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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Ocean Liner Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
A maritime mystery from Edward Marston, author of the bestselling Railway Detective series. New York, 1908. While waiting to embark on the Caronia, the Cunard Line's famous ocean liner, private detectives George Dillman and Genevieve Masefield are startled to witness the boarding of a man and woman in shackles. They discover that these prisoners are being brought back to England by Scotland Yard to face trial for murder. Over the course of the crossing, while managing purse-snatchers, burglars and drug traffickers, Dillman and Masefield come to believe that the captured couple may not be the vicious criminals some might think. But pursuing the hunch that they are innocent becomes harder when a killer strikes on board. Dillman and Masefield will need all their wits to navigate the waters ahead. Previously published under the name Conrad Allen, the Ocean Liner series sets sail for a new generation of readers.
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Seitenzahl: 426
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON
‘A master storyteller’
Daily Mail
‘Packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful [and] well-written’
Time Out
‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Filled with period detail, the pace is steady and the plot is thick with suspects, solutions and clues. Marston has a real knack for blending detail, character and story with great skill’
Historical Novels Review
‘The past is brought to life with brilliant colours, combined with a perfect whodunnit. Who needs more?’
The Guardian
5
MURDER ON THE CARONIA
EDWARD MARSTON
To Benjamin Sevier, with many thanks for his expert assistance in bringing the Caronia safely into port
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
New York 1908
It was never the same. That was what was so remarkable. Though he had crossed the Atlantic over a dozen times in each direction, George Porter Dillman had never become bored or blasé. He remembered each voyage as a separate experience, filled to the brim with its own excitements and charged with individual drama. There were so many variables. Weather conditions could swing between the benign and the tempestuous. A ship’s company might be anything from superb to merely competent. Each vessel had her own distinctive character. Cunard’s two greyhounds of the seas, the Lusitania and the Mauretania, were sister ships, built to the same specifications and embodying the same bold patriotism, yet they differed considerably. Dillman had been fortunate enough to sail on the maiden voyages of both and he had found them anything but interchangeable. Their interiors were markedly different and their performance in the water dissimilar. Their personalities set them even further apart. The same could be said of the Lucania, the Ivernia, the Saxonia, the Carpathia, the Aurania, and all the other Cunard ships on which Dillman had travelled. Each was unique.
It was the passenger list that made every voyage such a special event. When large numbers of people crossed the Atlantic, the vessel that carried them was a microcosm of American and European society. Every class was represented, from the titled to the underprivileged, from wealthy families enjoying the luxury of first-class travel to poverty-stricken emigrants suffering the multiple indignities of steerage. New people brought new problems each time. Dillman had been a detective for long enough to know that the law of averages worked aboard ship just as inexorably as on shore. The vast majority of passengers would be decent, God-fearing, law-abiding souls who would create no trouble at all but there would always be a smattering of those with more criminal tendencies, using the voyage to further their ends. Identifying and arresting them was Dillman’s job.
As he stood that Saturday morning on a lower Manhattan pier, he watched the passengers converging on the Caronia and wondered which of them would need his particular attention. Over two thousand people would be making the crossing. Among so many it would not be easy to spot the dangerous few, but his instincts had been sharpened by experience. Dillman would rely heavily on those instincts. Observing the passengers at such close quarters, he could feel their collective exhilaration. Even those who had made the journey to Liverpool before stepped onto the gangway with renewed eagerness. First-time travellers were more openly enthusiastic, agog at the size of the ship and excited by the thought that they would be sailing three thousand miles across an ocean. Children were especially animated. Dillman could see the joy in their faces and hear the wonder in their voices. Doubts and fears vanished in the general elation. Everyone hurried aboard. For the best part of a week, the Caronia would be their home.
Dillman looked up at the vessel with admiration. He had sailed on her sister ship, the Carmania, but this would be his first trip on the Caronia. He was looking forward to it. The two ships were known as ‘the pretty sisters’. Externally, they looked identical, elegant vessels of almost twenty thousand tons apiece that stretched to 676 feet in length. Both were surmounted by massive twin funnels, painted in the standard Cunard colours of red and black. The major difference between them lay in the engine room. By way of an experiment, the Carmania had been fitted with turbines while the Caronia was powered by conventional steam engines. The fact that the Carmania averaged a full knot faster in speed with the same consumption of coal justified the experiment. Dillman was curious to find out what else separated the two sisters.
His gaze shifted back to the stream of passengers. In the course of the voyage he would get to know several, mingling freely with them in order to pass as just another traveller. Dillman worked far more effectively as an insider. The easy friendships of shipboard life were an invaluable way to gather intelligence across a wide field. He was tall, cultured, and presentable. Most people found him charming and debonair, pleasant company at all times. Ladies – old, young, and middle-aged – were drawn by his handsome appearance and by his impeccable manners. Only the villains on board ever learned that the courteous American was actually employed by the Cunard Line as a private detective. By then, it was usually too late.
Dillman was about to join the queue at the gangway when he caught sight of some late arrivals. Walking briskly towards the ship was a group of people who commanded immediate attention. Two uniformed policemen set the pace. They seemed to have been chosen for their height and bulk because they towered over the quartet behind them. At their heels was a slim, upright man in his forties, wearing a long coat, a bowler hat, and an expression of quiet determination. Behind him were two figures, a man and a woman, who looked so sad and humiliated that Dillman felt sorry for them. Well into his fifties, the man was short and plump with a beard liberally flecked with grey. His companion, some twenty years younger, was thin and anguished. Heads held down with shame, the couple shuffled along behind their captors. Dillman could see no handcuffs but it was obvious the pair were under arrest.
It was the last man in the party who really sparked his interest. A brawny character of medium height, the man wore an ill-fitting suit and a large cap. The lower half of his face was dominated by a walrus moustache. Clearly proud of it, he stroked the moustache repeatedly with his free hand. Under his other arm, he carried a shotgun and moved along with the arrogant strut of a big-game hunter who has just killed a lion. Dillman wondered what unspeakable crime the couple had committed to justify such close supervision. He also wondered why the man with the shotgun was enjoying himself so much, grinning broadly with a mixture of pleasure and self-importance. A weapon of any kind was surely unnecessary. The captives were too overcome with remorse even to consider an attempt at escape. And what hope would they have against four strong men? The scene worried Dillman. It was contrived to gain maximum effect.
Other passengers parted obligingly to let them through. As the prisoners were escorted aboard, a cluster of waiting cameramen took photographs of them for their respective newspapers. The two New York policemen waved a farewell then took up a position near the bottom of the gangway. Dillman strolled across to them.
‘Good morning,’ he said politely.
One of them grunted a reply but the other merely nodded without taking his eyes off the ship. The passengers who had caused such a commotion had now disappeared, leaving those in their wake to indulge in wild speculation.
‘What sort of people need a police escort?’ asked Dillman.
‘The wrong sort,’ said the older man.
‘They looked English to me.’
‘They were, sir.’
‘So those detectives were from Scotland Yard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘They came a long way to make the arrests.’
‘Inspector Redfern wouldn’t let them get away with it.’
‘With what?’
‘Murder, sir,’ the policeman said grimly. ‘That’s who you’re travelling with on the Caronia. A pair of ruthless, cold-blooded killers.’
Genevieve Masefield had boarded the ship long before her colleague. Though she and Dillman worked as a team, they always travelled independently so that they could develop their own circles of friends. As a couple their movements would have been restricted and their acquaintances more limited in scope. Operating singly, each could reach places inaccessible to the other, and gain confidences more easily. During a voyage they took care to remain apart in public. Meetings between them were essentially private matters, and that very privacy added a frisson of pleasure for Genevieve. She relished the fact that, while Dillman invariably attracted a lot of female interest aboard, hers was the only cabin he would visit. Genevieve always collected her own share of suitors. Her blend of beauty and intelligence turned the heads of married men just as frequently as those of bachelors and she had endured more than one unwelcome declaration of love in the course of her work. She took care to describe such embarrassing moments to Dillman in the hope of gaining his sympathy and, by the same token, provoking mild jealousy.
As she finished unpacking the trunk in her cabin, Genevieve wondered how much of her partner she would see on the voyage. Both were travelling first-class but they were merely two among three hundred passengers. They would also be keeping an eye on the second-class areas of the ship, more than doubling the number of people they had to watch. It would leave little time for them to be together. Work took priority. Technically, they were never off-duty. Genevieve’s cabin was comfortable rather than luxurious, a large rectangle in which everything had its appointed place. The bed, she discovered, was invitingly soft. The one defect was the absence of a bathroom. Only the most expensive suites had private bathroom facilities. When she wanted a bath, she would have to make a reservation with her steward. It was a minor inconvenience when she had all the other advantages of first class at her disposal.
After taking a final, satisfied look around, she decided to go up on deck to watch the ship leave. Departures had their own mystique. She revelled in them. They induced such a strange feeling of delight and regret, the euphoria of embarking on an adventure, tinged with an odd sensation of loss. Genevieve was perpetually moving between two worlds, the land of her birth and the country to which she had once tried to flee. In between the two was the most dangerous ocean in the world but it held no fears for her. Time had turned her into a seasoned voyager yet the magic of departure remained.
When she stepped out into the corridor, she saw she was not the only person anxious to be on deck at the critical moment. An attractive young woman was walking towards her. Seeing Genevieve, her face lit up.
‘Miss Masefield!’ she said.
‘Hello.’
‘Are you going where I’m going?’
‘I think so, Miss Singleton,’ replied Genevieve.
‘Do you have anyone to wave you off?’
‘Not really, but the moment of departure is always rather special.’
‘This is my first trip,’ confided the other. ‘I feel so excited.’
‘So do I. It’s a feeling that never quite leaves you.’ Genevieve pointed towards the exit. ‘Shall we go on deck together?’
‘Yes, please!’
Isadora Singleton had a girlish quality about her that was very appealing. Genevieve had liked her from the moment they met. Genevieve had been standing in line in the customs shed when she fell into conversation with Isadora and her parents. As soon as they heard her English accent, all three of them warmed to her instantly. Introductions were made and, responding to a sharp nudge from his wife, Waldo Singleton had expressed the hope that Genevieve would dine with them on board at some stage. Isadora was thrilled with her new acquaintance. Trembling on the verge of adulthood, she was being taken to England by way of celebration and she clearly had many romantic illusions about the country. In Genevieve, she saw a potential friend, guide, and confidante.
For her part, Genevieve was struck by Isadora’s porcelain loveliness and by the fact that the girl seemed totally unaware of it. There was an unexpected bonus. The Singletons were from Boston. Since Dillman also hailed from the city, Genevieve had picked up a great deal of information about it and was ready to learn more. She hoped Isadora Singleton and her parents would be able to fill some of the gaps left by Dillman’s accounts of his birthplace. Following her young friend along the corridor, Genevieve was conscious of a paradox. While she came from a rich family, Isadora was wearing the plainest of clothing and exuded no sense of prosperity. Genevieve, by contrast, was stylish enough to suggest a person of wealth yet she had little beyond her income from the Cunard Line. Appearance was everything. Anyone seeing them together would have taken Genevieve as a moneyed lady with her poor relation.
‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ said Isadora.
‘Wait until we actually set off.’
‘Have you sailed on the Caronia before?’
‘No,’ said Genevieve, ‘this is my maiden voyage.’
‘Then we’ll have something in common.’
Isadora led the way out on deck. The imminence of departure had brought large numbers of people out of their cabins and it took the newcomers a moment to find space at the rail. They looked down on the crowd of well-wishers below. Isadora gave them a friendly wave before turning to her companion.
‘I’m so glad we met, Miss Masefield,’ she announced.
‘So am I,’ said Genevieve with a smile, ‘but I don’t intend to spend the next three thousand miles being addressed by my surname. Please call me “Genevieve”.’
Isadora was overjoyed. ‘May I?’
‘As long as you return the compliment.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course I will. I hate to stand on ceremony. Mother criticises me for being so forward at times but I don’t see the point of playing those silly social games. If you make friends with someone, you don’t want to spend an eternity before you can even whisper their Christian name. Do you, Genevieve?’
‘No, Isadora.’
They exchanged a laugh, glad that one barrier between them had been cleared.
‘What’s your cabin like?’
‘Very nice,’ replied Genevieve. ‘You must come and see it sometime.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Isadora. ‘We have staterooms with an interconnecting door. Father always insists on the best. I never expected to find anything so palatial aboard a ship. Even the bathroom is ornate.’
‘I envy you, Isadora. Most of us don’t have that amenity in our cabins.’
‘You mean that you have to share a public bathroom?’
‘They’ve been designed to a very high standard.’
‘Perhaps they have,’ said Isadora, showing a first hint of snobbery, ‘but it’s demeaning to queue whenever you want to take a bath. You must feel free to use ours,’ she decided graciously. ‘I’m sure Mother and Father will agree.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of intruding.’
‘We’ll insist.’
Genevieve glanced over her shoulder. ‘Where are your parents, by the way? I thought they’d be as keen as you to be on deck when we set sail.’
‘Oh, they will be,’ said the other with a sigh. ‘They never let me out of their sight for long, I’m afraid. Especially Mother. That’s why it’s such a treat to meet someone like you. If they see that I have a chaperone, they may give me more licence to roam.’
‘I’m not sure that I like the idea of being a chaperone.’
‘You’re not, Genevieve. You’re a friend, and I know you’ll be a good one. It’s just that my parents will see you as a … well …’ she searched for the right word, ‘as a kind of safeguard.’
Genevieve grinned. ‘“Chaperone?” “Safeguard?” I can’t decide which is the less flattering. Besides,’ she went on, ‘you’ll make lots of other friends on this voyage. You won’t need me to hold your hand all the time.’
Her tone was light-hearted but Genevieve was making a serious point. Much as she liked Isadora Singleton, she did not want to be monopolised by her. It would hamper her work. The young Bostonian had great natural charm and an engaging innocence. What she lacked was any flair for independent action. Evidently it had been stifled by her parents. Given the opportunity, Genevieve feared, her companion might turn a casual relationship into a binding commitment. That was to be avoided at all costs.
‘Do you know anyone else on board?’ asked Isadora.
‘Not yet.’
‘Neither do we. It’s such a blessing that we met when we did. I could see from the start that we’d get on famously. Did you have that feeling as well?’
Genevieve was guarded. ‘Up to a point,’ she said.
‘Mother and Father liked you as much as I did. That’s very unusual.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes, Genevieve. They don’t often approve of friends that I choose for myself. Mother says I’m too open; I need to take more care where I place my affections. That’s why she interferes so much.’
‘Do you resent that interference?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Isadora with a shrug. ‘I resent it at the time because it makes me feel like a child but then I tell myself that Mother is only acting in my best interests.’
‘I see.’
‘And she does so in the kindest way.’
‘It must still be rather irritating.’
‘Nobody can be irritated by Mother for long. She has such a sweet disposition. She’s not cold and tyrannical, like some mothers.’
‘But she does overprotect you, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Mother is only doing what Grandmother did to her. It’s a family tradition.’
‘You seem to have survived it pretty well so far,’ said Genevieve, wanting to encourage her. ‘And you won’t have to put up with your parents’ control for much longer. You’ll be twenty-one soon, Isadora. You’ll be able to spread your wings.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet,’ said Isadora with a touch of anxiety. ‘I’ve so much still to learn. I’m hoping you’ll be my teacher for the next week.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re so poised, Genevieve, so sophisticated.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘Beside you, I feel so ridiculously juvenile. How do I achieve the same assurance?’
‘It comes with time.’
‘There must be more to it than that.’
‘Perhaps,’ conceded Genevieve, ‘but you have no reason to be self-critical. You have all the qualities a young lady ought to have. And I’d better warn you now, I won’t be the only one to notice that. Before too long, you’ll have a swarm of male admirers buzzing around you. Even a chaperone won’t be able to keep them at bay.’
Isadora giggled. ‘That would be tremendous fun,’ she said.
‘Enjoy it while you can.’
Another sigh. ‘If only I could, Genevieve.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mother and Father have very firm ideas about what would be a suitable match for me. It’s one of the reasons they’re taking me to England.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I wouldn’t tell this to anyone else but I know I can trust you. The truth is that my parents have set their hearts on a son-in-law with a title.’
‘“A title”?’
‘Yes,’ Isadora said with foreboding. ‘In their eyes, it’s the best possible birthday present. They want me to marry into the British aristocracy.’
CHAPTER TWO
During the first couple of hours at sea, the busiest person on the ship was the purser. The navigational crew was sailing the ship, the stokers and trimmers were slaving away in the engine room, and the cooks were preparing the first meal of the voyage. All were going through a well-established routine. The purser had a more difficult job. Faced with a battery of requests, suggestions, and demands from a host of passengers, he had to make instant decisions on the hoof. Some of the calls made upon his time were habitual but most were specific to that particular crossing. The purser had to work flat-out to oblige, reassure, or appease those who came knocking at his door in an endless line.
Aware of the pressures put upon him, George Porter Dillman delayed his own visit to the purser until well into the afternoon. By that time, the detective had settled into his cabin, enjoyed his lunch, and explored the Caronia from stem to stern.
Paul Taggart gave him a cordial welcome, pumping Dillman’s hand vigorously. A tall, angular man in his early forties, the purser was a New Yorker who had been born and brought up within sight of the Hudson River. A childhood spent haunting the harbour had prepared him well for a life at sea. Nothing else would have satisfied his primal urges. Taggart had a long, lean, pleasant face that was remarkably unlined. His smile was warm and his voice deep.
‘Good to have you aboard, Mr Dillman,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Mr Taggart.’
‘Your reputation goes before you.’
Dillman was modest. ‘I’ve been lucky, that’s all.’
‘Luck is a decisive factor in your trade.’
Taggart perched on the edge of a desk piled high with paperwork. Maps and charts covered the walls. Wooden filing cabinets took up much of the remaining space. On top of one of the cabinets was a framed photograph of Taggart, in uniform, with his wife and two young sons. All four of them were beaming happily at the camera. Dillman glanced at it.
‘That was taken a few years ago,’ explained Taggart. ‘The boys are twice that size now. I don’t know what my wife feeds them on, but it certainly does the trick.’
‘Are they going to follow in their father’s footsteps?’
Taggart gave a hollow laugh. ‘Not if I can help it!’
‘The call of the sea tends to run in families.’
‘I sometimes wish that I’d never heard of it, I know that.’
‘Busy?’
‘I’ve been swamped, Mr Dillman.’
‘The purser always gets the real headaches.’
‘I know,’ Taggart said tolerantly, ‘and I complain like mad about it. But the simple fact is that I love this job more than anything else in the world. If you’re a student of human nature, there’s nothing to beat it. Something happens to people when they’re at sea. They behave in ways they’d never even think of on land.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘What about you, Mr Dillman? I guess you like your job as well.’
‘Very much.’
‘Any red-blooded man would enjoy working alongside Miss Masefield.’
Dillman was surprised. ‘You’ve met Genevieve?’
‘Yes,’ said Taggart. ‘She reported to me half an hour ago. Her timing was perfect. I’d just got the last of the passengers off my back.’ He smiled admiringly. ‘Miss Masefield is a delightful lady. I’d never have taken her for a detective.’
‘That’s her main advantage.’
‘Is she efficient?’
‘Extremely efficient.’
‘Then she’s got everything. Looks and brains.’
‘Not to mention courage,’ said Dillman. ‘Genevieve is the ideal partner.’
‘I can see what you mean about being lucky.’ Taggart became business-like. ‘Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks. I’ll tell you what I told Miss Masefield. Most of your work will be pure routine, looking out for the thieves, pickpockets, and cardsharps we always seem to attract. But our main problem concerns narcotics. We’ve had a tip-off that the Caronia is being used to carry drugs on the eastward crossing. What kind – and in what quantities – I’ve no idea, but I take the warning seriously. I don’t want this ship to act as a mule for some lousy drug-runners. We’re proud of this vessel. She has to be kept clean of that kind of thing.’
‘Do you have any information to go on?’
‘Precious little.’
‘How reliable is the tip-off?’
‘That’s for you to find out, Mr Dillman.’
‘Drugs are big business,’ said Dillman, stroking his chin. ‘The people involved go to any lengths to protect themselves. They’re likely to be armed.’
‘That’s what I told your partner.’
‘They’re also inclined to travel in comfort. If they make huge profits out of crime, they don’t cross the Atlantic in steerage. They expect luxury.’
‘Not on my ship,’ Taggart said sharply. ‘Run them down for me, Mr Dillman, and the master-at-arms will arrange more basic accommodations for the skunks.’
‘Does he have those other prisoners locked up?’
‘Prisoners?’
‘The two people I saw being escorted onto the ship by detectives.’
‘Oh, that pair. No, they’re not in one of our cells but they are confined to their cabins. Inspector Redfern will give you the details,’ he went on, picking up some sheets of paper from the desk. ‘I promised to send you along to him when we’d finished here. Take your partner with you. It will save repetition.’
‘Where will I find Inspector Redfern?’
Taggart handed over the papers. ‘Here’s a copy of the passenger list for the entire ship. As you’ll see, Inspector Redfern and Sergeant Mulcaster are sharing a cabin.’
‘What about their prisoners?’
‘Right next door.’
‘Together?’
‘No, Mr Dillman. On either side of them.’
‘Why was Sergeant Mulcaster carrying a shotgun when he came aboard?’
‘He likes to let people know who he is.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Oh, sure,’ said Taggart, rolling his eyes, ‘but I won’t claim I enjoyed the experience. Inspector Redfern is a good, honest, straightforward cop but the other guy is a pain in the neck. If I were you, I’d keep clear of Ronald Mulcaster.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s just like that shotgun of his – liable to go off with a bang.’
After lunch in the first-class restaurant, Genevieve Masefield had disentangled herself from Isadora Singleton and made her way to the purser to introduce herself. When he had briefed her, she went up on deck to enjoy the sea air in solitude, striding purposefully along to discourage people from trying to speak to her. She was approaching the stern of the vessel when she heard the patter of feet behind her. Genevieve walked briskly on but she was soon overtaken. A tousle-haired young man in a white running vest and knee-length shorts jogged past her and weaved his way expertly between the people ahead of her. Only when he reached the stern did he pause to catch his breath. He was tall, slim, and wiry. After supporting himself on the rail for a few moments, he turned to see Genevieve coming towards him and his face was split by an amiable grin.
‘Hi,’ he said, waving a hand. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ she replied, pausing beside him. ‘Though I could never run like that after such a large meal.’
‘I didn’t have a large meal. Wes keeps me on a diet.’
‘Wes?’
‘My coach and manager. At least that’s what he calls himself. I think he’s a professional torturer, but then, I’m the guy stretched out on the rack.’ He extended a friendly hand. ‘I’m Theodore Wright, by the way. “Theo” to friends. If you like to promenade on deck, you’ll see a lot of me.’
She shook his hand. ‘I’m Genevieve Masefield,’ she said, ‘and I’m hoping to have a less arduous crossing. You’re obviously in training for something.’
‘“The Big Event”.’
‘Are you a boxer?’
‘Hell no,’ he replied with a chuckle. ‘I’m ugly enough as it is. I don’t want some two-fisted gorilla to make me look even worse. Anyway, boxing is for suckers. It’s a short life and a painful one. No, lady, I chose a real sport.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Cycling.’
‘Are you a professional, Mr Wright?’
He chuckled again. ‘I can see that you didn’t read the sports pages while you were in the States,’ he said. ‘The name of Theo Wright pops up in them all the time. I’m the American champion. That means I have to keep myself really fit.’
‘Will you be racing in England?’
‘Yes, Miss Masefield.’
‘How did you know I wasn’t married?’
‘Because no husband in his right mind would let you wander around the deck of a ship on your own,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But, to answer your question, I do have a few races lined up in England but the real point of this trip is to get to France.’
‘Why?’
‘Even you must have heard of the Bordeaux-to-Paris race.’
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Wright.’
‘It’s the Holy Grail of cycling. Whoever wins that really is the champ, and I aim to be first across the line this year. If I’m not, Wes will murder me.’
Genevieve was impressed. ‘Bordeaux to Paris? That’s a very long race.’
‘Now you can see why I have to build up my stamina. The best place to do that, of course, is in the saddle but I can hardly cycle along here with so many people around. Wes is going to work out a timetable for me so that I can pedal up and down the deck when it’s deserted.’
‘You must be dedicated.’
‘I like to win.’
Theodore Wright was bright, fresh-faced, and personable. Genevieve found him a welcome relief from the polite social rituals she had been going through with others. He was open and unaffected. When he talked about his ambition, he did not resort to empty boasts. Wright had the inner confidence of a true champion.
‘I hope to see you around, Miss Masefield,’ he said.
‘Not if you’re cycling on deck in the middle of the night.’
‘Wes is bound to give me some time off.’
‘Does he control what you eat, as well?’
‘I can’t even clear my throat without his permission,’ he added. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go. He’ll be waiting for me with his stopwatch. Nice to meet you, Miss Masefield.’
‘I’m glad we bumped into each other.’
He beamed at her. ‘Yes. You’ve met your Mr Wright at last.’
With a last chuckle, he ran back in the direction from which he had come. Genevieve looked after him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Theodore Wright was an original, quite unlike anyone she’d encountered before on a Cunard liner. His chirpy manner might offend some of the more conservative passengers but it was a breath of fresh air to her. She recalled what he had said about cycling from Bordeaux to Paris.
‘That’s not a race,’ she said to herself. ‘It’s an endurance test.’
The first thing he noticed when he entered the cabin was the sweet smell. Dillman inhaled the aroma of pipe tobacco and found it oddly soothing. There was a soothing quality about Detective-Inspector Ernest Redfern as well. Alone in the second-class cabin, he had slipped off his jacket and stood there in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat; a watch chain dangled from the pocket. While the two men introduced themselves, they weighed each other up. Redfern was relaxed and quietly spoken.
‘I had hoped to speak to your partner as well, Mr Dillman,’ he said.
‘Genevieve will be here any moment, Inspector. I sent her a note.’
‘Good. I’d like to put the pair of you in the picture, if only as a matter of courtesy. I know you’ll have enough on your plate during the voyage but it’s only fair that you should know about our little cargo.’
‘We’d appreciate that, Inspector. I saw you coming aboard.’
‘At the last moment, I’m afraid. We’re very grateful to the purser for fitting us in at the eleventh hour, so to speak. Cunard has been very cooperative.’
Dillman nodded. ‘They’re always ready to help the forces of law and order.’
Redfern waved him to a seat then slipped on his jacket before lowering himself into his own chair. He had nondescript features but his eyes glistened with intelligence.
‘Mr Taggart tells me that you once worked for the Pinkerton Agency,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ replied Dillman. ‘It was my first introduction to the darker side of humanity. I had no idea criminals could be so devious. It was a real eye-opener. I still remember the sense of pride I felt when I made my first arrest.’
‘Who was the offender?’
‘A pickpocket who operated in the Broadway theatres. The irony was that I’d been working at that same theatre myself only a couple of months earlier. I was a penniless actor then. That’s why I had such satisfaction in catching the guy,’ he confided. ‘I mean, there were we, toiling away onstage for modest wages while this fellow had rich pickings among the spectators. It seemed indecent.’
‘How did you come to work for Cunard?’
‘That’s a long story.’
‘I’d like to hear it sometime,’ said Redfern, with genuine interest. ‘And I certainly want to hear more about the Pinkerton Agency. We must compare notes. I suspect that its methods are rather different from ours at Scotland Yard.’
‘I doubt that, Inspector. Don’t forget who founded it. In a sense, the agency was a kind of Scotland Yard as well. Allan Pinkerton came from Glasgow.’
There was a tap on the door and Redfern got up to let Genevieve Masefield in. Dillman rose to his feet to perform the introductions then yielded his chair to his partner. When he gave her a wink, she smiled back. Redfern noted the little exchange.
‘Well,’ he said, looking at them in turn, ‘you’re not at all what I would have expected as onboard detectives. The ones I met on the crossing to New York were ex-policemen from Liverpool. I could have picked them out in a football crowd.’
‘We believe in camouflage, Inspector,’ said Dillman.
‘Yes,’ agreed Genevieve. ‘It makes people lower their guard.’
‘That’s something we can never afford to do ourselves,’ resumed the inspector. ‘The reason I asked for this meeting was to explain our presence on board the Caronia. Briefly, the facts are these. Sergeant Mulcaster and I were dispatched in pursuit of two people we believe to be guilty of the murder of a woman named Winifred May Heritage. The man who is in the next cabin with Sergeant Mulcaster,’ he continued, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, ‘is John James Heritage, husband of the victim. And in the cabin on the other side of us is his accomplice, Miss Carrie Peterson.’
‘The evidence against them must be pretty strong to bring you all this way,’ observed Dillman. ‘How did you know they had fled to America?’
‘We didn’t, Mr Dillman. Our information was that they’d gone to Ireland. When we tracked them down there, they hopped on the next ship from Queenstown.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Went after them in the Mauretania. She’s the fastest ship afloat. Even though they had a good start, we overhauled them. We telegraphed the other vessel with details, then made the arrest aboard. It spared us all the hassle of extradition procedures.’
‘Are you certain they’re guilty?’ asked Genevieve.
‘Innocent people don’t make a run for it.’
‘They do in some circumstances, Inspector.’
‘Not in this case, Miss Masefield,’ insisted Redfern. ‘The victim was poisoned. John Heritage was a pharmacist with access to the poison used. Carrie Peterson was his assistant. On the promise that he would marry her, she became his mistress. But his wife refused to give him a divorce.’
‘Go on,’ said Genevieve.
‘That’s it, in essence. The only way that he could live with Miss Peterson was by killing his wife. Over a period of time, he administered small doses of poison so that she would appear to have died from natural causes. But he gave her too strong a dose one day,’ said Redfern solemnly, ‘and she expired that evening. He and his mistress had no choice but to take to their heels.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘The woman who came in to clean the house. It frightened the living daylights out of her. When foul play was suspected, we became involved.’
‘The evidence so far is only circumstantial,’ said Dillman.
‘Finding the victim’s diary was our breakthrough.’
‘Why was that, Inspector?’
‘Because it not only contained details of her husband’s relationship with Miss Peterson,’ said Redfern, ‘it also had entries that revealed Mrs Heritage’s fears that her husband might be trying to poison her.’
‘What did she do about it?’
‘She made an appointment with the doctor. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to keep it because she died on the evening before the appointment. Do you see what I mean?’ he asked. ‘Posthumously, the victim is our star witness.’
They heard a key being inserted into the lock as Sergeant Mulcaster let himself into the cabin. The stocky figure stood in the doorway to appraise them, stroking his moustache while he did so. His cap had been removed to reveal thinning hair that was carefully parted into a herringbone pattern. His face was expressionless. When he was introduced to the visitors, he responded with a gruff politeness. Closing the door behind him, he stayed on his feet.
‘How is he?’ enquired Redfern.
‘As miserable as sin, Inspector,’ Mulcaster replied. ‘I’m not looking forward to spending five days in there with John James Heritage, I can tell you. He says nothing.’
‘We’ll take it in turns, Sergeant.’
‘Why not just leave him alone to stew in his own juice?’
‘Will he have any other visitors?’ asked Dillman.
‘No,’ snapped Mulcaster.
‘Not even a priest? There’s a chaplain aboard.’
‘And what about Miss Peterson?’ said Genevieve. ‘Is she in there alone?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Redfern, ‘but we make regular visits to go through her statement with her. It’s vital that the two of them be kept apart or they’ll have time to concoct a story together.’
‘And a chance to get up to some hanky-panky,’ Mulcaster complained. ‘We’re not allowing that. They’re criminals. They’re not here to enjoy themselves.’
‘How long were they on the run?’ asked Dillman.
Mulcaster was blunt. ‘That’s our business.’ He turned to his superior. ‘I know you want to let them know why we’re here, Inspector, but this is our case. It’s not something that should be discussed with outsiders.’
‘There’s no harm in sharing thoughts with fellow detectives,’ said Redfern.
‘I’m sure they’ve got work of their own to do.’
Dillman responded to the cue. Inspector Redfern might be inclined to talk to them about the case but Sergeant Mulcaster obviously had strong objections. Ever since he had come into the cabin, it had seemed crowded and uncomfortable. Nothing would be gained by remaining there any longer.
‘We have indeed,’ said Dillman. ‘Come along, Genevieve. We’re only in the way here.’
She got up from her seat.
‘Thank you, Inspector. It was kind of you to tell us what you did. The only thing you didn’t explain was why Sergeant Mulcaster thought it necessary to carry his shotgun when you brought the prisoners aboard.’
‘For God’s sake, man!’ Mulcaster snarled. ‘They’re dangerous criminals.’
‘They looked harmless enough to me.’
‘Tell that to their victim!’
‘Calm down, Sergeant,’ advised Redfern, reaching for his pipe. ‘Mr Dillman’s question was a perfectly reasonable one. All you needed to tell him is that we were taking no chances. It’s the way we do things at Scotland Yard.’
‘I can see that,’ said Dillman, opening the door. ‘Oh, one last thing, Inspector.’
‘Yes?’
‘I assume the prisoners have both confessed to their crimes?’
‘Their flight was a confession in itself.’
‘In other words, they’ve denied their guilt.’
‘We’ll get the truth out of them sooner or later,’ boasted Mulcaster.
‘How?’ wondered Dillman. ‘By pointing the shotgun at them?’
Before the sergeant could reply, the visitors left the cabin.
CHAPTER THREE
Nobody could accuse Frank Openshaw of hiding his light under a bushel. It blazed before him like a small bonfire. He was a big man in every way. The large body with the wide shoulders and the huge paunch was matched by a loud voice that carried his North Country vowels well beyond the ears of his companions. Nearing sixty, Openshaw had the energy and brio of someone much younger. Since he found himself sitting opposite the ebullient Yorkshireman, Dillman soon heard the story of his life. Sitting back in his chair, Openshaw scratched at one of his muttonchop whiskers and held forth.
‘When I were a lad,’ he said with a wistful smile, ‘I thought a financier was a fella that kept pigeons. I’d no idea what he really did and I never thought for a moment I’d end up as one myself. Happen I’d be a chimney sweep like my dad, I thought, or go down pit like two of my uncles.’ He laughed throatily. ‘There’s not much call for financial know-how in jobs like that. Any rate, my elder brother, Bert, helped Dad to sweep chimneys so there was no place for me there, and, when one of my uncles was killed in a pit explosion, I lost all interest in being a miner.’
‘So what did you do?’ asked Dillman.
‘Became a bricklayer.’ He displayed two massive hands. ‘These have done their share of hard work, I can promise you. Covered in cuts and blisters, they were, for the first three months in the trade. Then they hardened off. So did I.’
‘Tell them about the house, Frank,’ prompted his wife.
‘I was just about to, Kitty.’
‘He built our first house all by himself,’ she announced proudly. ‘Except that we didn’t know we’d live there because we hadn’t even met then. Properly, I mean.’
‘We’d seen each other,’ said her husband. ‘That was enough for me.’
He gave another throaty laugh and pulled his waistcoat down over his paunch. Dillman was interested to see the way the couple behaved towards each other. After almost forty years of marriage, there was still a visible spark of romance between them. Kitty Openshaw was a short, roly-poly woman with a chubby face that gleamed with pleasure. There was a touching humility about her. She had never quite got used to the idea that her husband was a millionaire, and a look of amazement – Isthis really happening to me? – occasionally came into her eye.
‘Tell them about the house,’ she repeated, nudging Openshaw.
‘I built a house not far from Bradford,’ he said. ‘Singlehanded. Well, that’s what I tell everyone but I used both hands, really. Took me ages. I couldn’t afford the bricks, you see, so I built it up room by room. It were my hobby at first, then I thought, “Hey, wait a minute, Frank Openshaw, there’s a chance to make some brass here.” So that’s what I did. When the place was only half-built, I rented out the bit that had a roof, then used that money to buy more materials. So it went on. By the time I’d finished, I’d rented out two more rooms. Just think on it. I were nowt but a struggling young bricklayer yet I were a landlord as well.’
‘Then he met me,’ said Kitty with a coy smile. ‘Properly, I mean.’
‘We soon needed the house to ourselves then.’
‘Frank always had plans. That’s what I liked about him.’
‘Never settle for less,’ boomed Openshaw. ‘That’s my motto.’
Dinner on the first evening afloat was a relatively informal affair but many of the ladies wore full-length gowns and a few of the men opted for white tie and tails. Dillman, like Openshaw, wore a smart three-piece suit. The first-class restaurant was a large room with elaborate decoration and an abiding sense of opulence. As in all public rooms aboard, skylights and a domed ceiling were used to add more light and to create an impression of space. Long tables were set parallel to each other and the upholstered chairs, revolving for convenience, were fixed securely to the floor. Dillman sat directly opposite Kitty Openshaw. To his right, facing Openshaw himself, was a man named Ramsey Leach, a diffident individual who seemed to be overwhelmed by the buoyant Yorkshireman and who had completely withdrawn into his shell. Leach was a thin, nervous, balding man in his late thirties. He was returning to England after his first visit to New York but was reluctant to talk about the trip. Dillman felt sorry for him and tried in vain to draw him into the conversation. Leach preferred to remain silent, concentrating on his food, and throwing a glance over his shoulder from time to time. Dillman had a feeling the man would make sure he never sat in the shadow of Frank Openshaw again.
‘And that’s how I realised I had a gift,’ said Openshaw, coming to the end of another chapter of his autobiography. ‘I had this knack of seeing an opening and going through it. That’s all it was. The guts to take a chance.’ He paused to allow a waiter to remove his plate. ‘What line are you in, Mr Leach?’
‘I inherited the family business in Tunbridge Wells,’ Leach mumbled.
‘Have you got a factory or something?’
‘Not exactly, Mr Openshaw.’
‘What do you make, then?’
‘Nothing.’ Leach squirmed in his seat before revealing his profession. ‘I’m a funeral director,’ he said. ‘An undertaker.’
‘I’d call you a fool,’ teased Openshaw with a loud guffaw. ‘Get yourself out of that trade, lad. It’s a dead-end job.’
Leach gave the weary smile of a man who had heard the gibe a thousand times. He was grateful when Openshaw turned his attention to Dillman. After waiting until the next course was served, Openshaw gave another tug on his waistcoat then raised an eyebrow.
‘What about you, Mr Dillman?’ he asked. ‘How do you earn a crust?’
‘Not as a financier, alas,’ replied Dillman. ‘I’m like Mr Leach. I went into the family business in Boston.’
‘Burying the dead?’
‘Quite the reverse, Mr Openshaw. We try to bring excitement to the living. We design and build oceangoing yachts. They’re tiny by comparison with a vessel like the Caronia, of course, but they have a definite market.’
‘I know. Kitty and I have had a cruise or two on private yachts.’
‘We went all round the Mediterranean,’ she added. ‘It were grand.’
‘Yachts, eh? How d’you start designing a thing like that, Mr Dillman?’
‘It’s a question of trial and error,’ said Dillman.
He talked knowledgeably about his former profession, throwing in enough information to interest them but taking care not to confuse them with technicalities. What he did not tell them was that he had disappointed his father by leaving the firm, then outraged him by trying to make a living on the stage. For the purposes of the voyage, Dillman was content to be identified as someone employed in the nautical world. It was a useful disguise. While he liked to talk, Openshaw could also listen. He and his wife were fascinated by what they learned. Leach, too, took an interest in what Dillman told them. The undertaker was sufficiently engaged to venture a remark.
‘So,’ he noted, ‘we have a sailor in our midst, do we?’
‘A yachtsman,’ said Dillman. ‘Someone who sails for pleasure rather than for pay.’
‘There’s money to be made in pleasure,’ argued Openshaw. ‘And I don’t mean the sordid kind, either. I’ll have nowt to do with that. Back in England, I own two theatres and a music hall. Aye, and I’ve a hotel in Scarborough and another in Blackpool. Holiday resorts, both of them. Invest in pleasure and there’s no limit to what you can do.’
‘Frank proved that,’ said his adoring wife.
‘I did, Kitty, even though I say so myself. “Frank by name and frank by nature”, that’s me. I may blow my own trumpet but you’ve got to admit that it’s a damn good instrument. Trust,’ he declared. ‘That’s been my watchword. My whole career has been built on trust. In all this time, I’ve never once had a complaint from a business associate or an investor. We trust each other. What about you, Mr Leach?’ he said, switching his gaze to the funeral director. ‘I bet that none of your clients have ever complained, have they? Hardly in a position to do so, six feet under the ground.’
Dillman could feel his neighbour wincing with embarrassment.
Genevieve Masefield had a problem. The more she got to know Isadora Singleton, the more she liked her. The girl had a blend of intelligence and naivete that was endearing. But she was quickly forming a dependency on Genevieve that was worrying, turning to her for advice and using her as a legitimate means to escape the vigilance of her parents. Seated beside her in the restaurant, Genevieve was able to further her acquaintance with the whole family. Opposite her were Waldo and Maria Singleton, a couple who looked so irrevocably married that it was difficult to believe they ever spent an hour apart. Waldo Singleton was a tall, stooping man with wispy red hair curling around the edges of a domed forehead. He had made a fortune out of selling real estate to rich clients but Genevieve caught the whiff of Old Money as well. Only the most expensive tailor could have made his suit. His wife, too, advertised their wealth in subtle ways. Her beauty had faded slightly and her midriff had thickened but she was still a handsome woman. What Genevieve objected to was the woman’s blatant snobbery.
‘We should have travelled on the Lusitania,’ said Maria Singleton. ‘That’s the finest of the Cunarders.’
‘The Mauretania is supposed to be marginally faster, my dear,’ said Singleton.
‘It’s not the speed that concerns me, Waldo, but the food. This meal is pleasant enough in its own way but it lacks character. It needs more individuality. The Ferridays sailed on the Lusitania earlier this year and said that the cuisine was beyond compare. They talked about nothing else for weeks. Haddon Ferriday was so impressed that he gave the chef a hundred-dollar tip at the end of both crossings.’
‘Haddon always was ridiculously extravagant.’
‘The Lusitania has so much more class, Waldo.’
‘Yes,’ said Isadora impulsively, ‘but the Caronia has something even better. It has Genevieve on board and she’s worth more than a hundred chefs.’
‘Thank you,’ said Genevieve, discomfited by the comment. ‘As long as you don’t ask me to cook. My skills in the kitchen are very limited, I’m afraid.’
‘Mine are non-existent,’ Maria proclaimed, as if it were an achievement. ‘And so they should be. Why toil at the stove when you have servants? Our cook is the best in the neighbourhood.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Why didn’t we sail on the Lusitania?’
‘I was unable to book passages on her, my dear.’
‘She’s a very popular ship,’ Genevieve confirmed. ‘And rightly so. I was fortunate enough to sail on her maiden voyage and it was a wondrous experience.’
Isadora was excited. ‘I bet it was. Tell us about it.’
‘Yes,’ encouraged Singleton. ‘Is she really all she’s cracked up to be?’
‘According to the Ferridays, she is,’ said Maria. ‘They were enchanted. And not only by the meals. Haddon Ferriday said it was like sailing in a luxury hotel.’
