by Conrad Allen
“You’re inscrutable, Miss Masefield,” he said, studying her closely. “We’ve talked so much and yet I still know so little about you.”
“Is that a complaint, Percy?”
“Far from it. I hate people who wear their hearts on their sleeves. Ruins the fabric. And they’re so transparent. Nothing to learn about them. Whereas you have hidden depths,” he said over the top of his Champagne glass. “You’re the most enchanting kind of young lady.”
“And what kind is that?”
“One with a past. Do you have a past, Miss Masefield?”
“Everyone does, Percy.”
“Not the kind that I’m referring to. When I look at a creature as gorgeous as you, the first thing I wonder is why someone hasn’t already snapped her up. Be frank with me. You must have had packs of suitors baying at your heels.”
“One or two, perhaps,” she conceded. “But I might say the same of you, Percy. You’re the epitome of an eligible bachelor. How have you managed to elude the pack at your heels?”
“That is a well-kept secret.”
“Even from me.”
He laughed. “The night is young. Ask me again later.”
“I know what I’d like to ask you now,” she said seriously. “How on earth do you do it? As well as running a large estate and keeping up a busy round of social engagements, you’re a successful businessman. Most people in your position would be ground down by responsibility.”
“I was at first, Miss Masefield. Taken me years to find my feet.” He became solemn for once. “The pater, you see. He was a Trojan. Ran the estate with great vigor and still had energy enough left over to go into business. So many companies wanted him to be a director simply to have a title on their letterhead. Lords still have a snob value, thank God. But the pater wasn’t satisfied with being a standing statue at board meetings. He wanted to run a company himself. Picked one out, invested wisely, ended up taking over some of the people who’d made him a director because they thought he was an old buffer who’d lend a bit of tone. Then, of course,” he added, sipping his drink, “he died, alas. Before his time. Dumped the whole lot on me. Nobody thought I’d survive more than a year, if that. I certainly didn’t.”
“You confounded your critics.”
“I had to, Miss Masefield. For the sake of the family.”
“Who will carry on after you?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said with a slow smile. “You know, I’m so grateful to that journalist for introducing us.”
“Henry Barcroft?”
“That his name? They’re all the same to me.”
“Who are?”
“Men of the press. Necessary evils. I mean, what decent man would want to make a living scribbling nonsense about his fellow human beings? It’s so infra dig, don’t you know?” He gave a shrug. “On the other hand, they can sometimes be useful and that’s why I always show them a little indulgence. Publicity is invaluable when you’re in business. A mention in the Times does wonders for my tobacco company. I just wish I’d had a few copies of the newspaper before I met that Barcroft fellow.”
“Why is that?”
“I’d have put them on the floor in readiness. Know what I mean? There was a mongrel quality about him.” He leaned in close. “How did you get on with him?”
“Not at all well.”
“Pushy?”
“Worse than that.”
“He would keep trailing me around. Do you know, he actually tried to barge in here on one occasion. When I was having a few friends in for drinks. It was unforgivable. Who on earth did he think he was?”
“Henry Barcroft tried to gate-crash a private party?”
“Had some flimsy excuse about an article.”
“Article?”
“Quoting me, apparently. Wanted clearance before he sent it off. Clearance, my foot! He was just trying to insinuate himself.”
“I had a dose of that myself.”
“So did Honora.”
“Who?”
“Lady Carlyle’s daughter. Pretty thing. Barely seventeen.”
“What happened?”
“Barcroft had the gall to invite her to his cabin. Imagine!” said Lord Carradine with polite contempt. “Honora actually fell for that greasy charm of his. Might even have gone to his cabin if her mother hadn’t nipped it in the bud.” He held out his glass and the waiter topped it up. “The man is a positive menace. Inviting a girl of seventeen to his cabin at night! I felt obliged to have a word with the purser about him. I assume that’s why we haven’t seen anything of Barcroft since. He’s been warned off. Quite rightly. No,” he concluded, “Henry Barcroft deserves to be put well and truly in his place.”
Wrapped in a shroud, the body of Henry Barcroft lay on a bed of packed ice in one of the refrigeration units. He seemed to have diminished in size, as if all the arrogance and ebullience had been squeezed out of him. He was just one more lifeless carcass in the unit. A key scraped in the lock and the heavy door swung slowly open. The beam of a torch played on the corpse. An amused voice spoke.
“So this is where they’ve put you, is it?”
TWELVE
George Porter Dillman was troubled by the speed of events. Having been given so little in the way of evidence, he now felt that he had far too much and it was causing confusion. In that confusion, he decided, he had missed something crucial. It was time to go back to the crime that set all the others in motion. Lying in his bath, he reflected on the motives that might have led Henry Barcroft to steal the technical diagrams from the chief engineer’s cabin. Was it simply a case of the obsessive curiosity of a journalist or were there more sinister implications? Could the theft be connected in some way with the publisher’s letter in Barcroft’s wallet? The more Dillman thought about it, the more convinced he became that a vital clue had eluded him and it might be lying a few mere yards away.
Clambering out of the bath, he dried himself with a towel and pulled on a dressing gown. In a drawer in his cabin was an envelope containing the journalist’s effects. He took out the wallet and spread its contents on his desk. Money, a photograph, a membership card of a London club, the enigmatic letter, and a series of visiting cards with Barcroft’s name and address printed in black type. The young woman in the photograph was beautiful, standing in a garden and smiling happily at the camera. Was it Barcroft’s wife? Mistress? Or some stray conquest? The fact that he carried the photograph suggested its importance. And whoever the young woman was, she would be shattered by the news that Henry Barcroft had been murdered in a particularly gruesome way.
That raised the question of next of kin. They were entitled to be informed of his death, yet that would break the blanket of silence in which the dead body was wrapped. The easiest way to identify and make contact with Barcroft’s family was to send a wireless to the Times, one of his known employers, but that would lead to the most adverse publicity for the Lusitania and, eventually, have every journalist aboard hampering the murder inquiry as they competed for the inside story. For the time being, Henry Barcroft had to be kept alive in the minds of his family, friends, and colleagues.
It was when Dillman picked up the visiting cards that he made a new discovery. There were a dozen in all and he had assumed that they all bore the journalist’s name and his address in Chelsea. Yet when he sifted idly through them, he saw that there were a number of business cards in the pile, obviously collected from passengers aboard the ship. One came from Lord Carradine, a second from Robert Balfour, MP, a third from a member of the Christian Science delegation. Four other business cards had been kept in the wallet and it was the last one that interested Dillman the most. It was from Jeremiah Erskine, whose business address was in the City. When Dillman turned the card over, however, he saw that the address of a Manhattan hotel had been written on the back. Had the journalist arranged to make contact with Erskine in New York?
A pounding on the door forced him to suspend his meditations. Fearing that it would be
the purser with more dire news, he moved swiftly to open the door and found himself staring instead at the bulky frame of the chief engineer. Fergus Rourke had no time for civilities.
“We need to speak,” he said, brushing Dillman aside and stepping into the cabin. “Maybe you can give me some straight answers.”
Dillman shut the door. “About what, Mr. Rourke?”
“These,” explained the other, holding up the brown envelope in which the stolen diagrams had been found. “Where did you get this?”
“Didn’t Mr. Halliday tell you?”
“All I heard from Charlie was some cock-and-bull story about a linen cupboard in a storeroom.”
“That’s more or less right,” said Dillman, calm and impassive.
“Can’t anyone around here tell me the truth?”
“We carried out a methodical search, Mr. Rourke, and the envelope eventually turned up.”
“Just waiting to be found, eh? How very convenient!”
“There was a bit of luck involved, I must admit.”
“More than luck, Mr. Dillman.” He waved the envelope. “Looking for something this small in a ship this size! It’s not just a case of searching for a needle in a haystack but for a needle in a hundred haystacks. A thousand, a million. The whole of British bloody agriculture!”
“There’s no need to bellow.”
“As long as you take my point.”
“I do, Mr. Rourke, but I can’t add anything to what the purser told you. Not at this stage, anyway. I’m just grateful we were able to return your property to you.”
“So was I—at first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you see what was inside this envelope?”
“Of course. The missing diagrams.”
“All safely back where they belong,” said the other, taking them out and unfolding each one to lay them on the desk. “I was so pleased to get them that I didn’t notice the difference.”
“What difference?”
“These little holes, Mr. Dillman. Look.”
A huge finger jabbed at the four corners of each diagram. Every corner was punctuated by a tiny hole. Inside the envelope, the diagrams had been folded over. Dillman saw that the holes could not have been caused by the drawing pins used to secure the envelope beneath Henry Barcroft’s desk. Only one conclusion could be drawn.
“Someone pinned these up in order to copy them!” said Rourke.
“That’s what it looks like.”
“I’d put my life on it. See what it means?”
“Yes, Mr. Rourke.”
“We’ve got a spy aboard. He’s taken copies of the diagrams, then allowed the originals to be found again so that we’ll call off the chase.” The chief engineer was fuming. “I still think that journalist is at the bottom of this. The nosy one, Barcroft! He’s probably got copies of these stashed away somewhere. Challenge the bastard! Search his cabin.”
“We already have.”
Rourke was checked. “Oh! When?”
“When you first reported the theft.”
“Search it again.”
“There’s no point.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’ve eliminated him from our inquiries.”
“He’s not involved, then?” said Rourke with disappointment.
“There’s nothing Mr. Barcroft can tell us, I promise you.”
“Then who can?”
“We don’t know yet, Mr. Rourke. But I’m very grateful to you for bringing this to my attention. I think you’re right. Copies of these diagrams may well be in existence.”
“Somebody pinned them up and drew exact copies.”
“Don’t put your life on it,” advised the other.
“Why not?”
“There’s a quicker way.”
“Quicker?”
“They may have been photographed instead.”
Dillman thought about a book he had seen earlier in the lounge.
* * *
When the party reached the dining saloon, Genevieve Masefield excused herself so that she could visit the ladies’ room to check her appearance and have a moment alone to gather her thoughts. Though she would not be at the captain’s table, she would be sitting beside Lord Carradine again and she wanted to reflect on what he had told her over a drink in his suite. Genevieve also wanted to decide whether his interest in her was serious or temporary. His manner toward her was markedly more confidential and he kept asking where she would be staying in New York. Seated beside him again, she might be able to move the relationship along that much further.
She was powdering her nose when a face appeared in the mirror.
“Hello,” said Ellen Tolley. “Miss Masefield, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Ellen Tolley. No need to tell you which side of the Atlantic I live on, is there? Mind if I join you?” she said, lowering herself on to the velvet-topped stool beside Genevieve. “I need a few repairs before I put myself back on show again. No fun being a woman, is it?”
“I wouldn’t have thought any repairs were necessary,” said Genevieve, noting how little makeup her companion wore. “Could I ask how you happen to know my name?”
“Everybody in that saloon knows it, Miss Masefield. One way or another, you’ve created quite a stir, but I don’t need to tell you that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on,” said Ellen, brushing her hair. “You know how gorgeous you are and you make the most of it. Why not? I’d do the same in your position. Whenever you come into a room, every man under the age of ninety gets a crick in his neck.” She laughed. “My father’s one of them. Can’t take his eyes off you.”
“Your father?”
“Don’t worry. You're safe from him. He’s one of the walking wounded. Besides, you’ve got someone a lot more appealing than my father to dance attendance on you. Your beau with the monocle.”
“Lord Carradine.”
“A real English blue blood, eh?”
“The genuine article.”
“Even I could tell that.” Putting the brush into her purse, she turned to Genevieve. “But that isn’t the reason I followed you in here. Look, Miss Masefield, can I ask you a personal question?”
Genevieve smiled. “Is there any way I can stop you?”
“Probably not.”
“Ask away, then.”
“Since you and the aristocracy seem to be getting along so well, does that mean Mr. Dillman is free and available?”
“Mr. Dillman?”
“You must remember him. You and he had breakfast together.”
“I didn’t realize I was being watched,” said Genevieve, bridling slightly. “What exactly is your interest in Mr. Dillman?”
“That depends on you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, come on, Miss Masefield. We're two of a kind. Sisters under the skin. What nicer way is there to brighten up a voyage than by enjoying a little dalliance?” She grinned amiably. “Except that I’m not stupid enough to compete with you. I mean, what English lord would look twice at some nobody from the murky depths of New Jersey? Besides,” she added, “Lord Carradine is not my type, but George Porter Dillman most definitely is. I just wanted to make sure that I wasn’t treading on your toes, that’s all.”
“You certainly aren’t, Miss Tolley.”
“Ellen, please.”
“The field is clear, Ellen.”
“You’re a pal!”
“I’m not sure about that,” said Genevieve, warming to her but still having reservations. “And I’d dispute that we’re two of a kind. It seems to me that you’re quite unique. I’ve never met anyone so direct.”
“Daddy is always warning me about it.”
“It doesn’t seem to have made any difference.”
“Of course not,” said Ellen with a conspiratorial giggle. “Where would any of us girls get if we listened to our fathers?”
As so
on as he walked into the room, Dillman realized that word of the thefts had got out. Ada Weekes accosted him to pass on the rumor before intercepting the Rymers to tell them as well. Dillman was glad that only the loss of a purse, a French Empire clock, and a few other items were mentioned. Acting on his advice and in response to the earnest plea from Charles Halliday, the other victim had agreed to keep silent for the time being. Itzak Weiss did not broadcast news of the missing violin. He and his wife were so mortified that they had locked themselves away in their cabin and were taking it in turns to console each other. Dillman was relieved. Minor thefts were almost inevitable on a voyage and would cause no more than a flutter of anxiety among the other passengers. The loss of a Stradivarius was quite another matter. It would make headlines in every way.
“Hello, Mr. Dillman,” said a voice at his elbow.
“Good evening, Miss Rymer.”
She was standing too close to her parents to risk anything more than a few passing remarks but her face was eloquent. Dillman knew that she had kept her tryst that afternoon but he now saw that it may not have delivered all that Violet Rymer hoped. She was tense and preoccupied as if caught in the grip of ambivalence. Matthew Rymer, by contrast, was in unusually high spirits again and gave Dillman a cordial greeting before ushering his wife and daughter to their table, where they settled down with a group of friends including Nairn Mackintosh and the Latimers.
Dillman had accepted an invitation to join Cyril and Ada Weekes again. On his way to their table, he encountered someone he had already seen a number of times on the voyage. Using his walking stick, Ellen Tolley’s father was moving slowly across the room. When he saw Dillman behind him, he stepped aside to wave him on.
“You go on ahead, sir,” he suggested. “I’d hate to hold you up.”
“Mr. Tolley, isn’t it?” said Dillman.
“That’s right.
“George Porter Dillman.”
“Ah!” said the other, face brightening. “That’s a name I’ve heard before. My daughter keeps mentioning it.” They exchanged a firm handshake. “Pleased to meet you, young man. I’m Caleb Tolley.”
