by Conrad Allen
Only two names suggested themselves. The obvious one was that of Theodore Wright, the friendly cyclist whom she had met during his training run on deck. She was fond of him and knew that he liked her, but they had seen relatively little of each other. Then she recalled the remark he had made about her to Isadora Singleton. When the girl had teased her about Wright's passion for her, Genevieve had not taken it too seriously. A bouquet of such size and cost, however, could not be ignored. If it had been bought by Wright, then he had more than a passing interest in her. Genevieve was worried. It was awkward enough to have Isadora on her tail all the time. Pursued by a doting admirer as well, her work on the Caronia would be badly restricted. She fervently hoped that Theodore Wright was not the sender. It would cause complications.
The other person who came into her mind was Stanley Chase, yet they had spent even less time together. Attentive to her over a meal, he had given no indication of any deeper feelings for her. Indeed, it was he who had announced that she had made such an impact on Theodore Wright, and he had done so without a trace of jealousy. At the same time—and Isadora had observed it as well—Chase did look at her with a distinct sparkle in his eye. When she encountered him in the company of Frank Openshaw, he had been very amiable, quick to confirm, albeit lightheartedly, that he found her the most enchanting woman on the vessel. What had sounded like a polite compliment now took on a different meaning. As she picked her way back through the few conversations she had had with him, Genevieve came to see that Stanley Chase could not easily be dismissed as a possible suitor.
In some ways he was the more likely person. Theodore Wright might have become enamored but he would hardly express his affections with a bouquet of flowers. He was such a direct and honest young man that he would be inclined to declare himself openly. Chase, on the other hand, was controlled by English reserve. He would never blurt out anything that concerned his innermost feelings. Flowers would be his preferred approach. Genevieve could see they had been carefully chosen and Wright did not look like a man with any floral expertise. Stanley Chase, however, would know the exquisite appeal of early red and white roses, nestling beside lilies, lilac, and carnations, the whole bunch surrounded by the most delicate strands of gypsophilia. It was a gift that an English gentleman would send to a lady. That thought caused Genevieve even more disquiet. While she found Chase a congenial companion, she was very uneasy at the notion of any closer relationship.
She made a few last adjustments to the flowers then stood back to enjoy them afresh. Theodore Wright or Stanley Chase? She could not make up her mind between them. No other passengers came to mind. Waldo Singleton and Frank Openshaw were the only other two men with whom she had had any real contact and neither of them was a possible contender. It came down to a choice between two people. After sifting through the evidence, she decided that Chase was the anonymous sender, if only because a romantic gesture from him would be more likely to take that form. Yet even as she ousted Wright from the running, she chided herself for making such a simplistic judgment. The American male was just as capable of surprising her in that delightful way as his English counterpart. As soon as she remembered that, Genevieve realized she had omitted the one desirable name from her list of suspects.
“Oh, George!” she exclaimed, sniffing the flowers once more. “You darling!”
Unaware that he was provoking such fond thoughts, Dillman was let into the cabin by the purser. Concern had darkened the bags under Paul Taggart’s eyes. The dramatic events aboard his ship were starting to take their toll.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Dillman.
“Inspector Redfern has had something of a relapse.”
“A relapse?”
“The doctor thinks that it’s delayed concussion,” Taggart said quietly. “He’s ordered the inspector to rest and given him some sleeping tablets. You’d better speak to him before he dozes off.”
“Right.”
“I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Dillman. If you should need me, I’ll be in my office.”
The purser let himself out and Dillman went through into the bedroom. It was identical in size and shape to the one that he occupied himself, in first class, but it was not as well appointed and the decor was far less elaborate. Inspector Redfern occupied the bunk along the right-hand wall. Propped up on a pillow, armed folded in defiance, he was wearing a striped dressing gown. Dillman could see his frustration.
“How are you, Inspector?” he inquired.
“I’m fine in myself, Mr. Dillman. It’s this headache of mine.”
“You may have tried to get back into action too soon.”
“I hate the thought of lying here when there’s so much to be done.”
“Leave that to us.”
“That’s what Mr. Taggart said—and the doctor. They ganged up on me. All that happened was that I had these dizzy spells. They soon passed.”
“Take no chances, Inspector. Nobody else who spent the night as you did would even dream of getting up.”
“I had to keep an eye on the suspects.”
“Let someone else do that for you, Inspector.”
Redfern heaved a sigh of reluctance. “I may have to,” he conceded. “I owe you something of an apology, Mr. Dillman. The purser has been telling me about the reputation you’ve built up on Cunard liners. It isn’t just petty crime that you deal with. According to Mr. Taggart, you’ve solved a murder case before.”
“On more than one occasion,” Dillman said modestly.
“It seems that Miss Masefield has earned her share of plaudits as well.”
“We work as a team, Inspector.”
“Well, I’m not going to keep you both at arm’s length anymore,” decided Redfern. “When Sergeant Mulcaster was alive, it was different. Two of us could handle our prisoners without any difficulty. Ronnie was incensed when you offered a helping hand. Wrongly, it seems now. But I’m to blame as well. I let silly professional pride get in the way as well. I’m sorry, Mr. Dillman.”
“No apology is called for.”
“I think that it is.”
“Then I accept it willingly.”
“Do you still want to be involved?”
“Very much, Inspector.”
“I’d understand if you gave me a dusty answer. It’d be no more than I deserved.”
“Forget what happened,” advised Dillman. “Sergeant Mulcaster’s death changes everything. As far as I’m concerned, we start with a clean slate.
“Good.” Redfern yawned. “I’m starting to fade already,” he complained.
“What would you like us to do?”
“Have free access to both of them. I spoke to John Heritage earlier but made little progress. He’s a devious man, difficult to pin down. He’s also hopping mad because I asked the master-at-arms to transfer him to a cell.”
“Was that necessary?”
“I felt so at the time.”
“What about Miss Peterson?”
“She’s the one who baffles me,” said Redfern, yawning again. “One minute she looks as innocent as the driven snow; the next, she makes a remark that makes me think she’s every bit as guilty as him.”
“I’ll ask Genevieve to interview her.”
“Warn her beforehand. Carrie Peterson is a creature of moods.”
“I’ll see what I can get out of Mr. Heritage.”
“Don’t play chess with him, whatever you do. He destroyed me. Oh, and don’t mention what happened to Sergeant Mulcaster,” he ordered. “There’s no need for them to know. They’d only take pleasure from the information.”
“They’re bound to ask where he is, Inspector.”
“Fob them off as best you can.”
“It would be helpful to know more details of the case.”
The inspector’s eyes began to flicker. “Of course, Mr. Dillman,” he said drowsily. “You can’t work in the dark. There’s a dossier on the table in the other room.”
“I’ll find it. You get some sleep.”
“Wake me if there are any developments.”
Dillman was firm. “No, Inspector. There’s nothing you’d be able to do in that state. Thank you for trusting in us,” he said. “We’ll try not to let you down.”
“I could never ride anything like that!” exclaimed Isadora Singleton with a giggle.
“You can, if I hold you on.”
“It’s far too big, Theo.”
“The saddle is as low as it can get.”
“Yes,” she pointed out, “but even so, it’s not designed for a lady.”
“I’m sorry about that, Isadora,” said Wright. “It’s the one I use in races. I’m not likely to win any of those on a lady’s bicycle, am I?”
“I’d love to see you try!” she said, shaking with mirth.
Isadora had come for her first lesson with some misgivings. Excited by the idea of learning to ride, she wondered if it was too perilous a venture to undertake, and she was terrified that her parents would find out she was alone with a young man. At Wright’s suggestion, they met in the storeroom where his machines were kept. Both bicycles had triangular steel frames and large wheels with dozens of spokes in them. The pneumatic tires were the best available. What frightened Isadora most were the dropped handlebars. She did not believe she could ever guide the machine with them.
“It’s built for speed, strength, and lightness,” explained Wright, stroking the crossbar with pride. “When bicycles were first made, they were as heavy as lead. Nobody could have ridden one of those from Bordeaux to Paris. They’ve improved a great deal over the years. This one, as you see, is stripped down to essentials.”
“It’s not very pretty.”
“It’s not meant to be, Isadora.”
“Some of my friends have very pretty bicycles.”
“This one has a pretty rider,” he joked, cocking his leg over the back wheel and sitting in the saddle. “It’ll have an even prettier one when we get you on here.”
“I’d be afraid to fall off.”
“Not when I’m here to catch you. Watch me. Balance is the key to cycling.”
After twisting the front wheel at an angle, he put both feet on the pedals, keeping his balance by making minor adjustments with the handlebars. Isadora was so impressed that she clapped her hands with glee. She had never seen such a clever balancing act in so confined a space. Eventually Wright put one toe to the floor to steady himself.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said.
“I could never do that.”
“I’m not asking you to, Isadora. I just want you to see what it’s like to sit in the saddle. Come on,” he said, dismounting. “I’ll hold you on.”
Her face clouded. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that, Theo.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe this is not such a good idea.”
Doubts afflicted her. She was less worried about sitting on the bicycle than being held in position by someone whom, when she thought about it, she had only known for a very short time. Her parents would be horrified and all her social instincts told her to thank Wright for his offer then bring the private lesson to a close. At the same time, however, she felt the exhilaration of doing something bold and forbidden, something that she had never foreseen when she stepped aboard the ship. Isadora was also reassured by Wright’s friendly grin. His manner had been respectful throughout. She reminded herself that he was no ordinary cyclist. Isadora would be given her first tuition by no less a person than the American champion. It was an honor.
“Just for a second, then,” she consented.
“Swell!”
“You’ll have to turn round, Theo.”
“What?” He realized what she meant. “Oh, sure.”
Wright turned his back so that she could hitch up her long skirt with one hand. Holding the bicycle with the other, she cocked her leg over the machine and felt for the saddle. It was hard and uncomfortable.
“How are you doing, Isadora?” he asked.
“Not too well. See for yourself.”
He turned round and saw that her toes were fully extended to touch the floor. Even though it was stationary, she was very wary of the machine. He bent down to flip the hem of her long skirt away from the chain.
“You don’t want to get oil on that lovely dress.”
“Mother would never forgive me.”
“Now, hold still,” he advised.
“What are you going to do?”
“Prove something to you, Isadora.” He took a firm grip on the saddle and the handlebars before grinning at her. “Take your feet off the floor now.”
“I daren’t do that, Theo.”
“Go on. I’ve got a firm grip.”
“It won’t be safe.”
“Just try—that’s all I ask.”
Isadora lifted one foot off the ground and put it on a pedal. Feeling as stable as she had before, she experimented by lifting her other toe an inch off the ground. Wright held the machine so tightly that it did not budge. Isadora was encouraged enough to risk putting her other foot on a pedal. She let out a cry of triumph.
“I can ride!” she cried. “I’m riding a bicycle at last.”
Wright laughed. “There’s a little more to it than that,” he warned.
* * *
Genevieve Masefield had convinced herself that Dillman must have sent the flowers. Before she could thank him, however, she needed confirmation. There was no florist aboard but the Caronia did have a large supply of flowers to be used as decoration on the tables in the first- and second-class restaurants. Evidently, her bouquet must have come from that source. She went to find out who had ordered them. Her journey took her past the lounge. Genevieve paused at the door when she saw that one of her potential admirers was there. Listening earnestly to what Frank Openshaw was saying, Stanley Chase gave an understanding nod from time to time. He did not look in her direction and Genevieve decided that he did not need to do so. Something about him told her he was probably not the man she was after. At heart, she guessed, he was a shrewd businessman who would rather listen to an investment opportunity than take a romantic interest in a woman on a transatlantic voyage. Genevieve turned away. Before she could go off to track down the person who did send the flowers, however, she was confronted by a smiling Cecilia Robart.
“Good afternoon, Miss Masefield,” she said.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Robart.”
“How many other crimes have you solved?”
“None so far,” said Genevieve, noting her gold earrings. “Fortunately, we’ve had no more reports of theft as yet.”
“I’m sorry that you got one from me. As you see, I’m wearing the earrings,” said Cecilia Robart, brushing one of them with a finger. “I’m so careful with them now.”
“Good.”
“Were you looking for someone in the lounge?”
“No, no, Mrs. Robart.”
“I wondered if you had colleagues aboard. I suppose that you work in a team.”
“If only we did,” said Genevieve, careful to give nothing away. “It would make my life easier. No, I work alone, I’m afraid. Luckily, there are not too many calls on my time. Most passengers are very law-abiding.”
“That’s what Sir Harry was saying last night.”
“Sir Harry?”
“Sir Harry Fox-Holroyd. I sat next to him and his wife at dinner. They were delightful company,” she said. “Very unassuming. Anyway, Sir Harry was talking about the essential honesty in the Anglo-Saxon character. I agreed with him. He made an interesting point.”
“Oh?”
“Well, he admitted freely that we do have our criminal element in England, but it’s not a large one. The question we ought to be asking, Sir Harry said, was not why the small minority turned to crime but why the vast majority would never dream of it in a million years.” Mrs. Robart laughed. “I know that I wouldn’t, and it’s not simply out of fear of the consequences. It just seems so, well, foreign to our nature. Sir Harry was right about that.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not foreign to everyone’s nature,” said Genevieve.
“Quite. Look at those two killers we have aboard.”
“They’re only suspects, Mrs. Robart.”
“Yes, I know,” said the other woman. “And I’m ashamed that I had such silly fears earlier on. When there are Scotland Yard detectives aboard, we’ve nothing at all to worry about. Sir Harry reassured us about that,” she went on. “He spoke very highly of Scotland Yard. Apparently they had a robbery at their London home and the villains were caught within a matter of weeks.”
“Was the stolen property recovered?”
“Oh, yes. The thieves hadn’t managed to sell the jewelry.” She laughed again. “Scotland Yard is almost as efficient as you, Miss Masefield. Except that theirs was a real crime, of course, and the one I reported was not. Oh, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you,” she continued, putting a hand on Genevieve’s arm. “I got so flustered when I thought I’d lost my precious earrings. You put my mind at rest.”
“Good.”
“I know you wouldn’t take any reward but I’ll find a way to thank you somehow.”
After gently squeezing her arm, Cecilia Robart walked into the lounge to join two other ladies for afternoon tea. Genevieve was forced to revise her judgment. She had to accept the possibility that the flowers had not, in fact, been sent by any of the three men she had considered. They might have been a gift from a woman. She could still feel the touch of Mrs. Robart’s hand on her arm. The thought that it was she who might be the anonymous sender was troubling.
Given permission to speak to the prisoners, Dillman did not waste any time. Instead of interviewing John Heritage in his cell, however, he borrowed the office used by the master-at-arms. After introducing himself, Dillman explained why he was there. Heritage was pleased by what he saw as more humane treatment.
