Murder on the Minneapolis (18 page)

‘Eloise told me her husband’s name was Theo, and he had died. I didn’t see the clipping until this morning.’

‘Before she was killed?’ Captain Gates asked.

‘Well, yes, but I didn’t realise its relevance then. I still don’t. Then there was the bracelet.’

‘What bracelet?’ Hersch’s eyes sharpened.

Flora looked from the German to Officer Martin and back again. ‘Eloise had a gold bracelet with an inscription that said:
To E on our wedding day, T
.’

‘We found no bracelet,’ Hersch said, flicking a look at the captain.

‘You must have.’ Restless, Flora half rose, though there was no room to pace with five adults occupying the cramped cabin, so she relaxed back onto the chair again. ‘It was in her handbag. A plain, gold band about half an inch thick with a safety chain. I told you about it.’ She twisted in her seat to include Bunny, who nodded.

‘She did mention it. I can verify that.’

‘Did you actually see this bracelet, Mr Harrington?’

‘Well, no, I—’

‘I didn’t imagine it!’ Flora snapped. ‘Whoever killed Eloise must have taken it.’

Officer Martin resumed scribbling.

W
HEN
F
LORA
EXPRESSED
her intention of ordering dinner for herself and Eddy in their suite, this suggestion had been roundly vetoed by Mr Hersch. ‘We would rather you carried on as normal, Miss Maguire. You may hear something in the dining room; a detail that would not be revealed in an interview situation.’

‘Am I an integral part of the investigation now?’ she had asked, a brow raised in challenge.

‘You always have been, my dear,’ Captain Gates added in his half-amused way.

‘Eddy is fine,’ Bunny assured her for the fourth time as they approached the dining room. ‘He’s much happier being with Ozzy and the other boys, and it beats brooding alone with you.’

‘He was quite reserved earlier,’ Flora said. ‘I’m sure he’s more upset than he says. He liked Eloise.’

‘He didn’t really know her.’

‘It seems none of us did,’ Flora said under her breath, directing a nod at the steward who bowed them into the crowded room. ‘I hope there won’t be any unkind gossip about how Eloise’s choice of profession decided her fate. I couldn’t bear that.’

Bunny squeezed her hand that rested on his forearm. ‘If the conversation gets too gruesome, I’ll redirect it.’

‘No, don’t do that. Mr Hersch is right, we may hear something interesting.’

The other diners had assembled by the time they arrived, all but Mr Hersch, whose chair remained empty.

Conversation was slow to gain momentum, often forced in places. Responses to bad jokes were overly enthusiastic, while an undercurrent ran beneath the smiles and polite requests to pass the water jug or the salt.

Gerald and Monica were unusually quiet and avoided each other’s eyes. Miss Ames had abandoned her rainbow hues for a slate grey skirt and white blouse, both of which accentuated her sallow complexion. Gus Crowe lounged carelessly in his chair, but even he looked subdued and barely spoke.

‘I’m surprised to see her,’ Bunny whispered, nodding to where Cynthia made her way slowly to the table, stopping now and then in response to comments she either returned with a brief word or waved away. Poised and lovely as ever, Flora judged her to be slightly diminished somehow, her eyes red-rimmed beneath a layer of make-up.

She had barely sat down before Miss Ames asked in an almost funereal voice, ‘How is your poor husband, my dear?’

‘In some pain still, and very tired,’ Cynthia replied dully. ‘He was asleep when I left.’ The waiter slid a salad in front of her but she poked desultorily at it with no apparent appetite.

‘Sick rooms can be very wearing, can’t they?’ Miss Ames folded her hands on the table and addressed them like a public meeting.

‘However, we cannot simply sit here and make no reference to what has happened. Miss Lane sat right here with us mere hours ago.’

Mrs Penry-Jones cast a vague gaze at her companion. ‘We don’t trouble ourselves with the affairs of such people, do we, Hester?’

‘No, Mrs Penry-Jones.’ Hester’s cheeks pinked, but her hands remained steady.

‘It’s not as if we can even get away.’ Monica’s voice held slight panic. ‘I mean, in a hotel we could simply leave, but here—’

‘No, we couldn’t,’ Gus Crowe said, drawing all eyes toward him. ‘In a hotel we would all be under house arrest. The police would insist on it. We’re all suspects after all.’

‘Did anyone here know that German fella was a detective?’ A low murmur of dissent greeted Gerald’s enquiry, along with several shaken heads.

‘Why will no one tell us what actually happened to poor Eloise?’ Miss Ames’s voice rose. ‘That nice young second officer would only say she had been discovered dead in her stateroom.’

‘I heard she was strangled.’ Monica pressed a hand to her throat. ‘What with Mr Parnell possibly being murdered too, at this rate we’ll all be slaughtered in our beds.’

‘Don’t be melodramatic, woman, Parnell wasn’t murdered.’ Gerald signalled to the waiter to bring him another drink, though he had barely touched his food. ‘If one listens long enough to shipboard gossip, you’ll hear she was bludgeoned, poisoned, drowned and had a heart attack.’

Gerald glanced at his wife’s plate, sighing. ‘Monica, dear,’ he dragged out the words in barely restrained
annoyance, ‘What is the point of picking mushrooms out of a beef stroganoff?’

Monica grimaced, but continued to discard the offending items onto the side of her plate.

Flora picked at her poached salmon with a hand that shook slightly, but said nothing. Her chest had started to hurt. How could they talk about Eloise dying in the same breath as mushrooms? Although maybe Mr Hersch was right and allowing everyone to gossip was a good thing. It could also explain why he wasn’t here.

‘Racy ladies, these actresses.’ Gus Crowe waved his fork in mid-air. ‘Perhaps it was an assignation that went wrong.’ His gaze swung to meet Flora’s, returning her scowl with a slow wink.

Flora ground her teeth in mute anger, but was for the moment trapped. Theatrical exits weren’t de rigour for governesses, leaving her to fume silently at the callous way he spoke of a woman he professed to be attracted to. Besides, she owed it to Eloise to stay and discover what she could.

‘Somewhat inappropriate, old chap.’ Bunny appeared to sense Flora’s discomfort and frowned at Crowe across her lap. ‘Miss Lane is barely cold.’

‘Sorry.’ Crowe gave a light-hearted shrug but didn’t seem at all apologetic. ‘Didn’t mean to offend and all that.’

‘Mr Crowe could have a point,’ Hester said. ‘Miss Lane was over-familiar with the officers. Maybe it was one of them?’ Her attention focused on the cube of meat she brought slowly to her mouth.

Flora frowned, wondering if this was true. She had never seen Eloise behave with more than friendliness towards everyone, except perhaps Gus Crowe, which was still a mystery. The man was certainly attractive, in an
oily, ingratiating way, but he made no attempt to hide an underlying sleaziness.

‘My stewardess,’ Miss Ames began conspiratorially. ‘Said Miss Lane was found lying on her bed, quite blue and with her tongue hanging out of her mouth.’

‘There, you see, strangled.’ Monica turned a triumphant gaze on Gerald, but he wasn’t looking in her direction.

Flora’s hand tightened on her glass until she was in danger of breaking it, then jumped when Bunny told her she had failed to respond to a request to pass the butter.

At her murmured apology, he passed the dish along for her, then squeezed her hand on the table top.

Flora recalled Hersch’s comment that their companionship had not gone unnoticed, so although his touch was comforting, she made an effort not to study Bunny’s face when he spoke, or return his brief, concerned smiles with betraying ones of her own.

‘Weren’t you planning to visit Eloise’s cabin this afternoon, Mrs Cavendish?’ Hester asked, her voice falsely subservient. ‘Something to do with an herbal tea, wasn’t it?

Cynthia jerked her fork, smearing mustard onto the tablecloth. ‘I-I did, yes. But there was no answer to my knock. The commotion on the deck below distracted me, and when I realized it was Max down there, I—’ She halted as if she had come up against some mental image that was too horrible to bear, and shook her head to dismiss it.

Hester went back to her food, apparently unmoved. Flora couldn’t decide if her apathy was a case of a plain woman who could not bring herself to regret the passing of a pretty one, or something else.

‘I suppose now he’s Gates’s best buddy, he’s too grand
to eat with us anymore.’ Crowe nodded to the figure of Mr Hersch as he came through the door. ‘Oh no, my mistake, here he comes. Watch what you say, everyone.’

‘Apologies for my late arrival.’ The German’s amiable gaze settled briefly on each face in turn as he took his chair.

‘Are you really a Pinkerton’s detective?’ Miss Ames asked before the German’s rear had connected with the seat.

‘I am, dear lady.’ He cleared his throat before requesting someone pass him the water jug.

‘You might have been a bit more forthcoming,’ Gerald snapped as he handed it over.

‘I agree,’ Miss Ames added. ‘We would have felt safer had we known you were on board.’

‘Don’t see how.’ Gerald gave a derisive snort. ‘We still have two dead bodies and no idea who the murderer is.’

‘Everyone on board will be investigated fully in due course.’ Mr Hersch nodded to the waiter who had delivered his dinner. ‘The perpetrator will be discovered, I assure you.’

‘Are you suggesting it was one of us, Mr Hersch?’ Mrs Penry-Jones looked up sharply. ‘I hope you know most of us here were playing bridge when it happened. Except Cynthia of course, she was with dear Max who was being tended by the doctor.’ She turned a burning gaze on Flora. ‘Come to think of it, Miss Maguire, you left the library in something of a hurry. Where were you all afternoon?’

Flora frowned, not so much at the old lady’s accusatory tone, but her reference to Cynthia’s husband as ‘dear Max’ when she couldn’t recall them ever having a conversation.

‘I can vouch for Miss Maguire’s movements, Mrs
Penry-Jones.’ Bunny answered for her. The words ‘If they are any of your concern’ hung in the air.

‘I’ll wager you can,’ Gerald said with a knowing grin.

Miss Ames supressed a chuckle, though not quick enough to conceal the glint of mischief in her eyes.

‘Miss Lane was with us on deck before luncheon. Then the storm became quite fierce and the steward warned us to go back inside,’ Monica said. ‘I don’t recall seeing her after that.’

‘We all know what Max was doing.’ Gerald raised one cynical eyebrow. ‘Trying not to drown.’ Cynthia winced and Gerald leaned toward her. ‘Forgive me, my dear. I meant nothing by it. One needs to keep a sense of humour about these things.’

‘I thought I saw Eloise at luncheon.’ Crowe gave up his attempt to attract a waiter and filled his wine glass himself. ‘But it was a buffet and everyone was moving around a lot, so I might be wrong.’

‘I saw her on deck on my way to the bridge tournament,’ Hester volunteered, flushing as all eyes turned towards her. ‘She was at the rail, just staring out to sea.’

‘In that storm?’ Gerald snapped. ‘A tiny thing like Eloise could have been washed overboard.’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow at the detective. ‘Ah, but that isn’t what happened, was it?’

Hersch didn’t acknowledge his remark, remaining stoically stiff-lipped.

‘I-I may have been wrong in that case,’ Hester said. ‘But I thought it was her at the time.’

‘Enough of this murder talk.’ Gus Crowe tossed his napkin onto the table beside his plate. ‘I’m off to the bar. If anyone is in the mood for poker, feel free to join me.’

The evening mist split like curtains being pulled aside to reveal a sea as dark as oil. Flora stood at the rail beside Bunny and hugged her wrap tightly around her shoulders against the cool air.

She appreciated his ability to sense when she wanted to talk and when she preferred silence; a rare skill and one of the things she liked about him. If only she could forget that impulsive embrace as completely as he had.

A rising moon lit a cloud bank pearly grey, while the wind struck a note in the rigging. The steady whoosh of the sea far below worked magic on her nerves, but a parade of images still marched through her head. The worst ones, like Eloise lying dead, she drove down, while examining the less disturbing more closely; Eloise’s smiling face as they sat on her bed after they invaded Parnell’s stateroom, the palpable fear in her eyes when Flora had told her about the photograph. She hadn’t wanted the German to see it. Why? To keep her marriage to Theodore van Elder a secret? The only reason she could think of for that, was Eloise had, in fact, been involved in her husband’s death?

‘We didn’t learn anything new tonight, did we?’ she said, disappointed.

‘No, I suppose not.’ Bunny nodded to an officer who saluted them as they passed. ‘Maybe Hersch spotted something. He’s the expert, after all. What are you thinking about?’ he added, then caught her expression. ‘Sorry. Silly question.’

‘I know it doesn’t look good, but I still cannot see Eloise as a killer.’

‘She left New York in a hurry and in disguise, which some might see as the action of a guilty person.’

‘She wasn’t guilty, she was frightened. She certainly didn’t deserve what happened to her. I cannot stop
thinking that while we were compiling telegrams, Eloise was being brutally stabbed.’ Flora brought her hand down hard on the rail, sending a sharp pain into her wrist.

‘How could you have known someone would kill her?’ Bunny’s arm brushed her shoulder and sent a rush of warmth through her. His breath fanned her cheek, turning her insides to water. ‘I don’t want you to feel guilty about Eloise,’ he whispered. ‘We must trust Hersch to live up to the Pinkerton Detective Agency’s reputation.’

‘What do you know about Pinkerton’s?’ At that moment she couldn’t care less about some detective agency, it was enough simply to be the entire focus of Bunny’s attention. Even in this low light, the sprinkle of freckles across his nose were clearly visible.

‘Pinkerton was a Scotsman.’ He removed his glasses and gently polished them with a handkerchief, another habit of his she was growing used to. ‘In the 1850s, his agency guarded President Lincoln on his way to his inauguration in Baltimore. They even foiled an assassination attempt. For years they were regarded as strike-breaking thugs, employed by businessmen who objected to their employees making demands about their working conditions.’

‘That sounds more like muscle for hire,’ Flora said. ‘What did that have to do with solving crimes?’

‘Very little.’ He held up the spectacles as an indication he hadn’t finished before putting them back on. ‘Then in the 1870s, the president of the Philadelphia Railroad feared the activity of the coal mine trade unions would reduce his profits. Pinkerton’s agents infiltrated a mining organization called, coincidentally, the Molly Maguires, and as a result, over twenty members were executed.’

‘My goodness, that’s awful.’

‘Perhaps, but the Mollys weren’t entirely innocent. They did their share of violence, so it was justice of sorts. After that, employers threatened by the unions paid Pinkerton’s to infiltrate and disrupt their meetings. They didn’t spare the sap, either. A lot of heads got broken in the process.’