34 - The Queen's Jewels

by Fletcher, Jessica

  “Mrs. Fletcher?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m here to help unpack your luggage, madam.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” I said, “but thank you. I’m an old hand at unpacking when I travel.”

  He showed me where my life preserver was located; I’d have to take it with me for the safety drill that was coming up shortly.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “My pleasure, madam. I am Rupesh, your cabin steward. If there is anything you need, please call me.” He pointed to the phone and gave me his extension.

  “I’ll do that,” I said. “Thanks again.”

  He bowed and left. But the minute he was gone, his name registered with me. Rupesh! Maniram Chatterjee’s cousin?

  I opened the door and beckoned to him when he emerged from the cabin adjacent to mine. “Rupesh,” I said.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Do you happen to have cousins living in Cabot Cove, Maine, Maniram and Hita Chatterjee?”

  His large black eyes opened wide, and he broke into a smile exposing a set of exquisite white teeth. “You know Maniram and Hita?”

  I explained.

  “How are they?” he asked, his voice animated, which added to its lilt.

  “They’re fine,” I said. I adopted an exaggerated stern expression. “But they tell me you haven’t been keeping in touch with your mother back in India.”

  His sheepish expression, too, was exaggerated.

  “I promised them that I’d remind you to call or write her,” I said, lightening my voice. We were going to be together for six days across the Atlantic, and I didn’t want him to consider me an old scold.

  “I will, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I will write her tonight.”

  “Good. Maybe we can find some time during the crossing to have a chat. From what your cousins tell me, you’ve lived quite an interesting life.”

  “It has been—let me just say that I have enjoyed it.”

  “Which is so important,” I said. “Well, I’d better get to the safety drill.”

  After reporting to the assigned deck, where crew members explained the routine should an emergency arise, I dropped my life preserver back in my cabin and hastened to attend the cocktail party. The ship’s staff captain, second-in-command after the captain, was on hand to greet us as we entered the Commodore Club. One of his myriad duties was commanding shipboard security, he told me. His staff of sixteen security officers not only maintained day-to-day security; it could be called upon to act as a seagoing police force should troubles of a criminal nature arise.

  Our host was the ship’s entertainment director, a charming fellow who’d once been a British TV and film actor. My fellow lecturers made for a pleasant group—an expert on global warming, an astronomer, a college professor who specialized in rare plants, and a musical duo, a man and woman who performed historic British sea shanties and songs of the sea. I learned that my first lecture was scheduled for eleven o’clock the next morning in “Illuminations,” the QM2’s very own floating planetarium. An actual working planetarium on an ocean liner. What would they think of next?

  I returned to my stateroom just as the ship was beginning to pull away from the dock, stood on my balcony with a flute of champagne, and watched as the dock became smaller and we headed for the open sea. I felt at peace with the world at that moment. Any tension I’d experienced over the past few weeks seemed to vanish immediately, blown away in the bracing breeze that mussed my hair. The champagne’s bubbles tickled my nose and caused me to laugh.

  An hour later, dressed to reflect that evening’s semiformal dress code, I made my way to Deck Seven, where the Princess Grill was located, at the rear of the ship—no, make that the “stern.” I reminded myself that I’d better get comfortable using nautical terms.

  One of the grill’s hosts escorted me to a table against a large window that afforded a lovely view of the ocean. It was a table for six, but I noticed it had been set for five. I’d no sooner been seated than the first of my dinner companions arrived. He was a tall, handsome man whom I judged to be in his late seventies or early eighties. His face, tanned and quite wrinkled, was that of a man who’d spent much of his life outdoors. He wore a blue, double-breasted blazer with brass buttons, white slacks, and a bright white shirt open at the throat.

  “Hello,” I said as he came around to a chair next to me.

  “Hello to you,” he said in a deep voice tinged with gravel. He sat in the chair the host held out for him, drew a deep breath, looked at me, smiled, and extended his hand. “Harrison Flynn,” he said. “Call me Harry.”

  “Jessica Fletcher,” I replied.

  “The mystery writer,” he said. “They told me I’d be having the pleasure of dining with you.”

  “I hope it’s as pleasurable as they said it would be.”

  We looked up at the next arrival, a young British couple. Harry stood and accepted the husband’s and wife’s outstretched hands, and I greeted them from my chair. They introduced themselves as Richard and Marcia Kensington. Richard had a face that hadn’t been creased by too many smiles. Even so, he was nice-looking—sandy hair worn fashionably long for his age, pale blue eyes, and thin lips. Marcia was considerably shorter than her husband. He stood six feet; I doubted she topped five-two. They were dressed more casually than Mr. Flynn and I were, although not blatantly so, Richard in a multicolored pullover sweater over a blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks, Marcia in a loose-fitting white blouse over a dressy pair of jeans. She had a shy smile, which she directed at her husband while he held her chair; I had the feeling that when it came to decision making, Richard ruled the roost.

  We fell into an uneasy conversation. Richard Kensington wasn’t the talkative type, nor did he seem especially interested in what others had to offer.

  “We’re on our honeymoon,” Marcia said without being prompted.

  “Oh! Congratulations,” I said. “What a wonderful honeymoon, crossing the Atlantic on this magnificent ship.”

  “It isn’t all a honeymoon,” Richard corrected his wife. “I have business in New York.”

  “What do you do for a living, Richard?” Harry asked.

  “Ah, I work alone.” No smile, no apparent pride in his occupation. He seemed to address the white tablecloth, avoiding eye contact.

  “Richard is very successful,” Marcia said, smiling proudly and touching his arm.

  “I believe this gathering of kindred souls calls for champagne,” said Flynn. He waved over the wine steward and ordered a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée. “Not the most expensive,” Flynn said, “but a particular favorite of mine. I first tasted it in Hong Kong years ago. I ended up there as a guest of the government for a week, something to do with my papers not passing muster.”

  “What business were you in?” I asked.

  “I’d hardly call it a business,” he replied pleasantly. “I was captain on an oil tanker.”

  “How marvelous! Were you always a ship’s captain?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I was. I started out with Harland and Wolff in Belfast—”

  We were interrupted by the arrival of the last of our tablemates, Michael Haggerty, dressed in a nicely tailored tuxedo complemented by a muted orange, white, and green striped bow tie and matching cummerbund.

  “Good evening, ladies and gents,” he said as he took the fifth chair. “A pleasure dining with you. My name’s Wendell Jones. And you are?”

  Richard and Marcia introduced themselves, Richard without enthusiasm. Harry Flynn eagerly shook Michael’s hand and said, “That’s a handsome tie you’re wearing. Same colors as the Irish flag.”

  “An astute observation,” Haggerty said, his brogue thickening. “That’s exactly what it is, orange for the Irish Protestants, green for Irish Catholics, and white in between as a symbol of hope for peace between them. I had the tie and cummerbund specially made in London.” He turned to me. “And I know this lovely lady. Jessica Fletcher, my favo
rite writer of crime novels. We’ve met on several occasions.”

  “So we have.” I took Michael’s hand and said, “And how is the antiques business in Dublin, Mr. Jones?”

  Michael flashed his best winning smile. “We’ll have none of this ‘Mr. Jones’ formality, Jessica. But to answer your question, business is splendid. There seems to be an insatiable demand for historic theatrical and motion picture memorabilia.” He turned to Mr. Flynn. “Did I hear you worked for Harland and Wolff? Some mighty fine ships were built by them.”

  Harry beamed. “And I’ve served on a good number of them.”

  “Obviously not the Titanic,” Haggerty said pleasantly.

  “My good fortune to have missed that one,” Flynn responded with a laugh.

  Our champagne was delivered and opened with a flourish by the wine steward. We clinked our flutes. “Here’s to a long life and a merry one,” Harry said, “a quick death and an easy one. A pretty girl and an honest one, a cold pint—and another one!”

  Haggerty and I joined Flynn’s hearty laugh. Richard Kensington grimaced. His wife’s smile was guarded. Haggerty proclaimed, “Down the hatch!” before he drained his glass.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Flynn. “‘Down the hatch.’ Does anyone know the origin of that phrase?”

  No one responded.

  “Well,” he said, warming to his tale, “cargo ships have large hatches through which the crew can access cargo below. In rough weather, if those hatches aren’t securely closed, great amounts of water can pour into the hold, sometimes enough to sink a ship. Crew members began toasting each other with ‘Down the hatch,’ meaning opening up one’s gullet for large amounts of alcohol.”

  His story was well received by everyone at the table except for Richard, who stifled a yawn and checked his watch.

  I noticed that another table in our section of the grill was set but unoccupied. It wasn’t until we were halfway through our main courses that its occupants arrived: Mr. Kim Chin-Hwa; his companion, Betty; and two strapping young Asian men who I assumed were his “business associates.” They were seated, but Mr. Kim got up almost immediately and came to our table.

  “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “it is my good fortune to see you again.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “And Mr. Jones,” Kim said, acknowledging Haggerty, who stood and shook his hand.

  “This is Richard and Marcia Kensington,” I told Kim, “and Mr. Harrison Flynn.”

  Richard simply nodded; his wife smiled. Flynn stood and gave Kim a hearty greeting, offering a large, calloused hand that engulfed Kim’s smaller, almost delicate one.

  “My apologies for interrupting your dinner,” Kim said. “But perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to enjoy your company later this evening.” He looked at me.

  “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of opportunities to spend time together over the next six days,” I said.

  “I look forward to it,” Kim said, and rejoined his party.

  As the meal progressed, Richard Kensington became more sullen and noncommunicative. He seemed perpetually bored with the conversation, which became quite spirited at times. Michael Haggerty was in his usual ebullient mood, and Harry Flynn reveled in telling stories of his many years at sea, and in relating bits of wisdom.

  “. . . and so I believe in the old adage that before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in his shoes. Not only will you be a mile away from the bore, you’ll also have his shoes.”

  Richard wiped his mouth with his napkin and said to his wife, “Let’s go.”

  “No dessert?” Flynn said. “Cunard’s sweets are reputed to be the best.”

  “No, we have things to do,” Richard said, standing and pulling his wife’s chair out. I looked into her eyes and saw a certain sadness reflected in them, and resignation.

  “See you tomorrow night,” I said.

  Richard nodded, and we watched them walk away.

  Flynn leaned close to me and said, “Not especially happy honeymooners, are they?”

  “No,” I said. “Too bad.”

  We’d finished our coffee and those fabulous desserts Flynn had raved about, and we were in the process of leaving when Kim Chin-Hwa and his party approached. “Might I suggest, Mrs. Fletcher, that we extend the evening with a nightcap and dancing in the Queens Room?” he said. “I understand the orchestra is excellent.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, no thank you, Mr. Kim. I don’t think that—”

  “Why, Jessica, the night is young,” Haggerty said. He turned to the others. “We can’t have any wet blankets, can we?” He leaned close to me and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “Besides, Jess, I need a favor from you.”

  Flynn weighed in with, “I think a nightcap and a few spins around the dance floor are exactly what we need to work off this wonderful meal.”

  “I really thought that I would—”

  Haggerty took my elbow and said over his shoulder, “We’ll see you there.” He guided me to the foyer.

  “You’re incorrigible, Michael,” I said.

  “As my dear departed mum used to say, I am difficult but adorable. Come on, now. Drinks are on me.” He continued to lead me away from the Princess Grill and the others toward the elevators, talking all the way. “It would be a crime to hide alone in your cabin and waste that lovely dress you’re wearing, Jessica.” He pushed the down button. “What do you call the color? Coral? It’s striking on you.” The elevator door opened. “Glad to be rid of that sour young couple, huh?” We stepped inside. “I like the old fellow, a real gentleman....”

  We reached Deck Three and left the elevator. Music came from the direction of the Queens Room, the ship’s grand ballroom. “I bet you still do a wicked two-step, Jessica.”

  I sighed and followed him into the huge, elegant room, where couples doing the fox-trot already filled the dance floor.

  “Tom Craig was looking for you,” I said. “Did he reach you before you left?”

  “Yes. Thanks for letting me know.”

  We found a table large enough to accommodate everyone from dinner, including Mr. Kim’s party. Minutes later they joined us. His two tough-looking, expressionless associates sat together at a table two removed from ours. After drink orders had been given to the waiter, Harry Flynn addressed me: “Dance, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Thank you, but no, Mr. Flynn,” I said through a smile. “Perhaps another time.”

  “I look forward to it. And please, it’s Harry.” He looked at Betty, who turned her face away, then directed his gaze across the dance floor to where several women were seated together. “Excuse me,” he said. He crossed the floor, chatted with them for no more than a minute, then extended his arm and led one to the dance floor.

  “I like his style,” Haggerty said to me.

  “I think we, too, will take advantage of the music,” Kim said, rising and inviting his lovely companion to join him. Betty, whose long black hair swayed across the back of her tight-fitting red dress, attracted all eyes, male and female, as she and Mr. Kim joined the dancers.

  “They make an attractive couple,” I said to Michael.

  “He’s too old for her. And too short. But she’s an eyeful. I’ll give you that.”

  “She was a top fashion model in Paris.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Mr. Flynn dances beautifully, very smooth.”

  “Perhaps he plans to apply for a job as a gentleman host.”

  “He’d make a good one,” I replied.

  Many ships hire “gentlemen hosts,” whose function is to provide dance partners and social companionship for single women traveling alone. They are generally middle-aged men, although some are older. Before they’re hired, these immaculately groomed and dressed gentlemen must prove to the management that they are good dancers and conversationalists. They are required to seek out as many unaccompanied women as they can, and work under a stringent set of rules that limit their interaction to dancing and talk—nothin
g more—although I remember one gentleman host from a previous crossing who’d wooed a wealthy Palm Beach widow. By the time we’d reached our destination, they’d announced wedding plans.

  “You said you had a favor to ask me,” I said to Michael. “I hope it’s not the same one you proposed before.”

  “What do you think of Mr. Kim?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know him sufficiently well to form an opinion. He’s nice enough, I suppose.”

  “He was the partner of the murder victim, Yang, who owned the Heart of India diamond.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “He seems to have taken a liking to you.”

  “Don’t be silly, Michael.”

  “No, I mean it. This favor I’m asking of you—well, it would be a help to me if you’d get to know him better, flirt a bit, flatter him, apply that keen insight into people for which you’re known.”

  “Michael, I already told you—”

  “You’re a writer, Jessica. Writers are supposed to have a special understanding of what makes people tick.”

  “Even writers are allowed a holiday,” I said. “Aside from my lectures, I’m on vacation. If you think that—”

  Michael ignored me. “Well, well, well,” he said, eyes on the dance floor. The orchestra had changed tempos, from the fox-trot it had been playing to a rumba. “See that?” he asked, pointing to where Flynn now danced with a different woman, a statuesque blonde, whom I’d noticed earlier sitting next to a thickset woman all in black, her closely cropped hair the same color as her outfit.

  “As I said, he’s quite a dancer.”

  “And she’s quite a beauty.”

  “She certainly is.” And is well aware of it, I thought as the blonde tossed her head back in a laugh, eyes flashing, hips swinging to the Latin tempo.

  “I’d like to get to know her better,” Haggerty said through a devious grin.

  His interest in her didn’t surprise me. Michael Haggerty, aka Wendell Jones, had always had an eye for dazzling, self-possessed women.

  He smiled, stood, pulled on his lapels, and bounced up and down a few times on his toes. He leaned over and said, “You’ll excuse me, of course, Jessica. I think I must cut in on Mr. Flynn.”