“Yes, the Maxie of Grip,” he snorted, “Who deals from the bottom of the deck!”
“How dare you…” Mrs. Beaumont caught sight of us and called out, “Mrs. Stayton, Miss Wallace, come defend my honor.”
Reluctantly, we stepped beside Maxie, and I asked, “What seems to be the trouble.”
Before either of the agitated parties could reply, the steward answered, “It would seem that both of our esteemed passengers believe the other to have been cheating at a game of poker.”
The acidy scent of cigarette smoke wafted from the men’s reading room nearby. From within I heard a chorus of laughter and a heavy groan. I imagined that among this group the stakes were higher than matchsticks.
Lucy brilliantly, or quite naively, commented, “I didn’t know that you couldn’t deal from the bottom of the deck. Why should it matter?”
The German fellow rolled his eyes and said, “Keep to your checkers, Fraulein.”
I’m sure that the steward meant well despite the implications of his remark, “Poker isn’t a woman’s game; best that we just let the matter be.”
Mrs. Beaumont gave both men a grunt and linked her arms through ours; she then towed us like a mighty tugboat towards the stairway.
Once we reached the next landing, Lucy said, “I can’t believe that man accused you of cheating.”
Maxie Beaumont let out a deep cackle and replied, “You sweet girl, I was cheating! I owed that Kraut a hundred pounds. An ace or two at the bottom of the deck was going to get me out of that pickle.”
“Mrs. Beaumont, what terrible thing to do,” replied Lucy, quite abashed.
“Think of it as reparations from the war.” Maxie chuckled at her snide comment, while I recalled Michael Emerson’s disappointment at the ship’s speed.
“I think I will stay in tonight,” I told Lucy after she asked me what I would wear to dinner. The thought of another evening with Maxie Beaumont’s tedious conversation robbed me of my appetite.
“Then I will stay in as well,” Lucy said in a very chipper tone, to hide her disappointment.
“Oh, no, I won’t have that. Make a night of it. Wear your lovely blue gown and my sapphire set,” I told her. “Be quick at dinner, and then take Yara to the ballroom. Find yourself a dashing fellow, and kick up your heels!”
Lucy giggled and fetched her blue satin gown from the wardrobe.
Once dressed for the evening, Yara and Lucy departed, and I was relieved to have the cabin to myself, although I did not feel alone. I placed a clove on my tongue, savored the taste, and took a photograph of Xavier from the writing desk.
Gazing at the image of my dear Xavier, I said, “You are quite clever; how should my diabolical cat burglar abscond with Maxie Beaumont’s jewelry?”
A moment of silence passed, and then I knew: yes, a distraction. I placed the framed photograph gently on the desk and picked up my notebook.
A distraction along the corridor shared by the four parlor suites would lure the Beaumonts out of their room. While an accomplice gained everyone’s attention, the master criminal would sneak inside and lift the jewelry.
But what might the distraction be? I pictured the accomplice calling out, “The ship is sinking!” However, that would not work. Mrs. Beaumont would gather her jewelry before dashing out of her room.
I thought about the subject for some time. In a flash, it came to me. We had all found it strange that Rory Emerson had been kept in the cabin for the trip. Michael’s vague explanation that his brother was special had detoured us from asking more questions.
It struck me the scene would follow with Michael battering on the doors of the Beaumont’s cabin, Mr. Farquhar and his wife’s cabin, and then on Mrs. X’s. He would tell us his brother was missing; he needed help to find him. Distracted, the Beaumonts would leave their cabin door unlocked.
We would all go in search of the young man, only to find him on deck or in the barber shop, somewhere that provided abundant alibis. Michael, knowing what directions we’d all gone off in, would slip inside the Beaumonts’ room and take the jewels that Maxie had flashed about.
The fingers of my right hand began to ache as I rapidly wrote down my idea. I just needed a clue to leave behind, something for Mrs. X to spot.
I knew that the evening had grown late, and I was pleased that Yara and Lucy had yet to return. I enjoyed the idea of them in the ballroom, dancing and making merry.
My concentration was broken when I heard the slam of a door, followed by Mathew Farquhar and his wife yelling. The only words I could make our were his, as he shouted, “I don’t know her!”
The door to our cabin opened, and Lucy and Yara entered the room and pointed toward our fighting neighbors.
“You should have seen what happened,” said Lucy in a hushed tone.
“What did I miss?”
“We were in the ballroom, dancing, and that blonde woman appeared, dressed like a Ziegfeld Follies showgirl. She stepped up to Mr. Farquhar and the countess during a waltz and attempted to cut in. She and the countess exchanged words, and then the countess slapped Mr. Farquhar.”
I reached for my notebook and jotted down several thoughts as I mumbled, “Shocking, absolutely shocking.”
The neighboring room fell silent, and we heard the door leading to the hallway slam shut once more.
Yara and Lucy described what had been a lovely evening until the spectacle occurred, and then, like children up past their bedtimes, they both went off to sleep.
I remained awake for a little while longer, thinking about Mathew Farquhar’s blonde-headed woman. It seemed that she had certainly created a distraction.
I had dozed off on the divan in the parlor, my notebook still in my hand, when I heard a strange noise from the hall. Dressed in a robe, I went to the door and peered outside.
Mathew stood just behind two brawny members of the crew, and he was saying, “She’s put something heavy in front of the door.”
The men rammed their shoulders to the obstacle, but it didn’t open. I poked my head out farther and said, “Do either of you have a passkey? You could go through our promenade to theirs if you can unlock the door.”
Startled, Mathew looked at me and said, “I hadn’t thought of that.” The quiver in his voice told me that this was a lie.
One of the crewmen replied in a cockney accent, “Good thinking, ma’am. I’ve got a master key. That is, if it works on these here parlor suites. If you pardon?”
I let the men pass by me, and we all walked to the promenade. Rather noticeably, Mathew trailed behind. The master key did indeed work, and the crewmen proceeded to open the door into the couple’s sitting room.
Reluctantly, Mathew went inside as the two men remained on the deck. “Dominika?” he called out, hesitantly. He then turned back and called for me.
“Yes, Mr. Farquhar?”
“I don’t think she’s in here,” he told me.
I passed by the curious crewmen and entered the suite. The cabin was decorated much like ours. There was a single lamp on, illuminating the room, and I noticed an envelope leaning against it.
“Dominika,” he called again, very much for show.
I pointed at the letter that he was trying very hard to ignore. As he extended his hand to pick up the envelope, I saw that he was shaking. He tore it open and quickly read the letter.
“Dear God!” he blasphemed. “It’s a suicide note.”
He thrust the piece of parchment into my hands. I read it, though not as quickly as he. In a melodramatic fashion, it described a life of emptiness, self-loathing, and pain. The message ended with the words, I cannot go on.
I gave the letter back to Mathew, then turned to the crewmen. “Search the promenades; she may not yet have thrown herself overboard!”
Mathew watched the men rush toward the door where a chair had been leaned on two legs and shoved under the crystal handle.
“How did she get out of the room?” Mathew asked me.
I decided to p
lay along. “I’ll show you.”
He followed me back to the private promenade, and once inside, he pointed to the windows, “But they are all sealed; they cannot be opened.”
“You are correct, Mr. Farquhar,” I agreed. “This way.” We walked back through our promenade, and then I gently placed my hand on the door that connected to the Emersons’ private deck, and with ease, it swung open.
Mathew looked inside, and we both saw that the door on the end of the Emersons’ promenade, which joined the public deck, was wide open.
By this time, Lucy and Yara, both in dressing gowns, were peering out at us. Michael Emerson’s voice could be heard giving Rory stern orders to remain in his room before he came out and demanded to know what was happening.
In a strange, faraway voice, Mathew Farquhar said, “My wife has thrown herself off the ship.”
From bow to stern, the Olivia was searched. The Beaumonts had been awakened from their tonic-induced sleep, their cabin searched, and then ours, next the Emersons’, and then the crew moved on.
Just after dawn, the ship’s captain came to our cabin, where Mathew sat silently with us, and told him, “I am sorry to tell you this, but there is no trace of the Countess Orlov on this ship.”
The man’s eyes did not turn red, and there was no uncontrollable sob. He was in genuine shock. I was quite curious as to why he’d staged the scene of the locked room; his actions hadn’t fooled me. At first, I suspected him of foul play, but I could see in his eyes that he’d had nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance.
Much later in the morning, Lucy and I sat in the sunny café and silently ate a light meal. We were confounded just how we’d found ourselves in the midst of another tragedy. Lucy, at least, believed this to be a sad case of suicide. I suspected otherwise.
We were just finishing our tea when the steward approached and, with an apologetic air, said, “I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Stayton, but Mr. Pace, the ship’s purser, has requested to see you.”
Despite knowing the way to the man’s office, we were escorted there with much pomp by two uniformed men. To those who we passed by, Lucy and I either appeared very important, or highly troublesome.
Within Mr. Pace’s outer office, we discovered Gerald Hurst pacing the floor. He came to an abrupt stop and exclaimed, “Mrs. Stayton, thank goodness.”
The ship’s purser gave me an uncomfortable smile and told me, “I apologize, Mrs. Stayton, but Mr. Hurst insisted on speaking to you. He heard about…” the polite man became tongue-tied, and he finished by simply saying, “Countess Orlov.”
I had been waiting all morning for Gerald Hurst to suggest just what he breathlessly exclaimed, “This flat tire here tells me it was a suicide. Dominika would never have killed herself. She was going to leave Mathew once they were in America—”
“And marry you,” I finished for him, feeling very much like my fictional Mrs. X.
“That was the idea,” Gerald replied humbly.
“Was this trip planned just to escape from Mr. Farquhar, or does she in fact have a lost sister in New York?” I inquired.
“She does have a sister there; Alisa is her name. Dominika had hoped to borrow money from her. She’d be done with that palooka, and we’d start a new life together.”
Mr. Pace spoke up. “I don’t see why Mrs. Stayton should be troubled by this matter.”
Gerald blurted out, “Mrs. Stayton knows her onions; she’s a sleuth, like one of them detective characters.” He looked to me. “I beg of you, find out the truth.”
Sadly, the truth isn’t always what people desire in the end. I asked bluntly, “How long have you been having an affair with the countess?”
“Over the past year. Dominika married Mathew thinking he was something that he’s not. She stayed because of the money, but now that doesn’t matter. She loved me.” His words rang of truth.
“Did the countess know that her husband was also having an affair?” I asked, keen to see Gerald’s reaction.
The man’s eyes grew wide, and he replied, “The louse! No, she hadn’t a clue.”
“Mrs. Stayton!” said a shocked Mr. Pace.
“Lucy and I saw him in the arms of a statuesque blonde woman, just yesterday morning; this was the same woman who caused a scene in the ballroom last night.”
“It’s true!” retorted dear Lucy.
“We must find out who she is.” I seriously doubted that Mathew Farquhar had killed his wife. His brash lover, perhaps?
Mr. Pace sent for a crewman to inquire with any staff members who had been present in the ballroom when the unknown woman created the scandal. Very little time passed before we had her name.
“Simone Wainwright,” said Mr. Pace. “Cabin C-53.”
After sending a steward to her room, the fellow returned to tell us, “The door was unlocked, and when I knocked, it came open. No one is in the cabin, but something has occurred.”
Lucy, Gerald, and I followed Mr. Pace to Ms. Wainwright’s cabin. Just a few steps before we reached it, I asked Gerald, “How did the countess slip into the second-class promenade?”
“How’s that? Oh, she bribed a porter to let her pass through a gate,” Gerald replied.
We came to the room, and it was immediately obvious that there had been a struggle. Although located within the first-class section of the ship, this single room was much smaller than ours, but lavish in décor all the same.
The bed was unmade, a lamp was knocked to the floor, and a single suitcase was upended in the corner of the room.
The purser, in a grave voice, told the steward who had followed us, “Start searching the ship for Ms. Wainwright.”
I began to open the drawers to the dresser, and Mr. Pace asked, “What are you doing?”
Lucy replied for me, “She’s looking for clues.”
There were very few articles of clothing in the dresser. They were flashy, but cheap. Beside her bed, I found only two pairs of shoes, both rather plain compared to her brightly colored dresses.
On a dressing table, there were two pairs of beaded earrings, a necklace of costume jewels, and a single tube of lipstick. I picked up her set of hairbrushes. A few golden threads clung to them, but they showed little wear.
“Lucy, look at her shoes,” I said as I placed the brushes neatly on the table, just as I had found them.
“The soles are quite worn,” she remarked after examining them.
Gerald asked, “What does that mean?”
“I would say she got her money’s worth out of them,” I retorted, attempting to sound mysterious. Before another question might be asked, I said, “I have seen all there is to see. I suggest the room be locked until Ms. Wainwright is located.”
Chapter Six
At my request, nothing was said to Mathew Farquhar regarding Simone Wainwright until a discreet but thorough search failed to locate the missing woman.
We waited many hours in the purser’s office until the ship’s captain arrived and said to me, “I’m most sorry that this affair has troubled you, Mrs. Stayton.” Despite the politeness of the comment, I rather believe he was irritated that I had become involved.
“Think nothing of it. I lend my talents of deduction most earnestly,” I replied.
The man’s eyes grew wide, and he fumbled for something else to say.
Lucy quickly uttered a helpful suggestion, “What if Ms. Simone is in Mr. Farquhar’s cabin?”
Gerald bolted from his chair, nearly knocking it over. “A damned good notion.”
The captain blew out a long breath and admitted, “Yes. Well, it is a thought, if, as you’ve told Mr. Pace (Mr. Pace’s name was said in a way that told all who had gathered that the captain was not pleased with the man.) there is some sort of relationship between these two individuals.”
“There is,” I assured him.
The captain gave me a pained smile and said, “I do believe it would be for the best if Mr. Pace and I go alone.”
“Now wait a damned minute! This a
ll has to do with Dominika; I have every right to be there when you confront the bastard.”
The captain took a step back, and in a hushed voice, remarked, “There are ladies present, Mr. Hurst.”
Gerald gave me a coy grin and responded, “Shucks, these two women are quite worldly. For heaven’s sake, they’ve already sent one man to the gallows.”
I spoke before the captain could reply, “Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Hurst’s presence would be of benefit. There was something odd about the suicide note, and I would like for him to see it.”
Skeptically, the ship’s master gazed at me and nodded. Our curious little party went at once to Cabin A-2.
Mr. Pace rapped at the door, while the captain stood at attention. Rapidly, the door swung open, and a disheveled Mathew Farquhar looked at us all with great uncertainty.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this time, Mr. Farquhar. However, I have a few questions that must be asked.”
Puzzled, he invited us all inside the room, his eyes lingering briefly on Gerald. “Yes?”
The captain went straight to the point. “This man, Gerald Hurst, claims that he was in a relationship with your wife.”
Standing so close to each other, I noted that Mr. Hurst and Mr. Farquhar shared a resemblance. Dark hair, swarthy complexion, and hard features; it seemed there was a certain type of man that appealed to the countess.
Mathew struggled for words as his eyes darted back and forth from the captain to Mr. Hurst. I had anticipated Mathew would rush toward Gerald and attempt to lay his hands on the man. Instead, he gave a little wobble and remained otherwise frozen. I can’t say that I was disappointed by Mathew’s restraint.
As a way to confirm the captain’s statement, Gerald boldly said, “Dominika planned on leaving you once she met her sister. She hoped that Alisa would share her funds; then she wouldn’t need your money anymore.”
Still dressed in his black tuxedo from the night before, the unshaven man stumbled backward until he fell into a chair. Mathew mumbled, “Of course, that does explain…”
Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Page 6
