Murder on the Mauretania (4 page)

“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 paneled 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 realized 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.”

FOUR

M
aurice 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 inquiry 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 shortchange 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 center. 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, traveling in steerage. Facilities are a little more spartan for them.”

“Yet a big advance on what they used to be,” argued the other. “When I joined my first ship—not a Cunard vessel, by the way—
steerage passengers were treated like cattle. No comforts, no trimmings, no privacy. They had to sleep in those awful open berths. I met some who actually stayed on deck throughout the entire voyage to escape the cramped conditions down below. Imagine that. Sleeping out under the sky.”

They paused when they reached a corner. Lips pursed, Dillman was somber. “Ironic, isn’t it?” he mused.

“What is?”

“The immigrants are leaving Britain because they can’t make a decent living there. In their eyes, America is the land of opportunity. It’s a cruel mirage,” he said ruefully. “Hundreds of people in steerage are braving this voyage in the hope that they’ll find the streets of New York paved with gold.”

“Instead of which, New York is having to import the gold from us.”

“Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

The purser was businesslike. “I’m not paid to cry into my handkerchief, Mr. Dillman,” he said briskly. “My job is to see to the welfare of the passengers, whichever part of the ship they’re traveling in. Once we get to New York, they’re on their own. From a commercial point of view, westbound immigrants are a godsend to us in the cutthroat world of transatlantic travel. Traffic has peaked this year. Cunard made well over a million pounds taking them to the New World, and we’re duly grateful. But they went of their own volition,” he emphasized. “All that we can do is get them there. Don’t ask us to improve their lives as well.”

The four-berth cabin was on the lower deck at the forward end of the ship. Not only could they hear the muffled roar of the engines, they could feel the vibrations as the ship powered its way across the Irish Sea. Glyn Bowen, a short, dark, thickset man in his twenties, lay on the top bunk with his eyes wide open. He gave an involuntary shiver.

“Mansell,” he whispered. “You still awake?”

“How can I sleep with that bloody noise going on?” complained Mansell Price in the bunk below him. “We might as well have had a berth in the boiler room.”

“At least it would have been warm there.”

“
Diu!
I can’t stick this for five days, Glyn. It’s worse than being down the pit. I didn’t realize it was going to be so primitive in steerage. I mean, I didn’t expect the Ritz Hotel, but this is terrible. Sharing a tiny cabin with complete strangers.”

“What if those strangers had been two gorgeous women?”

“That would’ve been different, mun,” said Price with a laugh. “All four of us could’ve kept ourselves warm then. No such luck, though. We got shoved in here with those two drunken idiots from Huddersfield.”

“They’re not too bad, Mansell.”

“Wait till you’ve spent a night with them.”

“Why?”

“Because you won’t get a wink of sleep. I know their type. Selfish morons, the pair of them. No consideration for others. Talk, talk, talk. And if that old man plays his mouth organ in here again, I’ll ram it down his bloody throat.”

“Hey, calm down,” said his friend.

“How can I stay calm when someone is playing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in my ear? Doesn’t the old fool know any other tunes? It wouldn’t be so bad if he could play a few Welsh songs on that mouth organ, but ‘Auld Lang Syne!’ Makes me want to puke.”

Mansell Price was a tall, muscular young man with a rugged face animated by blazing brown eyes. Like his friend, he bore the legacy of years spent in the coal mines of South Wales. His forehead, body, and arms were flecked with the blue scars of a miner, but the deeper gashes were in his soul.

“It’s got to work, mun,” he insisted.

“What has, Mansell?”

“This, of course. Going to America. Starting afresh. Trying to make something of ourselves. It’s got to work, Glyn. We can’t go back to the Rhondda with our tails between our legs. I’d rather die than do that.”

“Me, too.”

“I just wish we’d got off to a better start.”

“Could be worse.”

“What’s worse than sharing a cabin with two drunks and a mouth organ?”

“Sharing one with even more people,” said Bowen reasonably. “They’ve got six-and eight-berth cabins. Some are probably bigger than that. Hey, they might even have a fifteen-berth,” he added, brightening at the thought. “Wouldn’t it be great to share that with the rest of the boyos in the rugby team? We could shut out the noise of those propellers with a chorus of ‘Men of Harlech.’ ”

“I’m going to shut them out right now,” decided Price, hauling himself out of his bunk. “Come on, Glyn. Get dressed. We’re out of here.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere to escape this pandemonium. Up on deck, if need be.”

“It’ll be freezing up there.”

“Then we’ll explore the
Mauretania
and see if she’s all she’s cracked up to be. Yes,” he said, warming to the idea, “we might even take a look at parts of the ship we’re not allowed to go in. One thing about miners—we know how to find our way around in the dark. Hurry up, Glyn,” he ordered, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “Let’s have an adventure, shall we?”

Mansell Price reached for his trousers and clambered into them eagerly.

* * *

An extension of the grand staircase, the second-class lounge was on the boat deck aft. The room was paneled in teak and had gracious blue curtains and carpets. Its furniture was tasteful, its fittings eye-catching. Though it lacked the opulence of the first-class lounge, it offered Genevieve Masefield plenty to admire during her wait. Most of the passengers had retired, but there were still a few hardy spirits ensconced alone in chairs or deep in discussion with friends. George Porter Dillman glided in, sat down beside her, and apologized for the delay in his arrival.

“The purser wanted to show me the gold bullion;” he explained.

“Did he give you a free sample?”

“No, unfortunately. And I probably wouldn’t have been able to carry it if he did. The bars are all sealed up in heavy boxes. Still, how are things with you, Genevieve?”

“Oh, I’m enjoying myself,” she said with a smile.

“I’m sorry that you have to come down the social scale into second
class, but I thought this would be a good place to meet. Being seen here with me won’t compromise your position among the wealthier passengers.”

“What about your position, George?”

“Right now it’s just about perfect.”

He gave her a warm smile and let his affection show for a second. Genevieve replied with a twinkle of her eyes, then gave him an account of her experiences so far on the ship. Dillman listened intently, pleased with what he was hearing.

“You’ve made a good start,” he concluded. “You’re accepted by that party in a way that I could never be—especially not by this Donald Belfrage. He obviously hates Americans. What does he think is wrong with us?”

“You’re not English.”

“Some people might find that appealing.”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” she said with mock reproach. “Yes, I seem to have got off on the right foot, and Susan actually told me that I was one of them now. What worries me is that they may envelop me so much that I can’t do my job properly.”

“Ration the amount of time you spend with them, Genevieve.”

“That’s easier said than done. Susan Faulconbridge hardly left my side all evening, the Belfrages insist that I dine in their suite, and Harvey Denning looks as if he might suggest an even more intimate get-together.”

“What about this Ruth Constantine?”

“Ruth is the one that intrigues me,” she said, wrinkling her brow. “The other four seem to be birds of the same feather—denizens of high society collecting a maiden voyage on the
Mauretania
in the same way they collect Ascot or Henley or any other event where it’s important to be seen. Their life seems to be one long party, interrupted by an occasional game of bridge. That’s not a criticism, by the way. Given the chance, I could probably take to it myself.”

“Could you?” he said doubtfully.

“For a short while, anyway.”

“Tell me more about Ruth.”

“There’s not much to tell, George, except that she’s the brightest and
wittiest of them. She’s also the only one who can put Harvey Denning in his place, and that takes some doing. He’s incorrigible. He almost glories in the fact that he’s a kind of parasite. As for Ruth,” she judged, “she doesn’t really belong with them, and yet they’d be lost without her. It’s curious. I can’t make it out.”

“Well, don’t spend too much time trying to fathom Ruth Constantine,” he advised, “or you’ll be diverted from your real purpose on this voyage. Use your new friends as a useful camouflage but spread your net much wider.”

“I will. Just like you.”

“No, Genevieve. Don’t copy me.”

“Why not?”

“You have to develop your own methods.”

“But you set such a good example, George,” she said with an approving smile. “When I first met you on the
Lusitania
, I’d never have guessed that you were a detective working for Cunard. You blended in so easily.”