Murder on the Celtic E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Ocean Liner Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 383

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A maritime mystery from Edward Marston, author of the bestselling Railway Detective series. New York, 1910. George Dillman and Genevieve Masefield have crossed the Atlantic Ocean numerous times in their capacity as ship's detectives. On those crossings they've had the pleasure, and in some cases the trouble, of sailing with very famous passengers. Dukes. Duchesses. Artists. Actors. Musicians. Royalty. But few names have quite the level of fame and fortune as their fellow traveller Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Now aboard the Celtic, Dillman and Masefield have a particular stolen book to recover and an elusive fugitive to apprehend, but will the famous writer help or hinder them? Previously published under the name Conrad Allen, the Ocean Liner series is making waves with a new generation of readers.

Leseprobe

5

MURDER ON THE CELTIC

EDWARD MARSTON

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVEBY EDWARD MARSTON COPYRIGHT

ONE

New York City, 1910

‘It’s not fair,’ said Genevieve with a hint of petulance.

‘Not fair?’ he echoed.

‘No, George. Other couples cross the Atlantic as a means of celebrating their marriage, but the moment we step aboard a ship we always have to conceal the fact that we’re man and wife.’

‘It’s all in a good cause,’ said Dillman.

‘Is it?’

‘Of course. It helps us to do our job properly.’

‘I still don’t like it.’

‘Neither do I, Genevieve, but work must come first. If we operate as a married couple, then there’s a limit to the number of people we can get to know during a voyage. Since we have to be seen together all the time, our movement is restricted. And as private detectives,’ he argued, ‘we need the maximum amount of freedom on board.’

‘I don’t want freedom – I want my husband.’

Dillman grinned. ‘I’ll come and tuck you in every night.’

‘It’s not enough.’

‘Then I’ll have to add a few refinements.’

‘I want to travel as Mrs George Dillman,’ she said wistfully, ‘not get divorced every time I walk up a gangway.’

They were in their room at a New York hotel, ready to embark on their latest assignment as shipboard detectives. It was a moment that she always hated. Having enjoyed the delights of marriage for over a week, she now had to revert to being Miss Genevieve Masefield once more, a change of name that signalled her altered status. It was quite true that as a single woman she would have more room for manoeuvre aboard the ship, but she would also be exposed to the inevitable, irksome, unsought male attention with which she always had to contend when sailing, ostensibly alone, across the Atlantic.

‘Don’t you get jealous?’ she asked.

‘Jealous?’

‘At the way that your wife arouses romantic interest on board.’

‘Not at all,’ he said airily. ‘I rather like it. Whenever I see you hotly pursued by some lovesick passenger, I have the consolation of knowing that you would never succumb to his advances. Besides,’ he went on, allowing himself a rare moment of vanity, ‘I, too, have been known to make hearts flutter.’

‘That’s what worries me, George.’

‘I’m all yours, darling. No other woman could tempt me.’

‘It won’t stop them trying.’

‘Their efforts will be in vain.’

George Porter Dillman was a tall, slim, elegant Bostonian with handsome features and an air of urbanity. He had first glimpsed Genevieve on a crowded railway platform as she was about to catch the boat train to Liverpool. During the maiden voyage of the Lusitania, they had been drawn together, and because she had helped him to solve a murder, Dillman had persuaded her to join him as a detective with the Cunard Line. Genevieve was a tall, slender Englishwoman with a natural grace and a remarkable self-possession.

‘It’s only for a short time,’ he said, taking her in his arms to give her a warm hug. ‘Then we have ten whole days together.’

‘Until we set sail again.’

‘I thought you liked the work.’

‘I do,’ admitted Genevieve. ‘I love it. I enjoy life at sea and I get to meet the most extraordinary range of people. In a perverse way, I even relish the element of danger. I’ve had a loaded gun pointed at me so many times now that I no longer feel weak at the knees.’

‘Then what are you complaining about?’

‘You, George.’

‘Gadding about as a bachelor?’

‘And having to pretend that we’re complete strangers.’

‘Only in public,’ he argued. ‘I make up for it in private.’

‘I know,’ she said, kissing him gently on the mouth, ‘and those moments are very precious to me. But they’re usually few and far between. We always seem to have far too much on our plate during a voyage – murder, theft, blackmail, drug smuggling and so on. We never have time for each other.’

‘We’ll find some time.’

‘If only passengers were more law-abiding.’

‘The vast majority of them are, Genevieve. We only ever get a small handful of crooks. Who knows?’ he said with an optimistic smile. ‘We may get none at all on the Celtic.’

‘We’ve never had a trouble-free crossing yet.’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘You really think we’ll have no villains on the ship?’

‘Apart from the odd cheat at the card table.’

‘I can cope with that,’ she said happily. ‘What I resent is an endless stream of crimes that form a barrier between us.’

‘That won’t happen on the Celtic.’

‘Do I have your word on that?’

‘You can have more than my word,’ he volunteered.

And he sealed his promise with a long, loving, husbandly kiss.

When the Celtic had made her maiden voyage in 1901, she was the largest ship in the world, supplanting another vessel in the White Star fleet, the Oceanic. That claim to pre-eminence was surrendered two years later, and when the Lusitania and Mauretania were brought into service in 1907, the two Cunard monsters dwarfed the Celtic. Yet she remained a fine vessel, sleek, spacious and opulent. She also retained her popularity with passengers who crossed the Atlantic on a regular basis. She was always the first choice for Frank Spurrier and Joshua Cleves, and they were among the earliest people to go aboard. They did so with an enthusiasm that was not shared by every passenger.

As they stood at the rail they watched a sorry procession making its way to steerage accommodation. Clutching their meagre possessions and with their heads bowed in defeat, shabbily clad people were trudging along the pier like so many dogs with their tails between their legs. Joshua Cleves, a big, broad-shouldered American in his early forties, identified the reason at once. After pulling on his cigar, he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

‘Turned back at Ellis Island,’ he decided.

‘Why?’ asked Spurrier.

‘All sorts of reasons, Frank. They could be too old, too ill, too stupid or unable to offer any skills on the labour market. Their papers might have been incorrectly validated or they might not have the required amount of cash on them. We don’t just let anyone breeze right in, you know.’

‘But the United States encourages immigration.’

‘Sure – as long as we get the right sort of immigrants. New York is handling thousands a day but many of them are undesirables. They have to be sent back home.’

‘It must be soul-destroying for them.’

‘They’ve sold everything they had simply to get here.’

‘What have they got to go back to, then?’ Cleves gave an expressive shrug. ‘It’s so cruel,’ Spurrier went on, watching the grim parade below. ‘They’re lured by the mirage of a wonderful new life in a country full of promise and the door is slammed shut in their faces.’

‘We have to maintain certain standards.’

‘Look at them – they’re like beaten animals.’

‘Then they’ll never make true Americans.’

Spurrier did not reply. He was thinking of the westward voyage he had made on the Celtic. When they left Southampton, there were well over two thousand steerage passengers aboard, crammed into the lower decks, enduring spartan conditions and unappetising food, sustained by a vision of a better existence for them and their families. It had been a wasted journey that left them in despair.

Frank Spurrier was touched by their plight. He was an arresting figure in his late thirties, tall, lean and with an exotic ugliness that women somehow found appealing. He ran a hand across his clean-shaven chin.

‘Poor souls! I feel sorry for them.’

‘You’re too soft-hearted.’

‘Nobody could ever accuse you of that, Josh.’

Cleves laughed. ‘I hope not.’

‘‘Don’t you have any sympathy for them?’

‘I save my sympathy for the guys who work on Ellis Island. They’re little more than cattle drovers. Just think about it – endless shiploads of miserable wretches from all over the world trekking through that reception hall.’

‘It must be terrifying for them,’ observed Spurrier. ‘Especially if they don’t speak any English.’

‘I’d hate to be in the middle of that chaos,’ said Cleves, removing his cigar to speak. ‘Think of the smell – many of them stink to high heaven. And the noise – it must be pandemonium in there. No wonder the officials resort to shortcuts.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Some people can be rejected at a glance, and there are lots more who fail a simple medical examination. If the doctors suspect them of illness, they mark the lapels of their coats with different-coloured chalk, coded to indicate a particular disease.’

‘What happens then?’

‘If they’re rejected, they’re kept on the island in conditions that are even worse than the ones they suffered in steerage. Then they live on a diet of prunes and rye bread until they can be shipped back to wherever they came from.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it, Josh.’

‘I had a friend who worked as a medical superintendent there,’ said Cleves. ‘He reckoned that he was more like a missionary. In the course of a normal day he might hear twenty different languages being spoken without understanding a word of any of them.’

Spurrier gazed across the water. ‘It must be hell for them,’ he said, pointing at the distant Statue of Liberty. ‘Their spirits are raised by the sight of that wonderful statue, then brutally dashed by some anonymous official on Ellis Island.’

‘We have to be practical, Frank. We can’t let infectious disease into the country. It might cause an epidemic. And what use are lunatics, fanatics, epileptics, blind people or cripples?’

‘You’re too harsh.’

‘Survival of the fittest. Law of nature.’

‘Your own family emigrated from Europe, didn’t they?’

‘That’s beside the point,’ said Cleves irritably, not wishing to be reminded that his parents had left their native Poland almost half a century earlier. ‘I was born and brought up here. I consider myself to be one hundred percent American and I’m proud of the fact.’

‘What was your surname before it was changed?’

‘I’ve forgotten.’

‘Nobody forgets something like that.’

‘I have.’

Joshua Cleves gave him a challenging stare before flicking cigar ash over the rail. His eye then fell on some passengers heading for the first-class gangway. One group in particular caught his attention. A stout elderly man in a top hat and a coat with an astrakhan collar was arm in arm with a dignified old lady in a full-length fur coat and a matching hat. It was the young woman beside them who interested Cleves. Tall, stately and immaculately dressed, she glanced up at the ship and enabled both men to get a clear view of her face under the brim of her hat.

‘Now there’s a far better subject for study,’ said Cleves with an admiring chuckle. ‘A gorgeous English rose.’

‘She could be American.’

‘With parents like those? Not a chance, Frank. They’re as English as cheddar cheese.’

‘But they’re not her parents,’ said Spurrier, noting the way that the old man stood aside and doffed his hat slightly so that the women could go up the gangway before him. ‘What man would lift his hat like that to his own daughter? Besides, they’re too ancient. My guess is that they met in the customs shed. The lady may be travelling alone.’

Cleves smirked. ‘Not for long, if I have anything to do with it.’

‘She’s too young for you, Josh.’

‘Not in my book.’

‘In any case, I’m sure that she’d prefer a sophisticated English gentleman like me.’ Spurrier straightened his tie. ‘I look forward to getting acquainted with her.’

‘I saw her first,’ protested Cleves.

‘All’s fair in love and war.’

‘She’s mine, Frank. Let’s face it – I have more money.’

‘But I have more charm.’

‘I’ve got greater experience with women.’

‘You’d be out of your depth with a real lady.’

‘I could have her eating out of my hand in a couple of days.’

‘It would only take me twenty-four hours,’ boasted Spurrier.

‘Are you willing to bet on that?’

There was no hesitation. ‘Of course.’

‘Even though you’re bound to lose?’ taunted Cleves.

‘Name the stake.’

‘A hundred dollars.’

‘Make it guineas,’ decided Spurrier, warming to the notion of a contest. ‘We’re dealing with an English thoroughbred, after all. A hundred guineas to the first man who makes real headway with her.’

Cleves smirked again. ‘I intend to make much more than headway,’ he said with overweening confidence, ‘so you’d better have the money ready and waiting. When you tap on her cabin door at midnight, the chances are that I’ll be the person who opens it from the inside.’ He offered his hand. ‘You accept the wager?’

Frank Spurrier nodded firmly and shook his hand. The two of them inspected their quarry once more. Far below them, unaware of their intense scrutiny, Genevieve Masefield went up the last part of the gangway and onto the ship.

Nelson Rutherford was a stocky man of middle height, with a black beard adding strength and definition to an already eye-catching face. Standing behind his office desk in his smart uniform, the purser had the look of a ship’s captain with a piratical past. George Dillman liked the man at once.

‘With a name like yours,’ he commented, ‘I suppose that you simply had to go to sea.’

‘Yes,’ said Rutherford with a pleasant drawl, ‘though I wasn’t named after Admiral Nelson. It was a family name, handed down from one generation to another. I loathed it at first.’

‘Why?’

‘Kids at school called me Nelly.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘The Florida Keys. I learnt to sail before I could even walk properly. The sea is in my blood.’

‘Then we’re two of a kind. My father runs a business in Boston making ocean-going yachts. I spent most of my childhood afloat.’

‘The Celtic is much more than a yacht, Mr Dillman.’

‘So I noticed.’

They shared a laugh. Dillman had left the hotel before Genevieve so that they could arrive at the harbour separately. Having come aboard early, he had first introduced himself to the purser, whom he found a friendly, capable and helpful character. Rutherford clearly knew about Dillman’s excellent record as a shipboard detective and he was curious to meet him.

‘I gather that you sailed here on the Oceanic,’ said Rutherford.

‘That’s true. We had the doubtful pleasure of travelling in the company of the man who owns the line.’

Rutherford was impressed. ‘J. P. Morgan?’

‘Far be it from me to criticise our employer, but I rather hope that his name is not on the passenger list this time.’

‘It isn’t, Mr Dillman. You’re quite safe.’

‘Good.’

‘The Celtic is a fine ship – bigger and better than the Oceanic, with room for an additional nine hundred people or more.’

‘I’ve seen the specifications – almost three hundred and fifty in first class and a hundred and sixty in second. Over four times that combined number in steerage.’

‘You’ve done your homework.’

‘I like to know what we’re up against,’ said Dillman with a smile, ‘and so does my partner.’

‘I thought the two of you would turn up together.’

‘We make a point of staying apart, Mr Rutherford. If we’re seen together, people might start to connect us and that could hamper the pursuit of any villains aboard. We do our best to look like ordinary passengers so that we can mix easily with everyone else. That way, we have a chance to catch any criminals off guard.’

‘We don’t get too many crooks on the Celtic.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because so few crimes ever come to our notice.’

‘That doesn’t mean they’re not committed,’ Dillman argued. ‘Certain crimes are not always reported – blackmail, for instance –  and others are not discovered until passengers have disembarked. It’s a rare ship that has no villainy on it at all. I just hope that we have no real problems this time,’ he went on, remembering his promise to Genevieve. ‘On the Oceanic we had a murder to solve.’

‘Nothing like that has ever happened on the Celtic,’ Rutherford told him. ‘Her problem is that she’s been dogged by bad luck.’

‘In what way?’

‘Less than two years after her maiden voyage she collided with a steamer in the River Mersey Six months later there was a fire in hold number five while she was docked at Liverpool. A cargo of cotton, leather and other merchandise was destroyed. A more worrying incident came on Christmas Day 1905.’ The purser grimaced at the memory. ‘It was my first voyage on the vessel.’

‘What happened?’

‘We were hit by a massive wave that sent water into all of the second-class areas. Windows were smashed, doors taken off their hinges and carpets ruined. It was a nightmare.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Dillman, knowing how treacherous the North Atlantic could be. ‘It’s difficult to be full of Christmas spirit when you’re soaked to the skin.’

‘The awful thing is that the same thing happened again three years later. I was deputy purser at the time. Huge waves buffeted us on the westward crossing,’ recalled Rutherford, ‘and scoured the decks. The wooden railing was torn from the bridge and there was a lot of other damage.’

‘A real chapter of accidents, then.’

‘It didn’t end there, Mr Dillman. Last year, when we docked at Liverpool, we had a fire in the hold that burnt for two days.’

‘Thank goodness you were not at sea when it broke out.’

‘A small mercy, but an important one.’ He gave a reassuring smile. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think that the Celtic has a jinx on it. Most of the time she’s a real joy to sail on.’

‘I’m sure that she is.’

‘Pleasure to have you and Miss Masefield aboard.’

‘Thank you.’

Rutherford picked up some papers from the desk. ‘There’s a passenger list for each of you,’ he explained, handing them over to Dillman, ‘and a diagram of the ship. Not that you’ll need to go anywhere near some parts of it.’

‘Any information about the vessel is welcome.’

‘Then I’d better warn you about the competition.’

‘Competition?’ repeated Dillman.

‘Yes, you and your partner will not be the only detectives aboard. On this crossing we have the honour of carrying the most famous sleuth of them all.’

‘Really?’

‘Look at the list of first-class passengers,’ advised Rutherford. ‘One name will jump out at you – that of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I daresay you know why he’s so famous.’

‘Yes,’ said Dillman with interest. ‘Sherlock Holmes.’

TWO

No matter how many times she set sail, Genevieve Masefield liked to be at the rail for the moment of departure. There was an excitement that never seemed to dull, an exhilaration at setting out each time on a new adventure. It was a shared experience. The pleasure of being part of a large, elated crowd of passengers was heightened by the presence on shore of so many relatives, friends and well-wishers who had come to wave the ship off. Those who thronged the various decks felt a tingle of anticipatory delight as the vessel pulled slowly away from the pier. Those left behind shouted and cheered with unrestrained gusto, their enthusiasm tempered by a faint sadness as they saw loved ones disappearing for a length of time. The Celtic was sailing on a huge tide of emotion.

Genevieve stayed on board until the concerted farewell slowly faded beneath the noise of the engines and the melancholy cries of the gulls. People around her began to disperse to their first-class cabins. She was about to follow them when a man stepped forward to block her way and raised his hat in greeting.

‘Miss Jameson?’ he said. ‘Miss Stella Jameson?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she replied. ‘You’ve mistaken me for someone else.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Absolutely certain.’

‘Then I offer my profound apologies,’ he said, still gazing intently at her face. ‘The likeness is uncanny. I could have sworn that you were she. My name is Frank Spurrier, by the way,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps I should explain that the young lady whom you resemble so closely once worked for a friend of mine. You could be her twin.’

‘Indeed?’ said Genevieve.

‘I should have known that you couldn’t be Stella – Miss Jameson, that is – because she, like you, is very beautiful. She must surely be married by now.’

‘Not every woman chooses to relinquish her freedom.’

He was surprised. ‘Does that mean you are still single?’

‘As it happens, I am.’

‘I find that impossible to believe,’ he continued, smiling at her with candid approval. ‘You must spend all your time turning down marriage proposals. Before this voyage is over, I daresay that you’ll have spurned a few more amorous swains.’

‘I do not make a habit of it, Mr Spurrier.’

‘Do you object to the notion of marriage?’

‘That’s my business,’ she said crisply

Genevieve wanted to move away, but there was something about him that kept her rooted to the spot. Though his gaunt face and protruding nose gave him an almost sinister appearance, his eyes had an appealing glint in them and his voice had a beguiling quality. She found him strangely interesting.

‘Have you sailed on the Celtic before?’ she asked.

‘Seven or eight times.’

‘You’re a seasoned traveller, then.’

‘Business brings me to New York at least twice a year.’

‘And you always choose the White Star Line?’

‘If I can.’

‘Cunard would get you here quicker.’

‘It’s not only a question of speed,’ he said blandly. ‘Loyalty also comes into it and I’ve always been a loyal person. What about you?’

‘Yes, I value loyalty as well.’

‘Does that mean you stay faithful to the White Star Line?’

‘Most of the time,’ she said. ‘To get to New York, I sailed on the Oceanic and I’ve also been on the Baltic.’

‘Another seasoned traveller, then. Why haven’t we bumped into each other before? By the way, you didn’t give me your name.’

‘It’s not Stella Jameson, I can assure you of that.’

He laughed. ‘To be honest, I’m rather relieved.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she was not the most intelligent person on the planet,’ he explained. ‘No disrespect to her. Stella was gorgeous to the eye but she had very little conversation – unlike you.’

‘How can you say that when you hardly know me?’

‘Instinct. It never fails.’

‘Does that mean you’ve had plenty of practice at accosting unaccompanied young ladies?’

‘Not at all,’ he said, hearing the note of censure in her voice, ‘and I hope that you don’t think that’s what I was doing. One can sense things about people. That’s all I meant. And I sense that I’m talking to someone who can hold her own in any situation. That was not the case with poor Stella.’

‘Then why did you approach me with such readiness if you believed that I was she?’

‘A familiar face is always welcome on a voyage.’

‘True.’

‘Unless the face is as unprepossessing as mine, of course.’ He gave her a smile of self-deprecation. ‘It does at least have the virtue of being unique. Nobody has ever mistaken me for someone else.’

Genevieve knew that he was fishing for a compliment that she was not prepared to give him. Torn between curiosity and caution, she could not make up her mind about Frank Spurrier. To travel in first class and to wear such expensive clothing he had to be at least moderately wealthy, and he had the easy sophistication of a man of the world. But something about his manner rang a distant warning bell. She decided to reserve judgement on her new acquaintance.

He stood back. ‘I’m holding you up, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘Am I forgiven for thinking you were someone else?’

‘There’s nothing to forgive, Mr Spurrier.’ She gave him a farewell nod and walked past him. ‘I suggest we forget it.’

‘You didn’t tell me your name,’ he complained.

She paused. ‘That’s right – I didn’t.’

‘Ah, I see – I’m to be kept in the dark.’

‘I cherish my privacy.’

‘In that case, I shall call you Stella.’

‘Then you’ll be well wide of the mark.’

‘Will you not even give me a hint?’

‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I have to unpack my trunk.’

‘Goodbye, Stella.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Spurrier.’

As she walked towards the nearest door, she was conscious that his eyes followed her every inch of the way. Genevieve was mystified. Her first impression of a person was usually so clear, but not in this case. Polite, unthreatening and engaging, Frank Spurrier nevertheless worried her and she could not understand why. Nor could she explain why she had held back her name from him. Of only one thing was she firmly convinced – that there was no such person as Stella Jameson.

Many of the people in steerage had never been on a vessel of any kind before, still less on a liner that would sail over three thousand miles across a vast ocean. They had crowded the rail eagerly and watched the familiar sights of New York starting to diminish in size before their eyes. A first visit to England – or to Europe – was, for them, a thrilling venture that held all kinds of possibilities. For others, however, the voyage was a form of death sentence, returning them to countries that held only poverty and unemployment for them, a misery they had tried desperately to escape. Instead of pleasure, they felt only pain. Instead of a surge of hope, they were weighed down by a sense of abject failure. Having gone to extraordinary lengths to reach America in order to embrace its opportunities, they had been deemed unfit as citizens in some way. Rejection was more than a violent shock to them. It was like a physical blow that left them stunned.

Nobody was suffering more than Leonard Rush. While other emigrants huddled together on deck in groups, or moped in their cramped cabins, Rush sat alone in the dining saloon, deep in contemplation. He was a tall, wiry man in his fifties with stooping shoulders and a face pitted by a life of drudgery. Beneath his tattered overcoat he wore his only suit, frayed at the cuffs and worn at the elbows. His cap concealed a balding head that was covered by livid blue scars. There were other visible mementos of a working life spent down a coal mine. Two fingers were missing from his left hand and he had lost an eye when a piece of vengeful anthracite had shot up into it.

But it was the invisible wounds that smarted the most. His first two children had been stillborn, a tragedy that he ascribed to God’s disapproval of him. Rush gave up drinking, attended church regularly and tried to curb his tendency to violence. When a third child was eventually born – a healthy daughter – he believed that he had achieved some sort of redemption. It was short-lived. The girl died of diphtheria before her first birthday, plunging her parents into dejection. Rush began to drink again and get involved in brawls. There were no more children.

‘It was not to be,’ said a voice beside him.

Rush looked up. ‘What’s that?’

‘I saw you on Ellis Island. You were turned away, just like us.’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe it’s all for the best.’

‘The best?’

Rush could not believe he had heard the word. Nor could he believe that the old man who had spoken it could do so with such philosophical calm. There was an air of gentle resignation about Saul Pinnick. Wearing a moth-eaten black overcoat and a battered bowler hat, Pinnick was a small, shrunken individual in his late sixties with a wizened face fringed with a silver beard. While Rush was in a state of anguish at what had happened, the other man seemed able to shrug it off as a minor disappointment.

‘We had family in America,’ said Pinnick, ‘but that didn’t matter. The doctors still wouldn’t let us through. Miriam, my wife, is almost blind and I’m afflicted with all kinds of ailments. They chalked something on our lapels, and that was that.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘We were turned away from the gates of paradise.’ He sat down beside Rush. ‘What about you, my friend?’

‘Me?’

‘Did they give you a reason?’

‘No,’ replied Rush.

‘They must have offered some explanation.’

‘They didn’t.’

‘Well, they should’ve,’ insisted Pinnick. ‘Nobody can be rejected on the whim of an official. Were your documents in order? Did you have enough money? And what about your medical examination – did you pass that?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘It matters a great deal. You deserved a reason.’

‘It’s all over now.’

‘But you’ve been badly treated, my friend.’

Rush became aggressive. ‘Why should you care?’

‘I’m only showing an interest.’

‘You’re poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.’

‘There’s no need to get upset,’ said Pinnick, spreading his arms in a gesture of conciliation. ‘We’re on your side. Miriam and I are in exactly the same position as you.’

‘No, you’re not,’ said Rush, getting abruptly to his feet. ‘Now, leave me alone. I don’t want your sympathy.’

Turning on his heel, he stalked out.

Though he had seen many photographs of the famous author, George Dillman realised that none of them had captured the essence of the man. In the flesh, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was tall, well built, and straight-backed, retaining, now that he had turned fifty, more than a few vestiges of an athletic youth. With his heavy eyelids, ruddy complexion and drooping moustache, he looked like a benign walrus. When he exchanged a handshake with him, Dillman felt the firmness of his grip.

‘It’s good of you to come so promptly,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘I had a note from the purser to say that you wanted to see me, Sir Arthur. You can always expect a swift response.’

‘Thank you, Mr Dillman.’

‘Is there a problem of some sort?’

‘There may be – in due course. But that’s not the only reason I asked to meet one of the ship’s detectives. I was curious to see what you looked like and I’m reassured to learn that you are nothing at all like a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes.’

‘I lack his brilliance and his deductive powers.’

‘I’m sure that you have compensating virtues,’ said Conan Doyle, sizing him up. ‘The purser spoke very highly of you. He tells me that you once worked as a Pinkerton agent.’

‘That was how I learnt my trade, Sir Arthur.’

‘And you learnt it well.’

‘I had to – my life sometimes depends on it.’

‘Well, your life is not at risk here. Indeed, there’s no danger involved at all. My request is very trivial, I fear. I need to ask a favour.’

‘Granted before you put it into words.’

‘That’s very obliging of you, Mr Dillman,’ said Conan Doyle, ‘but you haven’t heard what it is yet.’

What Dillman had heard was the nervous, halting voice with its clear echoes of Conan Doyle’s Scottish upbringing. From such a forthright man, the detective had expected more confidence. They were in the author’s stateroom, one of the most luxurious on the ship, and Dillman was delighted to have such an early opportunity of making the acquaintance of Conan Doyle. The last thing he had allowed for was the man’s slight diffidence.

‘Fame sits rather heavily on my shoulders at times,’ confided the author. ‘I’m the first to admit that I enjoy its trappings, and my wife and I made the most of them on our lecture tour around your country But the truth is that I’m not, by nature, gregarious. I hate being at the mercy of my admirers.’

‘You’ll find lots of those on board, Sir Arthur.’

‘That’s my fear and it leads me to my request. If you see me being helplessly besieged in one of the public rooms, I’d be most grateful if you could come to my rescue.’

‘Of course.’

‘Find some excuse to call me away and I’ll be eternally grateful. My wife is an able bodyguard, but I’m sometimes ambushed on my own. At times like that, I need a friendly intervention.’

‘Say no more. I’ll be standing by.’

‘Casual conversation with a few people is not a problem,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘It’s when I get mobbed by a dozen or more ardent readers that I begin to feel uneasy.’

‘I understand, Sir Arthur.’

‘I knew that you would.’

Dillman returned his smile. He had taken an instant liking to the man. Conan Doyle was affable, approachable and entirely without affectation. With his burly frame and red cheeks he looked more like a head gardener than a renowned author. After a lengthy tour of the eastern states he seemed rather tired, yet there was still a merry twinkle in his eye.

‘I have a second favour to ask, Mr Dillman,’ he said with mock seriousness. ‘I want you to promise me that your choice of profession was in no way inspired by any of my detective stories.’ ‘It was not, Sir Arthur.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘I’ve read them, naturally, and enjoyed them immensely, but I have to confess a preference for The White Company.’

‘How wonderful!’

‘There’s real detection at work there,’ said Dillman. ‘You must have done the most enormous amount of research before you could even lift up your pen. You must have looked for clues, collected facts and sifted evidence carefully before reaching your conclusions.’

‘I did, indeed,’ said Conan Doyle, pleased with the approbation. ‘TheWhite Company is very dear to my heart – as are all my historical novels. But they’ll never get the attention that they deserve, alas. They’re doomed to be eclipsed by a gentleman in a deerstalker who has some rather peculiar habits.’

‘Peculiar but endearing.’

‘Not when he takes over your life, Mr Dillman.’

‘Is that what’s happened?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the other wearily. ‘Sherlock Holmes casts a giant shadow. There are times when I regret that I ever created him. But,’ he went on quickly, ‘I always remind myself how much I owe to him. I’m loath to acknowledge this, but the fact remains that I’d never have been invited on a lecture tour in America on the basis of my being the author of The White Company.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘I do beg your pardon. Travel has rather exhausted us.’

‘Then I’ll get out of your way and let you rest, Sir Arthur.’

‘My wife is already taking a nap,’ said Conan Doyle, indicating the bedroom, ‘and I may do the same. But I did want to engage your services during the voyage. And don’t worry,’ he added, ‘there’s no need for Jean – for Lady Conan Doyle – to know that you are the ship’s detective. Anonymity is vital in your job. I respect that.’

‘Thank you. It’s the reason I never wear my deerstalker.’

Conan Doyle chuckled.

‘I’ll keep an eye out for you in the public rooms. We don’t like any of our passengers to be pestered, whatever the reason. Incidentally,’ he said, moving to the door, ‘I take it that you’ve put any items of value in the ship’s safe?’

‘Indeed, we have, Mr Dillman. My wife handed over her jewellery box as soon as we came aboard.’

‘Good. Not everyone understands the importance of security. You’ve no idea how careless some people are with their valuables –  then they complain like mad when they’re stolen.’

‘Even though it’s their own fault.’

‘Why tempt Fate?’ asked Dillman. ‘It’s so foolish.’

‘I hope that you have no crimes to solve on the Celtic.’

‘So do I, Sir Arthur. I have a good feeling about this ship. Something tells me that we’re going to have a relatively quiet voyage for once. With luck,’ he said, opening the door, ‘the only thing I’ll be called upon to do is to save you from your adoring fans.’

The purser was so busy dealing with requests from various passengers that it was some time before Genevieve Masefield was able to catch him alone in his office. When she introduced herself, she put a smile of surprise onto Nelson Rutherford’s face.

‘You’re the last person in the world I’d suspect of being a detective,’ he said, waving her to a chair. ‘I’m sure that goes for everyone else aboard.’

Genevieve sat down. ‘It’s a big advantage, Mr Rutherford. It’s one of the reasons why George persuaded me to become his partner. He said that I’d be invisible.’

‘Invisible yet highly conspicuous.’

‘I suppose that I’m something of a paradox.’

‘You have the perfect disguise,’ said the purser. He became more businesslike. ‘Now, has Mr Dillman given you the passenger lists?’

‘He slipped them under my door.’

‘There was a diagram of the ship as well, though I’m sure that you’re used to finding your way around ocean liners.’

‘It’s a necessary skill that I’ve had to acquire.’

‘Then you may well need to put it to the test, Miss Masefield.’

‘Oh?’

‘We may have a real problem aboard,’ he said, reaching for a piece of paper on his desk. ‘Earlier on, when I met your partner, I assured him that the Celtic never had any serious trouble from its passengers. I spoke too soon.’

‘Did you?’

‘Five minutes ago the wireless operator brought me this.’

‘What is it, Mr Rutherford?’

‘A warning from the New York Police Department. They were on the trail of a wanted man named Edward Hammond – there’s a brief description of him here – but he gave them the slip. They believe that he sneaked aboard this ship to escape them.’ He passed the message across to her. ‘He could be armed and dangerous.’

‘What is he wanted for?’ asked Genevieve.

‘Murder.’

THREE

Dinner on the first evening was a comparatively informal affair, but there were always those who believed in dressing up for the occasion. Amid the smart suits and pretty frocks in first class, therefore, was a scattering of men in white tie and tails. They escorted ladies in long evening dresses with an unashamed display of jewellery. On the second day at sea, such attire would be the norm. Until then, passengers like Frank Spurrier took advantage of the more relaxed dress code. He was astounded to see that Joshua Cleves had not done so. When they met in a corridor, Spurrier blinked in astonishment. His friend was resplendent in one of the curtailed dinner jackets that were becoming fashionable in some quarters, and he was sporting diamond cuff links. His hair had been brushed neatly back.

‘Hello, Frank,’ he said, eyeing his suit. ‘You remind me of that story about King Edward and the man in the Norfolk jacket.’

‘Do I?’ asked Spurrier.

‘Yes, it was at a formal garden party at the Palace. Someone had the temerity to violate the dress code, so the king sauntered across to him and said, ‘Good afternoon, Simpson. Going ratting?’ I guess that put him in his place.’

‘It’s obvious that you’re not going ratting, Josh.’

‘I suppose that I am involved in a hunt of some sort.’

‘I’ve never seen you in formal wear on a first day before.’

‘I’ve never been invited to dine with the aristocracy before.’

‘Aristocracy?’

‘Lord and Lady Bulstrode,’ explained Cleves, baring his teeth in a grin of triumph. ‘A charming couple. By the end of the evening I expect to be on first-name terms with them – Rupert and Agnes. It’s nice to rub shoulders with real quality.’

‘I thought you were a republican.’

‘All societies must have their patrician element.’

‘What about royalty?’

‘I’d draw the line at that, Frank. We don’t recognise kingship in the United States. We fought to throw off that particular yoke.’ He adjusted his black tie and pulled down his black waistcoat. ‘I meant to ask you if you’d managed to get anywhere near the young lady about whom we spoke earlier on.’

‘As a matter of fact, I did,’ said Spurrier, spying a chance to boast about the progress he had made. ‘We had a long chat on deck just after we set sail. At close quarters she’s even more beautiful.’

‘Really?’

‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then I’ve stolen a march on you, Josh.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Ah, that’s the one thing I didn’t find out.’

‘Then let me save you the trouble,’ said Cleves, savouring his moment. ‘She’s called Miss Genevieve Masefield and she’s returning from a visit to friends in New York.’

Spurrier was nonplussed. ‘How on earth did you find that out?’

‘By the most effective means, Frank. While you rushed in too recklessly, I did a little research by ingratiating myself with Lord and Lady Bulstrode. They were the couple we saw talking to Miss Masefield when she came aboard. They found her delightful.’

‘I see,’ said Spurrier through gritted teeth.

‘In fact, they were so taken with her that they invited her to join them for dinner this evening.’ He beamed. ‘And I’ll be sitting at the same table with them.’

Spurrier was fuming. Having congratulated himself on achieving a brief but revealing conversation with Genevieve, he was shocked to learn that his rival would actually be dining with her. Envy began to rise inside him but he hid it behind a nonchalant smile.

‘Congratulations, Josh,’ he said. ‘First blood to you.’

‘You may as well hand over the money now.’

‘Contriving a meeting with her is not the same as conquest.’

‘But it’s a necessary part of the process.’

‘Only if she’s susceptible to your dubious charms,’ observed Spurrier, ‘and that remains unlikely. I’ve met her already, you must remember. Miss Masefield is a lady with high standards. She’s also irredeemably English and that means she views any American with a degree of circumspection.’

‘You’re forgetting something, Frank.’

‘Am I?’

‘My first wife was English.’

‘Only for the short time you were married to her.’

‘We were happy enough while it lasted.’

‘What about your second wife?’

‘Martine was French – lovely, elegant and full of Gallic passion. The five years we had together were idyllic. Between them, my wives rubbed off all my rough edges. That’s why I have no qualms about consorting with lords and ladies. I know the rules.’

‘You mean that you learnt to hide your true self.’

‘Isn’t that what we always do with women?’

Spurrier was disparaging. ‘You’re too cynical, Josh.’

‘I prefer to call it being realistic.’

‘Is that how you hope to ensnare Genevieve Masefield?’

‘I’ll use a combination of blandishments to reel her in.’

‘I think you’ll find that you’ve met your match in her,’ warned Spurrier. ‘She has great poise and self-assurance.’

‘In other words, she kept you at arm’s length.’

His friend was piqued. ‘That’s not true at all!’

‘Where you failed,’ said Cleves complacently, ‘I’ll succeed. Move aside, Frank. You had your turn up on deck. This evening, over dinner, it’s my turn.’

‘I wish you good luck.’

‘That’s very noble of you.’

‘I have no worries about the dining arrangements. The young lady will be chaperoned by Lord and Lady Bulstrode. They have a right to expect your attention, Josh.’ He wagged a finger. ‘You won’t be able to leer at Miss Masefield throughout the meal.’

‘That was never my intention.’

‘No?’

Cleves beamed afresh. ‘I’m not giving away any trade secrets,’ he said. ‘Watch and wonder, that’s my advice. And don’t be stupid enough to issue another challenge to me where women are concerned. Because you’ll lose every time.’ He indicated the way. ‘Shall we go to dinner?’

No dress code was ever observed in steerage because some of the passengers had only the clothing that they were actually wearing. Seated in serried ranks at long wooden tables, they occupied chairs that were bolted to the floor to prevent movement when the ship rolled. Since there were so many mouths to feed, the stewards did not stand on ceremony. Speed of delivery was the order of the day and they went briskly up and down the aisles unloading food from their trays. The noise was deafening, amplified by the clatter of plates, the clash of cutlery and the deep, rolling thunder of the engines. Family arguments occasionally broke out and crying children added to the pandemonium. The cavernous dining saloon was a huge echo chamber that threatened to burst any sensitive eardrums.

Though her husband was right beside her, Miriam Pinnick had to raise her voice to be heard above the tumult. She was a grey-haired old woman with a skinny body, skeletal hands and an emaciated face. She squinted badly.

‘It’s even louder than when we came,’ she said.

Saul was tolerant. ‘Two thousand people make a lot of noise,’ he said, popping a piece of bread into his mouth. ‘You’ll get used to it, Miriam. It will only be until the end of the week.’

‘That’s more than long enough.’

‘Try to make the most of the voyage.’

‘I hate the sea.’

‘And cheer up a little, my love.’

‘How can I?’ she protested. ‘I thought that we’d be living in Brooklyn with Isaac by now, but we never even set foot on the mainland. It’s a disgrace, Saul. At the very least, they should have let us see your cousin. Isaac must have wondered what was going on.’

‘He’ll have got my letter by now.’

‘It’s still a disgrace.’