Murder on the Minneapolis (14 page)

A raised male voice to her right brought Flora’s attention to where Gerald glared angrily at Gus Crowe. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

‘I only said that I believe that Parnell chap was a friend of yours. If I was wrong, I apologise. No need to get tetchy.’ Though Crowe’s smirk revealed triumph and little apology.

‘If you hope to get me into strife with the captain, Crowe, you’re out of luck,’ Gerald snapped. ‘We met once under unfortunate circumstances years ago. I hardly recognized the man and he used a different name.’

‘What business did you say you’re in, Gilmore?’ Gus Crowe’s hooded eyes were like slits, as if he knew something no one else did.

‘I didn’t.’ Gerald’s mouth curved into a superior sneer. ‘Export and import mostly, nothing complicated.’ He tossed back the contents of his bouillon cup in one swallow.

‘Gerald wasn’t always in shipping,’ Monica sniffed, as if she disapproved of the way her husband earned his living nowadays. ‘He once dealt in property.’

‘What made you leave that business then, Gilmore?’ Max asked.

‘It was all because of that awful scandal,’ Monica interrupted. ‘When—’

‘That’s enough, Monica,’ Gerald scowled her into silence. ‘I’m sure everyone here doesn’t want to know our entire history.’

‘I was only saying,’ Monica sniffed and buried her nose in her glass.

Embarrassed looks were exchanged all along the line, while Flora sipped her bouillon and pretended she hadn’t heard.

‘Is anyone going to this dance tomorrow evening?’ Cynthia addressed the entire row in what Flora assumed was a diplomatic change of subject.

‘I haven’t quite decided,’ Miss Ames replied. ‘It seems disrespectful after a death on board.’ She tossed the trailing end of her ancient fur stole over her shoulder, releasing a flurry of tiny hairs.

Monica seemed to be considering the question, while Flora remained silent.

‘Well, I’m going.’ Cynthia waved her bouillon cup in the air. ‘I need something to cheer me up. I’m sure most of the other passengers feel the same.’

‘I expect Eloise will agree with you.’ Monica nodded to the figure at the rail. ‘This business has spoiled the voyage for the young people. What about you, Flora? Would a dance be agreeable, do you think?’

‘Humph, disrespectful if you ask me.’ Mrs Penry-Jones said before Flora could answer, her mouth puckered like a chicken.

‘At least the fancy dress theme has been abandoned.’ Gerald spoke between mouthfuls. ‘Makes the prospect slightly more welcoming. Monica would have me decked out as a harlequin if I let her. Bobble hat and all.’

The vision of Gerald’s generous, six-foot frame in a diamond-patterned costume complete with pointed hat, made Flora’s mouthful of bouillon go down the wrong way. She took a rasping breath, which ended abruptly when Bunny obligingly slapped her hard between her shoulder blades.

‘Gerald!’ Monica’s tone conveyed hurt. ‘You look dashing in that costume.’ She turned to Flora. ‘Well, dear. Will you be going?’

‘Not if she has any regard for the way things ought to be done.’ Mrs Penry-Jones raised her voice above the wind. ‘In my day, governesses did not attend dances.’

Flora hesitated, torn between acceptance and attracting more censure from the old lady.

‘Say you will,’ Bunny said, nudging her. ‘I was hoping for at least one dance with you.’

‘I don’t have anything suitable to wear,’ Flora said, embarrassed with the truth of this statement as much as the plea in Bunny’s voice. Even with Lady Amelia’s contributions to her wardrobe, she was hardly equipped for dances.

‘That’s what every woman says,’ Max muttered with some bitterness.

‘Come to our suite after lunch, Flora,’ Cynthia said. ‘I have heaps of dresses, and we are about the same size. I’m sure to have something which will suit you.’

‘Tha-that’s most kind, thank you.’ Flora stammered, taken unawares by both the offer and its source. She glanced at Bunny, who delivered a ‘who would have thought it’ look.

Cynthia gave an elegant little shrug, cast a swift sideways look at Mrs Penry-Jones and winked. ‘Can’t let the old folks have their way every time, can we?’

‘Really!’ The old lady gave a pointed sniff before going back to her bouillon.

T
HE POUNDING OF
feet along the deck announced the arrival of Eddy and Ozzy, both similarly dressed for the weather in layers of jumper, overcoats and flying scarves.

‘What have you two being doing this morning?’ Flora asked.

‘Not a lot,’ Ozzy answered for them both. ‘The deck games have been cancelled due to the high winds.’ He hunched his shoulders in dejection and scuffed the sole of one shoe against the deck. ‘We don’t know what to do now.’

‘Have some hot bouillon,’ Monica suggested, nodding to the steward who had halted a few feet away to serve another group of hardy passengers.

‘Not hungry,’ Eddy said, caught Flora’s hard look and added, ‘thank you, Mrs Gilmore.’ He wandered to the rail and joined Eloise, braced one foot against the lower metal rail and his chin on the top one just as a particularly large wave broached the rail further along the deck.

‘Do be careful, Ozzy.’ Mrs Gilmore’s voice was edged with panic, though her son’s feet were safely planted on the deck.

‘Stop fussing, Monica,’ her husband growled.

‘Perhaps Mrs Gilmore is right, Eddy,’ Flora said. ‘You’re too close to the rail and it’s getting quite rough out there.’

The words had only just left her lips, when a plume of spray leapt the rail and showered both boys, sending them backwards with a combined shriek.

Hands held out to their sides, they laughed at each other’s soaked hair and wet faces.

Laughingly unconcerned, Eloise brushed droplets of water from her clothes, while Max shook his head like a sheepdog.

‘How about we order some hot chocolate?’ Bunny suggested. ‘Don’t need to be hungry for that, do we, boys?’

This order delivered, he enlisted the youngsters’ help in the positioning of two deck chairs.

‘I’m glad I did my exercise early before this wind got up.’ Eloise flopped into an empty steamer chair without bothering to check the label. ‘I need to keep slender for my role. Though this sea air makes banting incredibly difficult.’ She lifted her feet onto the footrest, grinning like a schoolgirl. ‘Is there any hot chocolate for me?’ She simpered at Bunny, who gave a small sigh, pushed his glasses up his nose and waved for the steward.

‘What’s “banting”?’ Flora asked no one in particular.

‘No idea.’ Mr Gilmore blew into his cupped hands, while Gus Crowe shook his head.

‘It’s the limitation of refined carbohydrates to promote weight loss,’ Bunny said as he returned to his seat. ‘Devised by a William Banting in the 1860s.’

‘How knowledgeable you are, Mr Harrington.’ Eloise giggled. ‘I don’t know what a carbo-whatever is, but if I follow the plan, I’ll become more slender.’

‘My mother uses it sometimes,’ Bunny said in answer to Flora’s unasked question. ‘Besides, Miss Lane,’ he
inclined his head in Eloise’s direction. ‘I think you are quite slender enough.’

Eloise saluted him with her cup of chocolate, which Flora imagined must contain enough starch and sugar for the entire day.

‘I take herbal tea to suppress my appetite,’ Cynthia said. ‘When my clothes begin to pinch I swear by it. If you wish, I’ll bring some to your cabin later, Eloise.’

Cynthia stumbled slightly on the name, as if she had to pluck up courage to address her, the impression confirmed when Mrs Penry-Jones glared at her in evident horror.

Eloise stammered her thanks, echoing Flora’s own surprise at Cynthia’s new-found generosity.

‘Perhaps Cynthia’s had an epiphany as to the equality of all God’s creatures,’ Bunny whispered. ‘She normally ignores Eloise, or shoots daggers at her with those beautiful eyes.’

‘She’s not exactly been my best friend, either,’ Flora murmured, making him smile.

‘I hope the crew are keeping a watch for icebergs,’ Max said, apparently bored with the conversation.

‘Aren’t we on the southerly course?’ Gerald said with authority. ‘No
bergy bits
here, I should think.’ He nodded to a woman who hurried past, huddled into her coat with her head down.

‘Did you see that?’ Monica waggled her head at the woman’s retreating back. ‘Gerald acknowledged her quite civilly and she completely ignored him! That’s happened several times recently. Anyone would think one of us had killed Mr Parnell.’

‘Who says he was killed?’ Gus Crowe looked up from his bouillon. ‘The man fell, didn’t he?’

‘It’s human nature to avoid what we regard as a threat,’
Hersch said when no one ventured an answer.

‘Perhaps our German friend reads Freud too,’ Flora said in an undertone.

Bunny rewarded her with a slow spreading smile, while Gerald laughed at something Ozzy said, ruffling the boy’s damp hair.

Ozzy ducked away in mock annoyance, and watching them, Flora’s heart twisted at the man’s easy affection for his son; one which Eddy would benefit from with his own father.

The frequency of waves high enough to jump the rail increased, covering the deck with icy, salt water that swirled and sucked through the gap below the bottom rail.

The tray of empty bouillon cups slid sideways, caught in time by a sprightly steward.

‘I don’t envy the captain up on the open bridge,’ Gerald said. ‘They only have a canvas sheet between them and the weather.’

Flora glanced up to where capped heads bobbed above the canvas sheets, collars pulled up to their ears and hats jammed down.

‘This is a real adventure!’ Ozzy yelled, blinking spray from his eyes, his hair plastered to his forehead.

An officer paused beside them, a hand clamped onto his cap that glistened with spray. ‘The weather is deteriorating, I’m afraid. The captain says we are heading into a nor’easter and everyone should go back inside.’

As he spoke, a squall of rain struck the weather cloths around the open bridge above their heads with a loud hiss.

‘How exciting! Is it a real storm?’ Eloise’s face lit with the anticipation of a child.

‘It is, miss.’ He offered her his arm. ‘As I said, it’s best I get you inside.’

Monica looked askance at Eloise’s flirtatious acceptance of help, possibly because it was not directed at herself.

‘Well, help me up, Gerald,’ she snapped, rising with difficulty on the heaving deck.

Sighing, Gerald hauled her to her feet.

‘It’s a while until luncheon,’ he shouted at Flora over the wind. ‘How about Eddy comes back to our suite?’

‘If you’re sure that wouldn’t be an inconvenience,’ Flora called back, her eyes narrowed against the fine spray that stung her face like needles. She jumped to one side as an empty steamer chair crashed into the one Monica had just left.

‘I’ll get them to the dining room in time for luncheon.’ Gerald threw an arm around each of the boys and they hobbled across the deck like competitors in a three-legged race.

Cynthia struggled to stay upright, encumbered by her heavy coat and several blankets. Max stumbled as he took her arm, the pair locked together as they gained the safety of the interior.

At the door to the lobby, Bunny paused, his gaze strained in the direction of the aft deck.

‘Aren’t you coming inside?’ Flora asked, stepping smartly backwards as a sheet of salt spray landed two feet away.

‘I’m going to check on Matilda first. Make sure she’s tied down.’

‘Couldn’t you ask a crew member to do that?’ Flora asked, as the deck tipped sharply to one side so she had to focus on staying upright. When she looked again he had gone.

Flora staggered towards the staircase lobby, where Crowe stooped to retrieve a book left on a chair by a gentleman in a caped overcoat. The man’s retreating back was still visible on the stairs above, but Crowe made no effort to call out to him, and instead, slid the book into his pocket.

Flora sighed, asking herself again why Eloise spared the odious man any of her time.

Flora made her way to Cynthia’s suite, her finger having barely grazed the doorbell before it was flung open.

‘There you are!’ Cynthia cried, as if she had been lurking in wait. ‘I was about to order coffee for us.’ Cynthia fluttered to the fireplace where she gave the bell an enthusiastic push.

‘That would be very welcome.’ Flora dithered on the threshold, feeling a little like Gretel about to enter the witch’s house.

Immaculately tidy, the suite was a mirror image of Flora’s own, but with not one personal item in evidence. Had she stumbled in there by herself, she would be hard-pressed to place anyone in these rooms.

‘We keep our things in here.’ Cynthia answered Flora’s unasked question, leading her into the unoccupied second bedroom. The beds had been removed, the space taken up with four steamer trunks stacked on their sides. Their front sections stood open to reveal a bank of drawers on one side and rows of gowns, skirts, blouses, undergarments, shawls, scarves and petticoats on the other that were enough to furnish a dressmaker’s showroom.

‘See if there’s anything here you like,’ Cynthia waved her arm in a wide arc. ‘This is such fun, just like school.’

Flora almost told her she didn’t know what that was
like, having never attended one, but changed her mind in case it sounded self-pitying.

‘You have some beautiful things here, Cynthia.’ Her fingers caressed silk, merino wool, muslin and chiffon in pastel shades of primrose, lilac, cornflower blue and ecru with equal awe. Even the Vaughn girls didn’t own so many things, the younger ones not above wearing their sisters’ hand-me-downs.

‘My trousseau,’ Cynthia said. ‘I left most of it behind, though I had to buy a heavier coat than I imagined I would need.’

Flora forced her mouth closed and feigned nonchalance. ‘Was this your first visit to New York?’

‘I was born there, actually.’ Cynthia examined the fingernails of one hand. ‘Mama divorced my father when I was ten. Or he divorced her, I never did find out the reasons behind it. Not something one talks about with one’s parent. Mummy married an Englishman not long after, so I was brought up in London.’

‘Is that why you decided on New York for your honeymoon?’ Flora kept talking, self-conscious that she trawled through another woman’s clothes while the owner watched.

‘Something like that. Though I wish Max had not announced the fact we are newlyweds to the shipping line. Since the moment we stepped onto this ship we’ve been gawped at like specimens under glass.’

‘Don’t you like being the centre of attention?’ Flora discarded an au-de-nil muslin gown as being pretty, but too insipid for her skin tone.

‘It isn’t that. New York was spoiled for me by—’ she broke off at the rattle of crockery. ‘Ah, here are our refreshments.’ She poked her head round the door frame and
called to the unseen stewardess. ‘Just leave it on the table, would you?’

An evocative aroma of fresh, brewed coffee and the chink of cups floated out of the sitting room, followed by the suite door closing again.

‘What about this one?’ Cynthia unhooked a silk gown the colour of poinsettias from the nearest trunk. She frowned, her lips puckered. ‘No, it’s not your colour.’ She returned it to the rail and leaned her hip against the door and her arms folded.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard any more about that man who died? What was his name? Parnell?’ She hesitated on the last word too long for it to be a convincing memory lapse.

‘Why do you ask?’ Flora pretended to examine a blue dress, suspecting Cynthia had been working up to this question since she had arrived.

‘Oh, just idle curiosity.’ Cynthia picked at a cuticle. ‘Some of the passengers have been talking, and well, it seems there may have been something odd about it after all.’

‘Really?’ Flora asked, feeling Bunny would have been proud of her acting ability. ‘What sort of thing?’

‘That Mr Parnell may not have fallen after all.’ The hunted look in Cynthia’s eyes intensified. ‘Max thinks someone is bound to have informed the newspapers.’ Her hand on the doorframe tightened until her knuckles showed white.

‘A death on board is bound to be newsworthy,’ Flora said. ‘Especially if the killer is caught. In which case the police will have to be involved.’

Cynthia’s eyes darkened, then with an effort, she composed herself. ‘Do you like that one?’ She indicated the
aquamarine gown in Flora’s hands. ‘That colour makes me look pasty, but flatters your complexion beautifully. Try it on to make sure it fits.’

Flora obeyed, her questions forgotten as she slipped the gown over her curves and down to the floor, the tight bodice covered with gauzy lace where the silk showed through above a full skirt with a small train.

‘It’s lovely, Cynthia, thank you.’ Flora twisted and turned before a cheval mirror, admiring the way the silk, shot through with silver, caught the light.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll have it pressed and sent to your suite in time for tomorrow. Get changed now and we’ll have that coffee.’ She patted Flora’s arm, before disappearing into the sitting room.

Flora returned the gown to its hanger and pulled on her skirt, fastening the row of side buttons with clumsy fingers. A crackling noise drew her attention to the pocket, from which she drew a slightly crumpled piece of paper. Frowning, she recognized it as the one that had fallen from Parnell’s drawer when she and Eloise searched his stateroom. She had shoved into her pocket when the doorknob rattled and forgotten it.

The New York Times’ banner was printed across the top of the sheet of paper, with a headline below that read
Bridegroom Van Elder Is Dead
.