by Conrad Allen
“But everyone on board is a suspect.”
“Oh, no,” corrected Dillman. “Look at the way that skull was cracked open. That’s the work of a strong man. No woman, child, or elderly person could inflict that kind of damage so we can remove over two-thirds of the people from the list of suspects. But we can narrow it down even further. Mr. Barcroft invited someone here for a late-night drink. I don’t think he’d have ordered Champagne for anyone traveling in third-class, do you? Look what he’s wearing. It suggests he was expecting someone in similar attire. An able-bodied man from first-class. It’s an expensive bottle. He must have liked his visitor, to have spent that much on him. Who was it? A special friend? Someone he wished to interview? Unless, of course, the killer got here before the invited guest. There’s no sign of a struggle. He must have attacked Mr. Barcroft while his back was turned. Yet it seems he was allowed into the cabin. You see, Mr. Halliday? That list gets smaller and smaller. By the time I’ve finished in here, it will have shrunk even further. Go and wake up the captain,” he said. “And assure him that we’ll have this problem sorted out long before we reach New York.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
“My solemn promise.”
“I admire your confidence. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Dillman remembered the article from Genevieve Masefield.
“I do,” he said.
Philip Garrow had bungled his opportunity. He saw that now. As he lay on his bed in the darkness, he reviewed the catalog of missed chances. Rosemary Hilliard was an attractive and desirable woman. She was his for the taking. After a long period of mourning, she was finally ready to allow some romance back into her life again, to replace sad memories of her dead husband with a new and exciting experience. Garrow had been tempted to supply that experience, to enjoy the feel of a mature woman in his arms and, if he was persuasive enough, to bring her enforced celibacy to a joyful end. But he tried to rush her. Instead of taking more time over the preliminaries, he sought to hustle her off to his cabin in a way that made her hesitate.
The evening had ended abruptly as soon as they went out on deck. Cold wind had made Rosemary shiver and she retreated to her cabin for the night before he could even steal a farewell kiss. Yet the situation was not beyond redemption, he felt sure of that. She was as drawn to him as he was to her and the magic of the setting had done the rest. On land, such a relationship could never exist because she would see Garrow for what he really was, an unemployed clerk with no prospects. In the middle of an ocean, trading on his appearance, he could pass himself off as someone else, an ambitious young man with an important position in his company, able to pay his way on a costly voyage and entitled to take his pleasures where he found them. For a few hours that evening, he saw the Philip Garrow of his dreams reflected in her admiring gaze. Then he stumbled. Badly.
It was so refreshing to be with a person like Rosemary Hilliard. She was honest, endearing, and compassionate. She had a becoming air of independence about her. The difference in their ages was an attraction rather than a deterrent, her married status hinting at someone seasoned in the delights of the bedchamber. Compared with her, Violet Rymer seemed gauche and unsophisticated, a child beside an adult. A timorous virgin beside a real flesh-and-blood woman. Violet’s attractions were of a different nature and he reminded himself that it was they that had prompted him to take the impulsive step of joining the ship when it docked at Queenstown Harbor.
After his own fashion, he loved Violet Rymer but she aroused none of the urgent desires that his new friend set off. In a single day, he had achieved a deeper intimacy with Rosemary Hilliard than he had in six months of wooing Violet, and there would be none of the obstacles that attended his relationship with the latter. He did not have to circumvent two hostile parents whenever he wanted to speak to Rosemary or feed on morsels of affection. Set against each other, both women could be seen in their true light, and Violet unquestionably had prior claim on him. She could offer him uncritical devotion. The older woman was a temporary pleasure. Only Violet could give him the financial security he sought.
What made him cringe was the memory of that look on the face of the steward. Albert had registered mild disgust. Having spoken to his brother, he would have been given a description of Violet Rymer and realized that she was not the woman he saw in the corridor. In the bloodshot eyes of the diminutive steward, Philip Garrow was transformed from a pining lover into a shameless predator. He would get no further help from Albert and his brother. Their sympathy would shift to Violet.
For the first time, he began to feel genuine remorse. He had to make amends to her. The thrill of being on the same vessel as she had faded slightly, but he hoped to recapture it once he actually saw Violet again. Courtship could be renewed in earnest and the beauty of it was that it would take place right under the noses of her parents. That was where the real satisfaction lay, in outwitting and punishing Sylvia and Matthew Rymer. They were the enemy and their daughter was the prize to be snatched away from them. Garrow addressed his mind to the problem of how it could best be done.
But he still fell asleep thinking of Rosemary Hilliard.
After an exhaustive search of the cabin, Dillman learned a great deal about the character of Henry Barcroft but rather less about that of his killer. He was still working his way systematically around the bathroom when Lionel Osborne returned with the assistant surgeon. Dillman let them in and was introduced to Roland Tomkins, a dour individual in his thirties with a long face and bulbous eyes. Tomkins immediately knelt beside the corpse to carry out his own examination and he speculated at some length about the type of weapon used in the assault. When their language became too medical, Dillman stopped listening to them.
The purser was the next to arrive, escorting the captain, who had insisted on seeing for himself what had happened. Captain Watt, a well-built man with a craggy face, was a veteran seaman due for retirement in the following year. Delighted to be given command of a vessel as illustrious as the Lusitania, he was horrified at the thought of having his maiden voyage smeared by the blood of a murder victim and was as keen as any of them to keep the tragedy secret from all but a select few.
“We are in international waters,” he told them sonorously, “and thus free from the jurisdiction of either English or American courts. We have to be our own police force, our own judge and jury. Or, to put it another way, gentlemen, we are in limbo. We make up our own rules. Let us begin by building a wall of silence around this gruesome incident.” His voice darkened. “And let’s catch this vicious killer as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Captain,” said Dillman. “We shall. But it will be easier to do if life aboard the ship carries on as normal. It’s very difficult to conduct a murder investigation in an atmosphere of hysteria.”
“You sound as if you speak from experience, Mr. Dillman.”
“I do, sir.”
“It’s good to know that we have a trained detective on board.”
“Mr. Dillman worked for the Pinkerton Agency,” said Halliday. “Their record is second to none in the United States. Over the next couple of days, we will have to rely heavily on Mr. Dillman’s expertise.”
“I hope it’s not found wanting,” said Watt crisply. “Mr. Halliday?”
“Captain?”
“Find a refrigerator where the body can be stored.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Report back to me when it’s arranged.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
As the purser left the room, Watt turned to the surgeon.
“Mr. Osborne?”
“Captain?”
“Where will you conduct the autopsy?”
“In the surgery, sir. All our instruments are there.”
“Speed is of the essence.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“I want the body safely tidied away in cold storage where it can provoke no curiosity. Be brief, gentlemen. Brief but thorough.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”<
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“As for you, Mr. Dillman …”
“Yes, Captain?”
“You’ve just taken a huge load on your shoulders, young man. Are they strong enough to bear the weight?”
“I believe so.”
“Mr. Halliday will be able to help, of course, and so will our other purser, Mr. Voysey. I’ll put him in the picture as soon as I leave.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Pursers already have their hands full on a vessel as large as this,” warned Captain Watt. “They can only offer limited assistance. Besides, this is a case when officers are at a disadvantage. Uniforms define us. They represent authority and are designed to offer reassurance to the passengers.” A throaty laugh. “Even the biggest damn fool of a seaman can look like a potential Nelson in a smart uniform! It imparts faith. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“I think so, Captain Watt,” said Dillman. “This is a task for someone in plainclothes who can move easily among the passengers as one of them. Someone whom the killer won’t recognize as a threat.”
“Precisely.”
“I work best that way.”
“Do you carry a weapon, Mr. Dillman?”
“None beyond an agile brain and an able body, sir.”
“They may not be enough against this villain. He’s dangerous. Anyone can see that. If you need a revolver, I’ll authorize the master-at-arms to provide you with one.”
“I’ll remember that, sir.”
The captain nodded, then appraised him shrewdly. “The Lusitania is my pride and joy, Mr. Dillman. I’ve sailed on many ships in my time but none can touch this one. She’s an absolute daisy. We’ve hit rough water. Steer us through it,” he said earnestly. “Keep us afloat and you’ll win the undying gratitude of the Cunard Line. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Dillman.
A night that ended for the second time in Lord Carradine’s private lounge had left Genevieve Masefield feeling stimulated rather than tired. She needed little sleep and awoke not long after dawn. A long, lazy bath gave her time to reflect on the many pleasures of the previous evening. Genevieve was on her way to breakfast when she was intercepted by another early riser. George Porter Dillman had snatched only a couple of hours’ sleep but there was no hint of weariness in his body or manner.
“Good morning, Miss Masefield.”
“Hello, Mr. Dillman. I didn’t expect anyone else to be up yet.”
“No more did I,” he said, “so it’s all the more gratifying to see you. I wonder if I might have a word with you, please?”
She was guarded. “What about?”
“That article you gave me last night.”
“Oh, that,” she said, relaxing slightly. “I’m so sorry to have dumped it on you like that but I couldn’t think of any other way of dodging that Mr. Barcroft. I didn’t want him knocking on my cabin door again.”
“Again?”
“Yes, he called earlier to give me the article and tried to talk his way into my cabin while I read it. I drew the line at that. And when I did read the article, I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. He asked for my approval, but I wasn’t mentioned by name and the opinions that he ascribed to me were, in any case, quite wrong. The truth is that he didn’t need to show me the article at all.”
“Perhaps he had another motive,” suggested Dillman.
“No question about that!”
“What time did he give you the article?”
“Just before luncheon.”
“I see.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I took the trouble to read it,” he explained. “You’re right, Miss Masefield. There was no point at all in trying to get your approval before he sent it off because it would have been too late.”
“Too late?”
“That article was dispatched from the wireless room hours earlier.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I happened to be getting a message of my own sent when Mr. Barcroft came in,” he said, amending the truth to cover the fact that he had deliberately gone there in search of anything presented to the wireless operators by Henry Barcroft. “He insisted on reading the article and sniggering when he came to the reference to me. What he gave you was an exact copy of something already beyond recall.”
“The deceit of it!”
“I felt that you should know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dillman. I’m most grateful. I’ll lodge a complaint against him with the purser.”
“You may have to join a queue in order to do that.”
“So I understand,” she said. “I had the privilege of sitting beside Mr. Weiss last night and he was deeply offended by a trick which Mr. Barcroft played on him. He’s managed to annoy us all, even Percy.”
“Percy?”
“Lord Carradine.”
“I see.”
“Did you return the article to him?”
Dillman nodded. “It’s back in Mr. Barcroft’s cabin.”
“I hope that you conveyed my feelings about him.”
“He will not trouble you again on this voyage, Miss Masefield. I can guarantee that. He finally understood the weight of hostility against him.”
“I’ve never met anyone so thick-skinned.”
“Yet you seemed to like him at first,” he said artlessly. “To be honest, I took him for a friend of yours. That was the impression he gave me, at all events.”
“Well, it was a wholly false impression!” she asserted. Genevieve gave an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to speak so sharply, especially when you’ve been kind enough to uncover a deception for me. Do we have to stand out here in the corridor? Couldn’t we continue this discussion over breakfast?”
“By all means,” he said, walking beside her, glad of the opportunity to probe at leisure. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I mean, I would have thought that it was part of the stock-in-trade of any journalist to be affable. To go out of his way to be liked. Yet he seemed to take delight in antagonizing people. As you just pointed out, he upset just about everybody. I doubt if there’s anyone aboard with a kind word to say about him.”
“Oh, there is one person, I think.”
“Who’s that?”
“The man I saw him chatting to when I went into dinner last night. Actually,” she admitted with a girlish grin, “I sneaked in past him under the cover of Carlotta Hubermann but I did notice how intensely he and Mr. Barcroft were talking together. Not for the first time, either. I spotted the pair of them together a couple of times throughout the day. So perhaps he did have one real friend, after all.”
“Who was it?”
“A rather odd-looking fellow. Quite grotesque, in fact. He had a large black beard and dreadful warts all over his forehead. You must have seen him. He’s quite unmistakable.”
“I know, Miss Masefield. I’ve crossed swords with him.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Erskine,” said Dillman meditatively. “Mr. Jeremiah Erskine.”
Fergus Rourke had lived far too long and sailed in too many ships to believe everything a purser told him. Pleased to get his property back, he was less than convinced by the story that came with them. He stood in the middle of his cabin and glowered at Charles Halliday.
“Now try telling me the truth,” he ordered.
“That is the truth, Fergus.”
“Pull the other one!”
“We searched, we found, we returned. What more do you want?”
“The full story. Stop trying to pull the wool over my eyes, Charlie. Who took these diagrams and where did you really find them?”
“I told you,” repeated Halliday. “In one of the storerooms.”
“Just lying harmlessly about on the floor.”
“No, they were hidden in a cupboard.”
“What sort of cupboard?”
“A linen cupboard.”
“Ah, we’re getting down to details now, are we?” said the chief engineer with
cheerful cynicism. “Important material is stolen from me and where is it found? Under a pile of bedsheets, in a cupboard, in a storeroom, somewhere up my arse! Who do you think you’re fooling?”
“There’s no need to yell, Fergus.”
“Then stop treating me like a child.”
Halliday gritted his teeth. “I’ve told you all that I’m in a position to tell you. And that is the truth.”
“In other words, you’re hiding something.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I can see it in your face, man. I can smell it on you.”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” said the other, moving away.
“Hold on!” said Rourke, blocking his way. “You’re not leaving until this is sorted out.” He held up the brown envelope. “These were my diagrams that were stolen. Surely that entitles me to an explanation?”
“I’ve given it to you.”
“What you’ve given me is a pack of lies that wouldn’t deceive a blind dromedary, let alone a chief engineer. Doesn’t my rank stand for anything on this ship? Now, will you tell me the truth or would you rather I referred the whole matter to Captain Watt?”
“He’ll give you the same answer as I would.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Halliday, irritable from lack of sleep, “that we’re dealing with restricted information here. You’ve been told all I’m allowed to tell you. Press me any further and you’ll have Captain Watt to answer to. I can’t put it any plainer than that, Fergus.”
The chief engineer blinked and tugged vigorously at his beard. Taking the diagrams from inside the envelope, he unfolded them and put them side by side on the desk. He shook his head in bewilderment.
“Beats me.” He sighed. “I can understand someone wanting to steal this cross section of the boiler room or even detailed layout of the whole ship.” His stubby finger pointed at another diagram. “But what use is this to them? It’s a wiring diagram. Only a trained electrician could make sense of it. Is that who you found under that linen in the cupboard in the storeroom? Some mad electrician?”
“We don’t know who stole the diagrams.”
“And you wouldn’t tell me, even if you did. Is that it?”
