Murder on the Lusitania

by Conrad Allen

  “Problems?”

  “Yes,” said the other airily. “It is something which Cunard would prefer to hide, but the Lucy’s final sea trials were not—if you will forgive an outrageous pun—plain sailing.

  “Is that so?”

  “The engineers discovered that she had an unfortunate vice. At high speeds, her stern vibrated. And I do not refer to mild trembling. She positively shuddered. From what I hear,” said Barcroft in a confidential whisper, “the stern more or less went into convulsions. Steel plates rattled, strakes and stanchions shook violently. The noise was deafening. They could never put passengers through an ordeal like that.”

  “I am sure that the problem has been completely overcome.”

  “Indeed, it has, sir. You can probably guess how.”

  “With an assortment of arches, pillars, gussets, brackets, and any other form of bracing, I should imagine. Much of it cunningly disguised behind built-in furniture, I daresay. Cunard would not bring a ship into service until every deficiency was rectified.”

  “Quite so. But the cost was phenomenal. Over a hundred forty second-class cabins had to be gutted to cure the vibration in the stern.”

  “You seem well informed, Mr. Barcroft.”

  “I am a journalist. It is my job to be well informed.”

  “Does that mean it is safe for me to believe everything I read in your newspaper?” said Dillman, raising a cynical eyebrow. “The American press is nowhere near as reliable. Fact and fiction intermingle there.”

  Barcroft’s face hardened, then an appeasing smile surfaced.

  “You are an intriguing man, sir,” he flattered, watching Dillman closely. “There cannot be many passengers aboard with your professional expertise. I would value a tour of the ship in your company.”

  “That will not be possible, I fear.”

  “But you could point out all of its salient features.”

  “I think that you know them already, Mr. Barcroft,” said Dillman levelly. “There is nothing I could add which could possibly interest someone as well informed as you.”

  “Your comments would be invaluable.”

  “I only helped to build yachts, Mr. Barcroft. That is a far cry from marine architecture on this scale. It is the difference between journalism and literature. Between the sort of article you write and the major novels produced by a Dickens or a Thomas Hardy.” He saw that he had caught the other man on the raw. “For which newspaper do you work, sir?”

  “Any and every one. I am a freelance.”

  “Then I will not keep you from your duties. I am sure you will want to employ your happy knack of meeting the right man elsewhere.”

  Barcroft’s eyelids narrowed for a second and he bit back a rejoinder. Then he gave a mirthless laugh and reached forward to pat Dillman on the arm before turning on his heel and moving away. Dillman watched him go. Barcroft insinuated himself into the crowd at the rail and engaged a young couple in conversation. The journalist had soon drawn them into an impromptu interview. There was something relentless and predatory about Henry Barcroft, but that was not the only quality of his that Dillman resented. He sensed a vengeful streak in the man and had a strong feeling that he had not seen the last of him. During the train journey earlier in the day, Dillman had taken the trouble to make friends with fellow passengers. In Henry Barcroft, he had just made his first enemy.

  THREE

  A carnival atmosphere prevailed aboard until well after midnight. First-class passengers lingered among the potted palms in the dining saloon, which was decorated in the style of Louis XVI with the predominating color of vieux rose. One of its outstanding features was a vast mahogany sideboard, ornamented with gilt metal and glistening like a huge beacon. Above the saloon was a circular balcony supported on Corinthian columns and taking the eye up to the magnificent grand dome with painted panels after Boucher. Those who chose to recline in the lounge found themselves in an equally resplendent room, decorated in the late Georgian period, and featuring fine inlaid mahogany panels, a richly modeled dome ceiling, and superb marble fireplaces.

  Second-class passengers enjoyed comfort without opulence. The public rooms were large, well appointed, and tastefully decorated, the facilities comparing favorably with first-class quarters on smaller ships. Public rooms in third class were unashamedly functional with bare wooden chairs and benches in abundance and a distinct absence of the luxurious fixtures and fittings that proliferated elsewhere. Almost twelve hundred people—more than half the number of passengers—would cross the Atlantic in third class and its shortcomings might in time prove irksome. In those early hours of the voyage, however, they were so buoyed up by the general feeling of elation that they had no complaints and were as happy as anyone aboard.

  Genevieve Masefield chose to have supper with the Hubermanns, two sisters whom she had befriended on the train from Euston and who seemed to think that someone as young and beautiful as she needed a chaperon. Accordingly, they took her under their wing. Carlotta and Abigail Hubermann had been on a grand tour of Europe and were returning to their native Virginia with an endless supply of anecdotes, souvenirs, and objets d’art. Genevieve warmed to them immediately. Both in their early sixties, they were lively companions, pleasantly garrulous but never to the point of boredom, kind, considerate, and always eager to listen to others. Ladies of independent means, they were extremely generous with their time and money.

  “How long do you plan to stay, Miss Masefield?” asked Abigail.

  “A month or so, probably.”

  “Bless you!” said Carlotta. “You must stay longer than that. What can you see of America in a month? We will expect you to spend at least that long with us, won’t we, Abigail?”

  “We insist. You simply must come to Virginia.”

  “That’s a very tempting offer,” said Genevieve. “I don’t wish to spend the whole of my time in New York and it would be unfair to impose on my friends indefinitely. By the same token, I would hate to outstay my welcome in Virginia.”

  “There is no danger of that,” said Carlotta. “Is there, Abigail?”

  “None whatsoever. It is settled.”

  “Abigail Hubermann has spoken. No argument will be allowed.”

  “Well,” said Genevieve, smiling. “If you put it like that …”

  “We do,” they said in unison.

  They were seated in the lounge, ensconced in plush armchairs beside one of the marble fireplaces. The Hubermanns presented a strange contrast. Though they could be identified as sisters at once by certain facial similarities, the resemblance ended there. Abigail, the elder of the two, was a thin, angular woman with bony wrists and a delta on blue veins on the backs of her hands. Yet there was no suggestion of fragility. Her energy seemed inexhaustible. Carlotta Hubermann was big, plump, and jovial, her fat cheeks tinged with red, her eyebrows arching expressively whenever she spoke. Both were maiden ladies but Genevieve had the impression that Carlotta’s private life had not been without its share of romance. Even in her portly state, she was still a very handsome woman.

  Abigail sipped her coffee, then regarded Genevieve for a moment.

  “I still think you should have reported him, dear,” she said.

  “Who?” asked Genevieve.

  “That steward about whom you told us. That kind of behavior is intolerable. In your place, I would have had him severely reprimanded.”

  “I didn’t wish to make too much of it, Miss Hubermann. Besides, it was not so much what the fellow did as what he was contemplating. I found it all rather amusing, to be honest. To be so open about it, he must have had success in the past.”

  “Have the man dismissed,” urged Abigail.

  “Don’t be so ruthless, Abigail,” said her sister. “It sounds to me as if Genevieve took the right course of action. She put him firmly in his place!”

  “Yes, Miss Hubermann. I have a stewardess now. There will be no further problems of that kind.”

  “None of this would have happened if
you traveled with your own maid,” argued Abigail, setting her cup and saucer down on the table. “Carlotta and I would never go anywhere without Ruby. She is a positive jewel. I daresay she is turning down the beds in our cabin right now.”

  “I prefer to travel alone, Miss Hubermann,” said Genevieve.

  “Except that you are no longer alone,” added Carlotta a with a grin. “You have acquired two strong bodyguards. And the first thing you must do is to stop calling us Miss Hubermann all the time or it will get very repetitive. We answer to Abigail and Carlotta.”

  “I will remember that.”

  “Carlotta,” prompted the other.

  Genevieve gave an obedient nod. “Carlotta it is.”

  “Which part of England do you hail from?” wondered Abigail.

  “I was born in Canterbury but my family moved around a great deal. We lived in Italy for a few years.”

  “Which part of Italy?”

  “Florence.”

  “One of our favorite cities!” said Abigail, clapping her hands together. “Wasn’t it, Carlotta? We bought that painting of the Doge in Florence.”

  “I thought that it was in Ravenna,” said her sister.

  “Florence, dear.”

  “I think you will find it was Ravenna.”

  “We bought the painting of the three musicians there.”

  “That was definitely in Venice.”

  “I hate to contradict you, Abigail.”

  “Then don’t. Because you are wrong.”

  “Not this time, dear.”

  “Carlotta!”

  It was not really an argument but it allowed both of them to display their characteristic gestures. Abigail used her hands to reinforce her points but Carlotta relied more on facial expressions, raising her eyebrows, pursing her lips and occasionally wrinkling her nose. Watching the two of them, Genevieve marveled at the way they could dispute a simple point without any rancor. In the end, they agreed to refer the matter to their maid, Ruby, for arbitration but Genevieve was sure that it would be the older of the two sisters who would turn out to be right. There was something quietly decisive about Abigail Hubermann. Slighter in build, she carried much more weight in argument.

  The three women were enjoying each other’s company so much that they did not notice they were under observation. Sitting within earshot of them, Henry Barcroft caught snatches of their conversation while trying to hold one himself with a senior member of a Christian Science delegation traveling to America in order to attend a conference where they would meet the founder of the movement. As soon as he caught sight of Genevieve Masefield, the journalist lost all interest in Mary Baker Eddy but he pretended to listen while his companion extolled the virtues of Science and Health.

  “A seminal book,” said the man reverentially.

  “So I understand,” murmured Barcroft.

  “Mrs. Eddy writes so cogently. It is inspiring. Would you care to borrow my copy of it?”

  “Not just now, sir.”

  “I could fetch it from my cabin.”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps,” said Barcroft, rising to his feet. “If you will excuse me, I must try to interview some more passengers. Thank you so much for talking to me.”

  Before the Christian Scientist could detain him, the journalist strode across to the trio at the table beside the fireplace. Barcroft put a tentative note into his voice.

  “Forgive this interruption, ladies,” he said with oily politeness. “I don’t mean to intrude but I couldn’t help overhearing those delightful American accents. My name is Henry Barcroft. I’m a journalist and I’ve been commissioned to write an article about this voyage. I wondered if I might trespass on your time to get your impressions of it?”

  “Now?” said Abigail, sizing him up. “It’s very late, young man.”

  “We were just about to retire,” said Carlotta.

  “Might I make an appointment to speak to you sometime in the morning, then?” asked Barcroft. “I am told that the Veranda Café is an ideal place for an informal chat.”

  “I am not sure that I wish to be quoted in a newspaper,” continued Abigail guardedly. “Journalists have a habit of twisting one’s words.”

  “I would send nothing off without your approval.”

  “That is different,” said Carlotta reasonably. “But what do you mean about sending your article off?”

  “The ship has a wireless room. They will transmit whatever I give them. Even in the middle of the Irish Sea, as we are now, I could get through to my editor.” Barcroft turned to Genevieve. “What about you, miss? May I ask for the privilege of an interview with you as well?”

  “I’m not sure about that, Mr. Barcroft.”

  “What is your objection?”

  “I have no wish to see my name in a newspaper.”

  “That objection is easily overcome,” he promised. “You’ll remain completely anonymous. If I quote you in the article, I’ll simply refer to you as a charming young lady on her first trip to America.” He fished gently. “I take it that it is your first trip?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “May I ask the purpose of the visit?”

  “To stay with us,” said Abigail bluntly. “And if you must ask us questions, confine them to the Lusitania. You are not entitled to probe into our private lives. Remember that, young man. As far as you are concerned, we are just three more faceless passengers.”

  “You could never be that,” he said with gallantry, looking around all three of them. “I have never seen three more distinctive faces.”

  Abigail sniffed but Carlotta’s cheeks dimpled at the compliment. Genevieve, too, mellowed slightly toward the stranger as the idea occurred to her that he might be useful.

  “Whom else have you interviewed?” she said.

  “Dozens of people,” he replied, keen to impress. “I spoke with Mr. Cunard himself, of course, and with the Countess of Dunmore. Then there was Mr. Jacob Rothschild, the MP Mr. Robert Balfour and his wife, Sir William Wiseman, and so on.”

  “All this for one article?” said Abigail tartly.

  “I am very thorough.”

  “Do you really need our opinion, Mr. Barcroft?”

  “Indeed, yes,” he insisted. “The more reactions I can glean, the better. As American passengers, you have a special interest for me because you must already have made one transatlantic voyage in order to get to Europe. You have a point of comparison. You can measure the Lucy alongside the Lucania or whichever ship brought you over.”

  “The Ivernia,” corrected Carlotta.

  “How did she compare with the Lucy?”

  “Oh, she is not in the same class.”

  “I thought this interview was going to take place tomorrow?” said Abigail, who still had reservations about the journalist. “My sister and I need to sleep on it before we decide if we will speak to the press.”

  “What harm can it do?” asked Carlotta.

  “None,” said Genevieve, “if our names are not to be used. Actually, I would rather get it over with now. If you would prefer to go to bed, I’ll remain here with Mr. Barcroft and answer his questions.”

  The journalist beamed and took pencil and pad from his pocket. An interview alone with Genevieve was exactly what he sought. Abigail Hubermann forced him to moderate his pleasure.

  “If you stay, Genevieve,” she affirmed, “then so will we.”

  “Yes,” said Carlotta loyally. “For as long as it takes.”

  “Good!” said Barcroft with false affability. “May I sit down?”

  A light meal with the Rymers was less of a trial than Dillman had anticipated. Though still in homiletic vein, Matthew Rymer was much more relaxed, and even ventured, albeit with plodding slowness, into the realms of humor when he described the recent purchase of a property. Dillman learned that his host had amassed a small fortune by means of property speculation, enabling him not merely to travel first class with his wife and daughter on the Lusitania but to take one of the coveted regal suite
s, comprising two bedrooms, a dining room a drawing room, bathroom and toilets, with an adjoining cabin for their maid, a bosomy middle-aged woman called Mildred. Dillman did not know of her existence until he joined the Rymers in their private dining room and he assumed that Mildred must have traveled to Liverpool with them in a second- or third-class compartment of the same train.

  Sylvia Rymer was also more personable, delighted with their accommodation and liberated from the nervous tension that Dillman had remarked earlier. Like her husband, she was able to open up now that the ship had actually left port, as if some major obstruction had finally been negotiated, allowing her to enjoy the voyage. Dillman was certain that the obstruction was related in some way to Violet, who still sulked whenever her parents spoke to her but who showed a genuine curiosity in their American guest.

  “Did you actually design yachts?” she said, eyes widening.

  “Not really,” he admitted. “My father kept me very much in a subservient role. It was one of the reasons I felt that I had to get away.”

  “What was his response?” asked Rymer.

  “Let us just say that he opposed the notion.”

  “So what will you do now, Mr. Dillman?”

  “That is what I am going home to discuss with my family, sir. There are several options to consider, but I don’t wish to worry about them now. I had the most pleasurable vacation in the old country and mean to wring every ounce of enjoyment out of this maiden voyage before I have to contemplate the prospect of a new career.”

  “What will you most remember about England?” asked Sylvia Rymer.

  “The dreadful weather!” answered her husband.

  “Not at all,” said Dillman. “It has been unusually kind during my stay. I was warned about the likelihood of rain but it kept off for the most part. No, my most treasured memories are my visits to the theater.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Whatever I could, Mrs. Rymer.”

  “We went to the theater ourselves last night,” she explained.

  “To the Hicks Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. A play by Henry Arthur Jones.”