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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. November 1907. George Dillman and Genevieve Masefield sail from Liverpool on the maiden voyage of the Mauretania. While posing as a passenger George is in fact an undercover detective hired by the Cunard Line. Dillman and Genevieve endure a nightmare voyage during which severe weather batters the vessel relentlessly and keeps the passengers away from the decks. Dillman is instrumental in rescuing a crew member from being washed overboard but he is too late to save one of the First Class passengers from the same fate. At first, it looks like a case of death by misadventure. But Dillman and Genevieve come to realise that it was an act of calculated murder, connected with the presence on board of a record shipment of gold bullion - twelve tons in all - sent from the Bank of England. At the time of her launch, the Mauretania was the largest moving structure ever built. She would later serve as a WWI hospital and troop ship. After returning to civilian service, Mauretania was retired and scrapped in the mid-1930s. Previously published under the name Conrad Allen, the Ocean Liner series is relaunched for a new generation of readers.
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Seitenzahl: 456
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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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 MAURETANIA
EDWARD MARSTON
In loving memory of my grandfather, Frederick Allen, who first introduced me to the joys of sailing
An exceptionally smooth passage to Queenstown, which we reached at 9.00 this morning, augurs well for the prospects of what must prove a notable voyage in the history of shipping …
From Our Special Correspondent, The Times Monday, November 18, 1907
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Saturday, November 16, 1907
The largest ship in the world chose the worst day of the year on which to begin her maiden voyage. Omens were bad from the start. The boat train was an hour late leaving Euston Station, it was hopelessly crowded, and the journey was far too noisy and unpleasant to put anyone in the right mood for participation in an historic event. Trying to make up for lost time, the motorman increased speed at the expense of comfort, sending violent shudders and deafening rattles the whole length of the train. Polite irritation rose until it gave way to muted anger. Open resentment eventually broke out. No relief awaited them in Liverpool. When they finally steamed into the dockside station, they found the port shrouded in mist, drenched by rain, and sieved by a sharp wind. By the time the marine superintendent began to hurry the first-class passengers and their luggage on board, it was almost dark.
Gloom had also descended on many of those still trudging along the platform with their wives, husbands, children, relations, mistresses, lovers, friends, acquaintances, and assorted baggage in tow. Collars of overcoats were turned up, scarves tightened, gloves pulled on, and hats pulled down. People were tired, tense, cold, and depressed by the murky conditions. The station was a huge echo chamber of complaint. Some of the travellers looked less like eager passengers on a unique voyage than condemned prisoners about to be transported in chains to an unknown destination.
George Porter Dillman did not share the general pessimism. The tall, elegant, well-dressed American had learned to accept the shortcomings of rail travel and the vagaries of British weather. Nothing could dim his spirits. He was happy, relaxed, and urbane. While others moaned and criticised, Dillman had spent the train journey trying to cheer up his companions by listing all the virtues of the ocean liner on which they were about to sail and by telling them what a warm reception would await them in New York Harbour. His accent aroused mixed reactions among his exclusively English listeners in the second-class compartment, but all were impressed by his intricate knowledge of the Mauretania and grateful for the way in which he distracted them from the rigours of the hectic race northward. The polite stranger defeated time for them in the most easy and unforced manner. Dillman had made his first friends of the voyage.
When they alighted from the train, the most important of these friends fell in beside him. One hand enclosed in her mother’s palm, eight-year-old Alexandra Jarvis, a cheerful, chubby little girl with an enquiring mind, positively skipped along the platform firing questions at Dillman.
‘How do you know so much about ships?’ she asked.
‘Because they fascinate me,’ he admitted.
‘Why?’
‘It’s in my blood, I guess. I was born and brought up near the sea. My father builds yachts for a living. When I was your age, Alexandra, I probably spent more time afloat than on dry land.’
‘Were you ever seasick?’
‘Don’t pester Mr Dillman, dear,’ scolded her mother gently.
‘But I want to know.’
‘Everybody is seasick at first,’ he said.
‘What does it feel like?’ pressed the girl.
‘Alexandra!’ The rebuke was reinforced by a maternal tug on the hand. Vanessa Jarvis turned apologetically to Dillman. ‘You’ll have to excuse her. When she gets too excited, Alexandra sometimes forgets her manners.’
‘No apology is needed, Mrs Jarvis,’ he assured her.
‘There!’ said Alexandra triumphantly. ‘Will I be seasick, Mr Dillman?’
‘I think it’s highly unlikely on a vessel of that size, Alexandra.’
‘Good.’
‘I bet you’ll turn out to be a natural sailor.’
‘That’s what I think. It’ll be Noel who’s seasick all over the place.’
‘No I won’t!’ countered her brother, walking close enough behind to jab her in the small of the back. ‘Don’t tell lies about me, Ally.’
‘They’re not lies.’
‘Yes they are.’
‘You’ve got a weak stomach.’
‘Who has?’ demanded Noel with righteous indignation.
‘Stop bickering!’ ordered their father. ‘What will Mr Dillman think?’
‘He likes us,’ said the girl confidently. ‘Don’t you, Mr Dillman?’
Dillman replied with a grin and followed the crowd into the customs shed. He had already made his judgment about the Jarvis family. They were nice, friendly, civilised people who seemed, in his opinion, like typical members of the lower middle class. The father, Oliver Jarvis, a dapper man in his forties with a neat moustache, was, it transpired, manager of a branch bank in Camden, and he was taking his wife, a plump but still handsome matron, and their two children on their first trip abroad. Included in the party was his mother-in-law, Lily Pomeroy, a big, bosomy old woman with a fur-trimmed coat and a monstrous hat on which a whole flock of swallows had apparently elected to die. Dillman took time to break through the father’s natural reserve and distant suspicion of a foreigner, but Mrs Pomeroy was much more forthcoming, chatting amiably about the purpose of their visit to New York and yielding up details about her private life with a readiness that prompted an occasional wince from her daughter and put an expression of pained resignation on the face of her son-in-law.
Noel Jarvis was a silent, dark-eyed, sulking boy of thirteen bedevilled by shyness, a capacity for instant boredom, and a bad facial rash. His sister, Alexandra, had no such handicaps. She was alert, affable, and buoyant. When formalities had been completed in the customs shed, she glanced down at Dillman’s small valise.
‘Why have you got so little luggage?’ she wondered.
‘I sent most of it on ahead,’ he explained,
‘Shall we see you on the ship?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Are we going to break the record?’
‘That’s something I can’t promise, Alexandra.’
‘Didn’t you tell us that the Mauretania was the fastest liner of them all?’
‘Potentially, she is,’ he said, ‘but she may not be able to prove it on her maiden voyage. November isn’t the ideal time to cross the Atlantic. Adverse weather conditions may slow us down, and there are all kinds of other hazards.’
‘Such as?’
The question went unheard and unanswered because Alexandra’s voice, though raised above the mild tumult around them, was drowned out by the clamour that greeted them as they came out onto Prince’s Landing Stage. In spite of inclement weather, fifty thousand people had gathered to wave Goodbye to the new liner, only a quarter of the number who had watched her sister ship, the Lusitania, set off on her maiden voyage a couple of months earlier, but enough to produce a continuous barrage of noise and to remind the newcomers that they were about to embark on a maritime adventure. Jaded passengers were suddenly exhilarated, shaking off their fatigue and striding forward with a spring in their step. History beckoned. The discomfort of the train journey was forgotten.
What really inspired them was the sight of the Mauretania, berthed at the landing stage, a massive vessel with lights ablaze from stern to stern, looming above them like a vast hotel floating on the water. While her dimensions had been well publicised, the statistics had not prepared anyone for the reality that rose up so majestically in the darkness, her size and shape defined by thousands of glowing lightbulbs as well as the four gigantic funnels picked out by the harbour illumination.
Dillman had already been given a tour of the ship to familiarise him with her labyrinthine interior, but he was moved anew by her sheer magnificence.
Even in the rain-swept gloom, the Mauretania was an irrefutable statement of the supremacy of British shipbuilding. It would be a joy to work on her.
The long column of those from the boat train made its way through a sea of umbrellas and smiling faces, everyone now caught up in a mood of celebration that defied the elements. Police and port officials were on hand to control the crowd, but it was too disciplined and good-humoured to need much attention. Liverpool inhabitants knew better than anybody the significance of a maiden voyage. An amalgam of pride, curiosity, and excitement brought them to the docks. They had dispatched countless vessels down the River Mersey, but the Mauretania and her sister ship were special cases, two self-styled greyhounds of the Atlantic Ocean that would wrest the Blue Riband – the unofficial prize for the fastest crossing – from German hands and keep it where they believed it belonged, writing the name of their port into the record books once more. Like the Lusitania before her, the new vessel was another large feather in the already well-decorated cap of Liverpool.
When everyone was finally aboard, the ship would hold the population of a small town, with well over two thousand passengers – more than half of them in third class – and a crew of over nine hundred. Such a daunting number of people would only make Dillman’s job more complex and difficult, but he dismissed such thoughts as he joined the queue at the gangway. He wanted to savour the communal delight. The Jarvis family was directly in front of him, and Alexandra kept turning around to send him a smile, her blue eyes dancing and her face shining with glee. Her brother, too, was overawed by the experience, and their effervescent grandmother, the chuckling Mrs Pomeroy, nodded her head so vigorously in approval that the swallows on her hat almost migrated out of fear.
When their tickets had been inspected, they stepped aboard and felt the ship under their feet for the first time. It was thrilling. A different omen then appeared. Before a steward could escort the Jarvis family to their cabin, a black cat suddenly materialised out of nowhere and curled up near the top of a companionway with an almost proprietary air. Alexandra clapped her hands in surprise, then turned to Dillman.
‘Isn’t that a sign of good luck?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Alexandra,’ he confirmed.
‘I knew this voyage was going to be wonderful.’
‘It will be.’
‘The girls at school will be so jealous of me!’ she said with a giggle.
‘Come along, dear,’ urged her mother, still holding the girl’s hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dillman. It was so nice to meet you.’
‘Goodbye,’ he said.
Dillman waved them off, but Alexandra had not finished the conversation yet. ‘Oh, by the way, Mr Dillman,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘Yes, Alexandra?’
‘You can call me “Ally”, if you like.’
‘Thank you.’
It was an important concession in her world, and he was touched that she should bestow the favour on him after so brief an acquaintance. As he made his way to his cabin, he was superstitious enough to take some reassurance from the sight of the black cat. Had it dashed across their path, it might have been an evil portent, and he knew sailors who would not even put out to sea if they saw a black cat walking away from them. In this case, however, the animal’s easy familiarity and purring contentment could only be construed as a sign of good fortune. It was an unexpected bonus.
Dillman also reflected on the pleasure of making new friends and suspected that he and Alexandra Jarvis – ‘Ally’ to selected intimates – would bump into each other quite often in the course of the voyage. It never occurred to him that a ship’s mascot and an eight-year-old girl might help him solve a murder.
CHAPTER TWO
Genevieve Masefield was glad to be aboard at last. Unlike most of her fellow travellers on the boat train, she’d had a very enjoyable journey from London, sharing a first-class compartment with a congenial group of people who welcomed her into their circle without reservation. She had passed her first test with flying colours. Her confidence soared. In the light-hearted atmosphere, time had flown. There had been so much laughter and harmless fun that none of them had even noticed the jolting lurches of the train or the rhythmical clicking of its wheels. It was almost like being at a party. Long before they reached Liverpool, they were intoxicated with each other’s company and further inebriated by the very idea of sailing on the Mauretania.
Notwithstanding all that, Genevieve was grateful to be alone again, if only to catch her breath. When she was conducted to her quarters, she was pleased to see that her luggage was already there, neatly stacked against a wall. The single-berth cabin in which she would spend the next five and a half days was luxurious to the point of excess. It was superbly appointed. Gilt-framed mirrors were artfully placed to give an impression of spaciousness and to reflect to their best advantage the intricate decorations on the panelled walls, the ornate lighting fixtures and the beautifully upholstered furniture. Beneath her feet was a delicately woven patterned carpet. All around her were expensive attempts to convince her that she was not in a ship at all, but in a luxury suite in some palatial hotel. The sense of newness was almost tangible.
Genevieve was thrilled. When she had sailed on the maiden voyage of the Lusitania, she had been highly impressed by the quality of the first-class accommodation, but she was overwhelmed by what now confronted her. Enormous care and artistic talent had gone into the design of the interior of her sister ship. In the first-class cabins, comfort was paramount. It made Genevieve realise how truly fortunate she was. Her first voyage to America had theoretically also been her last because she had planned to settle on the other side of the Atlantic and make a fresh start there. Yet here she was, barely two months later, boarding another ocean liner in Liverpool for its maiden voyage and doing so in a far happier state of mind. So much had changed in the intervening weeks. She had a different outlook, increased zest, and a whole new purpose in life.
She removed her gloves, took off her hat, then slipped out of her coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. Genevieve felt at home. Appraising herself in a mirror, she gave a quiet smile of approval. Now in her mid-twenties, she had lost none of her youthful charms. Her face had a classical beauty that was enhanced by the silken sheen of her skin and her generous lips; her large blue eyes were surmounted by eyebrows that arched expressively; the high cheekbones and slight upturn of nose gave her a pleasing individuality. She brushed a strand of fair hair neatly back into place, then studied herself once more. Striking enough to turn men’s heads, her face also suggested a wealth and social position that she did not, in fact, have but that enabled her to move easily in high society and gained her acceptance by the leisured class as one of its own. It would be a vital asset during the week that lay ahead.
A respectful tap on the door curtailed her scrutiny. Expecting it to be her cabin steward, she was surprised to open the door and find herself looking instead at two of her erstwhile companions from the train. Harvey Denning was a suave, smiling, dark-haired man of thirty with the kind of dazzling good looks that seemed faintly unreal. His smile broadened into a complimentary grin as he ran a polite eye over Genevieve’s slender body. Susan Faulconbridge was a beaming, bright-eyed, vivacious young woman with dimples in her cheeks and auburn hair peeping out from beneath her hat. Both visitors were still wearing their overcoats and scarves.
‘We’ve come to collect you,’ announced Denning courteously.
‘Collect me?’ said Genevieve.
‘Aren’t you coming out on deck? We’re about to set sail.’
‘Oh, do join us,’ urged Susan Faulconbridge effusively. ‘We had such a lovely time together on the train that I wanted to share this experience as well. You’re one of us now. Please say you’ll come.’
‘I will, I will,’ agreed Genevieve.
‘Good,’ said Denning. ‘After all, you’re the expert.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes, Genevieve. You hold the whip hand over us. You sailed on the Lusitania. We’re the innocents here. You can teach us the ropes. The moment when we actually set sail must be so uplifting.’
‘It is, Harvey.’
‘That’s the other thing,’ said Susan happily. ‘We’re on first-name terms already. That so rarely happens, doesn’t it, Harvey? Do you remember that dreadful couple, the Wilmshursts? It was months before I could bring myself to call that odious creature “Ellen”. Then there was Mr Ransome, whom we met at the Ecclestones’ house party in the Lake District. We played bridge with him regularly after that, but it was over a year before he allowed us to use his first name.’
Denning grimaced. ‘Obadiah! No wonder he kept it to himself.’
‘Obadiah Ransome.’
‘“He of the Unfortunate Teeth.”’ They laughed together at a private joke.
‘I’ll be out on deck shortly,’ said Genevieve, ‘but I’m not quite ready yet.’
‘Do you want us to wait?’ asked Susan.
‘No, no. I’ll find you.’
‘There’ll be a huge crowd out there.’
‘I’ll track you down somehow.’
‘We’ll be on the promenade deck.’
‘Right.’
‘Don’t keep us waiting too long.’
‘I won’t, Susan, I promise you.’
‘Happy with your accommodation?’ asked Denning, glancing into the cabin over Genevieve’s shoulder as if angling for an invitation to enter. ‘Our cabins are splendid. Needless to say, Donald and Theodora have one of the regal suites. Only the very best for them, what? We’ll be able to hold private parties there. Won’t that be fun? All our cabins are on the promenade deck,’ he added, pointing at the floor. ‘Next one down. In fact, with luck, mine may be directly below yours, Genevieve. That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? If you hear someone burrowing up through your carpet, you’ll know who it is.’
‘Behave yourself, Harvey,’ said Susan with a giggle.
‘You’ve changed your tune, Miss Faulconbridge,’ he teased.
They shared another private joke and Genevieve felt momentarily excluded.
‘I do beg your pardon,’ said Denning, recovering quickly to make a gesture of appeasement to her. ‘Frightful bad manners. We must let you go, Genevieve.’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ she replied.
‘We’ll be with Donald and Theodora,’ said Susan. ‘And with Ruth, of course.’
‘Look for Theo’s hat,’ advised Denning. ‘Even in a crowd, you can’t miss that. It must be the largest chapeau on board, but then, that’s Theodora. She and Donald must have the largest of everything. Including income, lucky devils! Search for the hat and you’ll find all five of us sheltering underneath it.’
‘I’ll be there.’
After an exchange of farewells, the visitors walked away and Genevieve was able to withdraw into her cabin again. Of her new friends, Harvey Denning and Susan Faulconbridge were by far the most amiable and talkative. Genevieve had still not worked out the precise nature of their relationship but felt that it would emerge in time. Donald and Theodora Belfrage were a pleasant young couple, still basking in the novelty of marriage. Ruth Constantine was both the outsider and the still centre of the quintet. They were an interesting group and Genevieve felt at ease in their company. She was glad to have been invited to join them on deck. It was only when she was putting on her coat again that a sudden thought struck her.
How had they known what cabin she was in?
Dismal weather did not deter either the passengers or the spectators. As the moment of departure drew close, the former moved to the decks or the windows and the latter surged forward along the landing stage. At 7.30 p.m., Captain John T. Pritchard gave the signal and the Mauretania’s siren rang out boldly. To cheering and applause, the lines were cast off and the tugs pulled the vessel clear of the land. The maiden voyage had begun. River craft of all sizes added their own salutation with whistles and hooters. When she passed the New Brighton pier, a fireworks display was set off in her honour, brightening the sky for fleeting seconds and drawing gasps of pleasure from all those watching. A new chapter in maritime history was being written. It was an invigorating experience.
Genevieve Masefield found it even more stimulating than the moment of the Lusitania’s departure, a fact she put down to her change of attitude and improved circumstances. Wedged in at the rail between Susan Faulconbridge and Ruth Constantine, she waved as long and energetically as either of them at the slowly disappearing well-wishers, wondering what it was that drove people who would never make a transatlantic voyage themselves to give such a wonderful send-off to those who did. For more reasons than one, she felt highly privileged.
Susan Faulconbridge was shaking visibly with excitement. ‘Wasn’t that marvellous?’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ said Genevieve.
‘Oh, I’m so glad we decided to sail on her. Actually,’ she confided, turning to face Genevieve, ‘we wanted to go on the maiden voyage of the Lusitania, but Donald and Theodora were on their honeymoon in Italy in September, so that was ruled out.’
‘Do you always take your holidays together, Susan?’
‘Of course. We’re friends.’
‘That’s right,’ said Ruth Constantine, joining in the conversation.
‘Holidays are a true test of friendship. If you can spend three weeks skiing in the Alps with people and still be civil to them afterwards, then you’ve found kindred spirits.’
‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Susan. ‘Do you remember the Glovers? What fools we were to go on a Mediterranean cruise with that gruesome pair! We found them out after only two days, and the holiday lasted a month. It was excruciating.’
‘One learns from experience.’
‘I hope so, Ruth.’
‘Instincts are sharpened by time.’
Genevieve liked Ruth Constantine. It was not simply her poise and elegance that were so attractive. She had a deep, melodious voice that was informed by a clever brain and a keen sense of humour. Though she lacked the conventional beauty of Theodora Belfrage and Susan Faulconbridge, she had a composure that neither of them could match and a way of dealing with the two men in the party that compelled their respect. Genevieve hoped to get to know Ruth a lot better.
‘Well, this is it!’ declared Harvey Denning. ‘Doctor Johnson time.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ asked Susan.
‘The moment when we should take his warning to heart.’
‘Warning?’
‘Yes, Susan,’ he continued, raising his voice so that the whole group could hear him. ‘Do you know what Samuel Johnson said about the sea? “No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into jail, since being in a ship is being in jail, with the chance of getting drowned.” Good point.’
‘Harvey!’ reproached Susan. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’
‘Especially at a time like this, old chap,’ noted Donald Belfrage, tightening an arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘Don’t want to spread gloom and despondency, do we? Occasion for celebration. Why try to upset the ladies?’
‘He sent a shiver down my spine,’ confessed Theodora Belfrage.
‘And mine,’ said Susan.
‘Harvey never frightens me,’ said Ruth calmly. ‘It’s just one more way of drawing attention to himself. Ignore him. Besides,’ she observed dryly, ‘there’s something he forgot to mention about Samuel Johnson.’
Denning smiled tolerantly. ‘What’s that, Ruth?’
‘He never sailed on a vessel the size of the Mauretania’
‘I have,’ volunteered Genevieve, ‘and it didn’t feel at all like being in jail. It was liberating. The Lusitania was as solid as a rock beneath our feet.’
‘I bow to your superior wisdom,’ said Denning with mock humility.
‘We’re not really in danger, are we, darling?’ asked Theodora, snuggling up to her husband. ‘I thought that this was the safest ship afloat.’
‘It is, Theo,’ he said, ducking under the brim of her hat to plant a reassuring kiss on her cheek. ‘Harvey is being Harvey, that’s all. Look at those names we saw in the newspaper. The Princess de Poix, Prince Andre Poniazowski, Sir Clifton and Lady Robinson, and dozens of other famous people. Do you think they’d step aboard any ship that wasn’t one-hundred-percent safe? Then there’s Mr Hunter, from the firm that actually built the Mauretania. He has complete faith in the vessel.’
‘So do the sundry millionaires who are travelling with us,’ conceded Denning. ‘Believe it or not, Donald, there may be people on board with more money than you.’
Belfrage wrinkled his nose. ‘Ghastly Americans, most of them.’
‘That’s a contradiction in terms,’ said Genevieve loyally. ‘All the Americans I’ve encountered have been quite delightful.’
‘Well, yes, there are always exceptions to the rule.’
‘How many have you actually met, Donald?’
‘Enough to know that they’re a different species.’
‘Different perhaps, but not inferior.’
‘Let’s not make an issue out of it,’ he said dismissively. ‘The truth is that I don’t give a damn about Americans.’
‘Then why are you so eager to visit their country?’
‘Don’t pester him, Genevieve,’ complained Theodora, coming to her husband’s defence. ‘We’re here because we’ve never been on a maiden voyage before. Isn’t that justification enough? As for Americans, we must just live and let live.’
‘You’ll have to do more than that, Theodora,’ cautioned Ruth.
‘What do you mean?’
‘A large number of first-class passengers will have hailed from the other side of the Atlantic. Indeed, I suspect there may be more of them than us. You’ll be rubbing shoulders with Americans every day. Overcome your prejudices and make friends.’
‘I don’t have any prejudices,’ squeaked the other. ‘Do I, Donald?’
‘None at all,’ he flattered her.
‘I just prefer to be with my own kind.’
‘I rest my case,’ said Ruth.
She caught Genevieve’s eye and they traded an understanding look.
The lights of Liverpool had now dropped astern as the four monstrous screw propellers churned up the dark waters of the Mersey and sent the vessel onward with gathering speed. Half an hour after departure, a bugle sounded. Susan was startled.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘The signal for dinner,’ explained Harvey. ‘We can adjourn to the dining saloon so that Donald and Theodora can patronise all those Americans.’ He rode over their spluttered protests with a grin. ‘As for the safety of the ship, you omitted the strongest argument of all, one that even Samuel Johnson would have to accept.’
‘We’re not back to him, are we?’
‘No, Susan.’
‘Then what’s this strongest argument?’
‘The Mauretania has the most valuable cargo ever to leave the British shore.’
‘Is he trying to pay us a compliment?’ asked Theodora suspiciously.
‘No,’ he returned gallantly. ‘But then, anyone as gorgeous as you are will fly through life on a magic carpet of compliments. What you’re all forgetting is the money famine in New York. This ship is carrying almost three million pounds in gold bullion to relieve the financial crisis across the water. Bankers are the most cautious people in the world,’ he pointed out. ‘Do you think they’d risk putting all that wealth aboard a ship if they were not absolutely certain that it would reach its destination? It’s something to reflect upon while we dine this evening. We’re not simply travelling with precious friends beside us,’ he said, waving an arm to include them all, ‘we’re sailing with a veritable fortune. Britannia is ruling the waves with a gold-bullion smile.’
CHAPTER THREE
George Porter Dillman was called into action that very evening.
After sharing a table with the Jarvis family in the second-class dining saloon, he hovered near the door for a few minutes, chatting to a steward while keeping one eye on a man in the far corner whose behaviour had aroused his suspicion.
‘Splendid meal!’ said Dillman with evident sincerity.
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied the steward.
‘My compliments to the chef.’
‘I’ll pass them on.’
‘What’s on the menu for breakfast?’
‘You’re a man who likes his food, sir, I can see that.’
‘One of the pleasures of travelling on the Cunard Line.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
While the steward listed the items on the breakfast menu for the following day, Dillman changed his position slightly so that he could get a better view of the dinner guest in the corner. The man had waited until everyone else had vacated his table, then shifted surreptitiously from his own seat to the next one so that his back faced into the saloon and obscured the movements of his hands. Dillman had no idea of what he was about to steal, but he saw the swift grab and knew that something had been snatched with professional ease. Draining his glass of whiskey, the man rose to his feet, glanced around, then strode casually underneath the lofty dome in the centre of the room and towards the exit. Short, stubby, and smartly dressed, he looked more like a successful realtor than a thief. His bald head glistened under the light of the crystal chandeliers. When he passed Dillman and the steward, he gave them a token smile of farewell before going out.
After waiting for a few moments, Dillman excused himself in order to follow the man. The second-class dining saloon was on the upper deck and opened off the grand staircase. It could accommodate two hundred and fifty people at its refectory-style tables, but only one of the diners interested Dillman at that juncture. Instead of joining the other second-class passengers in the lounge, the drawing room or the smoking room, the man headed for his cabin, sauntering along with a law-abiding gait, quite unaware of the fact that he was being trailed at a discreet distance. Dillman waited until the man reached his door before he moved in.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, closing in briskly, ‘but I believe you may inadvertently have taken something from the dining saloon that doesn’t belong to you.’
The man stiffened. ‘You’re crazy!’ he retorted.
‘I watched you put it in your pocket, sir.’
‘Then you need your eyes tested, mister.’
He glared at Dillman with controlled belligerence, as if deeply offended by the charge. His accent had Brooklyn overtones. Dillman remained deliberately polite.
‘Would you have any objection to emptying your pockets, sir?’
‘You bet I would!’
‘Then we’ll have to discuss the whole matter with the purser.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘He doesn’t approve of theft.’
‘And I don’t approve of being accused of something I haven’t done!’ said the other, flaring up. ‘Can’t a man enjoy a meal without having someone spy on him? Who the hell are you, anyway?’
‘I work for the Cunard Line, sir.’
‘Well, I’m a passenger, buddy. That means I help to pay your wages, indirectly. It also means you’re supposed to be nice to me. Got it?’
‘In the circumstances, I’m being extremely nice,’ said Dillman, letting his voice and eyes harden slightly. ‘The Cunard Line has certain idiosyncrasies, I’m afraid. One of them is that it doesn’t condone the loss of its property. If you’d care to come with me to the purser, I’m sure that he’ll explain the rules to you in full.’
‘Listen here, wise guy!’
Squaring up to Dillman, he seemed to be on the point of striking him, but he quickly repented of his hasty action. Dillman did not flinch. Not only was the detective much younger and taller, he looked as if he knew how to handle himself in a fight. The man changed his tack at once, shrugging off his anger and extending apologetic palms.
‘Look, there’s been a misunderstanding here,’ he soothed.
‘Has there, sir?’
‘Okay. I’ll come clean. I’m no kleptomaniac. You did see me take something off the table,’ he admitted, slipping a hand inside his coat, ‘but it was only this.’ The menu was waved under Dillman’s nose. ‘What’s more, the steward told me I could have it as a souvenir, so I guess he’s an accessory before the crime. Satisfied now?’
‘Not exactly, sir.’
‘You going to march me off to the purser because I take a lousy menu? Here,’ he said, thrusting it at him. ‘Have it back.’
‘It’s the other item I’m after,’ persisted Dillman. ‘The one that the steward didn’t give you permission to steal. Let’s do this properly, shall we? Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell me your name, sir.’
‘Mind your goddam business!’
‘It won’t be difficult to find it out. I know your cabin. All I have to do is check the passenger list. Now, why don’t you start cooperating, Mr—?’
Dillman’s composure was slowly unnerving the man. He eventually capitulated. ‘Hirsch,’ he grunted sourly. ‘Max Hirsch.’
‘How do you do, Mr Hirsch? My name is George Dillman.’
‘I have another name for you.’
Three elderly passengers came along the corridor and walked past. Hirsch looked embarrassed. It was time to move the interrogation to a more private venue.
‘Could I suggest that we step inside your cabin?’ said Dillman.
‘Why?’ challenged the other with vestigial defiance.
‘It’s either here or in the purser’s quarters. Your choice, Mr Hirsch.’
Cursing under his breath, Hirsch unlocked the door of his cabin and led the way in. Dillman shut the door behind him and glanced around appreciatively.
‘Almost identical to my own,’ he commented. ‘Second-class cabins on the Cunard Line are now as good as first-class accommodation on earlier vessels.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘You sound like a seasoned traveller, Mr Hirsch.’
‘Not really.’
‘How many times have you crossed the Atlantic?’
‘Enough,’ said the other. ‘And if this is the kind of treatment I get from Cunard, I sure won’t be booking my passage on one of its liners again.’
‘Unless we can sort out this matter amicably,’ warned Dillman, ‘you may not be allowed on board a Cunard ship again. Why not cut the shadow boxing? We both know that you took something off that table. I want to see what it is.’
Max Hirsch studied him with a mixture of exasperation and respect. Dillman was a handsome man with a hint of a dandy about him, but the broad shoulders and lithe movements indicated someone who kept himself in prime physical condition. There was a quiet intelligence about him, and his eyesight was evidently keen. Hirsch’s only hope lay in trying to talk himself out of his predicament. Holding out both arms, he let them flap to the sides of his thighs.
‘They put the right man on the job, Mr Dillman,’ he complimented.
‘Thanks.’
‘Trouble is, you picked the wrong culprit. That’s to say, I’m no light-fingered thief. I did what a lot of guys might’ve done in my position and acted on impulse.’
‘And what did this impulse lead you to take, Mr Hirsch?’
‘These.’
Putting a hand in his trouser pocket, he extracted a silver saltcellar and a pepper pot. Dillman took them from him and wrapped them carefully in a handkerchief.
‘You forgot the vinegar, Mr Hirsch.’
‘If I’d stashed that in my pocket, the stopper would’ve come out and I’d have ended up looking as if I’d pissed in my pants. That’s it, Mr Dillman. On the level.’ He spread his arms. ‘Frisk me if you don’t believe me.’
‘No need. I’ve got what I want. Apart from an explanation, that is.’
Max Hirsch let out a world-weary sigh and flopped into a chair. ‘Where do I start?’ he wondered, scratching his head. ‘Do you want the full story, or will you settle for the shorter version?’
‘The shorter one, please.’
‘Then the truth is that I felt Cunard owed me a silver cruet. At the very least.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they managed to lose some of my baggage on the voyage from New York. God knows how. I mean, they load the stuff into the hold and they take it out again at the other end. How could it possibly go astray?’
‘Pilfering is not unknown,’ said Dillman impassively. ‘Besides, I can’t believe that you didn’t insure the baggage against loss or breakage. The rates are very low.’
‘Yeah. Everything was insured. But it takes an age for the dough to come through. In any case, some of the things they lost were irreplaceable. They had sentimental value. Rachel will be real upset.’
‘Rachel?’
‘My wife,’ he said, heaving another sigh. ‘She bought several of those things for me. I’m not looking forward to breaking the news to her, I can tell you. Rachel was to have made the trip with me, see, but she came down with an attack of shingles. I offered to cancel the whole vacation, of course, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’s that kind of woman, wanted me to have the experience for both of us.’ He grimaced. ‘All the experience has amounted to so far is suffering a rough crossing on the Saxonia, losing some of my baggage, staying in a rotten hotel in London, missing my wife like hell, and getting hassled by you. Some vacation!’
‘You said earlier that you acted on impulse.’
‘Yeah, I did. And it wasn’t only an impulse of revenge. Love came into it as well. Rachel begged me to bring her back a souvenir from the Mauretania.’ Sadness came into his eyes. ‘I couldn’t help myself, Mr Dillman. I promised her. My wife has a thing about silver, see.’
‘So does the Cunard Line. It likes to keep its supply intact.’
‘It’s not going to miss a saltcellar and a pepper pot.’
‘That doesn’t give you the right to take them.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ confessed the other, ‘and I’m ashamed of what I did. It was a dumb thing to do. I’ll happily pay for them.’ He produced a wallet and flipped it open. ‘How much do you reckon they’re worth, Mr Dillman?’
‘They’re not for sale, sir,’ said Dillman pointedly. ‘Neither am I.’
‘That wasn’t a bribe I was offering you, I swear it. What kind of man do you take me for?’ He put his wallet away. ‘Look, let’s be realistic here. I grabbed those things and I’ve told you why. Human nature being what it is, they won’t be the only souvenirs that get snatched aboard this ship. So what do you say, Mr Dillman?’ he asked, adopting a jocular tone. ‘It’s hardly the crime of the century, is it? What are you going to do with me – lock me up in the brig?’ He offered his wrists. ‘Come on. Cuff me if you have to. I’ll go quietly.’
Dillman needed a full minute to reach his decision. He shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Hirsch.’
‘So what happens? A diet of bread and water from now on?’
‘No, sir,’ said Dillman pleasantly. ‘You can continue to use the facilities that other second-class passengers enjoy. Now that you’ve explained it to me, I can see how it must have happened and I’m certain it was an isolated incident.’
‘You can count on that.’
‘Then I suggest we forget the whole thing.’
Hirsch brightened. ‘You won’t report this to the purser?’
‘Not this time.’
‘Thanks, Mr Dillman. You’re a pal.’
‘No, sir,’ said Dillman coolly. ‘This has nothing to do with friendship. I’m hired to keep a lookout for genuine thieves, and I don’t believe you fall into that category’
‘Hell, no!’ exclaimed the other. ‘If I were a pro, I wouldn’t be trying to sneak off with a saltcellar and a pepper pot. Why settle for a pocketful of silver when there’s almost three million in gold bullion aboard? That’s what I’d be after, I tell you.’
‘Fair comment, Mr Hirsch.’
‘Say, while you’re here, can I offer you a drink?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Sure? I always keep a bottle handy.’
‘Another time perhaps,’ said Dillman, opening the door. ‘I have to return these items to the dining saloon before anyone misses them. Good night, Mr Hirsch. I’m glad we were able to sort this out.’
‘So am I.’
‘Confession is good for the soul.’
‘Sweet dreams!’
Dillman stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind him. As he headed back to the dining saloon, he gave a wry smile. Max Hirsch was too plausible to be true. Dillman did not believe a word of his explanation and doubted if the man even had a wife, let alone one called Rachel, conveniently afflicted by shingles. When he first spotted Hirsch during the meal, Dillman saw him paying court to a middle-aged woman beside him in a blue-satin dress. Judging by the way she had lapped up his flattery, she had taken Max Hirsch at face value. It was a mistake that Dillman would never make.
Their paths would definitely cross again; Hirsch was no first-time offender who had learned his lesson. What gave him away was the fact that he’d recognised the detective for what he was without even asking to be shown credentials. He would soon be prowling after fresh spoils. Having caught him red-handed, Dillman had released him so the man would think he had got away with the crime. Hirsch would be emboldened to strike again. Dillman would be ready for him, eager to arrest the man for something more serious than the theft of a saltcellar and a pepper pot.
All he had to do was to bide his time.
Harvey Denning inhaled the smoke from his cigarette, then blew it slowly out again. ‘Why have you never married?’ he asked softly.
‘I might ask you the same question,’ replied Genevieve.
‘There’s an easy answer to that. I’m simply not the marrying kind.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What it says. I enjoy the chase but have no wish to chain myself to the quarry for the rest of my life. I thrive on risk and novelty.’
‘I gathered that.’
‘Also,’ he continued smoothly, ‘I happen to think that connubial bliss is a myth. Show me a marriage that doesn’t start to creak and groan very early on. A wedding ring may give you a momentary feeling of possession, but it’s no guarantee of happiness.’
‘Donald and Theodora seem happy enough.’
‘A temporary illusion.’
‘They’re besotted with each other, Harvey.’
‘Yes, I know. He’s madly in love with her and she’s infatuated with his money.’
‘Don’t be so cynical!’
Genevieve Masefield gave a laugh of reproof. The two of them were reclining in the first-class lounge, a sumptuous room on the boat deck. Designed in late eighteenth-century French style, the lounge was crowned by a large oval dome with bronze framing, set against a ceiling that was pristinely panelled in white. Sitting in chairs of polished beech with variegated brocade upholstery, they were the last survivors of a group that had slowly disintegrated as the evening wore on. The Belfrages had been the first to go, abandoning decorum when they reached the exit and clutching each other like drowning sailors clinging to their life rafts. Ruth Constantine had soon followed, pleading a headache. Susan Faulconbridge had stayed until her eyelids began to droop; then she, too, quit the field. Harvey Denning showed no sign of tiredness. Genevieve had agreed to have one last drink with him, less for the pleasure of enjoying his company than for the chance to probe the relationships within the little party.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he prompted. ‘Every mirror you’ve ever looked in must have told you what a beautiful creature you are, and no red-blooded male can fail to notice it. You must have had dozens of proposals.’
‘One or two,’ she conceded.
‘Both rejected, it seems.’
‘Not at all, Harvey. I was engaged to one gentleman for some months.’
‘Ah!’ he said with triumph. ‘A broken engagement, eh? Do I detect a scandal? What happened? Did the fellow turn out to be a bounder? Or did you uncover some hideous secret about his family?’
She gave a shrug. ‘I realised that I didn’t love him enough.’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s a private matter.’
‘You can trust me,’ he coaxed. ‘I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone else.’
‘You won’t get the opportunity.’ Genevieve toyed with her glass. ‘Did you say that Donald might be going into politics one day?’
‘There’s no “might” about it. All cut-and-dried. As soon as a seat becomes vacant, Donald Belfrage will have it. Rather an alarming thought, isn’t it?’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Donald as a member of Parliament. I mean, he’s the most generous soul alive, but he’s hardly the stuff from which statesmen are made. The only two things that Donald has done well are to inherit wealth and to gain a rowing blue at Oxford. Did he tell you that he was president of a winning crew in the Boat Race?’
‘Several times.’
‘Donald’s inordinately proud of that achievement. I can’t think why. Mindless muscularity has never appealed to me but then, I was sent down from Balliol after only one term. It was a blessed release.’
‘Do you have any political ambitions, Harvey?’
‘Heavens, no! It would be the ruination of my career.’
‘As what?’
He gave a brittle laugh. ‘Haven’t you worked that out yet?’
‘Not completely.’
‘How far have you got?’
‘Not very far at all,’ she lied tactfully. ‘What I have noticed is how tightly knit the five of you are. You’re genuine soul mates. You seem to have done so much together. Susan keeps reminding me of that. She’s the archivist in the party, always taking out the scrapbook to jog your memories.’
‘Genevieve Masefield will go into that scrapbook now.’
‘Briefly.’
‘We shall see.’
‘A moment ago, you mentioned your career.’
‘I was speaking metaphorically,’ he said with a lazy smile. ‘Most people would call it a life of sustained sponging, but more discerning eyes appreciate my true value. I’m not just a social butterfly, Genevieve, flitting here and there to brighten up the lives of my friends. I also act as their confidant, their adviser, their court jester, and – most important of all – their secret weapon at the card table.’
‘Secret weapon?’
‘Bridge. A game of infinite subtlety, which is why I took such trouble to master its intricacies. That’s why I’m in continual demand as a partner. Lady Ferriday made me stay for over three weeks this summer so we could trounce all and sundry. And I went straight from there to Sir Gerald Marmion’s family seat. It’s a gift,’ he said with feigned modesty, ‘and I exploit it to the full. There is the small matter of a couple of directorships I hold, but they don’t deflect me from my main purpose in life.’
‘Being a cardsharp?’
‘That’s unkind, Genevieve,’ he protested. ‘Bridge is an art form, not a mere game of cards. It’s taken me all over England and the Continent in the company of the great and the good. How many people can claim that? And wherever I go, I earn my keep, I promise you. I have a system, you see.’
‘Yes,’ she said with a twinkle in her voice. ‘I’ve noticed.’
He gave another laugh and rose slowly to his feet, holding out a courteous palm. Genevieve let him take her hand to help her up. He kissed her fingers lightly.
‘Thank you, kind sir.’
‘May I see you to your cabin?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said.
‘An independent spirit, eh?’
‘No, Harvey. It’s just that I have someone else to see before I retire.’
‘Oh? Anyone I know?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Float a name past me.’
A shake of the head. ‘Good night. I thoroughly enjoyed our chat.’
‘The first of many, I hope,’ he said, his hand gently resting on his heart.
‘Possibly.’ She was about to move away when she remembered something. ‘One thing,’ she said, turning back. ‘You and Susan came to call on me earlier. How did you know which cabin was mine?’
‘I told you,’ he said with a grin. ‘I have a system.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Maurice Buxton was a big, beefy man in his late thirties with curly brown hair and a well-groomed beard. Resplendent in his uniform, he conveyed an impression of trustworthiness and reliability. As purser on the Mauretania, he had enormous responsibilities, but he carried them lightly and discharged his many duties with cool efficiency, giving each worried passenger who came to him with a complaint or an enquiry a reassuring feeling that he was taking a personal interest in the matter. Buxton had a gift of creating instant goodwill. Dillman liked him from the start and was very grateful when, at the end of the day, the purser even found time to give him a private view of an exclusive part of the cargo.
‘Well,’ said Buxton, turning the last key in the lock and pulling the heavy door open, ‘there it is, Mr Dillman. You’re looking at £2,750,000 in gold bullion.’
‘All that I can see are strongboxes,’ said Dillman.
‘Ironbound and sealed. Every precaution has been taken.’
‘Quite rightly, Mr Buxton.’
‘On the journey by special train from Euston, it was guarded like royalty by the railway police. When we got it aboard, the whole amount was checked and accounted for with meticulous care.’ He grinned at his companion. ‘Don’t want to short-change our American friends, do we?’
‘The situation over there is desperate,’ said Dillman, surveying the neatly stacked boxes. ‘This couldn’t come at a better time. Banks are collapsing right, left, and centre. Over two hundred state banks have failed already. When I was in New York a couple of weeks ago, there was an article in one of the newspapers about the smart set having to sell their jewels. The crisis is biting deep.’
‘Let’s hope that this little consignment helps to steady things.’
‘Where has it all come from?’
‘Not from anyone on the Cunard Line,’ said Buxton with a chuckle. ‘That’s for sure. They pay us a fair wage, but nothing in this league. No, I gather that six hundred thousand pounds of it was bought principally from South African mining companies through the bullion brokers. Needless to say,’ he continued, hitting his stride and revealing his love of statistics, ‘they made a tidy profit, charging seventy-eight shillings per ounce for it – that includes brokerage, assay, and other costs. The metal was refined during the week into gold bars.’
‘What about the Bank of England?’
‘Something like nine hundred and forty-seven thousand pounds’ worth was bought from them in bar gold, plus five hundred and sixty-four thousand in American eagles. No need to tell you what they are, Mr Dillman.’
‘I guess not.’
‘The current value is around two pounds in sterling.’
‘There must be hefty insurance for all this.’
‘Prohibitive.’
‘The insurance brokers stand to reap a rich harvest.’
‘If all goes well and we get the gold to New York in one lot.’
‘No doubt about that, is there?’
‘None at all, Mr Dillman,’ said the other confidently, closing the door and using the different keys to lock it. ‘You’d need dynamite to get into this security room. The crown jewels would be safe in there. Then, of course, we have our own special security device.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The Atlantic Ocean. It’s one vast insurance policy. Only a fool would try to steal the gold when there’s nowhere to take it. In the unlikely event that we were robbed, we’d simply have to search the ship in order to find the loot.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Captain Pritchard is very proud of the fact that the Mauretania was chosen to transport the consignment. It gave us one claim to fame before we even set off. What you’ve just seen is the largest amount of gold bullion ever carried across the Atlantic. The Lusitania led the way before with two million pounds’ worth. In one fell swoop, we’ve relieved her of that particular record.’
‘What about the more important record you covet, Mr Buxton?’
‘The Blue Riband will come in time, have no fear. It’s inevitable.’ They moved off down the corridor, then went up a companionway in single file. ‘Are you managing to find your way around?’ asked the purser.
‘Just about. It’s like being in a maze.’
‘I know. I get lost myself occasionally.’
‘Daresay I’ll master the layout in time.’
‘What do you think of second class?’
‘Extremely comfortable. I’ve met lots of nice people there.’
‘It’s the bad boys that you have to look out for, Mr Dillman. I expect that we have our share of those aboard as well. Pickpockets and confidence tricksters love to work these ships.’
‘I know,’ said Dillman as they reached the top of the steps and walked along another corridor. ‘They get such easy pickings. People can be surprisingly off guard when they go on a voyage.’
‘They surrender to the magic of oceanic travel.’
‘Some of them, perhaps.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s all very well for passengers in first and second class, Mr Buxton. They can relax and enjoy themselves in plush surroundings. And so they should, having paid handsomely for the privilege. But the largest group of people aboard are immigrants, travelling in steerage. Facilities are a little more spartan for them.’
