Murder on the Lusitania

by Conrad Allen

  “Do you get the feeling he may have an accomplice?”

  “No, I think he’s very much on his own.”

  “Just when everything was going so well!” said the other, clicking his tongue. “We expect some petty pilfering, especially in third class, but not theft from the chief engineer’s cabin.”

  “The Cunard Line has fierce rivals.”

  “It’s a cutthroat business, Mr. Dillman.”

  “They want to know what makes the Lusitania tick.”

  “Men like Fergus Rourke. Technical advances are one thing. It takes blood, sweat, and tears to get the best out of them. That means you need a chief engineer who can hold the whip hand over his men. Stokers are a law unto themselves,” he said. “They work hard, drink hard, and fight like demons when they’ve a mind to, but they’ll break their backs for someone like Fergus Rourke. That’s why I’m so keen to get those stolen documents back. They’re his personal possessions. Upset him and the ripples will spread right through the engine room.”

  “We’ll find them, Mr. Halliday. Somehow.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  “I’ll chat to some of the other journalists. See what they know about Henry Barcroft. Get some more background on him.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll check the wireless room. If he’s been drafting articles, he may already have sent some off. That will at least tell us who’s paying him.”

  “Good thinking!”

  “Meanwhile, you continue your own inquiries among the crew.”

  “We will, Mr. Dillman.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, sir. I know how busy a purser always is.”

  Halliday gave a hollow laugh. “I’ve had one of those mornings. Complaint after complaint! The best was from a lady in one of the regal suites. Did you know that we had Itzak Weiss aboard?”

  “Yes. I saw his name on the passenger list.”

  “Most people would be delighted to have a cabin next to one of the world’s great violinists. They get a free concert every time he practices. Not this particular lady! She was outraged.”

  “Don’t tell me she complained about the noise?”

  “Oh, no,” said Halliday with a grimace. “Her objection was that he kept practicing the Brahms Violin Concerto, which she hates. Tried to make me force him to play the Beethoven instead because she loves that. Imagine! Giving orders to a musician of Weiss’s caliber!”

  “What did you say to the lady?”

  “I told her to buy some earplugs.”

  Dillman smiled. “You’re a true diplomat, Mr. Halliday.”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell her where to put them.”

  Violet Rymer was in a quandary. She was uncertain whether she should detach herself from Ada Weekes to begin her search or confide in the older woman and ask her for help. Both courses of action had obvious pitfalls. If she went charging off, she risked upsetting the older woman and there was no guarantee that she would find the man she sought in the melee of second-class passengers. Philip Garrow might be anywhere and her prolonged absence would arouse suspicion. At the same time, she drew back from sharing her secret with her companion. Ada Weekes was a sweet and understanding woman, but Violet doubted if she would take her side against her parents. She was much more likely to report the conversation to Sylvia Rymer, and that would be fatal.

  In the end, Violet rejected both options and continued to pace meekly along the deck beside the other woman. What she needed was a friend whom she could trust to act as a go-between, someone who would appreciate her dilemma and refrain from passing any moral judgment. Since she knew so few people aboard, finding such a person would not be easy. She recalled the man who had given her the tie pin but balked at the notion of employing him. The message she wished to send was far too important to be entrusted to a mere steward. A far more reliable intercessor was required.

  Violet was still wrestling with the problem when a solution rose up before her. Striding along the deck toward them was George Dillman. He had already offered her tacit support and she sensed that he was a man of discretion. It was an outside chance, but it had to be taken. Acting on impulse, she excused herself from Ada Weekes and hurried off along the deck to confront Dillman. He touched the brim of his hat.

  “Good day, Miss Rymer.”

  “I must speak to you!” she gasped.

  “Now?”

  “Later. Could you meet me in the lounge?”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon,” she gabbled. “Four o’clock.”

  “Well …”

  “Please, Mr. Dillman.”

  Her plea was irresistible. “I’ll be there,” he agreed.

  Ada Weekes came strolling up to them with a warm smile.

  “What are you two young people talking about?” she asked.

  “The Blue Riband, Mrs. Weekes,” said Dillman, taking control. “It seems to be the main topic of conversation. Bets are being taken everywhere on whether or not we’ll make the fastest crossing.”

  “My husband is certain that we will.”

  “There’s your answer, Miss Rymer.” He turned to the older woman. “Because I made the mistake of confessing that I know something about yachts, everyone looks upon me as the fount of all maritime wisdom. The truth is that I don’t know if we’ll break the record.” He licked his finger and held it up. “We might, though. We have a following wind.”

  Ada Weekes laughed and Violet gave a sudden giggle. Dillman waved a farewell and moved off, puzzled by the sudden demand from Violet and wishing that it could have come at a more opportune time. Catching a thief took priority over everything else, but he could not ignore her entreaty. He would just put it temporarily to the back of his mind.

  Violet Rymer could not do that. The brief exchange with Dillman had left her tingling. It was not simply because he had agreed to meet her. There was something else, deeply felt but not yet fully understood. It was almost as if she had come out of mourning and it enabled her to look at him properly for the first time. Dillman was a kind and caring young man. He also cut an elegant figure. Her father might mock his nationality with heavy-handed humor but it lent him a glow in Violet’s eyes. It was bewildering. Clasped in her hand was something that told her the man she loved was aboard the same ship, yet she had felt a wave of affection for someone else wash over her when she spoke to Dillman. She was in more of a quandary than ever.

  SEVEN

  Having spent longer than she had anticipated in the Veranda Café, Genevieve Masefield had a stroll around the deck, then returned to her cabin in order to freshen up before luncheon. She was delighted to find a handwritten invitation from Lord Carradine to join him for dinner that evening at the captain’s table, an invitation, she hoped, that would not be extended to include to Abigail and Carlotta Hubermann and that would therefore liberate her from their well-intentioned but wholly unnecessary protection. She did not wish to lose them as friends, and might, at a later stage, need to take advantage of their hospitality in Virginia, but there were some games that she could only play alone. Sitting at her table, Genevieve reached for a sheet of headed notepaper and dashed off a reply to Lord Carradine. As soon as she had sealed it in an envelope, she rang the bell for a steward.

  Moments later, there was a tap on her cabin door. She had not expected so prompt a response to her call. When she opened the door, however, it was not the steward who was standing there. Henry Barcroft was beaming at her. Genevieve’s unwelcoming frown did not deter him.

  “Ah, good!” he said. “I was hoping I might catch you in.”

  “I was just about to go off to luncheon, Mr. Barcroft.”

  “Isn’t it about time I got promoted to Henry, Miss Masefield?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said levelly.

  “But I’d like us to be friends.”

  “You seem to want everyone to be your friend.”

  “Part of my charm.”

  She gave a cold smile. “What can I do for y
ou, Mr. Barcroft?”

  “Read this for me, please,” he said, offering her two sheets of paper. “It’s an article I want to send off by wireless. Since I quote you, I wanted to let you see it beforehand to get your clearance.” She took the article from him. “As I promised, I haven’t mentioned you or the Hubermanns by name. I just wanted you to feel that you weren’t be misquoted.”

  “Why didn’t you give this to me earlier?”

  “I didn’t have it on me then.”

  “But you knew that you’d be seeing me this morning.”

  “It’s something I’d rather give you in private.”

  “Have you shown this to the Hubermanns yet?”

  “No, but I will do. I wanted your response first.”

  “I see.”

  “Couldn’t I step in while you glance through it?” he said easily. “It will only take a minute. I feel like a steward, standing out here. Invite me in, then give the article the once-over.”

  “I don’t have the time to read it now, Mr. Barcroft.”

  “Henry.”

  “Mr. Henry Barcroft.”

  He laughed. “You have quite a sense of humor, Miss Masefield.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate it,” she said, starting to close the door. He reached out a hand to hold it open. “Excuse me, please.”

  “I’ve never seen the inside of a first-class cabin.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Not properly, that is. When they gave us the tour, they simply opened a door, let us look inside, then shunted us on to the next thing. Is it as comfortable and well appointed as they claim it is?”

  “When one is not bothered by unwanted visitors.”

  He gave a shrug. “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t realized that I was being quite such a nuisance.” He let go of the door. “Read the article at your leisure, Miss Masefield. I’ll have it back when it’s convenient. I won’t trespass on your valuable time anymore.”

  Barcroft turned on his heel and marched away. Genevieve was about to shut the door when she saw the steward approaching. She handed him the envelope, gave him his instructions, then went back into the cabin, locking it after her. She had been grateful to the journalist for introducing her to Lord Carradine and, indirectly, elevating her to the captain’s table, but her gratitude extended only so far. It did certainly not go to the lengths that Barcroft seemed to imagine. When she recalled that knowing look in his eye, she gave a mild shudder.

  He could easily have shown her the article in the Veranda Café but used it instead as an excuse to call on her when she was alone in her cabin. She remembered the moment when he happened to meet her in the corridor as she set off toward the dining saloon on the previous evening. It had been no chance encounter. That was certain. Barcroft was stalking her. He would need to be forcibly shaken off. Tossing his article unread onto the table, she went into the bathroom to wash her hands.

  Dillman made little headway. After leaving Violet Rymer and Ada Weekes, he chatted informally to some of the other journalists and learned that Henry Barcroft was openly disliked by most of them by virtue of his arrogance and his determination to wrest exclusive stories whenever on assignment. What they really seemed to resent was his success, achieved by a combination of hard work and single-mindedness rather than by any literary skills. Barcroft, it transpired, had a genius for getting his foot in the door and did not mind when he got the occasional stamp on the toes; indeed, he nurtured the bruises as mementos of his bravery under fire. At all events, the man’s credentials were genuine and Dillman could find no hint of any link with a rival shipping line.

  A call on the wireless operators produced the information that the journalist has sent off two articles, both to the Times, since the voyage had begun. Dillman read them both and was amused to see himself referred to as “a surly American boatbuilder” in one of them. He was less pleased to see the comments he had made about the Lusitania twisted out of all recognition. Instead of praising the vessel, he was portrayed as its sternest critic. Yet he could hardly confront the journalist with the way that he had been reported or he would have revealed that he was on the man’s tail.

  Barcroft was as ubiquitous as ever, but Dillman eventually caught up with him again on the promenade deck where the journalist somehow contrived an impromptu interview with Itzak Weiss when the violinist and his wife were enjoying a bracing walk in the keen air. Intensely private, Weiss, a short, squat man with a large head surmounted by an even larger homburg hat, gave time to Barcroft that he had denied to everyone else. The musician’s comments on the Lusitania would no doubt appear in a forthcoming article in the Times, leaving Barcroft’s journalistic competitors to froth impotently in his wake and to invent new expletives for him.

  Time for luncheon came. Dillman shared the same table as Cyril and Ada Weekes, and he was reminded that the theft from the chief engineer’s cabin was not the only item on his agenda. The activities of a professional gambler had to be monitored as well. Dillman waited until the rest of the table was immured in a discussion of the quality of the cuisine before he probed Cyril Weekes.

  “You did quite well at the card table last night,” he observed.

  “Beginner’s luck!” said Weekes.

  “The stakes were quite high.”

  “That adds a bit of spice to the game, Mr. Dillman.”

  “Only if you win, surely? When you lose as heavily as Mr. Erskine appeared to do, the spice is far too unpalatable.”

  “Oh, Erskine can afford it.”

  “Can he?”

  “Yes. He admits he played poorly. Tonight may be very different.”

  “Unless that other chap is in the same form.”

  “Other chap? Do you mean Collins?”

  “The gentleman with the silver-topped cane.”

  “That’s him. Edward Collins. Decent sort.”

  “Is he?”

  “Pleasure to play against.”

  “Even when he dominates the game?” said Dillman casually. “How did you meet Mr. Collins?”

  “In the smoking room. Where I meet all the people of consequence. He saw me playing with Erskine and a few others and asked if he might join in. We were delighted to have him on board, so to speak.” He chortled happily. “The more, the merrier. What more civilized way to bring a pleasant evening to a close than by playing cards with friends?”

  The waiters arrived to clear the plates before serving the next course. It provoked a fresh burst of approval from Ada Weekes and the others. Her husband glanced around the dining saloon.

  “No sign of the Rymers today.”

  “They must be having luncheon served in their suite,” said Dillman.

  “What do you make of that daughter of theirs?”

  “Violet Rymer is a very nice young lady.”

  “But more of a shrinking violet, unfortunately. She doesn’t seem to have had a moment’s pleasure since she stepped aboard. Ada could hardly get a word out of her when they had a stroll on deck together earlier. What on earth is wrong with the girl?”

  “I’ve no idea, Mr. Weekes.”

  “Is she ill or something?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then what? She’d be such a pretty creature if she could only learn to relax. Someone should take pity on her.” He nudged Dillman’s arm. “In your position, I must admit, I’d be tempted to try to put a smile on her face. A walk on deck in the moonlight can be so romantic.”

  “Not if her parents are there as well.”

  Weekes grinned. “No, they’re enough to dampen anyone’s ardor.” He turned to meet Dillman’s eye. “But you take my point? The girl ought to have something to remember this voyage by.”

  “I agree, Mr. Weekes.”

  “Heavens, Violet is almost twenty-one. The perfect age.”

  Dillman replied with a neutral smile. Though he was ready to answer Violet Rymer’s plea for help, he had no wish to be drawn into anything even approaching an intimate relationship with her. To do his job prop
erly, he needed to keep clear of emotional commitments to other passengers, though that did not prevent him from casting an occasional admiring glance at Genevieve Masefield, who was seated between Abigail and Carlotta Hubermann at a nearby table.

  Another person Dillman watched out of the corner of his eye was Ellen Tolley, the young lady into whom he had unwittingly cannoned while in pursuit of Barcroft. She was sitting at a table in the comer next to a man he assumed was her father, a rather gaunt individual in his late forties with close-cropped iron gray hair. Dillman had elicited a warm smile of recognition from her when he first came into the saloon but Ellen and her father were too caught up in the conversation at their table to look in his direction again. As he stole another peep at Ellen, he noticed how striking her face was in profile and how uninhibited her manner seemed. When a joke was made by one of her companions, she put back her head and gave a full-throated laugh.

  A booming voice drew Dillman back into his own circle. Jeremiah Erskine’s pessism was in full flow again. Even the presence of his wife did not restrain him from another dark prophecy.

  “I feel it in my bones!” he announced.

  “Rheumatism, old chap,” suggested Weekes.

  “And I’m never wrong about these things, am I, Dorothea?”

  “Oh, don’t be so gloomy!” chided his wife.

  “A disaster is imminent.”

  “Jeremiah!”

  “I have a sixth sense.”

  “Stop it, man. You’re putting everyone off their food.”

  “I can’t help it, Dorothea,” he said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “I felt it yesterday and I feel it even more strongly today. There is catastrophe in the air. Be warned.”

  “Yes, be warned,” echoed Weekes with a wry chuckle. “Mr. Jeremiah Erskine is on the loose again. He’ll terrify us all with his dire predictions.”

  “Truth will out, sir.”

  “Hear that, everyone? Eat, drink, and be merry—for tomorrow, he may tell us that the end of the world is nigh. Jeremiah by name, and by nature!”