“Probably overdue,” Rowland replied leaning on the back of a dining chair. “I’m afraid I’m getting a bit soft.”
“If you don’t mind, I thought we might take coffee in my suite.” She smiled wickedly. “I must warn you, we’ll be unchaperoned.”
Rowland laughed. “Well, if you’re willing to jeopardise your reputation Annie, I’m sure I can risk mine.” He offered her his arm.
“I’m afraid I walk rather slowly—it’s unbecoming for a woman my age to trot.” She linked one arm in his and took her own walking stick in the other. They strolled up to the first class deck and to Annie Besant’s suite. Coffee arrived shortly afterwards on trays delivered from the dining room. Rowland noticed the crewman posted outside the door. Captain Madding remained cautious.
Rowland sat thankfully while Annie poured coffee.
“Well, young man,” she said sternly, as she handed him a steaming china cup. “Suppose you tell me exactly what you got up to last night.”
For a moment Rowland felt like a child caught out. “Has someone been telling tales, Annie?”
Annie Besant’s face clouded. “Actually Orville came to see me,” she said gravely.
“When?”
“After he left Dr. Yates.”
“Oh.”
“I must say, I wouldn’t have believed you capable of such brutality, Rowland.”
“Afraid I am. What did he tell you, Annie?”
“That you attacked him in a jealous rage. Is that true, Rowland?”
“It wasn’t quite a jealous rage,” he said quietly.
She looked intently at him, assessing him. “This was to do with Miss Higgins?”
“Yes. I found Mr. Urquhart’s manners wanting.”
Annie Besant sighed. “I see. I was afraid that might have been the case.”
Rowland’s interest was piqued. “Why?”
“Orville’s always been spoiled, even as a child. He was a particular favourite of Charles’, and I am afraid he was indulged somewhat.”
“Charles?”
“Charles Leadbeater. He leads the Australian chapter of the movement… you may have come across him.”
Rowland hadn’t, but he had heard of Leadbeater. Rather a bizarre figure by all accounts.
Annie Besant shook her head sadly. “Charles will be heartbroken.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Annie,” Rowland hoped that he didn’t sound insincere. He had after all, broken the man’s nose.
“Poor Orville.” She looked sharply at Rowland. “Am I correct in assuming someone killed him?”
“Yes,” Rowland replied.
She gasped. “I was afraid of this… if only…”
“You knew he was in danger?” Rowland pressed.
“I knew there was danger… I felt the presence of some kind of malice… sensed something… I just didn’t know who…”
“What do you know about Urquhart, Annie? Who would do this?”
“I’ve known Orville on and off since he was a small boy. His parents were great friends of Theosophy and he grew up in the movement. Essentially, he was a nice young man.” She finished hesitantly.
“But…,” Rowland prompted, sensing a qualification.
“But,” said Annie Besant carefully, “he was not always a gentleman. He had got himself into trouble before.” Rowland noticed her fist clench. “I had hoped he’d learned his lesson, but the moment he came to me complaining of you, I suspected…”
“Who?”
She wiped away a stray tear. Her distress was genuine. “There were a few girls over the years—it upset Jiddu immensely. I sometimes wonder if that helped him decide to leave us.”
“And no one did anything?” Rowland scowled. This was monstrous.
“Nothing so direct as you,” Annie replied, patting him on the knee. “There were complaints; we all spoke to Orville… each time he was contrite, but…,” she shook her head. “We should have done more.” She looked up at him. “You tell Miss Higgins how sorry I am.”
“Is there anyone on board who has reason to wish Urquhart ill?”
“Oh Rowland, we were all frustrated with Orville. If nothing else he was damaging the movement with his behaviour, but Theosophy is about brotherhood and love…”
“Well, what happened to him wasn’t terribly loving…,” Rowland murmured.
He put down his cup and saucer. “I should say goodnight,” he said as he moved to stand.
Annie Besant grasped his hand tightly. “You be careful in the hallway,” she warned.
“Did you have a premonition?” he asked, curiously. “Was the spirit of Urquhart walking the hallways of the Aquitania?”
Her face was solemn. “The light near the stairs isn’t working.”
“Oh.”
4
THE CORONATION OATH
LONDON
The Dublin Corporation has recommended a modification of the oath to be used at King George’s coronation, by which the description of the Roman Catholic Mass as ‘blasphemous’ will be omitted.
The Observer
Rowland Sinclair spent the remainder of the evening with the literature that Annie Besant had pressed upon him, including a book that she herself had penned. He fell asleep in his armchair, immersed in brotherhood and mysticism. It was in this state that his friends found him on their return to the Reynolds Suite.
Edna shook him awake gently. “Rowly darling, wake up.”
He opened his eyes groggily. “What time is it?”
“Late,” replied Clyde, taking off his jacket. “Or early. What are you reading?”
Edna picked up the book. “Isis Unveiled.”
“Sounds risqué.” Milton fell into the couch. “You’re a bit of a dark horse, Rowly…”
Rowland laughed. “I wish. No, it’s a sort of Theosophy bible, I think.”
Clyde looked alarmed. He regarded the book as if it might suddenly burst into flame. Shaking his head, he crossed himself.
Edna giggled. “Clyde’s worried you’ll go to Hell.” She whispered the last word theatrically.
Rowland rubbed his hand through his hair as he grinned at Clyde. “Between Lenin’s godless spawn and Jezebel here—we’re all going to Hell, mate.”
Clyde smiled. “Sorry, old habits.”
“Did you enjoy the jazz band?” Rowland asked, stretching
“A fine time was had by all,” Milton replied breezily. “Prudence Hickman even persuaded Clyde to dance. It seems American girls are quite happy to endanger their toes.”
Clyde sat down without bothering to defend himself. His dancing was that bad… there was little point in denying it.
“So did Annie summon Urquhart for you?” Milton asked, undoing his tie.
“Afraid not… but she did tell me a bit about him.” Rowland related what he had learned about Orville Urquhart’s less than impeccable character.
Edna perched on the arm of Rowland’s chair and grabbed his hand fondly. “I’m glad you arrived when you did, Rowly. Still, it was horrible what happened to Orville. Jiddu must be so distraught.”
Milton snorted. “Jiddu Krishnamurti and Father Bryan—you’re flitting between theological extremes here, Ed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Milt—Jiddu is a holy man!”
“And Father Bryan?”
“Matthew is a deacon,” Edna said beaming. “He hasn’t actually taken orders yet.”
“Matthew?… God… No!” Clyde put his head in his hands. “You can’t be serious.”
Milton fell back laughing. “The bishop will explode… Good for you, Ed… save Matthew from the church—make a man of him!”
“This is not funny,” Clyde raised his head. “You can’t…”
“Ed, stop tormenting Clyde.” Rowland poked her, hoping that was all she was doing.
Edna sighed and leaned over to pat Clyde’s knee. “All right, I’m not serious… not really. It is a tragic waste though. He’s very handsome.”
Clyde smiled thankfully.
“So who do you think killed Urquhart?” he asked, clearly glad to change the subject to something a lot less frightening.
Rowland shrugged. “Sounds like he may have had a few enemies.”
“I wonder why the killer put him in a lifeboat?” Milton mused.
“To hide the body, I suppose,” Clyde offered.
“I don’t think so.” Milton shook his head slowly. “It would have been a lot easier just to toss the blighter overboard than to lift him into a life boat. He was a hefty chap remember.”
“He was killed in the lifeboat,” Rowland said suddenly visualising the scene of Urquhart’s demise. “There was no blood on the deck around the boat. There would have been if he’d been dragged or carried into it.”
Clyde nodded. “By George, you’re right, Rowly. There was a good two inches of blood in the bottom of the boat but nothing outside.”
“So what the blazes was Urquhart doing in a life boat on the second class deck?” Rowland gazed absently at the blue glass beads which hung around Edna’s neck and caught the light.
Milton looked a little sheepish. “Perhaps some kind of lovers’ tryst?”
“Why wouldn’t he just use his stateroom?” Edna asked the obvious. “A lifeboat…” She shuddered.
“Perhaps his young lady did not want to risk being seen—maybe he was concerned that the other Theosophists were watching him… maybe he’s got some odd preferences.” Milton shrugged. “It explains why he’d be sitting in a lifeboat.”
Rowland nodded. “It’s possible…”
“You don’t think a girl could have killed him?” Clyde interrupted. “It would take a fair bit of strength to impale someone like that.”
“Maybe this girl had her own Rowly, following her around like an avenging angel…”
“I wasn’t following Ed around,” Rowland protested, embarrassed by the suggestion.
“You know what I mean.” Milton glanced at him apologetically. The torch Rowland carried for Edna was not a secret, but they didn’t talk of it in her presence. It was an understanding between gentlemen.
“How’s your leg holding up, Rowly?” Clyde asked, deftly redirecting the conversation.
“Aches like the blazes, actually,” Rowland murmured. He shifted his leg gingerly.
“Maybe we should find you another stick,” Edna said touching his arm in concern. She was normally dismissive of the occasional ailments and complaints of the men she lived with, but this was a little different—she had shot Rowland.
“We’re not going to get one on board unless I rob some old lady,” Rowland replied, rubbing his thigh. “I’ll pick up one in New York if I need to.”
“So tomorrow, we try to find out if Orville Urquhart had some kind of assignation on the second class deck.” Milton brought the conversation back.
Rowland smiled and shoved the poet. “Perhaps I better talk to the captain before we unleash Sherlock here upon the Aquitania.
“I hate to be the voice of reason,” Clyde said tersely, “but it’s really not our responsibility to find out who killed Urquhart. It’s nothing to do with us.”
“I don’t know,” Rowland replied. “I must say I was rather fond of that walking stick.”
Godfrey Madding listened thoughtfully as Rowland told him of his conversation with Annie Besant. They sat opposite one another at the large mahogany desk in the privacy of the captain’s quarters. The shelves behind Madding’s leather chair were filled with naval memorabilia, and the odd item that Rowland recognised as a trophy of the Great War.
“So it’s possible that Mr. Urquhart had many enemies,” Madding said finally, idly tapping the bottled model ship on his desk. “Indeed the Theosophists themselves had reason to wish Mr. Urquhart gone.”
“The Theosophists?”
“Well it sounds like he was a source of constant embarrassment to the movement.”
“Yes,” Rowland agreed hesitantly. “But murder seems to be rather against their doctrines.”
Madding snorted. “I don’t know that doctrines hold much sway with those moved to kill, Mr. Sinclair.”
Rowland held his own counsel on that point and raised the question of the lack of blood outside the lifeboat.
Madding nodded. “You’re quite right, Mr. Sinclair, but what would Mr. Urquhart be doing in a lifeboat?”
Rowland recounted Milton’s theory.
Madding’s brow rose. “I see.” He stroked his beard. “I’ll speak to my staff captain—see if the crew noticed anything. The question still remains as to how such a person got hold of your stick.”
“One has to assume they picked it up on the promenade after my run-in with Urquhart.”
“How many people were on the promenade that night?”
“Not many before I hit Urquhart, quite a few after.”
“The Theosophists have the staterooms that look out on that side of the promenade,” Madding commented. “As well as Bishop Hanrahan and a number of American couples.”
“The bishop?” Rowland smiled.
Madding laughed. “Of course,” he continued soberly, “there is always the possibility that Urquhart himself took your stick and had it with him when he was attacked. The killer then just used it as a weapon of opportunity.”
“Well,” Rowland shook his head, “we’ve managed to narrow it down to anybody on board the Aquitania.”
Madding’s lips pursed. “Yes, a sterling piece of deduction.”
“May I enquire, Captain, as to what will happen if no killer has emerged by the time we make port?”
Madding took out his pipe and stuffed it. “I’m afraid the murder of Orville Urquhart will become a maritime mystery,” he said. “Both Scotland Yard and the New York Police Department are at pains to declare it outside their jurisdiction.” He sighed. “The best we can hope for is that the blaggard disembarks in New York and doesn’t join us for the leg to Sydney.”
“Yes, far better that a murderer runs loose in the streets of New York.”
“It’s not ideal, Mr. Sinclair, but it really can’t be helped. Let’s just hope that it was only Mr. Urquhart against whom the killer had a grievance.”
They talked for a while longer, allies now; and then Rowland made his way back to the first class deck where he found his companions huddled in blankets upon wooden deckchairs. It was mid-autumn in this part of the world. The day was grey and sea breeze cold.
Rowland turned up the collar of his coat before he took the deckchair they’d saved for him. Edna handed him a blanket.
“Tell me again,” he muttered, as he unfolded it, “what the blazes are we doing out here?”
Edna glanced across at the scores of lined-up deckchairs bearing wrapped passengers peering out at the dark sea and bracing wind. “Seems to be the done thing, Rowly.”
“We are experiencing the majesty and glory of Neptune’s realm.” Milton motioned dramatically towards the water. “Defying the unknown oceans whilst Britannia still rules the waves, even though the sea is flecked with bars of grey, the dull dead wind is out of tune…”
“That second part is Oscar Wilde, the first part is nonsense, and it’s flaming cold,” Rowland grumbled, entirely uninspired.
“Someone will bring tea shortly,” Milton said, returning to his book.
Rowland looked across at Clyde who was leaning forward, gazing towards the horizon.
“Seascape?” Rowland asked, recognising the look on the other’s face. Clyde was constructing a painting in his mind. Clyde pointed to a shaft of light breaking through the grey of the clouds—seabirds seemed to be flying towards it, upwards to the source of the beam.
Rowland nodded. “Yes, that could be worth painting,” he murmured.
“Of course, you’d need to put a naked woman in the foreground.” Clyde smiled. Rowland Sinclair did not paint landscapes.
“Ed’s already said it’s too cold,” Rowland replied.
“Edna! What a pleasant surprise.” Father Bryan stood before them. “Gentlemen, how are yo
u this morning?”
“Matthew, how lovely to see you.” Edna craned her neck along the line of deckchairs. None was empty. She drew her legs up and made room at the foot of her own. “Why don’t you join us?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The clergyman sat. “It’s a fine morning.”
The Australians did not contradict him. They had grown accustomed to what Englishmen seemed to think was a fine morning. It called for compassion.
“Are you hiding from the bishop?” Edna asked pleasantly.
“Ed!” Clyde choked.
“It’s all right.” Matthew Bryan laughed. “I am in fact trying to stay out of his way. His Grace is in a fearsome temper.”
“Oh? What particular abomination is troubling the good bishop today?” Milton asked.
“Gout,” Bryan replied. “And of course this matter with Isobel.”
“Who’s Isobel? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
“His Grace’s niece. Isobel is travelling with her uncle to Sydney.”
“Taking her to a nunnery is he?” Milton ignored Clyde’s glare.
“Not yet, but he just might,” Matthew Bryan shook his head. “A bit of a wild creature, is Isobel.”
“Really?” Milton winked at Rowland. “Why didn’t she join us at dinner last night?”
“She was a bit distraught—this Urquhart thing you know… wouldn’t come out of her cabin.”
Now Rowland was interested.
“She knew Orville Urquhart?”
“Apparently so. His Grace was most upset about it.”
“Yes, we noticed he was excitable.”
“His Grace is a passionate man, one of the Good Lord’s most loyal soldiers,” Bryan defended his superior. “He was a boxer in his day,” he added, “before he joined the Seminary. Why, I’m sure the Holy Father himself is terrified of him!”
They were interrupted at that moment by the service of tea.
Father Bryan did not stay. He rose regretfully. “I must go and prepare the chapel. His Grace is celebrating Mass in an hour or so. I’m just mustering a congregation.”
He looked hopefully at them.
Rowland shrugged apologetically. “Protestant,” he said.
“Lenin’s godless spawn,” Milton volunteered before the clergyman could even look at him. “But Clyde will go—won’t you, Clyde?”
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