Murder on the Mauretania

by Conrad Allen

  “Incidentally,” he confided, “we’ve all signed a pact.”

  “A pact?”

  “Not to bait Donald quite so much. Underneath all that pomposity and patriotism, he’s a decent fellow and generous to a fault. Susan, Ruth, and I decided to give him an evening off. I hope you’ll support us.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I feel sorry for him. Donald is such a sitting target.”

  “There’s so much of him to aim at. I mean, if I were part of the Oxford eight in the Boat Race, there’s nobody whose broad back and strong arms I’d rather have in front of me. Donald Belfrage is a wizard of an oarsman. When it comes to witty conversation, however, his shortcomings are all too visible.”

  “Does he really mean to enter politics?”

  “There are lesser men warming the benches at Westminster, I assure you.”

  “But Donald would be exposing himself to certain ridicule.”

  “That’s in the nature of politics, Genevieve,” he said. “Even someone as worthy and dignified as Gladstone was ridiculed—by Queen Victoria on occasion. Not that Donald is exactly out of the Gladstonian mold. Different party, for a start.”

  “I’m glad that you’re sparing him tonight,” said Genevieve. “It upsets Theodora very much when you and Ruth snipe at him. It’s so unfair to her.”

  “She knows how to get her own back,” he said with feeling.

  Before she could ask him what he meant, they found themselves joining the queue that was descending the staircase to the dining saloon. Bright lights illumined a scene of shimmering privilege and the air was charged with the accumulated scents of delicate perfumes. Evening gowns of every cut and color moved ahead of them in a graceful line. Genevieve noticed the exquisite hairstyles, the sequined purses, the costly jewelry, the random fans, and all the other feminine accessories that had been carefully packed for the voyage. Even the most shapeless bodies and the plainest faces were given a decided luster by a well-chosen evening dress and a diamond necklace, especially when thrown into prominence by the black-and-white standardized attire of the gentlemen. It was the sort of occasion for which the dining saloon had been expressly designed.

  When they entered the room itself, Harvey Denning gave her a gentle nudge. “Don’t look now, Genevieve,” he warned, “but there’s your lumberjack.”

  “Where?”

  “Swinging his ax at that side of beef.”

  “Don’t be so unkind. Mr. Delaney is a cultured man.”

  When she caught sight of him, Genevieve saw that Orvill Delaney was talking to a short, compact young man with thinning hair that was slicked straight back over his skull. Delaney looked sleek and prosperous. Sensing that he was being watched, he glanced up to give Genevieve a welcoming smile. Someone else at the same table then commanded her attention. Denning supplied another nudge.

  “That’s Katherine Wymark,” he said.

  “You know her?”

  “I know of her, Genevieve. But then, I make it my business to find out about any woman as gorgeous as that. One never knows when one might need a new bridge partner. I’ve had to rule the divine Mrs. Wymark out, alas, because there is a Mr. Wymark to be taken into account.” He breathed in heavily through his nose. “At a guess, I’d say that the fellow was a rather possessive type.”

  Genevieve made a swift assessment of the husband. He was not at all what she had expected. Twenty years older than his wife, Wymark was a rather ugly man with a short body whose shoulders seemed too wide for his coat. Silver hair lent him an air of distinction that was vitiated by the grim set of his jaw and the piggy eyes. Katherine Wymark was the unrivaled cynosure in a magnificent turquoise-silk evening gown perfectly tailored to display her shapely body. A diamond necklace glinted in the light from the chandeliers. She was in her element, even outshining the Princess de Poix, who sat beside the captain in regal splendor. Katherine smiled serenely at all around her, but her left arm was securely anchored by her husband’s strong hand.

  “He must have money,” decided Denning cynically.

  “Do you know his name?” asked Genevieve.

  “Walter. Walter Wymark.”

  “His wife seems very attached to him.”

  “By invisible chains.”

  They were sharing a table for six in the lower half of the saloon. The last to arrive, they settled down with the others and joined in the general exchange of compliments about appearance and dress. Susan Faulconbridge had chosen a rather daring evening gown of white satin, revealing chubby arms and sufficient of her full breasts to collect curious glances from passing diners. Ruth Constantine, by contrast, had made little concession to fashion or allure. Her plain black dress, with its high neck and puffed sleeves, was serviceable rather than attractive. Whereas Susan wore a string of pearls, Ruth spurned jewelry of any kind, yet the very severity of her appearance gave her an almost dramatic quality.

  It was Theodora Belfrage who had taken the greatest pains. Her hair was neatly braided, curled up atop her head and held in place by a series of pins concealed beneath a diamond tiara. The silk evening gown, of a blushing-pink hue that suited her perfectly, had a tight waist to emphasize her slim frame, and a full skirt. Theodora seemed to have put on the entire contents of her jewelry box for the evening. Admiring her porcelain beauty, Genevieve could see what had drawn Donald Belfrage to her. By the same token, she could understand his appeal for her more easily. White tie and tails flattered his muscularity and gave him an almost stately air. This was his world.

  Champagne was ordered and a general survey of the menu took place, all six of them making, then revoking, decisions as alternative dishes tempted their palates. Though contributing to the genial badinage, Genevieve kept glancing around the saloon to watch developments at other tables. Orvill Delaney was still chatting to the young man beside him, and Katherine Wymark was exchanging pleasantries with a tall figure who had paused on his way to the other side of the saloon. Genevieve recognized him as the bearded man who had been in the lounge earlier with the American woman. Walter Wymark was no possessive husband now. Grinning up at the newcomer, he treated the man with a mixture of respect and affection, cheerfully waving him off when the latter withdrew to his own place, then leaning over to place a fond kiss on his wife’s cheek.

  As interesting as she found this marital exchange, Genevieve dismissed it from her mind when her gaze drifted across to the captain’s table. As well as the Princess de Poix, Sir Clifton and Lady Robinson, and Prince Andre Poniazowski, the guests included an Oxford professor and his wife, a wealthy American industrialist, and a French diplomat, but it was none of these who startled Genevieve. It was the presence of Mrs. Dalkeith in the party, holding her own with assurance and wearing a gown of black taffeta that matched the black ribbon in her hair. What made Genevieve sit up was the sight of something on the old lady’s left wrist. As Mrs. Dalkeith extended an arm to reach for the menu, the object was unmistakable. It was a gold watch.

  Dressed for dinner, George Porter Dillman sat at the small table in his cabin and pored over a list of second-class passengers. Four of them had been the victims of a robbery since they had been aboard. Apart from the money taken from two cabins, everything else that was stolen was made of silver. Even the purse that went missing had silver sequins on it, and according to its owner, Mrs. Dobrowski, it contained a small, silver-backed mirror.

  The name of Max Hirsch automatically suggested itself, but there were mitigating factors. When the detective had glimpsed the man on the previous night, Hirsch had been ascending a companionway to the deck above, yet none of the four victims had cabins on that level. Had the thefts already taken place when the putative thief was sighted, or did they occur later, in the dead of night? Everything turned on the assumption that Hirsch was responsible for the crimes. Dillman decided that he should keep a more open mind. The two Welshmen who had strayed out of steerage still had to be interviewed, though he was fairly certain that they could be discounted. A passion for collecting sil
ver seemed improbable in two former coal miners.

  Dillman was about to put the list away when another name slipped into the equation. Hirsch claimed that he had merely been going up on deck to take a stroll in the night air, but why had he used a narrow companionway when he could have climbed the grand staircase? Why, in fact, had he gone to the upper deck at all when he could more easily have stepped out onto the main deck, the same level on which his cabin was located? The answer sent Dillman’s index finger tracing its way down the alphabetical list until it reached the name of Agnes Cameron. Not only was her cabin on the upper deck, it was, he now learned, situated conveniently near the top of the companionway that Hirsch had tripped up with such alacrity. Again, the man had been wearing a thick overcoat at the time, hardly the preferred costume of a thief who was scouring the interior of the vessel. Could it be that Max Hirsch was simply on his way to an hour under the stars with the impressionable Mrs. Cameron? Dillman was confused.

  After popping the list into a drawer, he left the cabin and went along to the second-class dining saloon. Dress was less formal there than in first class, but that had not prevented the ladies from looking their very best or stopped some of the men from reaching for their white ties and tails. As he stepped into the room, Dillman was aware of a distinct sense of occasion. The room was filled with contented passengers, determined to savor every moment of their first evening on the waters of the Atlantic. Menus were being consulted, dishes ordered, toasts given, glasses clinked, anecdotes circulated, and new friendships formed.

  A place had been kept for Dillman at a long table that the Jarvis family was sharing with six other people. Making apologies for his delay, the detective took a seat between Alexandra and her grandmother. The girl was wearing a floral dress that had been ironed for the occasion; her brother, Noel, was in a gray-flannel suit, and her parents had settled for a nondescript smartness. Lily Pomeroy provided the color and vivacity. Wearing a voluminous purple skirt of dotted muslin net, she also had on a white-silk blouse with a profusion of buttons down the front of it, peeping out from beneath a jacket of mustard-hued brightness. The string of false pearls around her neck was so tight that it was partially obscured by her double chin and fleshy jowls. Whenever she moved, her jacket gave off a pungent whiff of mothballs.

  “We’re in for a real treat tonight, Mr. Dillman,” she said.

  “Are we, Mrs. Pomeroy?” he replied.

  “Wait until you see the menu. It’s mouth-watering.”

  “Granny loves her food,” explained Alexandra.

  “One of the few pleasures left to me at my age,” she said with a cackle, pinching the girl’s cheek affectionately. “That and being with my grandchildren. Aren’t they lovely creatures, Mr. Dillman?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy,” he agreed.

  “I’m blessed with my family.”

  She let out another throaty laugh. Vanessa Jarvis gave a warm smile, Noel contrived a nod of gratitude and Alexandra giggled, but Oliver Jarvis could manage nothing more than a look of suppressed exasperation as he took a sidelong glance at his mother-in-law’s extraordinary outfit. Accepting that he had a cross to bear in life, the bank manager would have preferred it to be wearing more muted colors.

  “I saw Bobo again today,” said Alexandra.

  “Bobo?” echoed Dillman.

  “The black cat. I told you about him over lunch.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Mr. Reynolds—he’s the officer who looks after Bobo—said that I could watch him being fed. Bobo, that is,” she added with a laugh. “Not Mr. Reynolds.”

  “You obviously like cats, Ally.”

  “I’ve always wanted one myself, but Daddy won’t hear of it. He says they do too much damage to the furniture with their claws. Anyway, I went to Mr. Reynolds’ cabin to watch Bobo finishing his meal and do you know what he said to me?”

  “Who?” he teased. “Bobo or Mr. Reynolds?”

  “Mr. Reynolds, silly!” she replied with another laugh. “He told me that I had an affinity with cats. Yes, that’s the right word. Affinity. Do you know why?”

  “Tell me, Ally.”

  “Bobo let me pick him up. He’s never let anyone do that before. Mr. Reynolds told me something else as well,” she continued. “Do you remember saying that a black cat was a symbol of good luck when we stepped aboard and saw Bobo?”

  “Yes.”

  “According to Mr. Reynolds, sailors have a lot of … oh!” She sighed, bringing her hands up to her cheeks. “I’ve forgotten the word.”

  “Supersititions?” he prompted.

  “Yes, that was it, Mr. Dillman. Superstitions. Mr. Reynolds told me that there were some sailors’ wives who kept a black cat when their husbands went off on a long voyage. In a sailing ship, that is.”

  “There are still plenty of those putting to sea, Ally,” he remarked. “Not everyone can afford to travel on an ocean liner by means of steam turbines. Though even here, as we’ve found out, a black cat stills comes in useful.”

  “Bobo is a lot more than useful.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “He’s my friend. I’m going to feed him myself tomorrow.”

  “Think about feeding yourself now, Alexandra,” said her mother kindly. “And give Mr. Dillman a chance to read the menu.”

  “I’m having the soup,” announced Lily Pomeroy. “Then the duck. Vanessa?”

  “I may as well have the same,” said the other.

  “What about you, Oliver?” pressed the old woman.

  “I still haven’t decided,” he answered, burying his head in the menu.

  “You can tell that my son-in-law is a banker, can’t you?” she said, leaning across to Dillman and giving off a further whiff of mothballs. “Oliver is so cautious. He has to study everything carefully before he reaches a decision. With me, it’s quite different. I know at once what I want to eat.”

  “As much as possible!” said Alexandra.

  Noel sniggered, Oliver Jarvis frowned, and his wife administered a swift rebuke, but Lily Pomeroy was neither hurt nor offended. Throwing her head back, she let out a merry laugh, then turned to pinch both her granddaughter’s cheeks simultaneously. Dillman chose that moment to examine the menu, marveling at its richness and variety. Second-class passengers were being offered fare of the highest quality. A waiter came up to the table. While the members of the Jarvis family took turns placing their orders, the detective sneaked a look around the saloon. Familiar faces were seen on all sides. Stanley and Miriam Rosenwald were at a nearby table, and Mrs. Dobrowski, another victim of robbery, was seated in a corner. Dillman also noticed the other two people whose property had been stolen and whom he had earlier interviewed. Both appeared to be enjoying themselves at their respective tables, putting their losses out of mind to share in the communal pleasure.

  It took Dillman a little time to pick out Agnes Cameron. Attired in a black-velvet gown trimmed with black lace, she had clearly made a supreme effort to look her best, wearing a diamond necklace and matching earrings in a slightly tentative way, as if the jewelry was very rarely put on view. Mrs. Cameron was sharing a table with the most animated group of people in the room. While her companions were bubbling with excitement, however, she was completely subdued. Detached from the proceedings .and feeling increasingly self-conscious, Agnes Cameron kept looking at the empty chair beside her with a wistfulness that soon shaded into pain.

  Someone had let her down. Dillman could guess who the man was.

  The atmosphere, facilities, and food in the third-class dining saloon were of a very different order from those in the saloons above. The area was more akin to a factory canteen than to a restaurant. Seated in serried ranks at the refectory tables, passengers had a much more restricted menu and far less attentive service. The level of noise was much higher, and it contained a far greater proportion of childlike pandemonium than elsewhere. While those in other sections of the vessel were dining in style, these passengers merely ate. That did not nece
ssarily diminish their pleasure. Some people were wolfing their food with an enthusiasm that showed it was the best meal they had consumed in ages. Others were behaving as if they were at a party. In spite of the large number crammed into the saloon, there was a prevailing spirit of camaraderie. The immigrants, in particular, were bonding together as they broke bread.

  Glyn Bowen struck up a conversation with a couple of redundant steelworkers from Yorkshire, enduring the discomforts of steerage in the hope of finding employment on the other side of the Atlantic. While the three men compared their individual tales of hardship, Mansell Price stayed on the fringe of the conversation. The meal was almost over when a hitherto suppressed fact tumbled out.

  “Why did you leave the pit?” one of the steelworkers asked Price.

  “He had to,” said Bowen. “Mansell punched the foreman.”

  “I’ll punch you in a minute!” warned Price. “It’s none of their business.”

  “Sorry, Mansell.”

  “What did you say that for, Glyn?”

  “It just slipped out.”

  “You need a padlock on that bloody gob,” said Price, getting up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. This noise is driving me mad.”

  It was left to Bowen to bid farewell to the two Yorkshiremen. He followed his friend out of the saloon and as soon as they were alone, was given a severe shaking by Price. The bigger man did not mince his words.

  “You do that again, Glyn, and I’ll kick seven barrels of shit out of you.”

  “I didn’t mean to say it.”