by Conrad Allen
“Well, sir?” he nudged.
“Are you allowed into the first-class quarters?”
“Not unless I want to lose my job, sir. I’m confined to the second-class and, to tell you the truth, I prefers it that way. Too many airs and graces in first-class. The passengers there can be very demanding. Some of them treats you like dirt. No, sir,” he decided. “I’m ’appier here.”
“But you must know some of the stewards in first class.”
“Dozens of them. My own brother for one.”
“You have a brother on the ship?”
“Two, sir. Tom and me’s second-class. Jack’s first.”
“Can you get in touch with Jack?”
“Easily.” A considered pause. “If there was a good reason.”
“I’d like him to do a favor for me.”
“What sort of favor, sir?”
“A very simple one, Albert. I have a special friend aboard this ship. In first-class. I just want to know which cabin she’s in.”
The steward sniggered. “Like that, is it?”
“Do you think that Jack could help me?”
“’e’s not supposed to,” said the other, shaking his head. “What you asks for is confidential information. Jack’d be taking a risk.”
“I’ll make it worth his while.”
“Would you, sir?”
“And you’ll get the same, of course. After all, you’re the go-between. What do you say, Albert? Can you and your brother help me?”
“I’ll ’ave to think it over, sir.”
“Don’t be too long about it. This is important.”
“I gathered that, sir. Sweetheart, is she?”
“I need the number of her cabin.”
“Then what?”
“I might need a second favor.”
Another snigger. “Thought you might, sir. You’ll be wanting our Jack to deliver a message, I daresay. Better warn you now, this’ll cost you. A sovereign apiece won’t cover this. Risks, see? Dangers.”
“Name your price.”
The steward squinted up at him. Philip Garrow was patently a driven man with an edge of desperation about him. He was ripe for exploitation. At the same time, Albert felt inclined to help him. The thought of playing Cupid appealed to a romantic streak in his nature.
“Let me speak to Jack,” he said at length. “Me and ’im needs to chew this one over. Who knows? Maybe we can do a bit more for you than is being asked of us. That suit you, sir?”
FIVE
The mood of celebration continued and intensified throughout the evening until the Lusitania seemed to be hosting one enormous party. People who would normally have been attending Evensong at that hour or reading to their children from the family Bible were happily ignoring all precepts about the nature of the Sabbath. Passengers in first class might be attending a banquet but those in third class were not excluded from the sense of occasion. Jollity and camaraderie ran along the serried ranks of wooden benches, and a cheer went up when someone began to play a concertina. The vessel was traveling in international waters. It was outside time and outside the normal restraints of social life.
Decorum was, however, still maintained to a degree in the first-class dining saloon. Notwithstanding the festive atmosphere, there was a visible display of hierarchy with the most distinguished guests seated at the captain’s table and others of note also taking up favored positions. George Porter Dillman was at once a participant in, and observer of, the glittering occasion, enjoying a splendid meal for its own sake while keeping the entire room under observation. Seated near one wall of the saloon, he was well placed to let his gaze roam, and his first general impression was one of dazzling opulence. Purser Halliday’s prediction had been accurate. The ladies had reclaimed their jewelry from the safe with a vengeance. There were so many diamond tiaras, costly earrings, sparkling necklaces, and gold brooches on show that Dillman felt he was attending a royal function.
Lord Carradine was at the captain’s table, dispensing small talk with consummate ease and evincing all the attributes of a bon vivant. Dillman was interested to see that the Rymers had forsaken their private eyrie to dine in public. Matthew Rymer seemed to be delivering one of his lectures to the rest of the table with occasional comments from his wife but Violet Rymer was as reserved and distrait as usual. Alone of the dinner guests, she was clearly suffering.
Whenever he looked around, Dillman’s eye always ended up on the same person. Seated between the Hubermanns, she was poised and yet vivacious, taking a full part in the general discussion and entrancing every man at the table. Dillman thought she was the perfect example of English beauty. What surprised him was that there was no sign of the journalist who had escorted her into the saloon. Unless he was hidden by one of the pillars or potted palms, Henry Barcroft had vanished. Dillman half expected him to have wangled himself a place at her table, but Fortress Hubermann had obviously proved impregnable.
Two other surprises lay in store for Dillman. Steeling himself to endure an evening’s proximity to the morose Jeremiah Erskine, he instead found the man in an almost lighthearted vein. Champagne was the main reason for this transformation but the other was the presence of his wife, Dorothea. She was the biggest surprise of all. Years younger than her husband, she was a slender woman in a most striking pink evening gown and wearing a diamond necklace the equal of any piece of jewelry in the room. Dillman was amazed that Erskine was even married. The man’s funereal manner suggested a lonely and disappointed bachelor. That his wife should be so young and handsome was astonishing, but it certainly made for a more pleasant meal as far as the American was concerned.
Dorothea Erskine was an alert, intelligent woman with firm opinions on every subject that came up. She was even ready to contradict her husband from time to time. Instead of resenting her opposition, Erskine reveled in it, chortling into his beard at each new polite rebuke. Cyril Weekes also came into his own at the table, revealing a gift for humorous anecdote that brought titters of amusement from all of them, including his wife—even though the stories must all have been wearisomely familiar to her. There were five other people at the table and Dillman was glad of the opportunity to widen his circle of friends. As the only American present, he came in for some gentle ribbing and fielded the inevitable questions about New York.
“Is it really as different as they say?” asked Ada Weekes.
“In some ways,” replied Dillman.
“New York is surprisingly civilized,” added Erskine with a muted guffaw. “One might almost be in London!”
“I hope not,” said Weekes. “I want it to be delightfully foreign.”
“I’m sure that none of you will be disappointed,” said Dillman, looking around the table. “Visitors from England are always given a warm welcome. You just have to allow for the idiosyncrasies of the American way of life.”
Dorothea Erskine agreed with him and started a debate about national characteristics. It carried them right through the main course. Dillman was just about to eat his dessert when he became conscious that someone was watching him. It was a strange feeling, and he could not make out if it was pleasant or unsettling. His initial hope was that he was arousing interest in a certain person between the Hubermanns, but he saw that she was, in fact, giving instructions to one of the waiters. His gaze searched the saloon until it finally rested at the Rymers’ table. It was the pale blue eyes of Violet Rymer that were fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and appeal. Dillman felt that she was issuing a silent cry for help. When he met her gaze, she gave a brief smile, then seemed to lose her nerve and look away. It was puzzling.
When the meal was over, some guests remained at their tables to prolong their conversations but most began to disperse. Dillman saw the alacrity with which Lord Carradine crossed to the Hubermanns’ table to extend an invitation to his new young acquaintance. Since he wisely included the two sisters in his invitation, it was readily accepted and all three ladies rose from their seats. Dillman ac
cepted that she was beyond reach for the rest of the evening. Lord Carradine would have a private lounge to which he could adjourn with his select friends. Dillman had already noted that the aristocrat was unencumbered by a wife or a partner. It allowed him to be singularly attentive to the young lady who had sparked his interest.
“I feel the need of a cigar,” declared Erskine.
“Then go to the smoking room,” urged his wife. “You know how much I hate the smell of those foul cigars.”
“Of course, my dear.” He glanced up. “Anyone care to join me?”
“I will,” said Weekes.
“Anyone else? Dillman?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Erskine. I don’t smoke.”
“How bizarre!”
Everyone at the table rose to their feet and made for the door. Cyril Weekes fell in beside Dillman and gave him a companionable nudge.
“Keep an eye on the ladies, old chap, will you?”
“With pleasure.”
“Don’t want them being abducted, do we?”
“How long do you expect to be?”
“One cigar leads to another. You know how it is. Besides,” he said, lowering his voice. “Much as I adore the fairer sex, I do like to retreat into a male preserve on occasion. No ladies in the smoking room.”
“Quite so, Mr. Weekes.”
“Old Erskine was in fine form this evening, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Dillman.
“I meant to ask you about something he said this afternoon.”
“Mr. Erskine?”
“Over tea. What exactly is this Mafia Society?”
“Why?” teased the other. “Do you wish to become a member?”
Weekes burst out laughing, then shared the joke with Erskine as he led him off to the smoking room. Watching them go, Dillman began to see the affinity between the two men. He suspected that they had a bond that went far deeper than a mutual passion for cigars. Most of the ladies in the group repaired to the powder room and the American was left to settle into an armchair and chat with two abandoned husbands and a lone banker. He was rescued by the appearance of Violet Rymer, who slipped into the lounge on her own with the clear intention of speaking to him. Dillman excused himself and went across to meet her.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Miss Rymer!” he said, indicating the chair he has just vacated. “Would you care to join us?”
“I can’t stay, Mr. Dillman.”
“Are your parents coming into the lounge?”
“No, they’re going back to our suite.”
“I’m so glad you all ventured out this evening. It was a veritable banquet. I’m only sorry that you didn’t seem to enjoy it.”
She lowered her head. “Was it that obvious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I did try.”
“I’m sure you did. It’s not a crime to be shy. Though I don’t think it was only a case of shyness, was it?”
She looked up searched his eyes. “No, Mr. Dillman. There was something else. But I musn’t keep you from your friends. I only came to ask you a favor.”
“Consider it done, Miss Rymer.”
“I wondered if you’d dine with us again sometime.”
“Of course.”
“You’re the only friend I have on board this ship. It’s an agony for me to be in the dining saloon with all the other passengers. I feel that they’re all staring at me. That they all know.”
“Know what?”
“Nothing,” she said evasively. “So you will come?”
“If your parents have no objection.”
“None at all. They like you.” Affection suddenly welled up in her eyes but she could not put it into words. She bit her lip. “I must go.”
“May I ask one question first?”
“If you wish.”
“When exactly is your birthday, Miss Rymer?”
“A week tomorrow.”
“So you’ll celebrate it in New York?”
“There won’t be any celebration involved.” She sighed.
“But there has to be,” he insisted. “Reaching the age of twenty-one is an achievement. A vital turning point in anyone’s life. You’ll be a fully fledged adult. Able to make your own decisions. Pursue your own ambitions. You may not have voting rights, of course, but everyone will have to treat you differently.” He nodded meaningfully. “Everyone, Miss Rymer. Including your parents.”
Tears threatened instantly. Squeezing his arm in gratitude, she took out a handkerchief from her purse, then hurried away before she needed to use it. Violent Rymer was in pain and Dillman feared that he had just added to it with his comment. Moved by her plight, he had to resist an urge to go after her. He would have to help her by stealth.
Philip Garrow had to wait until late into the evening before he got the information he wanted. Having smoked a cigarette on the boat deck and maintained a desultory conversation with some chance acquaintances, he was making his way back down to his cabin when he heard a loud whisper behind him.
“ ’Arf a mo, sir!”
He turned to see Albert furtively beckoning him back down the corridor. Garrow followed the steward until they came to a storeroom. After checking that nobody could see them, Albert ushered him inside before shutting the door behind them and switching on the light. The steward was panting slightly and there was a light film of perspiration on his brow. He gave a conspiratorial smirk.
“More private in ’ere, sir.”
“Have you spoken to your brother?”
“Don’t rush me,” said the other, holding up a palm. “Been all over the place, looking for you. Give me time to catch my breath.”
“I thought you’d forgotten me,” said Garrow.
“Not that stupid, sir. Never forget someone as generous as you. Not that I ’aven’t earned my money, mind you,” he asserted, flicking a speck of dust off his white jacket. “Broke lots of rules on your be’alf. Lots.”
“Does that mean you made contact with your brother?”
“Yes. Wasn’t easy, though.”
“But you managed it.”
“Me and Jack is old ’ands at this, sir.”
“Did he agree to do it?”
“Only when I gave him your fiver.”
“And?” pressed Garrow, twitching with impatience. “What, then?”
“Jack said he’d do what he could. Not as simple as it sounds. Stewards only cover their own cabins. They don’t get to see the full list of passengers. Jack ’ad to do a bit of snooping. Took time.”
“But he got results?”
“Eventually.”
“Wonderful! Which cabin is it?”
“Suite, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“Two bedrooms leading off a shared lounge and dining room. One of the regal suites. ’er parents must have money.”
Garrow was dejected. “So she doesn’t have a separate cabin?”
“No, sir. You’d ’ave to go past them to get to ’er.”
“That’s nothing new!”
“Tricky situation.”
“Yes,” said the other, running a pensive hand across his chin. “I suppose that I should have expected something like this. They never let her out of their sight. No wonder she feels suffocated.” He stepped closer to the steward. “Could your brother get a message to her?”
“Depends.”
“He won’t lose by it. Nor will you, Albert.”
The steward grinned. “Expensive young lady!”
“Worth every penny.”
“Take your word for it, sir. Jack might be able to get a message to her. On the quiet, like. But there’s no telling when that might be. If they got a suite, they might be taking their meals in there as well.”
“They’re bound to let her out at some stage.”
“Jack’ll be waiting.”
“How will he recognize her?”
“ ’e knows ’er name. And he’ll speak to the steward who looks after their s
uite. Casual, like. Ask ’im what sort of people these Rymers is. Probe ’im about the daughter. We always gossips about passengers, sir. Don’t you worry. Jack will pick ’er out.” He gave another smirk. “Don’t want my brother slipping a love letter to the wrong young lady, do we? Could be embarrassing, that.”
“Actually, it won’t be a letter.”
“Oh?”
“I want your brother to give her this,” he said, feeling gingerly in his pocket. “And he must be discreet. Completely discreet.”
“Family characteristic of ours, sir.”
The steward held out his hand and Garrow placed a small object into his palm. Albert squinted down at it and then wrinkled his brow.
“A tie pin, sir?”
“She’ll understand.”
Dorothea Erskine began the exodus. After sitting in the lounge with the others for the best part of an hour, she decided it was time to leave.
“I’m ready for bed,” she announced, brushing her necklace with a reverential palm. “And I must have this locked up in the safe again.”
“Shall I fetch your husband, Mrs. Erskine?” volunteered Dillman.
“No, thank you. Let him smoke on. Mrs. Weekes?”
“I’ll come with you,” said Ada Weekes, getting up from her chair. “It looks as if Cyril will be in there for some time yet. If you do see him, Mr. Dillman, please tell him that I’ve gone back to the cabin.”
The other two couples also elected to leave and it gave Dillman the opportunity to break away from the stray banker. The lounge was still quite full. As he made his way to the exit, Dillman reflected on how tolerant both Ada Weekes and Dorothea Erskine seemed to be. Neither had complained about their respective husbands’ long absence in the smoking room, and they left without recrimination. It was almost as if they had willingly licensed the departure of their spouses. Dillman did not believe that all the wives aboard would be quite so indulgent.
When he first entered the smoking room, he could not find them. It was only when his eyes grew accustomed to the fug that he was able to pick them out, and he saw at once what had detained them. Instead of withdrawing to enjoy a postprandial cigar, Cyril Weekes and Jeremiah Erskine were seated at a table with four other men and playing cards. Evidently they were not novices. Though both were relaxed and urbane, they studied the cards with the intense concentration of men who took the game seriously enough to play for high stakes.
