Murder on the Oceanic E-Book

Edward Marston

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

Seitenzahl: 358

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A maritime mystery from Edward Marston, author of the bestselling Railway Detective series. Southampton, 1910. When the Oceanic sets sail its ultimate destination is New York. But it must make one very important stop first: at Cherbourg, to pick up internationally renowned financier and art collector J. P. Morgan, fresh from a continental buying spree. George Dillman and Genevieve Masefield, the ship's detectives, are nervous about the presence of such an important passenger, not to mention his valuable cargo. After all, it is rare for a transatlantic voyage to pass without incident for the two sleuths. The everyday difficulties of managing passengers including a charming rake intent on causing mischief and a controversial painter travelling with his bohemian wife and his alluring French model, are brought to a pitch when a major art theft takes place and a throat is cut. Dillman and Masefield must draw upon all their experience to find the killer before it is too late. Previously published under the name Conrad Allen, the Ocean Liner series is making waves with a new generation of readers.

Leseprobe

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 OCEANIC

EDWARD MARSTON

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE ONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVEN POSTSCRIPTABOUT THE AUTHORBY EDWARD MARSTONCOPYRIGHT

ONE

March 1910

‘What sort of weather have we got today?’

‘It’s raining.’

‘How do you know?’ she asked. ‘You haven’t looked yet.’

‘It always rains in Liverpool.’

‘This is Southampton.’

‘It makes no difference,’ he joked, crossing to the window. ‘Choose any port in England and you can guarantee rain on the day you sail.’ He pulled back the curtains and early morning sunlight flooded in. ‘There you are. What did I tell you?’ Genevieve sat up in bed. ‘It’s a beautiful day, George.’

‘Then we must still be in New York.’

‘Stop teasing!’

‘Well, it’s completely out of character for Liverpool.’

‘We’re in Southampton.’

George Porter Dillman knew exactly where they were but he could not resist some gentle taunting about the vagaries of British weather. It was a bone of contention between him and his wife. Having been born in England, Genevieve loved its climate. Dillman, by contrast, was an American who usually managed to be on the other side of the Atlantic during unsettled weather. His first visit to England had coincided with days of high winds and torrential rain. It was an indelible memory. They were staying at the South Western Hotel, the best in the city and the place where wealthy and important passengers tended to spend the night before departure. George and Genevieve were far from wealthy but, since they were working as detectives aboard the Oceanic, they did feel that they had some importance. Posing as passengers, their job was to solve any crimes that occurred aboard and, in their experience, there was no such thing as a trouble-free voyage. Whichever shipping line they worked for, they invariably encountered major problems.

‘I daresay that it will be no different with the White Star Line,’ he said, slipping on his dressing gown. ‘Well have the usual share of villains aboard.’

‘How many passengers?’

‘Around seventeen hundred.’

‘We could never police them all.’

‘Our job is to work largely in first class,’ he reminded her. ‘That’s where the richest pickings are and where we’re likely to have the biggest headaches.’

‘I feel sorry for the passengers in steerage.’

‘So do I. Conditions are far from ideal.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about their accommodation on board,’ she said. ‘They’re such easy targets before we set sail. Because they’re strangers in the city, they’re pounced on by all sorts of cheats, liars, and confidence tricksters.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘the worst are the ones who claim to be official money changers and tell people that they must convert their pound sterling into dollars before they go aboard. They either give their customers an appallingly low rate of exchange or somehow inveigle them into taking a voucher that can be redeemed on the ship.’

‘By the time they discover the voucher is worthless, it’s too late.’

He nodded. ‘There are so many sharks around the docks.’

‘We can only catch the ones who sail with us.’

‘More should be done to protect emigrants before they leave,’ he said, seriously. ‘They have little enough to lose. Most of them are only quitting their native country because they’re poor and unemployed. And the dreadful thing is,’ he added, ‘that, after sailing three thousand miles, some of them will be turned back at Ellis Island.’

‘I thought that America encouraged immigration.’

‘Only if it can pick and choose who it lets in.’

Genevieve smiled. ‘Do you think that I’d be let in?’

‘You’re married to me, so you’ll be especially welcome.’

‘Even though you’re only an occasional husband?’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, bridling slightly.

‘Well, as soon as we step aboard the Oceanic, we split up. I go back to being Genevieve Masefield, spinster of this parish, and you are tall, handsome, debonair, unattached George Porter Dillman.’

‘It works better that way.’

‘I wonder.’

‘Genevieve, we must put our duties first.’

‘I’d just like to cross the Atlantic one day as your wife.’

‘You will, darling.’

He gave her a reassuring kiss. They had met on the maiden voyage of the Lusitania and, because Genevieve had been so instrumental in helping Dillman to solve a murder, he had persuaded her to join him as a detective in the pay of the Cunard Line. They proved to be a very effective team and their work drew them ever closer together. It was while they were working for the P&O line that their romance really blossomed and Dillman proposed to her while they were sailing at night on the Marmora down the Suez Canal. The ship’s captain had performed the marriage ceremony on the following day.

‘I’m married on land and widowed at sea,’ she complained.

‘I love you wherever we are.’

‘Really?’ She raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘I think that you only disown me on board so that you can flirt with the ladies.’

‘There’s not much time for flirtation,’ he said with a dry laugh. ‘Besides, what about you and your admirers? The moment you take off your wedding ring, they come buzzing like wasps around a pot of jam. And that’s all to the good,’ he went on. ‘We each build up a wide circle of acquaintances, far more than if we operated as a couple.’

‘As long as you don’t forget that I am really Mrs Dillman.’

‘Would I ever?’

He smiled fondly then looked at his watch on the bedside table.

‘Breakfast should be here before too long,’ he noted. ‘Will you have a bath before it comes?’

‘No, thank you, George.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘I haven’t even woken up properly yet.’ She stretched her arms. ‘This does make a change from Liverpool. Why did the White Star Line move away from there?’

‘For sound commercial reasons,’ he explained. ‘Southampton has obvious advantages as a transatlantic terminal port. It’s deeper and its double high tides save long and costly delays for ships outside the harbor. Also, of course, it’s nearer to London than Liverpool and, more to the point, closer to France. That means we can call in at Cherbourg and pick up European emigrants and American millionaires who’ve been sampling the delights of Paris.’

‘Americans are always so disgustingly rich,’ she protested. ‘An optical illusion, Genevieve. We have plenty of poor people, believe me. You only get to see the prosperous ones in first class.’

‘The more money they have, the more arrogant they get.’ ‘That applies to people from any nation.’

‘Americans are the worst.’

‘I dispute that.’

‘They act as if they own half the world.’

‘In some cases, they do. It’s such a massive country with lots of opportunity for people to make their fortunes if they’re prepared to work hard enough. Well,’ he observed, ‘there’s no better example of that than one of the passengers we’ll be taking back to New York – Mr Morgan.’

‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Everyone has heard of J. P. Morgan.’

‘Ah,’ said Genevieve, ‘now that name does sound familiar.’

‘It ought to. He’s the most powerful banker on the planet. John Pierpont Morgan is a financier, steel magnate, and railway baron. He also created a huge shipping syndicate to dominate Atlantic trade. It includes the White Star Line. Be very nice to Mr Morgan when he comes aboard,’ he warned. ‘Indirectly, he employs us.’

‘What kind of a man is he, George?’

‘Oh, he’s just like me.’

‘In what way?’

Dillman grinned. ‘He’s unique.’

When it was built in 1899, the Oceanic was the largest vessel in the world though this claim to fame was obliterated two years later by a German ship. The arrival of Cunard’s twin giants in 1907 – the Lusitania and Mauretania – removed any pretensions that the Oceanic might have to superior size or, for that matter, to outstanding speed. It remained one of White Star’s flagships, offering extreme luxury and a placid ride to those who could afford to travel first or second class. The one thousand passengers in steerage endured a more spartan crossing.

Manny Ellway was not allowed to savour any of the luxuries either. As a bedroom steward in first class, he was aware of all the extravagance that had been showered on the wealthier people aboard but he was in no position to enjoy it. While his charges would be occupying splendid staterooms, Ellway would be sharing a small cabin with three other stewards. One of them was an old friend of his, Sidney Browne.

‘Hello, Sid. Good to see you again.’

‘What’re you doin’ ’ere, Manny?’ asked Browne. ‘I thought you was sailin’ on the Adriatic.’

‘So did I until Tuesday. I got switched to the Oceanic at the last moment.’ Ellway beamed. ‘My luck is in at last.’

‘I wouldn’t call it luck. Not on this ship.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s jinxed.’

‘Rubbish!’

‘It is, Manny. Two years after it was built, it ran down the British coaster Kincora, in fog. The coaster sank immediately. Seven dead.’

‘Thanks for trying to cheer me up, Sid.’

‘I’m only reminding you of the truth,’ said Browne, lugubriously. ‘The Oceanic’s ’ad one or two other scrapes as well. And in 1905, there was a mutiny aboard. Thirty-three stokers were later convicted.’

‘I know all that.’

‘This ship is cursed.’

Ellway chuckled. ‘You always were a miserable devil.’

They were in the little cabin that had been assigned to them and two other stewards. Browne had chosen a top bunk but Ellway opted for a lower one. He was unpacking his case and putting his clothes into a wooden locker. A big, red-faced man in his forties, Sidney Browne was an eternal pessimist, the sort of person who embarked on every voyage fearing the worst, and who felt robbed when it arrived at its destination without incident. Manny Ellway, on the other hand, was a genial character of thirty, a thin, sharp-featured man with a neat moustache beneath a hooked nose, and short black hair that was bisected by a centre parting. Nothing ever seemed to depress him. After fifteen years, Ellway had lost none of his enthusiasm for life at sea.

Browne, however, was filled with remorse and resentment.

‘I ’ate this job,’ he confided. ‘I ’ate the work, ’ate the passengers, and ’ate the bloomin’ sea. I should’ve been a boot maker like my father.’

‘Then why aren’t you, Sid?’

‘I lost my way as a young lad.’

‘You could always take up the trade now.’

‘At my age?’ said Browne with a hollow laugh. ‘No bleedin’ ’ope of that, Manny. Instead of makin’ boots, I ’ave to carry on lickin’ ’em.’

‘Working for White Star gives us lots of privileges.’

‘I never noticed any.’

‘For a start, we get to see something of the big wide world.’

‘Yes – through the port’ole of a tiny cabin like this.’

‘We’ll have time ashore in New York.’

‘Terrible place. Full of drunks. Can’t stand it.’

‘Yet you always head for the nearest pub when we land.’

‘Well, I’ve got to do somethin’ to occupy my time. That’s the other thing I loathes about this game, Manny. Too much ’angin’ about.’

‘There’s no pleasing you, is there?’ said Ellway with another chuckle. ‘You’ve got a good job with a decent wage and you get to meet lots of interesting people. Think of all the men back in Southampton who’re still out of work. They’d give their eyeteeth to be where you are.’

‘More fool them!’

‘Count your blessings, Sidney.’

‘I would, if I ’ad any.’

‘You’re sharing a cabin with me. Isn’t that a blessing?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘You snore.’ Ellway cackled. ‘Yes, and that’s the other thing I don’t like. You never stop laughin’.’ He moved away. ‘I’m off.’

‘Bon voyage, Sid!’

‘Same to you,’ came the sour rejoinder.

Browne went out and Ellway was left to put a dozen collars into his locker. He liked Sidney Browne. In spite of his melancholy, the other steward was a good friend, loyal and generous towards a chosen few, if openly hostile to others. Browne was also very conscientious and the passengers never saw a hint of his more sombre side. Ellway had at least one good friend in the four-berth cabin. Not that it mattered who teamed up with him on this occasion. It was a voyage that was set completely apart from the many others he had undertaken. His colleagues were simply crossing the Atlantic as a job of work. For Manny Ellway, it was far more than that. As he stowed away the last of his clothing, he gave a secret smile.

Fate had been kind to him. He would seize his opportunity.

Noise and hats. It was always the same. Whenever a ship set sail, Genevieve Masefield was struck by the combination of noise and hats. The tumult was deafening. Every passenger aboard seemed to be at the rail, waving to the crowd of friends and well-wishers below, and shouting their farewells over the sound of the Oceanic’s siren and the whirr of its huge twin propellers as they churned up the water. Dockyard clamour added to the cacophony. Iron-shod wagons rattled over cobbles. Electric cranes gave off their distinctive whine. Steam tugs and lighters contributed their shrill wails. Thunderous boat trains arrived and left. Beyond the docks, a city of well over a hundred thousand souls generated its own pandemonium. And above it all was the ceaseless cry of the gulls as they wheeled and dived around the vessel.

Though she had heard it many times before, Genevieve was always taken aback by the sheer volume of noise. Then there were the hats. As she stood at the rail on the promenade deck, she looked down at a rippling sea of them. For the most part, the men wore cloth caps, homburgs, boaters, and bowlers, though top hats were on display as well. It was left to the women at the quayside to explore the full range of headgear. There were hats with wide brims and low crowns, straw hats with flowers or bows, toques, bonnets, snoods, and enormous creations festooned with ostrich plumes or coloured ribbons. Among the poorer sort, headscarves were worn. The Oceanic pulled slowly away from the landing stage. Genevieve waved until the cheering faded and the array of hats gradually began to diminish in size.

The young woman standing beside her turned an inquiring face.

‘Have you been to New York before, Miss Masefield?’

‘Yes,’ replied Genevieve. ‘As a matter of fact, I have.’

‘Is it really as wonderful as they say?’

‘It’s a very lively city, I can tell you that much.’

‘I shall want you to tell me much more than that,’ said the other eagerly. ‘From the moment we met, I felt certain that we’d be friends.’

Genevieve had fallen into conversation with Blanche Charlbury in the customs shed. Travelling in first class, Blanche was a handsome woman in her twenties with an engaging smile and an exquisite taste in clothes. A picture of elegance herself, Genevieve had to admit that she was outshone on this occasion by the trim Blanche Charlbury. The latter was wearing a smart green, closefitting two-piece suit of a kind that was featured in advertisements in only the most expensive periodicals. Her hat was trimmed with osprey.

‘We speak the same language,’ said Blanche.

‘Do we?’

‘Oh yes. You’re one of us. I could tell.’

‘Thank you.’

Genevieve was grateful to have been accepted at face value and to have befriended someone so quickly. Blanche was going to New York to visit her brother, who had taken up a post in a bank there. She was filled with an almost girlish excitement.

‘Dickon assures me that it’s the most amazing city in the world.’

‘Dickon?’

‘My brother. Is it true?’

‘In some ways, I suppose that it is.’

‘What sorts of ways? No,’ said Blanche, dismissing her own question with a wave of her gloved hand, ‘tell me everything later when we can sit down in comfort. Oh, we’re going to have such a wonderful time, talking to each other! I know it. And are you really travelling alone?’

‘Yes, Miss Charlbury.’

‘Do call me Blanche – please. Formalities always irritate me.’

‘Then you must call me Genevieve.’

‘Brave Genevieve.’

‘There’s nothing very brave about crossing the Atlantic.’

‘There is if you go unaccompanied. I like to think of myself as having plenty of confidence but I wouldn’t have considered this trip if Mark hadn’t volunteered to come with me.’

‘Mark?’

‘My fiancé.’

‘Oh,’ said Genevieve with mild surprise. ‘I didn’t see him earlier.’

‘Mark is joining the ship at Cherbourg. He’s been in Paris.’

‘That must have been nice for him.’

‘Not really,’ said Blanche. ‘He was working there. Mark is in the diplomatic service.’ She suppressed a giggle. ‘Which makes it all the more astonishing that he chose me – for I’m the most undiplomatic creature in the universe.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

‘Mark calls it an attraction of opposites.’

‘He’s very fortunate to have someone like you, Blanche, and I’ll make a point of telling him that.’

‘Thank you. A man needs to be reminded of such things regularly.’

‘When are you going to get married?’

‘This summer.’

‘How lovely!’

‘I can’t wait, Genevieve. It’s been such a long engagement.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Mark kept getting sent here, there, and everywhere so we had to delay things. But he assures me that he won’t postpone it again and I intend to hold him to that.’

‘How did you meet him in the first place?’

‘Dickon was up at Oxford with him. They were in the same dining club. I was introduced to Mark during Eights Week and that was how it all started. We’ve known each other for seven years now.’

‘Long enough to get well acquainted.’

‘Yes,’ said Blanche, happily. ‘I know all his virtues and Mark has discovered all my vices. But they don’t seem to have frightened him off. In fact, he says he loves me for my fallibility.’

‘He might have phrased that in a more romantic way.’

‘He’s a diplomat, Genevieve. They don’t believe in romance.’

‘But you do, surely?’

‘Having a doting husband is all the romance that I need. I long for the moment when he slips on the ring and I become Mrs Bossingham.’

‘Is that his name – Mark Bossingham?’

‘Mark Lindsay Reynolds Bossingham.’

‘I look forward to meeting him.’

Genevieve was about to add a comment when she became aware that she was being watched. People had started to drift off to their cabins and spaces appeared on deck. Ten yards away, leaning nonchalantly against a bulkhead, was a tall, slim, angular figure. When Genevieve turned to look at him, she saw a well-dressed man in his thirties with striking good looks and a faint air of decadence. He gave her a dazzling smile and lifted his top hat to her before sauntering off.

Genevieve was annoyed. ‘That man was staring at us.’

‘No,’ said Blanche with a sigh, ‘he was staring at you. Johnny knows full well that I’m spoken for and, in any case, you’re much more beautiful than I. Johnny picked you out at once but that’s typical of him. He’s a ladies’ man in every sense.’

‘You know him?’

‘Very well. Everyone in my set knows the Honourable Jonathan Killick – though there’s nothing particularly honourable about Johnny, I’m afraid. He’s a complete rake but a very charming one at that. Watch out.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ve obviously caught his eye and that means only one thing.’

‘Does it?’

‘Yes, Genevieve. Like it or not, you’re going to see a lot more of Johnny during this voyage so you may well need me as a bodyguard.’

‘I can take care of myself, thank you,’ said Genevieve politely.

‘Lots of women believe that until they meet Johnny Killick. I was one of them but he almost got through my defences. He can be so amusing when he chooses to be. You’ll soon find that out.’

‘I’ll just have to keep out of his way.’

‘That’s easier said than done. He’s like a shadow. Once he’s chosen his target, he’ll follow you wherever you go.’

Genevieve was alarmed. She could see trouble ahead.

TWO

‘Well,’ he asked, sitting back in his chair, ‘what do you think of her?’

‘She’s a fine ship,’ replied Dillman. ‘No question of that.’ ‘The Oceanic was the pride of the fleet in her day.’

‘Her day is not over yet, by a long chalk.’

‘I’m glad that you approve.’

‘I do, Lester. I’ve been on bigger, faster, and sleeker vessels but none that felt so wonderfully stable. She glides over the waves.’

‘Reserve your judgement until we reach the North Atlantic,’ advised Hembrow, ‘then you’ll see her at her best.’

While the captain was in total charge of the ship, the person to whom George Dillman and Genevieve Masefield were directly answerable was the purser. They could not have found a more helpful and affable colleague than Lester Hembrow, a solid man of middle height with the unmistakable look of a seafarer. The son of a Canadian fisherman, Hembrow had learnt to sail a boat from an early age but he had higher ambitions than simply taking over from his father. He traded life as a deep-sea fisherman for the more secure and structured existence offered by the major shipping companies. Like Dillman, he had started with the Cunard Line but, while still in his thirties, had earned his appointment as a purser with the White Star Line. Hembrow was inordinately proud of the Oceanic.

‘I just love her,’ he admitted. ‘She’s a beauty!’

‘Genevieve and I were certainly impressed when we had our first tour of her yesterday. Harland & Wolff did their usual excellent job. She’s well built and full of character.’

‘Just like my wife.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for that, Lester.’

‘See for yourself,’ said Hembow, cheerfully indicating a photograph on the wall. ‘Kitty is right there.’

They were in the purser’s office, a room to which an endless stream of passengers would come and go throughout the voyage. Hembrow sat behind a desk that had been cleared for action. Occupying a chair opposite him, Dillman looked up at the photograph. It was a picture of Hembrow’s wife and baby son. Kitty Hembrow looked blissfully happy as she beamed at the camera.

‘Are you married, George?’ asked the purser.

‘No, I prefer to stay single.’

‘A roving bachelor, then. Keeping your options open.’

‘Not exactly,’ said Dillman, careful to conceal his true relationship with Genevieve. ‘I just think it would be unfair for someone in my situation to get married when I’d spend so much time apart from my wife.’

‘That was the attraction for Kitty. She has all the benefits of being Mrs Hembrow without having me under her feet seven days a week. Besides, absence really does make the heart grow fonder. I always have the warmest of welcomes when we dock in New York. Still,’ said Hembrow, opening a drawer to extract some sheets of paper, ‘you didn’t come to hear me talking about my family. This is what you want – the list of passengers.’

‘Thank you.’ Dillman took the papers from him. ‘Is it complete?’

‘No, we’ll be taking more people on board in Cherbourg.’

‘Including the illustrious J.P Morgan, I hear.’

‘He’s been on one of his buying expeditions to Paris.’

‘I’m surprised he doesn’t just buy the whole city and have done with it,’ said Dillman with a wry smile. ‘He can afford it.’ He glanced at the list. ‘We’ll take a close look at this.’

‘There’ll be further names to add when we reach Queenstown. Most, of course, will be Irish emigrants, hoping to start a new life in America. Steerage will be filled with O’Rourkes, O’Rileys, and O’Rooneys.’

‘They’ll liven things up down there.’

‘That’s my worry.’

There was a sharp knock on the door and it opened two inches. ‘Fifteen minutes, sir!’ said a man’s voice.

‘Thank you.’ As the door closed again, Lester Hembrow got to his feet. ‘We’ve made good time. Cherbourg already.’

‘Do we know how many passengers will board here?’

‘Over two hundred and fifty.’

‘A sizeable number. By the law of averages, there’s bound to be at least one villain among them.’

Hembrow grinned. ‘I hope that you’re not referring to J.P Morgan.’

‘He’s been called a lot worse than that in his time.’

‘Yes – and I can understand why.’

‘You’ve met him?’ asked Dillman.

‘Face-to-face. He sailed to Europe on the Oceanic and he wasn’t entirely happy about his stateroom. I was sent in to placate him.’

‘And did you?’

‘Not really,’ said Hembrow with a shrug. ‘When he turned those blazing eyes on me, I felt like a rabbit caught in a snare. Don’t you dare upset him, George, or you’ll get that famous look of his as well.’

‘I’ve heard about that from my father.’

‘Have you?’

‘He once had some dealings with Mr Morgan and they did not end altogether happily. My father was given that angry stare,’ recalled Dillman. ‘He said it was quite terrifying – like looking at the lights of an express train coming towards you.’

‘While you’re tied to the railway line.’

‘Yes, he does tend to ride straight over people.’

‘I still have the wheel marks on my chest.’

‘Mr Morgan is an interesting man.’

‘Very interesting.’

‘I hope that I get to meet him.’

‘You may live to regret saying that,’ warned Hembrow.

Cherbourg was a busy port at the tip of the Normandy peninsula and it had profited from the White Star Line’s decision to operate from Southampton. It was not simply a point of departure for European emigrants, it attracted people from the Middle East as well. Among the passengers who huddled in the tenders that brought them out to the Oceanic were Egyptians, Syrians, and Libyans. The sea was fairly calm but it still needed ten members of the crew to stop the gangplank from swaying too much as people clambered aboard. It was early evening, dry but crisp, and the new passengers were wrapped up warmly against the stiff breeze. Up on the promenade deck, in addition to her long winter coat, Genevieve Masefield wore scarf, gloves, and hat. Also in a long coat and fur hat, Blanche Charlbury was at her elbow.

Genevieve was hoping for a first glimpse of J. P. Morgan but her companion had eyes for only one person. Blanche eventually saw him in one of the tenders and she waved energetically. ‘There he is!’ she cried, pointing a finger. ‘There’s Mark. There’s my fiancé. Wave to him, Genevieve.’

‘He doesn’t know me from Adam,’ said Genevieve.

‘Mark! We’re up here, Mark! Can you see us?’

But her voice was drowned out by the general hubbub. Unable to pick out Mark Bossingham in a crowded tender, Genevieve was rewarded with a sighting of the ship’s most famous – and infamous – passenger. She knew that it must be J. P. Morgan because he was the first person to alight from his craft and the crew treated him with great deference. He was a big man in his early seventies, wearing a frock coat and a top hat. From that angle, Genevieve could see nothing of his face but she could feel that he exuded a sense of authority. J. P. Morgan was a presence.

‘Come on, Genevieve,’ said Blanche, grabbing her by the hand. ‘We must go and find him. I’m dying for Mark to meet you.’

‘Perhaps this is not the ideal time.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘No,’ decided Genevieve, gently detaching her hand. ‘You go and welcome him on your own. It’s only right and proper. I’d feel in the way.’

‘But he’ll want to be introduced to you.’

‘And so he will be, Blanche. But not now – later on, perhaps.’

‘I want to show you off.’

‘You’ll have ample opportunity to do that. Your fiancé will not want me there. This is a reunion, after all.’

‘So?’

‘There’s only room for two people – you and Mark.’

‘Oh, there won’t be any hugs and kisses, if that’s what you’re afraid of,’ said Blanche blithely. ‘Mark is rather shy. He hates any public show of affection.’

‘I still think he’d rather see you on your own.’

‘Very well.’

‘In any case,’ said Genevieve, ‘I’ve got to decide what to wear for dinner. I don’t know about you but crossing the Channel has given me a real appetite.’ She patted her friend’s arm. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Both of us.’

‘Yes – both of you.’

Blanche headed for the nearest staircase and Genevieve was able to make her way back to her cabin. Though she was fond of her new friend, she was not quite sure what to make of her. Blanche Charlbury looked and sounded much younger than she was but her adolescent exuberance might simply be a form of defense. Genevieve suspected that she was more intelligent than she appeared to be. One thing was clear. Her parents must have trusted her to let her travel without a chaperone. In some families, the presence of a fiancé on a voyage might be seen as a danger rather than a source of reassurance. Genevieve surmised that Mark Bossingham was a pillar of respectability, immune to temptation, there as Blanche’s protector rather than her future husband and lover.

She remembered her own first voyage. Travelling alone, with every intention of settling in America, Genevieve had been the target for all sorts of unwelcome advances. It was only because she met George Dillman during the crossing that her life was given any direction and she was deeply grateful for that. The irony was that, having at last found the love and protection of a husband, she had to surrender it whenever they worked together on board. To all intents and purposes, she was single and therefore – in the eyes of certain men – available. One such unwanted admirer had already appeared. There would be others.

When she reached her cabin, Genevieve was surprised to see the door slightly ajar. She opened it to find that her stewardess was inside, arranging some flowers in a vase.

‘Oh,’ said the woman, taking a step backward, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am. I should have done this earlier.’

‘Thank you. They brighten up the cabin nicely.’

‘I’ll get out of your way, ma’am.’

‘No, wait,’ said Genevieve, holding up a hand. ‘I always like to see who’s looking after me. What’s your name?’

‘Edith, ma’am.’

‘You don’t need to call me that. Edith, is it?’

‘Edith Hurst.’

‘And where are you from?’

‘Southampton.’

‘A seafaring family?’

‘No, ma’am – I mean, no, Miss Masefield. My father runs the Belvedere Arms. I was born and brought up there. A lot of our customers are sailors. I used to love listening to their stories.’

‘So you ran away to sea?’

Edith nodded and gave a nervous laugh. She was a plump young woman in her early twenties with a plain, round face that was redeemed by dimpled cheeks and a sweet smile. Her uniform was immaculate, her auburn hair well groomed, her manner polite without being in any way obsequious. Genevieve warmed to her at once.

‘You’ll soon get used to my routine,’ she said.

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Make the bed while I’m having breakfast and turn down the coverlet during dinner.’ She looked around. ‘You obviously know how to keep a cabin neat and tidy.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sure that we’ll get on very well.’

‘If there’s anything you need, just give me a call.’

‘I shall, Edith.’ Genevieve appraised her. The stewardess had a willingness to be of service and a visible desire for approval. ‘Do you like doing this job?’

‘Oh, I do. I love every moment of it.’

‘Even though you spend the whole voyage working?’

‘I’m used to that.’

‘How long have you been on the Oceanic?’

‘Six months.’

‘Quite an old hand, then. You know the ropes. Am I right in thinking that dinner on the first night is relatively informal?’

‘That depends, Miss Masefield.’

‘On what?’

‘Whether you’re English or American.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Well,’ said Edith, ‘some of the English passengers treat dinner as a formal affair on every occasion.’

‘You mean that they enjoy dressing up.’

‘That’s one reason, I suppose.’

‘You don’t need to tell me what the others are, Edith. I know only too well. The English do tend to be bound by convention. There are certain men who dress up just to put the cat out.’

‘Are there?’ said the stewardess, eyes widening until she realised that it was a joke. She laughed. ‘Oh, Miss Masefield!’

‘I need to change now.’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you for the flowers.’

‘I’ll water them every day.’

‘Oh, I think I’d enjoy doing that for myself.’

Edith knew it was her cue to leave. ‘Goodbye,’ she said. Then she tripped out of the cabin and closed the door behind her.

George Dillman subjected his steward to much more of an interrogation but he did so in such a casual way that Manny Ellway did not even know that he was being pumped for information. ‘You’ve dealt with American passengers before, I take it?’

‘Lots of them, Mr Dillman.’

‘Then you’ll know that we’re much more demanding than any other kind. We’re brash, bullying, and we always complain like mad.’

‘That’s not true at all.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ve never had the slightest trouble from most of you.’

‘No bad language?’ asked Dillman, feigning surprise. ‘No threats? No hot tempers? No shoes thrown at you?’

Ellway smiled. ‘I think you’re pulling my leg, Mr Dillman.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘You’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t you, sir?’

‘I’m an American. We have no sense of humour whatsoever.’

‘That’s not my experience,’ said the steward. ‘There was a gentleman from Virginia on my last eastbound voyage who told the best jokes I’ve ever heard. That’s what I like about Americans. Most of you seem ready for a good laugh.’

Dillman grinned. ‘At least, we have one thing in our favour.’

‘Lots of them. You give bigger tips, for a start.’

‘Are you dropping a hint, Manny?’

‘No, sir. It’s strictly forbidden.’

‘Not in this cabin.’

Manny Ellway relaxed. He had taken to Dillman at once. For his part, the detective had found his steward a mine of useful detail. Within minutes of meeting him in his cabin, Dillman had discovered the man’s name, place of birth, preferred hobbies, and attitude to the affairs of the day. He had also learnt about the running of the ship, its many virtues and minor shortcomings, and who occupied the adjoining cabins. Dillman’s real purpose aboard was always concealed from most of those working on it so it was important for him to appear to be just another passenger. Manny Ellway, he felt confident, would have him marked down as a pleasant American who liked to tease.

‘How many cabins do you look after?’ asked Dillman.

‘Enough to keep me out of mischief, sir.’

‘Anybody special?’

‘They’re all special to me, Mr Dillman.’

‘Good answer. Now tell me the truth.’

‘That is the truth, sir,’ said Ellway. He took a step closer. ‘Now, if you’re asking me whether some people stick out more than others, that’s a different matter, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘Well, we always have our fair share of characters.’

‘Odd people?’

‘Yes, sir. Like them three who joined us in Cherbourg. They’d stand out in any company. Funny lot, them artists.’

‘Artists?’

‘That’s what he is, sir. Abednego Thomas. He’s very well known in England – always in the newspapers.’ He sounded a note of disapproval. ‘He paints them naked ladies.’

‘They’re called nudes.’

‘I know what I calls them and I’m not sure it’s decent. Mr Thomas has been living in France but he’s going to have an exhibition of his naked ladies in New York. He’s taking two of them with him.’

‘Two nude women?’

‘No, sir. His wife and his model. They’re both very beautiful and years younger than him. You won’t miss Abednego Thomas. He’s the sort of man who makes sure that he gets noticed.’

‘Are you his cabin steward?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you mind?’

‘I’m not paid to mind. I just do whatever I’m told.’

‘Even if it means looking after disreputable English artists?’

‘Mr Thomas is Welsh,’ said Ellway in a tone which suggested that that explained everything. ‘One of the newspapers has given him a rude nickname but I couldn’t bring myself to repeat it.’

Dillman was glad that Manny Ellway was his steward. The man was efficient, courteous, and experienced. He was talkative without being indiscreet and friendly without making any attempt at ingratiating himself. He would be a valuable pair of eyes and ears for the detective.

‘Did you know that J. P. Morgan is aboard?’ asked Dillman.

‘Yes, sir. We was told about him in Southampton.’

‘Why?’

‘So that we can all be on our best behaviour. Mr Morgan owns us.’

‘That’s not strictly true but it certainly wouldn’t be in your interest to upset him in any way. I’m told that he has a temper.’

‘Very true, sir. He’s sailed with us before.’

‘Did someone feel the full force of that temper?’

‘I’m not allowed to pass on gossip, sir.’

‘But it’s taught you to treat Mr Morgan with great respect.’

‘We do that to all our passengers, Mr Dillman. Company policy.’

‘J. P. Morgan is a rather special case, however.’

‘I wouldn’t disagree with that.’

‘Are you his steward?’

‘Bless you – no, sir! I’m not senior enough for that.’

‘Does that make you disappointed or relieved?’

‘Neither,’ said Ellway, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Never really think about things like that. I’m happy to let Sid do the honours.’

‘Sid?’

‘Sidney Browne, sir. Been a steward a lot longer than me and what he doesn’t know about this job ain’t worth knowing. Sid always pretends that he hates the life but he loves it, really. One of our veterans, he is. That’s why he got to keep an eye on Mr Morgan.’

‘A feather in his cap, then.’

‘That’s not the way he looks at it.’

‘Why not?’

Ellway hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, sir.’

‘I don’t think that you can tell me anything about Mr Morgan that I don’t already know or suspect,’ said Dillman, feeling that he might glean some valuable information. ‘My family has had dealings with the gentleman, I fear. We build ocean-going yachts and sailing is one of Mr Morgan’s favourite leisure pursuits. My father was invited to show him the design for a new yacht and that’s when the trouble started.’

‘Didn’t he like it, sir?’

‘Let’s just say that he and my father did not part on the best of terms. Words were exchanged. Whatever you do, don’t mention this to your friend. If he drops the name of Dillman in Mr Morgan’s presence, he’s likely to get a flea in his ear.’

‘I wouldn’t tell anyone a story like that, sir.’

‘I knew that I could trust you.’

‘There’s things you pass on and things you don’t.’

‘As long as we both understand that.’

‘We do, sir.’

Having won his confidence, Dillman felt able to return to his earlier inquiry. He spoke over his shoulder as he was opening a drawer to take out some cufflinks.

‘So why isn’t this Sidney Browne proud of the fact that he’s been selected to serve the most important passenger aboard?’

‘Because he’s worried.’

‘About what?’

‘Them things Mr Morgan has in his stateroom.’

‘Items that he bought in Paris?’ asked Dillman, turning to face him. ‘I know that he collects art treasures from all over Europe. That was the whole purpose of his trip. Mr Morgan donates paintings and objets d’art to various galleries and museums.’ He saw the blank look on Ellway’s face. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Objets d’art are simply artistic objects.’

‘Ah, I’m with you now, sir. Old clocks and fancy statues.’ ‘Antiques of all kind, Manny – including porcelain. I can’t see anything there that’s going to disturb your friend.’

‘Sid feels responsible.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Mr Morgan insists on keeping some of the stuff with him even though passengers are always advised to store anything valuable in our safe. When Sid tried to tell that to Mr Morgan, he just got this black look so he got out of there quick.’

‘What sorts of items are actually in there?’

‘Books, china, tapestries, paintings …’

‘Why does Mr Morgan have them with him?’

‘So that he can enjoy them. He bought them so he wants the pleasure of looking at them while we sail across the ocean.’

‘They should be kept under proper lock and key.’

‘That’s why Sid is so scared – in case anything happens to the stuff. He thinks he’ll be blamed. According to Sid,’ he went on, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, ‘those things are worth a fortune. It’s like Aladdin’s cave in there, sir. What if the wrong sort of person got to hear that there’s a treasure trove just the other side of that door?’

Dillman had already asked and answered that very same question.

THREE

The first-class dining room of the Oceanic