more like a bank manager than a country squire, especially with those chunky glasses of his. Neither he nor his sister had yet got up to dance.

  ‘And what about you, Mr Buxton, do you have a wife?’

  ‘No. No, I was married once, but...she died, I’m afraid.’ It was easier to lie than to explain the truth. There had been a marriage, back in England some years ago, but it had been a sham, of course, a mere matter of convenience. I tried not to think of it these days.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Mrs Hamilton-Baynes sympathised. ‘I’m sure you will find someone else.’

  ‘Lord, I hope not. I don’t think I’ll marry again.’ Not if my life depended on it. ‘I’m quite content as I am.’ And that, at least, was the God’s honest truth.

  ‘Mrs O’Neill seems to have taken a shine to you. You could do a lot worse.’ She laughed gently, catching sight of my horrified expression. The vicar’s wife was not above a little teasing, it appeared.

  ‘I’m sure there must be other, more eligible men onboard ship.’

  ‘Like your friend Mr Latimer, perhaps? I was surprised to hear the two of you had only just met. You seem to know each other so well.’

  ‘I...know the type well enough,’ I extemporised. ‘I don’t think Harry’s the marrying sort either.’

  ‘Should I be concerned for Miss Wellesley?’ Again, there was a flash of humour in her eyes.

  ‘She seems a sensible enough girl. I’m sure she can take care of herself.’ She was an adult, I wanted to say, and how she behaves is up to her. But Harry had an uncanny knack of bending people to his will. So much for business coming first.

  The orchestra came to the end of Puttin’ On The Ritz and the dance floor briefly cleared.

  Miss Wellesley swept straight across to the bar and Harry greeted her warmly.

  Mrs Hamilton-Baynes was not the only one to notice the couple’s growing closeness. Mrs O’Neill had commented on it to me, during the opening number. She did not seem at all perturbed, however; not when she had me to focus her attentions upon. I would have to have a word with Harry about that. I appreciated he was in no hurry to complete his grubby business with the pearls, but I had not agreed to entertain Mrs O’Neill all on my own.

  Harry leaned in and whispered something in Miss Wellesley’s ear. Would he make a move on her tonight, I wondered, or would he leave it a day or two? I suspected he would wait. He was a scoundrel, but he was not completely lacking in manners. A steward moved across the floor towards him. Harry looked around and the man handed him a sheet of paper. He opened it up and scanned it briefly, then nodded and turned back to Miss Wellesley.

  At this point, my view was blocked by the looming figure of Mrs O’Neill. ‘Oh, Mr Buxton, isn’t it wonderful?’ she gushed. ‘I do love a good dance.’ Despite the alcohol in her system, the older woman remained perfectly steady on her feet. ‘You mustn’t sit there on the sidelines all evening.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not the greatest of dancers.’

  ‘Nonsense! I think you manage much better than you give yourself credit for.’

  Mrs Hamilton-Baynes tried not to laugh as, once again, I was dragged up onto the floor, shooting daggers at Harry as I was swept across the ballroom by the damned American woman. I must have danced three dances in a row, before she would allow me a seat; and then she talked at me for a further forty minutes. Her voice was beginning to slur however, the combination of rich food, dancing and her unfamiliarity with alcohol finally taking its toll. At half past twelve, I summoned Harry across.

  ‘Time to get her home,’ I said. I had no desire to escort Mrs O’Neill back to her stateroom on my own. The woman was having difficulty even standing up, but with Harry’s help I was able to get her back to her cabin and off to bed.

  ‘You’re looking a little the worse for wear yourself,’ Harry observed, as we moved back out into the corridor.

  ‘Are you surprised? You’re a devil, Harry, leaving me in the lurch like that.’

  ‘Hey, I appreciate you taking over from me. I think Mrs O’Neill has decided you’re the better bet, old man. You can play along for a day or two, can’t you?’

  ‘No, I damn well can’t. If you want to have your way with Miss Wellesley, that’s your affair. But you can do it without my help.’

  ‘I intend to.’ He smirked.

  ‘Look, why not switch the pearls now? She’s out for the count. She’d never notice.’

  ‘It can wait a while. I’m in no hurry. Besides, I have other fish to fry this evening.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve noticed. One for the road?’

  He grinned. ‘Hey, I thought you’d never ask.’

  We knocked back a final glass at the bar and, shortly after that, I headed off to bed. Harry had no intention of missing the last waltz, however, so he remained behind, chatting to Miss Wellesley. What time the two of them retired to bed, I have no idea.

  My eyes were drooping now. The newspaper had failed to grab my attention. There was one small paragraph about the New York bombers, who had been formally charged, but there was nothing else of any interest. I pulled myself back up in my seat. Perhaps I should take a walk out on deck, I thought, to clear my head. But first, I would return to my cabin and have another look at that note.

  A laundry trolley was blocking the corridor. A stewardess in a grey uniform and white cap was gathering together a set of fresh sheets outside an open doorway. She smiled at me as I came by and bobbed her head. My room was up ahead. I was not sure if it had been cleaned yet. Only male steward
s were allowed into the men’s cabins and there was no sign of Adam. I reached the door and was just grabbing the handle when a flicker of movement caught my attention off to the right. Some fool was crouching down in the corner there, his hands extended, shuffling about. I regarded the fellow with some amusement. ‘Mr Hopkins?’ I called out. It was Sir Richard’s secretary. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  Ernest Hopkins started at the sound of my voice. ‘Mr Buxton,’ he said, pulling himself up in embarrassment. He was a thin fellow in his mid twenties, with auburn hair and a freckled face. His suit was a little crumpled, having been on his hands and knees for some time. ‘You haven’t seen a cat prowling around here anywhere have you?’ he asked.

  ‘A cat?’ It took me a moment to catch his drift. ‘Oh, you mean Matilda? That rat like thing?’

  Mr Hopkins nodded wearily. ‘She slipped out of our suite about twenty minutes ago. Lady Jocelyn’s in a fury. Sent me out to look for her before the stewards find her. I’ve been searching everywhere.’ The young man did not sound happy. ‘I’m meant to be working this morning,’ he grumbled, ‘but I get sent out for the cat.’

  I could understand his aggravation. ‘Couldn’t they get the maid to do it?’

  Hopkins shook his head. ‘Jenny refused to come. Her hand’s still bleeding from last night. She doesn’t want to get bitten again.’

  ‘That’s understandable, I suppose.’

  ‘Her ladyship is furious. Jenny must have left the door open this morning. I’m sure she didn’t mean to. But the slightest crack is enough for Matilda.’

  I glanced up and down the corridor. The stewardess had disappeared inside one of the rooms and, apart from her trolley, there was no sign of life. ‘Probably caught the scent of a mouse,’ I suggested. ‘Not a terribly clever idea, bringing a cat onboard.’

  ‘No. But if you do see her...’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know,’ I assured him. Mind you, I was damned if I was going to help him recapture the animal. I did not share Harry’s affinity with animals.

  ‘I just hope to goodness she hasn’t got into one of the other staterooms. There’ll be hell to pay if she has. I’d better just try along here.’ Hopkins moved past me. ‘Good morning, Mr Buxton.’

  ‘Good morning,’ I said, watching him go. The poor fellow. The stewardess had come out of the room she was cleaning and bobbed at the man as he passed her by, but Hopkins was too distracted to notice. His eyes were on the carpet.

  I smiled, as I glanced down a side corridor and caught the briefest flicker of a feline tail heading towards the port side. There the little devil was. I was about to call after Mr Hopkins – to tell him the news – when a door sprang open midway along the corridor and the cat bolted in alarm.

  A stout middle aged woman came barrelling out of the bedroom. It was Mrs O’Neill. I regarded her in surprise. That was not her cabin. ‘Oh, Mr Buxton! You must come at once!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Mrs O’Neill? What is it?’

  The woman was distraught. ‘You must come quickly. It’s Mr Latimer.’

  ‘Harry? What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Buxton. It’s awful!’ Her voice cracked in despair. ‘He’s...he’s dead!’

  Chapter Five

  There are some people you expect to live for ever. When my father passed away in the spring of 1913 I confess I did not shed a tear. We had never been close and a world without him in it was, in truth, something of a relief. But when my old nanny died, some years later, it was a different matter. It felt like a rock had been removed from under me. Nanny Perkins had guided me through my formative years, a strict but sympathetic figure. She had retired before the war and, aside from the odd letter, I had not heard from her in years; but somehow the knowledge that she was still alive was a source of great comfort to me; and when she was gone, it felt like something was missing from my world. It was the same with my valet – my first valet – Thomas Hargreaves. He had looked after me through my adolescence and into young adulthood. I had presumed he would be with me for life. And then, one day, he had died, and once again it felt as if a part of me had been cut away. Some people affect you like that. Harry Latimer was one such person.

  We had first met in New Orleans in the winter of 1918. He had been trouncing all comers at a poker match in a bar somewhere on the outskirts of the city – this was in the days before prohibition – and one of the other players had quickly become suspicious. This particular fellow was six feet six and built like a tank. He accused Harry of cheating and a fight had broken out. It was an entertaining spectacle. My money was on the giant, but Harry had brought the man down with half a dozen blows, then grabbed all the cash and ran. I had chuckled quietly to myself about that for some days afterwards. Of course, I had no notion that I would ever see him again. But then, a week or two later, I bumped into Harry in another bar on the other side of town. At the time I thought it was a coincidence. In fact, he had settled on me as a potential “mark”. I was to be the victim of an elaborate con, and he would have fleeced me of several hundred dollars if my wife had not stepped in at the last moment. Elizabeth had a far better eye for a scoundrel than I did. Harry had accepted defeat but managed to redeem himself, when Elizabeth was not looking, by offering up a racing tip which he assured me could not lose. That tip paid off, to the tune of fifty dollars – on a one dollar stake – and, after that, we became firm friends. I have never been able to resist a rogue, although I should perhaps make it clear that I was never attracted to Harry in a physical way. Back in Europe, we would bump into each other on a regular basis and each time we met up, it would be as if we had never been apart. Harry was always getting tangled up in some dubious scheme or other – he would sell anything to anyone, no questions asked – and I would often be called upon to help out, if he got into trouble. Then, when my finances took a sudden dive – as they frequently did – he would be on hand to return the favour. In truth, Harry Latimer was the closest thing to a friend I had in the whole world. Meeting up with him now, after more than two years apart, it had felt natural to slip back into the old routine. Harry was always there. He was a scoundrel, a conman, a thief, and a womanizer; but above all he was a good friend. And now he was dead.

  I stared down at the pale figure in the bed, the head nestled firmly in the centre of the pillow. It was impossible, it was absurd, it could not be true. But it was. His plump, rounded face looked serene, as if he were asleep; but Harry’s skin was pale and cold to touch. When Mrs O’Neill had broken the news to me out in the corridor, I had been certain she was mistaken. She must have got it wrong, I thought. Harry had probably just passed out and Mrs O’Neill was making a drama out of nothing. But then I moved into the room and saw the body – the pale figure in the striped pyjamas – and my blood ran cold. His eyes were closed and the bedsheets neatly held in place, but there was no sign of life. I went through the motions quickly, checking for a pulse or any signs of respiration but there was nothing to find. Harry Latimer was dead. He had probably been dead for some hours. And at that point, the shock hit me and I let out a quiet moan of despair.

  How on earth could it have happened? My brain struggled to get a grip on the idea. How could he be dead? Had he had a heart attack? A stroke? Harry was not an old man; he was younger than I was. Thirty-nine, forty this year, on the cusp of middle age. He should have had years ahead of him. And then, a horrible thought flickered across my mind. Could it be that he had not died naturally? I shivered at the idea. Please God no, I thought. Not Harry. But I had stumbled across so many dead bodies of late, people who had met their ends in violent and unnatural circumstances. And I could not look at him lying there without thinking, what if...? But Harry, of all people? Oh, he had his enemies. Men he had conned, women he had jilted, criminals he had double crossed. But surely they would not strike him down here, in his cabin, in the middle of the Atlantic, miles from anywhere? I clenched my hands together. The possibility could not be dismissed. A sudden anger welled up inside me. I
was meant to be looking after him. If he had been killed, if someone had done this to him, then they would pay for it, whoever they were. My God, I would make them pay.

  It took me a few moments to calm myself; then I looked around the cabin, searching for any sign of a disturbance. This was one of the cheaper rooms on B Deck, nicely furnished but rather small, with a simple chair, a washbasin and a functional bedside table. A single bed with a smart wooden headboard took up most of one side. There was a jug of water on a small bedside table, with an upturned tumbler, but no sign of anything out of place.

  Mrs O’Neill was sobbing loudly in the doorway behind me. I regarded the woman with sudden suspicion. ‘What were you doing in his room?’ I asked her.

  She wiped her eyes. ‘Cynthia asked me to look in. Harry wasn’t at breakfast. We were going to invite him up to the garden lounge. I knocked but there was no reply.’

  ‘I wasn’t at breakfast either,’ I said.

  Mrs O’Neill attempted a shaky smile. ‘I was going to look in on you next.’

  ‘How did you get in here, though? The door wasn’t locked?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’ The catch on the inside had not been thrown. Mrs O’Neill sniffled again. ‘How...how did he die, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I gazed down at the body. There was no blood or any signs of a struggle. ‘We need to fetch a steward. We ought to....’ I stopped, glancing back at the door and catching sight of a dark figure hovering in the corridor outside. ‘Morris, what are you doing here?’

  The valet stepped forward. ‘I heard voices, Monsieur. I am in the cabin next door. Is something the matter?’

  ‘It’s Harry. Harry Latimer. He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ The valet blinked.

  ‘Yes. He must have...he must have died in his sleep. Look, make yourself useful.’ I was doing my best to pull myself together. ‘Fetch a steward. No, better yet, get a doctor.’

  ‘At once, Monsieur.’