Murder on the Mauretania (29 page)

_____

Alexandra Jarvis was thrilled to be reunited with Bobo, and the cat expressed his own pleasure freely. When he finished his meal, he leaped up into her arms and let her stroke him again. Lily Pomeroy gave a sentimental sigh and turned to the officer.

“Oh, isn’t that nice!” she cooed.

“Bobo is very fond of your granddaughter.”

“Ally is something of a cat herself. One minute she’ll purr quietly in your lap and the next minute she’s tearing off somewhere as if you never existed.”

Reynolds could not resist the pun. “She’s a real alley cat, you mean?”

The old woman went off into such peals of laughter that Bobo jumped from the girl’s arms in fear and fled along the passageway. Alexandra went after him pleading with him not to run away again. Reynolds stepped out of the cabin with Mrs. Pomeroy to watch the two of them. Bobo relented. Stopping at the end of the passageway, he began to groom himself as if waiting for Alexandra to join him. She walked slowly up to him and reached out, but he was in a playful mood and darted between her feet. When the girl giggled and went after him, he eluded her with ease. The spectators gave indulgent smiles.

“He wants to play games,” said Alexandra excitedly.

“Well, he’ll have to play on his own,” said her grandmother, “because we have to be getting back soon.”

“Oh, not just yet.
Please
, Granny. Five minutes more, that’s all.”

“I’m not sure.” She winked at the officer. “What do you think, Mr. Reynolds?”

“I think we can allow them five minutes together,” he decided, producing a whoop of joy from the girl. “Bobo’s missed her.”

“He has,” confirmed Alexandra, kneeling down so the cat could rub himself against her thigh. “And I’ve missed him. Haven’t I, Bobo?”

“Can I offer you anything while we wait, Mrs. Pomeroy?” asked Reynolds.

“Don’t bother on my account,” she said, almost simpering.

“It’s no trouble. I can rustle up a cup of tea in no time. Unless, of course.” he added, raising an eyebrow. “you’d prefer something a little stronger?”

“Mr. Reynolds!”

“I’ll get you a tot straightaway,” he said, going into the cabin. “I’d love to join you, but my watch starts soon and I can’t be tipsy on the bridge. Come on in for a moment, Mrs. Pomeroy.”

“Thank you,” she said, tickled at the notion of being offered a drink of rum by an attractive officer. “Perhaps we should make that
ten
minutes.”

Bobo wanted more fun. As soon as the adults disappeared, he turned tail and fled in the opposite direction, pausing at the corner to give his friend a teasing look before he vanished. Alexandra sprinted after him at top speed, ready for any game he chose.

“Bobo!” she shouted happily. “Come back here! Bobo!”

The chat with Walter Wymark was brief, but revealing. Dillman quickly realized that the man was not involved in the gold-bullion theft and that the verbal charade he was putting up was meant to mask a different crime altogether. Giving Wymark the impression that he believed what he was being told, he took his leave and walked down to Genevieve’s cabin. When she told him what she had seen from her vantage point, it confirmed his suspicion.

“I think you should take over now, Genevieve,” he suggested.

“It will have to be handled with care.”

“That’s why I’m bowing out.”

She grinned. “What you mean is that under the circumstances, you’re frightened to be left alone with Mrs. Wymark.”

“Let’s just say that this is a job for a woman, Genevieve.”

He gave her a kiss, let himself out and headed for the grand staircase. Dillman was disappointed that his assumptions about Wymark and the others had been proved wrong. At the same time, he was grateful that he had chosen to make the call alone instead of forcing his way into Katherine Wymark’s cabin with armed men in support. That, he now saw, would have been highly embarrassing for all concerned. Intending to report to the purser and apologize for his earlier abrupt departure, Dillman was disconcerted to approach the man’s cabin and see Hester Littlejohn coming out of it. Her expression changed from irritation to pleasure in a flash.

“Hello, Mr. Dillman,” she said. “You’re just the man I want.”

“That sounds ominous, Mrs. Littlejohn.”

“I’ve had the most frustrating interview with Mr. Buxton. I thought the function of the purser was to help passengers, not to keep them at arm’s length.”

“What happened?”

“He refused to give me the information I need.”

“And what’s that?” asked Dillman warily.

“Well,” she said, moving him away from the door, “one of the British journalists—I think it was the correspondent from
The Times
, actually—overheard a lady in first class saying that her gold watch went astray but a woman detective found it for her within a day. I didn’t know there were such things as female detectives.”

“But
you
are one, Mrs. Littlejohn,” he pointed out.

“Not that kind. Who is she, Mr. Dillman?”

“I can’t help you there, I’m afraid.”

“Neither could the purser. He was quite infuriating.”

“Mr. Buxton was only protecting the lady’s identity.”

“But I want to do an interview with her.”

“That would be very unwise.”

“Unwise?”

“And unfair, Miss Littlejohn,” he argued. “You’d break the lady’s cover and that would make her far less effective in her work. In fact, she’d probably lose her job as a result and you, of all people, wouldn’t want to be responsible for that.”

“No, no, Mr. Dillman.”

“If the lady exists—and it’s only hearsay that she does—I’m quite sure she’d prefer to remain anonymous.”

“Like that man who helped secure the anchor in a gale?”

“Exactly like him.”

“That means I have to miss out on
two
exclusive stories,” she complained. “No female Sherlock Holmes and no courageous passenger. On top of that, the purser tells me that not only has the missing cat been found, but that those tools that were taken from the third-class galley turned up out of the blue.”

“I had a feeling they might.”

“What am I to do, Mr. Dillman? I need a theme for my articles.”

“I would have thought that you already have one.”

“Do I?”

“ ‘Unsung Heroines.’ This lady you mention might be one of them, except that you’d jeopardize her position by saying so. But there are other women on board whose work should be celebrated. The stewardesses, for instance.”

“I’ve spoken to all ten of them,” she said, warming to his suggestion. “And to the two matrons. They get the most pitiful wages.”

“Tell that to your readers.”

“Oh, I will. And I won’t pull any punches.”

“Don’t forget to say that none of those women are forced to work on the Cunard Line,” he warned. “They do it by choice, so there must be rewards of the heart that are not reflected in their wage packet.”

“They’re
exploited
, Mr. Dillman,” she insisted.

“Then sing their praises from the rooftops.”

“They do a remarkable job. Each and every one of them.”

“That includes the most important lady of all, Mrs. Littlejohn.”

“Who’s that?”

“The
Mauretania
herself, of course,” he explained. “She’s done wonders under trying conditions. Put her at the top of your list of ‘Unsung Heroines.’ ”

“I’d never have thought of that. Thank you, Mr. Dillman.”

“My pleasure—but I’ll let you go now.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll have to speak to all twelve women again.”

“Why?”

“To check my facts,” she said earnestly. “I always try to fit in a second interview, if at all possible. No matter how meticulous you are, there’s usually something you miss, some tiny but crucial detail that only comes out the second time.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s a good point.”

“And at least, they’ll cooperate. Unlike the purser. He wouldn’t tell me a thing. I still don’t know if that silver cutlery has been recovered yet.”

“Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Littlejohn. You already have your story.”

She nodded and bustled off. Dillman acted on her advice; a second interview was a wise precaution. Instead of going to see Buxton, he headed straight for the master-at-arms cabin. A few minutes later, a penitent Glyn Bowen was being unlocked from his cell. The prisoner was haggard with fear and anxiety. There was no Mansell Price to tell him what to do and say now. He was completely on his own.

“How are you getting on?” asked Dillman.

“It’s miserable in here.”

“You can hardly expect a first-class cabin after what you did.”

“That’s what Mansell reckoned we’d get. A big reward from the purser and a cabin among the toffs. Never thought we’d end up in a cell.”

“Are you sorry for what you did, Mr. Bowen?”

“We were so
twp
,” he admitted. “That means stupid.”

“What drove you to it?”

“Mansell.”

“But what put the idea in his head in the first place?”

“I told you, Mr. Dillman. He’s always been a bit wild.”

“Tell me again,” invited Dillman softly. “Step by step. Give me the details you left out last time. How you stole those tools, for example.”

“That was Mansell’s doing.”

“When did he take them?”

“On Monday,” said Bowen, keeping his voice down for fear his friend would overhear him from the adjoining cell. “The problem was that we couldn’t keep them in the cabin, see? There was nowhere to hide them. If those blokes from Huddersfield didn’t spot them, the steward would when he changed the bed.”

“So where did you hide them?”

“In the cargo hold.”

Dillman was astonished. “The cargo hold?”

“Seemed like the safest place. Mansell opened the lock with his penknife. He’s good at things like that. We stuffed the tools inside.” He shivered: “It was so creepy.”

“Why was that, Mr. Bowen?”

“This cat ran past me in the dark. Made me jump.” He grimaced at
the memory. “Then he did it again when we opened the door to get our tools. He shot out like he was in some race. Even Mansell was surprised by that.”

Dillman’s mind was alight. The team of men who had worked their way through each deck of the vessel had finished up in the cargo hold, but they had been looking for a missing passenger. Since the theft from the security room was undiscovered at that point, they would have had no reason to look for hidden gold bullion, yet where better to conceal it than among the luggage, which would not be moved until they disembarked? Hester Littlejohn’s advice was sound; the second conversation with Glyn Bowen had supplied a new and important detail.

At a signal from Dillman, the master-at-arms eased Bowen back into his cell in order to lock the door again. The Welshman reached out a pleading hand.

“Mr. Dillman!” he called.

“Yes?”

“What will happen to us, sir?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Bowen. It’s not up to me.”

“But you’ll have to give evidence against us, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Dillman, hearing what he was being asked, “and I’ll point out that you were very cooperative. Unlike Mr. Price. That may well be taken as a mitigating factor.”

“What does that mean?”

“It should help you.”

When she was admitted to the cabin, Genevieve saw that Walter Wymark was also there. He gave her a hostile glare but she held her ground. Katherine Wymark took control of the situation and ushered him out. Unperturbed, she offered her visitor a chair, then sat down opposite her with a bland smile.

“I had a feeling you’d call on me sooner or later, Miss Masefield.”

“Did you?”

“Yes,” said Katherine. “You had to take off your mask eventually.”

Genevieve was brisk. “I won’t beat about the bush. You’ve met Mr. Dillman, a colleague of mine. Not long ago, he came to visit you.”

“I wasn’t here when he called.”

“But you were, Mrs. Wymark. He took the precaution of stationing me where I could watch your cabin in case there was a problem. Mr. Dillman was diverted by your husband, who took him into the cabin opposite. I saw you peer out, and I couldn’t help but notice that you weren’t wearing what you have on now,” she said, glancing at the other’s fashionable green dress. “I also couldn’t help observing the furtive way in which Mr. Fenby had to break off negotiations with you.”

Katherine laughed. “Negotiations!”

“I was trying to use a polite word.”

“Use the one that fits the situation, Miss Masefield. Or do you think it will stain that pure English tongue of yours? Go on—say it.”

“Is it necessary?”

“I want to see if you have the nerve to speak it.”

“It’s not a question of nerve,” said Genevieve sharply, “and you know it. The Cunard Line does not condone the use of its vessels for prostitution.”

“Well done!” said Katherine, clapping her hands. “You made it at last.”

“Mr. Fenby came here for an assignation.”

“How do you know, when you weren’t in the cabin at the time?”

“Why deny it, Mrs. Wymark? I saw your husband give Mr. Fenby a key in the lounge. When I followed Mr. Fenby, I also watched him let himself into this cabin. So please don’t insult my intelligence by telling me that you put on a dressing gown simply in order to make Mr. Fenby feel at home.”

“But he’s
not
at home, Miss Masefield. That’s the whole point.”

“Is it?”

“Of course.” A long sigh. “You’re not as worldly as I thought you were.”

Genevieve was blunt. “I think we’ve each disappointed the other.”

“What was that word again?” teased Katherine.

“Mrs. Wymark …”

“Please. Just once more. I like the prim way you say it.”

“Prostitution,” said Genevieve firmly. “Engaging in sexual intercourse
with a man for monetary reward. In your husband’s case, there is the associated charge of procuring and living off immoral earnings.” Katherine laughed again. “I’m glad you find it so amusing, Mrs. Wymark.”

“I just wish you’d hear what you actually said. Engaging in sexual intercourse with a man for monetary reward? That sounds like a pretty good definition of marriage to my ear. The man gets the pleasure, the woman gets the financial security. And as for Walter living off my immoral earnings,” she continued, “why should he do that? He already has a very lucrative business.”