Murder on the Mauretania (10 page)

“Cunard pays as well as anyone else afloat.”

“That’s no excuse, Mr. Dillman. They should give their lowliest employees a decent wage. That’s why I want to find out about the stokers and those other men. What did you say they’re called?”

“Trimmers. Though I’d warn you against a direct approach.”

“Why?”

“The language is a little raw down there, Mrs. Littlejohn. I’m afraid you’d get rather more than a flea in your ear. Stick to the stewardesses,”
advised Dillman. “That’s more of a human-interest story for your readers. There are only ten stewardesses aboard the ship and two matrons, a tiny percentage of the entire crew. Why not examine the women’s role in a male environment? I’d have thought that was worth investigation.”

“I’m ahead of you there,” she said, flipping back through the pages of her notebook. “I’ve got lots of material along those lines. But I’d like something more sensational as well. You know,” she said, grinning happily. “A strike by underpaid laundry stewards. A mutiny among the stokers. Or even,” she added, patting his knee again, “a daring gold-bullion robbery. That would give me the hottest story of all!”

A man’s shadow fell across the door of the security room. A hand reached out to touch the locks in sequence, caressing the last one with affectionate fingers. Every detail of the door was noted with care. It was tested by a shoulder that applied slow but firm pressure. The visitor was content with his findings, and the shadow swiftly flitted away.

EIGHT

D
inner that evening was a much more formal affair in the first-class dining saloon. On the day of departure, there had been no dress code and diners had worn a variety of apparel, from the ostentatious to the dowdy, from the elegant to the downright casual.

Sunday brought an entirely different mood. Evening dress was the norm, and passengers seized the opportunity to put on their finery. While the gentlemen paraded in white ties and tails, the ladies took their most striking gowns from their wardrobes and added a stunning array of diamond brooches, pearl necklaces, ruby rings, gold bracelets, and glittering tiaras with which to set them off. Silk and satin swished the floor as people glided into the room to the strains of the orchestra. Seated at the helm of his own table, the captain was in his best uniform, radiating goodwill. Waiters, too, were at their smartest, taking up their posts with starched and gleaming readiness. The first night on the Atlantic Ocean promised to be a festive occasion in every sense.

Because they were dining in the saloon that evening, Genevieve Masefield agreed to join the five friends she had made on the boat train. Had the invitation been to the regal suite occupied by Donald and Theodora Belfrage, she would have been less willing to accept, and
she was not quite sure of how she would react when the couple did decide to host a dinner party in their cabin.

Genevieve had looked forward to Sunday evening. Apart from the fact that she could keep the saloon under surveillance while appearing to be only one more guest at a table, she had the opportunity to raid her own wardrobe, choosing, after some deliberation, her black-velvet evening gown trimmed with pink and red rosettes. Her hair was swept up at the back and held in position by a comb of black jet edged with silver. Around her neck she wore a silver pendant that gleamed against the soft whiteness of her half exposed shoulders. Admiring herself in the mirror, Genevieve felt for a moment that she was a genuine first-class passenger, but the illusion soon faded when a sharp tap on the door brought her back to reality.

Harvey Denning had come to call for her. She opened the door to be greeted by his smiling face. He gave a courteous bow. There was no sign of Susan Faulconbridge.

“Ah!” he said with an expression of dismay. “I’ve come too late.”

“For what?” she asked.

“To lend assistance to a lady, of course. I rather hoped that there’d be a necklace to fasten or a dress to be hooked at the back. Is there nothing left for me to do?”

“I’m afraid not, Harvey.”

“That’s not what a gentleman likes to hear.”

“It’s what this one has to be told,” she said, running an approving eye over him. “You look as if you were born to wear tails, by the way. A study in elegance.”

“Then I’m a fitting escort for a beautiful lady in a dress that borders on the ethereal,” he complimented, “even if it induces thoughts that are a little more terrestrial. Are you sure there are no final touches I can help you with?” he asked, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper. “I’m known for my deft fingers.”

“It must be all that practice you get at dealing cards.”

“There’s more to life than a game of bridge, Genevieve.”

“I had the impression that life is a game of bridge to you,” she said pleasantly. “You seem so attuned to winning each round. Well, I am ready, as it happens. If you wait a second, I’ll be right with you.”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“We don’t want to keep the others waiting, do we?”

“Oh, dear!” he said with mock horror. “We mustn’t do that.”

While not blind to his defects, Genevieve liked Harvey Denning. He took no offense when she kept him at arm’s length or prodded him with an occasional quip. Even the more caustic assaults by Ruth Constantine only bounced off him harmlessly. Denning was a model of imperturbability, sailing across high society with the same relentless smoothness as the
Mauretania
was cleaving her way across the ocean. After taking a last look at herself in the mirror, Genevieve collected her purse, then let herself out of the cabin. When her escort offered his arm, she took it and they headed for the saloon.

“Incidentally,” he confided, “we’ve all signed a pact.”

“A pact?”

“Not to bait Donald quite so much. Underneath all that pomposity and patriotism, he’s a decent fellow and generous to a fault. Susan, Ruth, and I decided to give him an evening off. I hope you’ll support us.”

“Of course,” she said. “I feel sorry for him. Donald is such a sitting target.”

“There’s so much of him to aim at. I mean, if I were part of the Oxford eight in the Boat Race, there’s nobody whose broad back and strong arms I’d rather have in front of me. Donald Belfrage is a wizard of an oarsman. When it comes to witty conversation, however, his shortcomings are all too visible.”

“Does he really mean to enter politics?”

“There are lesser men warming the benches at Westminster, I assure you.”

“But Donald would be exposing himself to certain ridicule.”

“That’s in the nature of politics, Genevieve,” he said. “Even someone as worthy and dignified as Gladstone was ridiculed—by Queen Victoria on occasion. Not that Donald is exactly out of the Gladstonian mold. Different party, for a start.”

“I’m glad that you’re sparing him tonight,” said Genevieve. “It upsets Theodora very much when you and Ruth snipe at him. It’s so unfair to her.”

“She knows how to get her own back,” he said with feeling.

Before she could ask him what he meant, they found themselves joining the queue that was descending the staircase to the dining saloon. Bright lights illumined a scene of shimmering privilege and the air was charged with the accumulated scents of delicate perfumes. Evening gowns of every cut and color moved ahead of them in a graceful line. Genevieve noticed the exquisite hairstyles, the sequined purses, the costly jewelry, the random fans, and all the other feminine accessories that had been carefully packed for the voyage. Even the most shapeless bodies and the plainest faces were given a decided luster by a well-chosen evening dress and a diamond necklace, especially when thrown into prominence by the black-and-white standardized attire of the gentlemen. It was the sort of occasion for which the dining saloon had been expressly designed.

When they entered the room itself, Harvey Denning gave her a gentle nudge. “Don’t look now, Genevieve,” he warned, “but there’s your lumberjack.”

“Where?”

“Swinging his ax at that side of beef.”

“Don’t be so unkind. Mr. Delaney is a cultured man.”

When she caught sight of him, Genevieve saw that Orvill Delaney was talking to a short, compact young man with thinning hair that was slicked straight back over his skull. Delaney looked sleek and prosperous. Sensing that he was being watched, he glanced up to give Genevieve a welcoming smile. Someone else at the same table then commanded her attention. Denning supplied another nudge.

“That’s Katherine Wymark,” he said.

“You
know
her?”

“I know of her, Genevieve. But then, I make it my business to find out about any woman as gorgeous as that. One never knows when one might need a new bridge partner. I’ve had to rule the divine Mrs. Wymark out, alas, because there is a Mr. Wymark to be taken into account.” He breathed in heavily through his nose. “At a guess, I’d say that the fellow was a rather possessive type.”

Genevieve made a swift assessment of the husband. He was not at all what she had expected. Twenty years older than his wife, Wymark
was a rather ugly man with a short body whose shoulders seemed too wide for his coat. Silver hair lent him an air of distinction that was vitiated by the grim set of his jaw and the piggy eyes. Katherine Wymark was the unrivaled cynosure in a magnificent turquoise-silk evening gown perfectly tailored to display her shapely body. A diamond necklace glinted in the light from the chandeliers. She was in her element, even outshining the Princess de Poix, who sat beside the captain in regal splendor. Katherine smiled serenely at all around her, but her left arm was securely anchored by her husband’s strong hand.

“He must have money,” decided Denning cynically.

“Do you know his name?” asked Genevieve.

“Walter. Walter Wymark.”

“His wife seems very attached to him.”

“By invisible chains.”

They were sharing a table for six in the lower half of the saloon. The last to arrive, they settled down with the others and joined in the general exchange of compliments about appearance and dress. Susan Faulconbridge had chosen a rather daring evening gown of white satin, revealing chubby arms and sufficient of her full breasts to collect curious glances from passing diners. Ruth Constantine, by contrast, had made little concession to fashion or allure. Her plain black dress, with its high neck and puffed sleeves, was serviceable rather than attractive. Whereas Susan wore a string of pearls, Ruth spurned jewelry of any kind, yet the very severity of her appearance gave her an almost dramatic quality.

It was Theodora Belfrage who had taken the greatest pains. Her hair was neatly braided, curled up atop her head and held in place by a series of pins concealed beneath a diamond tiara. The silk evening gown, of a blushing-pink hue that suited her perfectly, had a tight waist to emphasize her slim frame, and a full skirt. Theodora seemed to have put on the entire contents of her jewelry box for the evening. Admiring her porcelain beauty, Genevieve could see what had drawn Donald Belfrage to her. By the same token, she could understand his appeal for her more easily. White tie and tails flattered his muscularity and gave him an almost stately air. This was his world.

Champagne was ordered and a general survey of the menu took
place, all six of them making, then revoking, decisions as alternative dishes tempted their palates. Though contributing to the genial badinage, Genevieve kept glancing around the saloon to watch developments at other tables. Orvill Delaney was still chatting to the young man beside him, and Katherine Wymark was exchanging pleasantries with a tall figure who had paused on his way to the other side of the saloon. Genevieve recognized him as the bearded man who had been in the lounge earlier with the American woman. Walter Wymark was no possessive husband now. Grinning up at the newcomer, he treated the man with a mixture of respect and affection, cheerfully waving him off when the latter withdrew to his own place, then leaning over to place a fond kiss on his wife’s cheek.

As interesting as she found this marital exchange, Genevieve dismissed it from her mind when her gaze drifted across to the captain’s table. As well as the Princess de Poix, Sir Clifton and Lady Robinson, and Prince Andre Poniazowski, the guests included an Oxford professor and his wife, a wealthy American industrialist, and a French diplomat, but it was none of these who startled Genevieve. It was the presence of Mrs. Dalkeith in the party, holding her own with assurance and wearing a gown of black taffeta that matched the black ribbon in her hair. What made Genevieve sit up was the sight of something on the old lady’s left wrist. As Mrs. Dalkeith extended an arm to reach for the menu, the object was unmistakable. It was a gold watch.

Dressed for dinner, George Porter Dillman sat at the small table in his cabin and pored over a list of second-class passengers. Four of them had been the victims of a robbery since they had been aboard. Apart from the money taken from two cabins, everything else that was stolen was made of silver. Even the purse that went missing had silver sequins on it, and according to its owner, Mrs. Dobrowski, it contained a small, silver-backed mirror.

The name of Max Hirsch automatically suggested itself, but there were mitigating factors. When the detective had glimpsed the man on the previous night, Hirsch had been ascending a companionway to the deck above, yet none of the four victims had cabins on that level. Had the thefts already taken place when the putative thief was sighted, or
did they occur later, in the dead of night? Everything turned on the assumption that Hirsch was responsible for the crimes. Dillman decided that he should keep a more open mind. The two Welshmen who had strayed out of steerage still had to be interviewed, though he was fairly certain that they could be discounted. A passion for collecting silver seemed improbable in two former coal miners.

Dillman was about to put the list away when another name slipped into the equation. Hirsch claimed that he had merely been going up on deck to take a stroll in the night air, but why had he used a narrow companionway when he could have climbed the grand staircase? Why, in fact, had he gone to the upper deck at all when he could more easily have stepped out onto the main deck, the same level on which his cabin was located? The answer sent Dillman’s index finger tracing its way down the alphabetical list until it reached the name of Agnes Cameron. Not only was her cabin on the upper deck, it was, he now learned, situated conveniently near the top of the companionway that Hirsch had tripped up with such alacrity. Again, the man had been wearing a thick overcoat at the time, hardly the preferred costume of a thief who was scouring the interior of the vessel. Could it be that Max Hirsch was simply on his way to an hour under the stars with the impressionable Mrs. Cameron? Dillman was confused.

After popping the list into a drawer, he left the cabin and went along to the second-class dining saloon. Dress was less formal there than in first class, but that had not prevented the ladies from looking their very best or stopped some of the men from reaching for their white ties and tails. As he stepped into the room, Dillman was aware of a distinct sense of occasion. The room was filled with contented passengers, determined to savor every moment of their first evening on the waters of the Atlantic. Menus were being consulted, dishes ordered, toasts given, glasses clinked, anecdotes circulated, and new friendships formed.

A place had been kept for Dillman at a long table that the Jarvis family was sharing with six other people. Making apologies for his delay, the detective took a seat between Alexandra and her grandmother. The girl was wearing a floral dress that had been ironed for the occasion; her brother, Noel, was in a gray-flannel suit, and her
parents had settled for a nondescript smartness. Lily Pomeroy provided the color and vivacity. Wearing a voluminous purple skirt of dotted muslin net, she also had on a white-silk blouse with a profusion of buttons down the front of it, peeping out from beneath a jacket of mustard-hued brightness. The string of false pearls around her neck was so tight that it was partially obscured by her double chin and fleshy jowls. Whenever she moved, her jacket gave off a pungent whiff of mothballs.