by Conrad Allen
“Yes. The Hypocrites.”
“You saw it as well, Mr. Dillman?”
“I enjoyed it immensely.”
“So did we,” said Rymer, and then he flung a glance at his daughter. “Some of us, anyway. It was a waste of a ticket to take Violet.”
“I was not in the mood, Father,” she muttered.
“You might have preferred the play at the Duke of York’s Theatre,” said Dillman helpfully. “Brewster’s Millions. It’s a hilarious farce about the business of making money.”
“There is nothing farcical about making money,” said Rymer seriously. “Who wrote the play?”
“A fellow countryman of mine called Byron Ongley.”
“Ah! An American play!”
“And not the only one in town, sir. Had you gone to the Comedy Theatre, as I did, you could have seen Miss Marie Tempest in The Truth, an astonishing performance in a fine play by Clyde Fitch. He is perhaps best remembered for a play called Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines, another comedy about American social life. Believe it or not, we do have our own dramatists, you know.”
“But they pale to insignificance beside our playwrights.”
“That is a matter of opinion, Mr. Rymer.”
“No American can hold a candle to Pinero or Henry Arthur Jones.”
“I would dispute that, sir, though I would happily yield the palm to another British dramatist. He is a comic genius. We certainly have nobody who can get within touching distance of him.”
“Do you refer to this new fellow—whatsisname? The one who wrote a play called The Golden Box?”
“The Silver Box, Matthew,” reminded his wife. “We saw it last year. The author’s name was John Galsworthy.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call him a comic genius.”
“No more would I,” said Dillman patiently. “The man who has really taken the stage by storm is George Bernard Shaw. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing his work both here and in New York. Mark my words, he is the playwright of the future.”
Rymer was appalled. “But the fellow is an Irishman.”
Dillman could see that it would be unwise to take a discussion of drama any further and he swiftly backpedaled. After thanking them for their hospitality, he took his leave. As they waved him off, Sylvia Rymer was gracious and her husband uncommonly civil, but their daughter was hurt by his departure and shot him a wounded look. Violet obviously did not wish to be delivered up once more to the less-than-tender mercies of her parents.
Pleased that she had identified him as a friend, Dillman felt a twinge of guilt at having to abandon her. He consoled himself with the thought that there would be time to make amends in the days ahead. Meanwhile, he felt the need of a stroll on deck to clear his lungs. At the end of their meal, Matthew Rymer had smoked a cigar and its acrid smell still haunted Dillman’s nostrils and clung to his clothes. It was a mild night with a welcome breeze. As he walked along the promenade deck, he inhaled deeply. Most passengers had started to disperse to their cabins by now but a few were still on deck. Dillman strode past them until he spotted a uniformed figure at the rail. He recognized the profile.
“Rather late for you to be up, isn’t it?” he said jokingly.
Lionel Osborne turned round. “Oh, hello there, Mr. Dillman.”
“Early to bed. Doctor’s orders.”
“What is the point of being the ship’s surgeon if you can’t ignore your own advice?” said Osborne with a grin. “Besides, who could resist being on deck on an historic night like this? Sea air is so bracing.”
Osborne was a dapper man in his forties with a clean-shaven face that tapered to a point at the chin. Dillman had only met him once but had taken to him immediately. Osborne had a blend of expertise and resilience that was vital in his profession. Unlike some of the ship’s complement, he treated Dillman as an equal and not as a rather minor employee whose presence was a necessary insurance.
“Do you expect to be busy?” said the American.
“Doctors are always busy on transatlantic crossings.”
“Seasickness?”
“That is the least of my worries, Mr. Dillman. No, what we are up against is the law of averages.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Work it out for yourself, old chap. Five days on board with over two thousand passengers. There’s bound to be at least one heart attack, brain hemorrhage, or other serious problem. And some people will overindulge in the dining saloon, so there’ll be everything from cases of acute indigestion to more serious gastric disorders.” He waved a hand at the rolling waves. “I’m enjoying the view while I have the chance.”
“There is not much to see in the darkness.”
“Maybe not,” said Osborne, “but it is an improvement on the swollen ankles, inflamed throats, and distended stomachs which I’ll have to look at in due course. Not to mention the odd broken bone. Whenever I’m on duty, someone always manages to fall down some steps. It’s uncanny.”
“What is the worst emergency you had to face?”
“Difficult to say, Mr. Dillman. If you pressed me, I think it would be a toss-up between performing a tracheotomy on the floor of a cabin and delivering a baby in a force nine gale. Oh,” he recalled, “then there was the lady with the sick poodle.”
“Are you expected to be a vet as well?”
“A ship’s surgeon is supposed to be able to cure anything from malaria to foot-and-mouth disease.” Osborne grimaced at the memory. “But that poodle was vicious. It almost bit off my finger. When I told its owner that there was nothing wrong with the animal, she turned on me as well. I had the pair of them yapping away at me.”
“Occupational hazards.”
“I daresay that you have your share of those, old chap.”
Dillman smiled. “I enjoy a spot of action.”
“Has there been any to report so far?”
“Not really. I conducted one brief search of the ship earlier on but found nothing untoward. To be honest, I still haven’t mastered the layout of the vessel.”
“Nor I. It’s like the Hampton Court maze.”
They chatted amiably for a while, then Dillman excused himself and resumed his walk. Seven decks were designed for use by the passengers, from the lower deck up to boat deck. Though his responsibility was largely confined to the first-class areas, Dillman had an interest in the whole vessel and he spent some time exploring it while it was relatively uncluttered by passengers. Eventually, he made his way up to the boat deck, the largest open area on the ship and the one that would be most populated during good weather. It was almost deserted now and the cooling breeze he felt on the covered promenade deck had stiffened markedly now that he was more exposed. Dillman liked the way that it ruffled his hair and tugged at his clothing. It brought back happy memories of his yachting days.
The only people he could see were a young couple, arms entwined, gazing into the void over the stern of the ship. They were far too much in love to notice the cold. Dillman glanced at the lifeboats, secure on the davits and covered with tarpaulins. In the days to come, he knew, they would assuredly be brought into use for clandestine assignations. Those who had designed the boats showed little consideration for the needs of lovers but true passion made light of discomfort. During his crossing to England on the Lucania, Dillman had found a stowaway in one of the boats but he knew that the Lusitania’s set had been carefully searched before leaving port.
He raised a palm to cover an involuntary yawn. After a valedictory glance around the boat deck, he made his way back to his cabin, feeling the need for sleep. On his way, he had to walk past the first-class lounge and he popped his head in to see if anybody was still there. Several people were still up, talking in groups or, in one case, dozing fiftfully in an armchair, but the people who immediately caught his attention were beside the fireplace. There were four of them. Two were elderly ladies and a spasm of excitement went through him when he looked at the fair-haired young woman seated between them. He had seen h
er once before, at Euston Station, a blur of loveliness. Shorn of her straw hat, she was even more beautiful and had a natural poise that defied the late hour.
Unfortunately, she was deep in conversation with a man whom Dillman also recognized. Henry Barcroft was in his element, quizzing her and simultaneously showing off by displaying his knowledge of the first-class passenger list. To Dillman’s jaundiced eye, they seemed almost like a couple. It was galling. The young woman he most wanted to meet was ensnared by the journalist he most wished to avoid.
It was time to go to bed.
The superior speed of the Lusitania allowed her to overhaul her sister ship, the Lucania, at 4:30 A.M. the following morning before a blanket of fog obliged both vessels to slow down considerably. Not long after 9:00 A.M., the Lusitania anchored at the entrance to Queenstown Harbor. Fifteen minutes later, the Lucania floated past it to take up its berth. Large crowds had been gathering since dawn on both east and west headlands around the harbor and craft of every shape and size had assembled to give the ships a true nautical salutation. On that southernmost tip of Ireland, sailors and citizens alike appreciated the real significance of the maiden voyage of the Lusitania and they were determined not to miss a sighting.
After taking on board passengers and mail, the Lucania set sail first and passed Daunts Rock Lighthouse at 11:35 A.M. The Lusitania took on more than a hundred passengers and almost eight hundred bags of mail before setting off, shortly after noon, in pursuit of the other ship. The watching crowd cheered themselves hoarse as the narrow beam of the new vessel cut cleanly and purposefully through the dark water. An attempt to win back the Blue Riband, and the enormous kudos that went with it, was now properly under way.
The new passengers were eager to stow their luggage in their cabins so that they could get swiftly back up on deck in order to enjoy the true, heartwarming Irish send-off they were being given. One of them, however, showed no interest in the proceedings. He was a tall, slim young man with a swarthy complexion and large brown eyes. While others had tripped excitedly up the gangplank, he had more or less slunk aboard the ship, head down and face largely covered by the peak of his cap. When he was shown to his cabin in the second-class quarter, he locked the door behind him before swinging his suitcase up onto the bed. Opening it at once, he took out a small photograph of a young woman and kissed it softly before placing it on his table.
From inside a silver frame, Violet Rymer smiled back at him.
FOUR
By midafternoon, the Lusitania was steaming across the Atlantic Ocean with thick black smoke belching furiously from three of her funnels. Passengers on the boat deck who wondered why no smoke came from the fourth funnel were unaware of the fact that its function was purely decorative and that it had been added by the ship’s designer for reasons of symmetry. A vessel on that scale needed massive funnels, each one so large that it was possible for two cars to drive through them side by side when their individual sections had been riveted together at the shipyard. Photographic proof of this capability had been released to the press and many newspapers had startled their readers with the pictures. Other details of the ship’s construction, however, were jealously guarded. The giant was ready to display its muscles to the world, but its vital organs were kept largely secret so they could not be copied by rivals.
It did not seem like a Sunday. Though services had been held aboard and hymns sung with Christian gusto, there were few outward signs of the Sabbath. People promenaded on the decks or made use of the various leisure facilities. Cameras were much in evidence and a few amateur artists worked on their first sketches. The busiest men aboard were the trimmers and stokers down in the engine room, the former making sure that the latter had an endless supply of highly combustible bituminous coal from the bunkers. There were almost two hundred furnaces and their appetite was voracious. In order to maintain the top cruising speed of twenty-five knots, the best part of a thousand tons of coal a day had to be shoveled into the flames. For those down below, the Sabbath was no day of rest.
George Porter Dillman spent most of the morning familiarizing himself with the vessel and mingling with the other passengers. Some new acquaintances were made and he was on nodding terms with several other people. Though technically a member of the crew, it was important for him to be accepted as just one more first-class passenger so that he could move unseen around his territory and monitor it more effectively. Late afternoon found him taking tea in the Veranda Café with Cyril and Ada Weekes. The couple had acquired a new friend in Jeremiah Erskine, a big, ponderous man of middle years with a luxuriant black beard and a scattering of ugly warts on a high forehead. Extensive business interests in the United States made Erskine a regular transatlantic traveler but he seemed to derive no pleasure from his voyages.
“I sense trouble ahead,” he said darkly. “Everything has gone far too smoothly so far. That is a bad omen.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Erskine?” asked Weekes.
“The Cunard Line is fraught with danger, sir.”
“That is not true at all,” said Dillman defensively. “Its safety record is beyond reproach and no more stable vessel has ever been launched than the Lusitania.”
Erskine remained lugubrious. “They said the same of the Umbria when it came into service over twenty years ago. Yet it went badly adrift in 1892 and was later involved in a major collision in New York Harbor. As for the much-vaunted Etruria,” he continued, hitting his stride, “that, too, was involved in a collision. When I sailed on her four years ago, she was the target for gangsters who tried to blow her up.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Ada Weekes.
“You are causing unnecessary alarm, sir,” warned Dillman.
Erskine was unrepentant. “I believe in facing facts, Mr. Dillman.”
“What was that about gangsters?” asked Weekes. “Who were they?”
“Italians,” said Erskine. “Members of the Mafia Society. An evil organization which swore to destroy all British ships leaving New York.”
“But they failed miserably,” said Dillman, wanting to reassure the others. “Security aboard all Cunard vessels was far too tight. On the occasion to which Mr. Erskine refers, the Etruria crossed the Atlantic without incident.”
“That was not the case earlier this year,” said Erskine solemnly, scratching at his beard. “Did you know that two members of its crew were killed during bad weather in January? Then there is the Campania, another Cunard ship with a reputation for safety. It was involved in a bad collision in 1900 and, a mere two years ago, it was struck by a freak wave which killed some of its passengers.”
“That’s dreadful!” cried Ada Weekes.
“But highly atypical,” insisted Dillman.
“I had no idea that an Atlantic crossing was so perilous.”
“It’s not, Mrs. Weekes. Believe me.”
“Inclement weather is only one hazard,” said Erskine, settling into his role as a prophet of doom. “Bad seamanship is another problem. Only two years ago, the Caronia, biggest and newest ship of the line, ran aground off Sandy Hook. Size is no guarantee of safety.”
“So it seems,” said a meditative Weekes, patting his wife’s arm to calm her. “But I am sure we are in no danger here. The Cunard Line will have learned from its earlier mistakes.”
“Indeed it has,” emphasized Dillman, wondering how two such affable people as Cyril and Ada Weekes had been drawn to such a melancholy individual as Jeremiah Erskine. “What you have heard are isolated examples. Hundreds of thousands of people have sailed across the Atlantic without any whiff of danger. As for the tragedy aboard the Campania, it was caused, as Mr. Erskine told us, by a freak wave. What he did not say was that it was the first time in sixty years that any passengers were killed on the Cunard Line.”
“You seem to know a great deal about this subject, sir,” said Erskine, annoyed at being robbed of his ability to spread unease. “May I ask what allows you to speak with such apparent authority?”
“I come from a maritime family, Mr. Erskine.”
“You have been an officer aboard a liner?”
“No, sir. But I have helped to build oceangoing yachts and that has given me great insight into the safety features of any vessel as well as the vagaries of weather.”
“Yet you have not crossed the Atlantic as often as I have.”
“I concede that,” said Dillman. “What suprises me is that a veteran like yourself would not wish to offer a degree of reassurance to passengers, like our friends here, who are crossing for the first time.”
“When I sense disaster, Mr. Dillman, I must speak out.”
“Even if it causes willful distress?”
“I have a premonition, sir.”
“Then why sail on the vessel in the first place?”
“It is a business necessity.”
Weekes stepped in to change the subject to the dinner menu for that evening and Erskine was diverted from his gloomy prognostications. Ada Weekes visibly relaxed. Dillman took the opportunity to excuse himself. The teatime session with Jeremiah Erskine had left him feeling the need for more cheerful company. Since the weather was still relatively mild, one side of the café had been opened up so Dillman simply had to step a few yards before he was out on deck. Many passengers were sauntering along in the sunshine, some with dogs on leashes. Dillman strolled in the direction of the stern but he did not get very far before he recognized the two people who were coming toward him. They were the elderly ladies whom he had seen in the lounge on the previous evening with the mysterious young woman and the egregious journalist. It gave him the chance to do some detective work on his own account.
Wearing coats, hats, and scarves to ward off the breeze, the Hubermanns walked along arm in arm. They had slept well the night before, eaten a hearty breakfast and an even more delicious luncheon, then spent the afternoon in a leisurely tour of the ship. When the tall young man confronted them with a polite smile, they came to a halt. Dillman touched the brim of his hat.
