Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  “A Book of Hours is an example of devotional literature,” he explained, opening to the first page. “It’s so-called because the main part of it, the Office of the Virgin, is divided into liturgical hours. Do you follow me, Miss Masefield?”

  “Very clearly,” she replied.

  “This one was commissioned by the Duc d’Alençon in the early fifteenth century. It’s not as famous as Les Grandes Heures de Jean Duc de Berry but it has great merit in my view.”

  “Oh, it does. It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  “It took the artist two years to complete.”

  “The detail is extraordinary.”

  “Note the initials and the line endings,” he said, using a stubby finger to point them out. “Have you ever seen such calligraphy? And the border work is a delight in itself.”

  Genevieve nodded in agreement. On the table in front of her was the most astonishing book she had ever encountered outside a museum. It comprised page after page of exquisitely illuminated manuscript and it took her breath away. What was even more remarkable was that it was J. P. Morgan who was showing it to her. A man best known as a merciless robber baron was displaying quite another side to his character. And though he was customarily laconic in company, he was now talking volubly to Genevieve.

  “Unfortunately,” he went on, “the poor Duc d’Alençon did not have time to enjoy looking at his Book of Hours.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was killed at the battle of Agincourt.”

  “One of England’s great victories.”

  “Are you familiar with Shakespeare’s Henry V?”

  “We read it when I was at school,” said Genevieve.

  “In the scene where they list the French casualties, you’ll find the Duc d’Alençon’s name mentioned.”

  It was another revelation for Genevieve. She had discovered that Morgan was an educated man who spoke French and who had a wide knowledge of European culture. Displayed around the room were other items he had bought on his trip — assorted paintings, some bronze statuettes, Dutch porcelain, jewelry fashioned by German masters, and three French Empire clocks in perfect working order. While drinking their champagne, the twenty or so guests were able to admire the purchases at leisure. Genevieve had soon detached herself from Jonathan Killick and he was paying his attentions to some of the many young women there. One them eased herself forward.

  Dominique Cadine was wearing a turquoise evening dress that spilled off her shoulders and clung to her body before spreading out into a bell-like shape around her ankles. Hanging loose, her hair trailed down her back and shimmered in the light.

  “I came to thank you for inviting me, Mr. Morgan,” she purred.

  He stared at her. “And you are?”

  “Dominique Cadine.”

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

  “Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”

  Dominique introduced herself to Genevieve, who realized how accurate Dillman’s description of the model had been. Even in repose, there was an unquenchable vitality about her. The strange thing was that Morgan did not seem to respond to it. When the newcomer tried to initiate conversation, it was Genevieve who replied. Morgan lapsed back into a watchful silence and gave the occasional grunt. Dominique soon drifted away to look at the paintings.

  “What an interesting young lady!” Genevieve remarked.

  “Yes,” said Morgan. “So quintessentially French.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good, Miss Masefield. Very good.”

  “I noticed her last night at dinner.”

  “So did every man in the room, I daresay. Do you speak French?”

  “To some degree.”

  “In my study back home,” he said, “I have a motto written in blue Provençal script on white enamel. Pense moult. Parle peu. Écris rien. Do you know what it stands for?”

  “I believe so,” replied Genevieve, translating for him. “Think a lot. Speak little. Write nothing.”

  “It’s sage advice.”

  “Why must you write nothing?”

  “It commits you and it puts you at the risk of indiscretions.”

  “Only if something of yours falls into the wrong hands.”

  “I believe in safety,” he told her. “Écris rien.”

  Genevieve seized her cue. “If you believe in safety,” she asked with a gesture that took in the whole room, “why have you got these treasures here? Shouldn’t they be locked securely away?”

  “They are,” said Howard Riedel, materializing at her elbow. “They’re under my protection.”

  Morgan introduced him to Genevieve and she understood why the man had not endeared himself to Dillman. Even in evening wear, Riedel looked like a New York policeman on patrol. She noticed a bulge under his coat and wondered if he was carrying a firearm.

  “This room is a real temptation for any thief,” said Genevieve.

  “Not as long as I’m here,” insisted Riedel.

  “What happens when your back is turned?”

  “It never is.”

  “Do you stay here all the time?”

  “I have a cabin right next door.”

  “Then what is to stop someone coming in here at night?”

  “Nobody would be suicidal enough to steal from me,” said Morgan, crisply. “They would not only have to reckon with Howard. They’d never stand a chance of getting any of these items off the ship in New York. There’s nowhere to hide on the Oceanic and nowhere to run. We’d soon hunt down the thief. Look through the porthole, Miss Masefield,” he advised. “This vessel is surrounded by thousands of miles of ocean and that’s the best security of all.”

  ———

  Abednego Thomas’s reputation did not frighten everyone away. When he chose a table for six in the dining room that evening, the two empty seats were immediately taken. Declaring themselves to be admirers of his work, Vane and Florence Stiller explained that they had seen some of his paintings in a London gallery. The sisters hailed from Chicago and worked as journalists on the same society magazine. They were alert, talkative, well-informed, middle-aged ladies whose interest in Thomas and his paintings stopped only just short of adulation.

  “But would you hang one of my pictures on your wall?” he asked, sounding a note of challenge.

  “Without hesitation,” said Florence, the older of the sisters. “If we could afford to buy one, that is. You’ve grown too expensive, Mr. Thomas.”

  “That’s my tragedy, ladies. I paint for the masses but it’s only the elite who have the money to buy me. But I can warmly recommend my wife’s work,” he continued, holding Veronica’s hand. “She is the best artist to come out of England since Joseph Mallord William Turner. Indeed, when I first saw her paintings, I thought that Turner had come back to life in the shape of an adorable woman. Buy her now before the prices shoot up out of reach.”

  The women made pleasant inquiries about Veronica’s work but it was clear that their real curiosity was reserved for her husband. Vane Stiller was thin and angular while her sister was short and stout. There was little physical resemblance between them, but their voices were almost interchangeable. Dillman was happy to let them monopolize the Welshman and his wife. It left him free to talk to Dominique Cadine.

  “I hear that you met Mr. Morgan this evening,” he began.

  “That’s right, George. I went for drinks in his cabin.”

  “Alone — and without an invitation?”

  Dominique giggled. “I usually find that people let me into a party,” she said. “And I wanted to meet the famous J. P. Morgan.”

  “Did you enjoy the experience?”

  “Not really. He had very little to say to me. His face is so ugly. If he has so much money, why does he not pay a doctor to do something about his nose? It is like a big tomato.”

  “Who else was at the party?”

  “Lots of people. One of them was not very nice.”

  “Oh?”

  “His name was Riede
l and he kept watching us as if we were going to steal something. I felt him breathing down my neck all the time.”

  “Perhaps he just took an interest in you.”

  “Someone else did that, George. This Englishman, he wanted to know all about me. His name was Jonathan but he told me to call him Johnny.”

  “The Honorable Jonathan Killick?” said Dillman, who had heard Genevieve speak of him. “I’m told he’s very attentive to women.”

  She laughed. “He was, George. He is a roué. He followed me around wherever I went. Johnny tried to impress me by saying he was an aristocrat. Me — a Frenchwoman,” she said, tapping her chest. “I told him that we send our aristocrats to the guillotine.”

  “Did that dampen his ardor?”

  “No, he will come back.”

  “How do you know that, Dominique?”

  “Men like him always do.”

  “You’ve obviously met his type before.”

  “Many, many times,” she said wearily. “The person I felt sorry for was his girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Johnny arrived with this lovely English lady but he forgot about her when he saw me. You do not take someone to a party like that and then walk away from them.”

  “Who was this young lady?”

  “The one with Mr. Morgan.”

  Dominique pointed to a table in the corner where J. P. Morgan was dining with his entourage. When each new course arrived, he and his guests were always the first to be served. Morgan was at one end of the table and Howard Riedel at the other. Of the ten people seated there, six were women and Morgan had taken care to place the two youngest and most attractive ladies on either side of him.

  “Which one, Dominique?” he asked.

  “On the right. Next to Mr. Morgan.”

  Dillman gaped. “That was Johnny’s girlfriend?”

  “Well, she came to the party on his arm.”

  He could not have been more astonished. It was someone who had earlier expressed a profound dislike of the Honorable Jonathan Killick. The woman he was looking at was Genevieve Masefield.

  Blanche Charlbury was also keeping the table under close surveillance. Turning to her fiancé, she pouted resentfully.

  “It’s not fair,” she protested. “Mr. Morgan has stolen her away.”

  “Miss Masefield doesn’t have to dine with us every evening.”

  “Yes, she does. Genevieve is mine.”

  “Don’t be so possessive.”

  “She’s a friend, Mark. I want to spend time with her.”

  “I thought that the object of this voyage was to spend time with me,” said Bossingham, peevishly. “I didn’t anticipate that I’d have to share you with an interloper.”

  “Genevieve is not an interloper.”

  “She’s beginning to feel like one, Blanche.”

  They were sharing a table with six other people and, after exchanging pleasantries with them, they were left largely to their own devices. That suited Mark Bossingham. He was never relaxed with strangers and wanted the opportunity to control his fiancée’s behavior in public. He had warned her to be less impulsive and was relieved when he saw that Genevieve would not join them that evening. The problem was that Blanche kept staring at Morgan and his guests.

  “Johnny is to blame for this,” she decided.

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me that he’d somehow get Genevieve to dine with J. P. Morgan this evening. I didn’t believe him because he’s always so full of idle boasts. But against all the odds, he’s done it.”

  “I told you not to speak to Killick.”

  “That’s easier said than done.”

  “You know how much I detest the man.”

  “Only because I went to a ball with him once.”

  “Please,” he said with suppressed anger. “That’s something I wish to remain firmly in the past.”

  “I can’t pretend that it never happened, Mark.”

  “You must. You’ve started a new chapter of your life now.”

  “A new and better life,” she said, touching his arm. He gave a rare smile. She leaned over to him. “Shall I let you into a secret?”

  “If you wish.”

  “When we’re alone like this — traveling together at last — I feel that I’m married to you already. Do you feel that?”

  “Frankly, no.”

  “Mark!”

  “We must observe the proprieties.”

  “Proprieties!” she echoed.

  “They are important.”

  “You know, there are times when I think that Johnny was right. You can sound very pompous.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep Killick’s name out of the conversation.”

  “See? You’re doing it again?”

  “Blanche!” he said in annoyance. “For heaven’s sake.”

  Their neighbors at the table drew them into the general discussion and it was ten minutes before they were able to talk to each other again. Blanche’s gaze went straight back to Genevieve Masefield.

  “Oh, I do envy her — getting to hobnob with Mr. Morgan.”

  “Perhaps you should ask yourself how she came to do it.”

  “I told you — it was with Johnny’s help. He’s at the table as well.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, Blanche.” He spooned some of the dessert into his mouth and swallowed it before speaking again. “Listen, I know that you’ve been taken in by Miss Masefield ….”

  “Genevieve,” she corrected. “Her name is Genevieve.”

  “I prefer to remain on more formal terms with her.”

  “And I wasn’t taken in. I like Genevieve.”

  “That’s because she’s very plausible and you’re rather naïve.”

  “Mark!” she exclaimed.

  “Well, how much do you really know about her?”

  “Lots. We talked together all the way to Cherbourg.”

  “And I daresay that you did most of the talking,” he said, “and told her things about us that I would have preferred to remain confidential. I suspect that she gave away very little about herself.”

  “That’s not true at all. Genevieve was very open with me.”

  “Why is she sailing to America?”

  “To visit friends in New York.”

  “What sorts of friends?”

  “Family friends, that’s all.”

  “Did she give you their names,” he pressed, “tell you where they lived, or what they did? Did you get any details from her?”

  “No,” she admitted, “but it’s not the first time she’s crossed the Atlantic. At one point, she told me, she even considered emigrating.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she thought America exciting and full of opportunities.”

  He was cynical. “I’m sure that it is for a woman like her.”

  “A woman like what?”

  “Oh, come off it, Blanche,” he said irritably. “Stand back and look at her properly for a moment. Why is Miss Masefield traveling alone?”

  “Because she’s single.”

  “And how many other young, attractive, unattached women are on this ship without a companion or a chaperone? Precious few, I think. It’s no accident that Killick headed straight for her.”

  “Johnny always pursues beautiful women.”

  “Beautiful, available women.”

  “Genevieve is not available in the sense you mean,” she said hotly, “and it’s ungentlemanly of you even to suggest it. She doesn’t like Johnny. You saw how cool she was toward him when he introduced himself at dinner last night.”

  “Then why is she sitting at the same table as him?”

  “She’s there as Mr. Morgan’s guest.”

  “Only because Killick arranged it somehow. He always did have such infernally good connections. Look at her,” he went on, drawing her attention to the table in the corner. “She’s complet
ely at ease.”

  “That’s because Genevieve is so sophisticated.”

  “I can think of another word for it.”

  “Mark — why are you being so beastly?”

  “I’m only trying to protect you.”

  “From what? Enjoying the friendship of nice women?”

  “No,” he stressed. “From being too ready to accept people into your circle when you know so little about them. You’re too trusting, Blanche, too uncritical and accommodating.”

  She was wounded. “You’ve never spoken like this to me before,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “I don’t mean to upset you, Mark, I really don’t. I know I can be unguarded at times, but you used to find that rather appealing when we first met. I want to be a good wife to you. I can learn to be better, I promise you.”

  “Let’s not talk about that now,” he said, unwilling to discuss their relationship in public and sorry that he had hurt her. “I shouldn’t have criticized you like that, Blanche. Your faults — such as they — pale into insignificance beside your many virtues.” She gave a brave smile. “Why don’t we forget this conversation and simply enjoy the sorbet?”

  “So you’re not cross with me anymore?”

  “How could I be? You’re very special to me.”

  “I hate it when we have an argument.”

  “Then let’s put it all behind us.”

  Blanche nodded then took a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. She picked up her glass and took a sip of wine.

  “Can’t I speak to Genevieve again?” she asked meekly.

  “Nobody is stopping you.”

  “I had no idea you disapproved of her so much.”

  “It’s not disapproval. I just have certain reservations.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “It’s quite simple,” he said. “In my job, I never take people at face value. I always probe beneath the surface. I wonder what they’re really thinking behind the bland smile.” He looked across at Genevieve. “I fancy that there’s something about Miss Masefield that isn’t quite right.”

  “I never noticed it.”

  “You wouldn’t, you dear thing.”

  “What exactly is wrong with her?”

  “I think that she’s too good to be true.”