Murder on the Lusitania

by Conrad Allen

  “That’s why we must have a hearty breakfast.”

  Charles Halliday had gone early to Dillman’s cabin and they were discussing their tactics over the first meal of the day. A quiet night had done little to still the demons that haunted the purser.

  “I still believe that we should challenge Erskine,” he said.

  “Not enough evidence.”

  “You found that photographic equipment in his cabin. You saw what might have been bloodstains on the jacket he wore the night of the murder. What more do you want?”

  “A stolen violin, for a start.”

  “He may have stashed that away somewhere else.”

  “Along with the photographic copies of those diagrams? There was no sign of them either. That worries me. So does his wife.”

  “His wife?”

  “Yes, Mr. Halliday. I think that Erskine is a very likely suspect. He certainly has strength and brutality enough to kill another man. And he has a strangely critical attitude toward the Cunard Line for a man who’s used it so much. He was sounding off about disasters aboard your ships when I first met him.”

  “He’s created the ones aboard the Lusitania.”

  “Has he? Could he keep such a series of crimes from his wife?”

  “Mrs. Erskine must be an accomplice.”

  “Then she’s a far better actress than I took her for,” said Dillman, “and I do know a little about acting. Dorothea Erskine is not putting on a performance. She’s perfectly innocent, I’m sure of it.”

  “That doesn’t put her husband in the clear.”

  “No, but it introduces enough doubt to make us hold our horses. Why not leave Erskine to me?” he suggested. “I won’t let him off the hook, I promise you. But I have other lines in the water as well. Coffee?”

  “Black, please. Lots of it.”

  Dillman poured two cups. “That’s how I feel this morning.”

  “I need sustenance before I face Mr. Weiss again.”

  “At least we know that his violin has not been destroyed. That must have given him some crumbs of comfort.”

  “Not when he has to stump up all that money to reclaim it. Besides,” he said, fearing the worst, “how do we know that the thief will return it unharmed? We can’t trust him to hand over the Stradivarius. It may just be a ruse to get the cash.”

  “I don’t think that for one moment.”

  “Why not?”

  “You translated the note for me. If your German is correct, what the thief is demanding is payment in U.S. dollars with notes of large denomination. But there are two very telling conditions.”

  “Yes,” said Halliday, spooning sugar into his cup. “Weiss must get us to call off the search for the violin or it may no longer be there to be found. That really threw him into a panic.”

  “It was the second condition that interested me.”

  “The exchange will take place early on Friday morning.”

  “The day we arrive in New York. That minimizes the amount of time we'd have to organize a cabin-by-cabin search. And we can hardly frisk every male passenger from first-class as he disembarks.”

  “I told you, he’s toying with us.”

  “No, Mr. Halliday, there’s something else behind this. I still believe that the theft of the violin is a diversionary measure.”

  “A bloody expensive one, Mr. Dillman. Especially if we have to cough up the money. That’s what Mr. Weiss is demanding. I can’t see Captain Watt agreeing to pay for a violin we never owned in the first place. Though he may agree to loan the five thousand dollars.”

  “That’s ridiculously cheap for a Stradivarius.”

  “Not if you’ve already paid out vastly more than that, as Mr. Weiss must have done in Vienna. He must wish he had never traveled on this ship. And the story is bound to get out once we reach New York.”

  “Only if he’s forced to pay the ransom. Retrieve the violin ourselves and Itzak Weiss will do anything we ask. You'd better finish that coffee and get off to see him.” He drank some of his own. “No more problems with Henry Barcroft, I hope.”

  “I had a man on guard all night outside that refrigerator.”

  “Wise move.”

  “I’ve increased security throughout the whole ship.”

  “Discreetly, I trust.”

  “Very discreetly. What’s your next move?”

  “I need to question Erskine.”

  “To get a confession out of him?”

  “To see if he can speak German.”

  The purser rose to leave. “I’ll be off.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Halliday?”

  “What? Oh, yes,” he said, thrusting a hand into the pocket of his uniform. “Those lists you asked me to get.” He passed them over. “The two table plans are complete but I’ve probably only got about three-quarters of the people who attended the music concert.”

  “That may be enough.”

  “Report back if you get a breakthrough.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Dillman with a mock salute.

  When his guest departed, he looked at the first list, which contained the names of those who had dined with the Anstruthers on the eve of the thefts. Dillman knew none of the names. When he saw the list of those at the Anstruther table during luncheon on the day of the theft itself, however, he recognized several of them. One leaped up at him. Jeremiah Erskine.

  “You’re late,” he complained. “I began to think that you weren’t coming.”

  “I got held up in the hairdressing salon.”

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “Pretending to have my hair done. It was the only way I could shake off my mother. Unfortunately, they were running late. That’s why I was delayed. I only had my hair trimmed so that I could be out of there in as short a time of possible.”

  “You’re here now, anyway,” he said, squeezing her arm.

  “Yes. You must’ve known that I’d come.”

  “I’d have waited all day.”

  They were sitting side by side on a wooden bench in the third-class lounge. It was not the ideal place to meet, but Violet Rymer had balked at the idea of going to his cabin again and selected neutral ground. Nobody would think of looking for them there. In the swirling crowd, they could be quietly anonymous.

  “Did you think over what I said?” he asked.

  “Yes, Philip, and I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “Misjudging you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I was rather shocked when you told me about the money that Father gave you. Shocked that he should try to get rid of you like an unwanted beggar, and even more shocked that you’d used the money to pay for this voyage.”

  “I did it to be near you, Violet!”

  “I see that now.”

  “So you don’t think I’m simply being mercenary?”

  “Far from it.”

  “Good.”

  “How much was it, exactly?”

  “Enough to fund this trip and to pay for my accommodation in New York. All that I have to do is to keep my head down until the great day.”

  “What great day?”

  Philip Garrow chuckled. “Your twenty-first birthday.”

  “I’d almost forgotten that.”

  “Well, I haven’t,” he said, fondling her arm. “I’ve thought about nothing else for months. That’s the day when our lives will change forever. They won’t be able to stop us then.”

  “No,” she said.

  “You might sound a little more pleased about it, Violet.”

  “I feel so inhibited in here,” she said, glancing around.

  “Would you rather go to my cabin?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We could at least talk properly there. Without this din.”

  Violet wanted to acquiesce but something was stopping her. It worried her that she still had reservations about Philip Garrow. She felt so proud to be with him, so happy
to feel him beside her. Yet she could not bring herself to move to the privacy of his cabin again.

  “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  “Of course not, Philip.”

  “This is so public. Thank heaven I didn’t travel third-class.”

  “It’s like a cattle shed down here. All these people. The smell!”

  “Your snobbery is showing, Miss Rymer!” he said with a mocking smile. “What happened to the young woman who once boasted that she’d live in abject poverty with me if only we could be together?”

  “And I still would!” she said effusively.

  “But it won’t be necessary now, Violet. Don’t you see?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Your twenty-first birthday. You come of age.”

  She beamed. “Yes! That means they can’t stop me from marrying you.”

  “And they can’t prevent you from coming into that money.” Her face went blank. “The trust fund your father set up for you, Violet,” he said. “On your twenty-first birthday, you come into a large amount of money and that will set me up in business and buy us our first house. How on earth could you have forgotten it?”

  “I hadn’t, Philip.”

  “So what’s the problem? The trust fund has got the protection of the law around it. Your father signed and sealed that document. When you're twenty-one, you get the money whatever he says. And you can do anything you like with it.”

  “But I can’t, Philip. I thought you’d guess that.”

  His smirk evaporated. “Guess what?”

  “Father was so vengeful about you, it was terrifying. He altered the terms of the trust fund. A codicil was attached to it.”

  “Codicil? What are you talking about?”

  “I only come into that money on condition that I never have anything to do with you.” She saw his dismay and clutched at him. “But it doesn’t make any difference, surely. If I have to choose between you and the trust fund, I’d choose you every time. We’ll manage somehow, Philip. We’ll be together. What more do we want?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered uneasily.

  She clung to him. “Say something nice. Tell me you love me.”

  “You know I do, Violet.”

  “Then why have you gone so distant all of a sudden?”

  “I’m thinking, that’s all.” He chewed his lip. “There must be a way of getting around this somehow. Tell me again about this codicil.”

  It was afternoon before Dillman finally cornered the Erskines. Elusive during the morning, they had not come into the saloon for luncheon. Both of them surfaced in the first-class lounge. Dorothea Erskine was part of a circle that included Matthew and Sylvia Rymer, Ada Weekes, Nairn Mackintosh and his wife, and Miguel, the Spanish artist. At a table in the corner, a card game was in progress. Edward Collins was dealing the cards to Cyril Weekes, Jeremiah Erskine, and three other men. Dillman wondered why they had shifted from the smoking room The move had clearly suited Erskine. He appeared to be winning for once.

  Dillman strolled casually across to the group who were lounging in chairs. After an exchange of niceties, he saw a chance to use Miguel for his own purposes and plunged in with deliberate clumsiness.

  “Buon giorno, Miguel. Come stai? Sono Americano. Parla inglese?”

  The artist looked slightly baffled and the women were impressed.

  Nairn Mackintosh laughed. “Faultless accent, Mr. Dillman, but you’ve got the wrong language, unfortunately. Miguel is Spanish and not Italian.” There was general hilarity. “Why not just talk in English to him?”

  Dillman apologized profusely to the Spaniard, then gave a sigh.

  “Languages were never my strong point,” he confessed. “I’ve got a smattering of French but I could never get to first base with German. It’s such a complicated language. Anyone here speak it?”

  “Jeremiah does,” volunteered his wife obligingly. “He’s fluent.”

  “He seems more interested in the card game at the moment,” said Ada Weekes, keeping one eye on the table. “So does Cyril. If they don’t finish soon, I’m going to break up that game. It’s so antisocial.”

  Having learned what he wanted, Dillman only stayed a short while before finding an excuse to walk over to Caleb Tolley for a chat. Seated in an armchair, Tolley had his leg up on a footstool and was reading a book. Dillman talked to him for a few minutes, then his attention was taken back to the card table. Mild excitement was developing. A crucial game was in progress and the pot grew ever larger. Three players had opted out but Weekes, Erskine, and Collins were still raising the stakes in turn. Cyril Weekes removed his pince-nez and rubbed his temple with them while he stared at his hand. Jeremiah Erskine was glowing, as if certain that he could recoup all of his earlier losses in one glorious moment. Edward Collins was still the most relaxed man at the table.

  Ada Weekes had taken enough. Tolerant of her husband’s gambling until now, she marched across the room and stood behind Collins to wave across at her husband.

  “How much longer will you be, Cyril?” she protested. “We promised to meet the Hubermanns in the Veranda Café for tea.”

  “All in good time, Ada. Give me five minutes.”

  “You’ve had far too many of those already,” she said, going around to him and squeezing his shoulder. “Now, please. Make this the last game or I shall be cross. Very cross.” She turned to the others. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Ada Weekes flounced off to be greeted by words of praise from the other ladies, but Dillman’s eye stayed on the game. More money went into the pot and the three players displayed their respective hands. Erskine was horrified that he had lost and Collins was evidently surprised by his defeat. It was Cyril Weekes whose podgy hands closed on a pot worth the best part of two hundred pounds. When he left the room with his wife, she was still berating him. Caleb Tolley gave a chuckle.

  “Just as well she didn’t stop him five minutes ago.”

  “Yes,” said Dillman thoughtfully.

  “Looks to me as if the game is over.”

  Collins was trying to deal but one of the men was already rising from the table and Erskine was shaking with fury. Picking up his cards, he hurled them down with contempt, said something to Collins, and stalked out of the lounge. His wife knew better than to follow him.

  Dillman had other ideas. Excusing himself, he set off in pursuit of Erskine but lost him at the first staircase. Before he could follow the man up it, Dillman saw Genevieve descending it with such a friendly smile that he was stopped in his tracks.

  “Henry Barcroft was right about one thing,” she remarked.

  “Was he?”

  “Betting fever seems to be spreading. I’ve just had tea with two people who’ve each bet fifty pounds that we’re going to win the Blue Riband on this trip. Apparently we’re maintaining a steady twenty-five knots, which is faster than anything the German liners can manage.”

  Dillman looked at her in absolute wonder as an idea dawned.

  “People are betting on it?” he queried.

  “Dozens of them, from what I can gather. British patriotism.”

  “Thank you, Miss Masefield!” he said, reaching out to give her a kiss of gratitude on the cheek. “Thank you so much!”

  Leaving her bemused, he went charging up the stairs past her.

  FOURTEEN

  The Lusitania was a tiny island of noise in the vast ocean. As the great ship powered its way toward an empty horizon, the clamor in its public rooms grew ever louder. Cleared of its chairs, the music room had been set aside for the dog show, open to all contestants and drawing the most astonishing range of animals from passengers in first, second, and—in the case of two spaniels and a mongrel terrier—third-class. A room that echoed to the harmonies of famous composers on the previous afternoon now reverberated with the yelps, snarls, growls, and barks of over forty dogs. Canine tempers were short, owners tried to shout their charges into submission, and partisan spectators chee
red on their favorites.

  Even this tumult could not compare with the pandemonium in the third-class lounge where a fancy dress parade was being held. Families with barely more than a few suitcases with which to start their new lives in America had begged, borrowed, or somehow improvised a wide array of costumes. Pirates competed with cowboys, fairy princesses with foul witches on makeshift broomsticks. There was even an infant Queen Victoria in a paper crown to fight for the throne of first prize. A tea dance for the second-class passengers combined with the roar of the ship’s engines to swell the general commotion.

  Some of the events helping to produce the cacophony had been suggested by Dillman as a means of keeping the passengers fully occupied but he did not pause to participate in any of them himself. His destination was the bridge, where he found the captain at his post with his officers. Hoping for some good news at last, Captain Watt took the visitor aside so that they could converse in private.

  “Well, Mr. Dillman? Has any arrest been made?” he asked.

  “Not yet, sir. But it is imminent.”

  “Purser Halliday keeps saying that to me but I see no sign of it.”

  “I believe that I have just made the breakthrough.”

  “Does that mean you've found Mr. Weiss’s violin?”

  “No, but I have every confidence that I will.”

  “You’d better, Mr. Dillman. The newspapers will crucify us if something like this gets out. And Itzak Weiss is threatening us with a lawsuit. A maiden voyage is supposed to be an act of celebration, not a publicity disaster. That Stradivarius must be found. I understand there’s been a ransom note.”

  “It may be something else as well, Captain Watt.”

  “Something else?”

  “A confession.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “The language in which it was written,” said Dillman. “I think that our man has unwittingly shown his hand. That’s why I came to see you. Apparently everyone is starting to get excited about the prospect of our winning the Blue Riband on this voyage.”

  “Then the excitement is premature.”

  “Is there no chance that the ship will lower the record?”

  “There’s every chance, Mr. Dillman,” said the captain proudly. “I’d stake my pension on it. What I can’t guarantee is that it will happen on this trip. My orders are to take the Lusitania safely to New York, where we can expect a warm welcome, whatever time we arrive. I have not been urged not throw caution to the winds in pursuit of any record. That will come in time. The Lusitania is a greyhound of the sea, Mr. Dillman. It won’t be long before she wins the race for the Blue Riband, and I expect to be on this bridge when she does it.”