The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (17 page)

She blinked, or winked, at me. “Mr. John Smith, no doubt. Are you in first class?”

“I am. And you are an American, judging by the sound of your accent.”

“I thought you could tell from my red hair.”

I smiled. “Do all Americans have red hair?”

“The ones that are in trouble seem to. Sometimes I think it's my red hair that gets me in trouble.”

“What sort of trouble could one so young have gotten into?”

Her expression changed and in an instant she was coldly serious. “There's a man on board who's been following me, Mr. Holmes.”

The sound of my own name startled me. “You know me, Miss Collier?”

“You were pointed out by one of the ship's officers. He was telling me about the famous people on board—John Jacob Astor, Benjamin Guggenheim, Sherlock Holmes, and many others.”

I laughed. “My life's work has hardly been comparable to theirs. But pray tell me of this man who follows you. We are, after all, on shipboard. Perhaps he only strolls the deck as you do yourself.”

She shook her head. “He was following me before I boarded the ship at Cherbourg.”

I pondered this news. “Are you certain? One does not suddenly board the maiden voyage of the
Titanic
because he is shadowing a woman who has done so. If what you say is true, he must have known of your plans well in advance.”

She grew suddenly nervous. “I can say no more now. Could you meet me in the first-class lounge on A deck? I'll try to be in the writing room tomorrow morning at eleven.”

I bowed slightly. “I'll expect to see you then, Miss Collier.”

T
here was a chill in the air on Friday morning, though the weather was calm and clear. Captain Smith reported that the
Titanic
had covered 386 miles since leaving Queenstown harbour. I ate an early breakfast in the first-class dining saloon and after a stroll around the deck spent some time in the ship's gymnasium on the boat deck. The idea of using a rowing machine on this great ocean liner appealed to me, though I'm certain Watson would have groused about it, reminding me of my age. Finally, shortly before eleven, I went down one flight of stairs to the writing room.

Margo Collier was seated alone at one of the tables, sipping a cup of tea. The reading and writing room adjoined the first-class lounge. It was a spacious, inviting area with groups of upholstered chairs and tables placed at comfortable intervals. I smiled as I seated myself opposite her. “Good morning, Miss Collier. Did you have a good night's sleep?”

“As well as could be expected,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying across the table. “The man who's been following me is in the lounge right now, standing by that leaded glass window.”

I turned casually in my chair and realized that Jacques Futrelle and his wife were seated with an older man in a black suit. Seeing them gave me an excuse to walk into the lounge and get a better look at the man she'd indicated. I paused at their table with a few words of greeting, noting that the man with them was studying the tea leaves in one of the cups.

“Mr. Smith!” May Futrelle greeted me. “You must meet Franklin Baynes, the British spiritualist.”

The man eyed me solemnly as he stood up to shake my hand. “Smith? What is your line of work?”

“I am retired from a research position. This voyage is strictly for pleasure. But I see you are at work, sir, attempting to divine the world in a teacup.”

“The Futrelles asked for a demonstration.”

“I will leave you to it,” I said, continuing on my way into the wood-paneled lounge. The man Margo Collier had indicated now stood a few paces from the window. He was almost bald, with a growth of greying beard along his chin, and his left hand was clutched around the knob of a thick walking stick. As I approached he turned on me with blazing eyes.

“Has she sent you to confront me, sir?”

“Miss Collier says you have been following her since Cherbourg. You are frightening the poor woman half to death. Would you care to identify yourself?”

The bearded man drew himself up until he was almost my height. “I am Pierre Glacet. Cherbourg is my home. I am like yourself.”

“And why do you follow her?” I asked, not quite understanding his remark.

“Because she runs away from me. Margo Collier is my wife.”

I
cannot pretend that the news did not astound me. I had noticed the faint indentation on her ring finger, but I assumed it was only the sign of a broken engagement in one so young. Likewise, the manner in which she approached me had seemed quite sincere.

“I find that difficult to believe,” I told Glacet.

“Ask her! We have been married for more than a year, though we are living apart at the moment.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“That is a personal matter, sir.”

“How were you able to obtain a booking on the voyage at the last minute in order to follow her?”

“The ship is not fully booked at these prices.”

“Forgive me, sir, if I have done you an injustice.” I retreated back to the writing room where Margo Collier was waiting.

“Did you confront him, Mr. Holmes?” she asked immediately.

“I did. The man claims to be your legal husband. Is that true?”

“We are separated. He has no business following me about!”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Glacet. I am, or was, a consulting detective. I have never been a marriage counselor.”

“Mr. Holmes—”

“Pardon me, madam. I can no longer help you.” I turned and walked away.

For the rest of that day and the next I managed to avoid both Margo Collier and Pierre Glacet. The
Titanic
covered 519 miles on its second day, though it received several warnings of heavy pack ice from other ships. Captain Smith assured us via his posted notices that ice warnings were not uncommon for April crossings.

On Saturday evening I dined with the Futrelles and the spiritualist, Franklin Baynes, in the first-class dining saloon. He was an interesting gentleman, well steeped in occult lore. Futrelle seemed especially taken with him and I could only assume that the author was researching a possible idea for one of his detective stories. It developed that the spiritualist was travelling to America for a series of lectures and demonstrations.

“You are a showman, then,” I proposed, as much to bait him as anything else.

“No, no!” he insisted. “Spiritualism is as much a science as Madame Curie's radiology.”

May Futrelle spoke. “Mr. Baynes has invited us to his cabin after dinner for a demonstration of some of his devices. Perhaps you could join us, Mr. Smith.”

“By all means do so!” Baynes urged.

I agreed with some reluctance and following dessert we took the elevator up three floors to his stateroom on the promenade deck. It was even larger than my cabin, and I wondered if this too might be a reward from the White Star president. The spiritualist went directly to his steamer trunk and opened it. He removed a crystal ball some six inches in diameter, mounted on a wooden base with an electrical cord attached. Quickly unplugging the cabin's electric space heater by the bed, he plugged his device in its place. The crystal ball sprang to life with a bright intense light.

“Look in here, Mr. Smith, but not too long or you will be blinded.”

“What am I supposed to see?” I inquired.

“Perhaps those who have gone before you into the great beyond.”

I glanced at the brightly glowing filament for an instant and then looked away, its image burnt into my retina. “I see nothing of the past,” I told him, “though something of the future might be had in lights like this.”

Franklin Baynes unplugged the crystal ball and brought out an oversized deck of cards. I began to suspect he was more magician than spiritualist. “You are not a believer in the hereafter, Mr. Smith, in that other world where our ancestors await us, where it is always spring and the fairies and elves flit across the meadow?”

I smiled slightly. “I have my own vision of the hereafter, Mr. Baynes. It is not the same as yours.”

“May Futrelle seemed to sense that the visit to his cabin had been a mistake. “We really should be going, Jacques,” she told her husband.

The spiritualist shook their hands. “Thank you for dinner. It was most delightful. And you, Mr. Smith. I trust we can discuss our differing views before the ship docks in New York.”

“Perhaps,” I agreed.

I left the cabin in the company of the Futrelles and walked a few steps to the elevator. “Obviously the man is something of a
charlatan,” May said, “but Jacques thinks he might get a story idea out of this.”

“It's always possible,” I agreed.

The elevator arrived and I opened the folding gate for them. He peered at me and asked, “If it's not too personal a question, Mr. Smith, are you a detective?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Our steward told us you were the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

I laughed as I stepped into the elevator with them and closed the gate. “My secret seems to be a secret no longer. You're the second person who's confronted me about my identity.”

“We won't tell anyone,” May promised, “though Mr. Baynes has heard it, too. Certainly it's an honour to meet you. Jacques was inspired to write his stories after reading Dr. Watson's accounts of your cases.”

“Watson glamourizes me, I fear.”

“How is the old fellow?” Futrelle asked.

“Fine. He comes to see me on occasion, though it's been some time now since I've had the pleasure of his company.” I got off one flight down on the bridge deck. “I'll see you tomorrow,” I told them.

Futrelle grinned. “Good night, Mr. Smith.”

S
unday, April 14—the longest day of my life—began with divine services held in the first-class dining saloon. I had overslept and when I went for breakfast at 10:30 I found the services in progress. That was how I happened upon Margo Collier again. She spotted me at once, standing in the back of the room, and pushed through the late arrivals to join me. “Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hello, Mrs. Glacet.”

“Please don't call me that. If you would grant me time I could explain the entire matter to you.”

Something in her desperate tone made me regret the harshness
of my earlier dismissal. “Very well,” I said. “Join me at dinner tonight in the first-class saloon. I will be in the outer reception room at eight o'clock.”

“I will be there,” she promised, brightening at once.

During the day I continued to hear reports of ice sightings from the other passengers. In the twenty-four hours since noon Saturday we had covered another 546 miles, and the map showed us approaching the Grand Banks off Newfoundland. The temperature had remained in the forties much of the afternoon, but after 5:30 as darkness descended it plunged quite quickly to 33 degrees. Captain Smith altered the ship's course slightly to the south and west, possibly as a precaution to avoid icebergs. Lookouts in the crow's nest would remain on duty all night watching for ice. Looking up at them from the top deck, I decided it must be the loneliest of shipboard tasks, even though there were two men up there.

Exactly at eight o'clock, Margo Collier met me in the reception room on the saloon deck. “My cabin is in second class,” she confided. “I feared they might put another woman in with me to occupy the other bunk, but happily I'm alone.”

“That is more pleasant,” I agreed as we were shown to our table.

“Did you know that the passengers' maids and valets eat in a separate dining room on Shelter Deck C? I saw it yesterday as I was touring the ship. They just have long communal tables, of course.”

“Nothing about this ship would surprise me,” I admitted. “It must be the grandest thing afloat.” At the far end of the dining saloon an orchestra had begun to play.

The menu was a delight, as it had been each night of the voyage thus far. Margo Collier ordered the roast duckling with apple sauce. After some debate between the lamb and the filet mignon, I chose the latter with boiled new potatoes and creamed carrots, preceded by oysters and cream of barley soup.

“Now let us get down to business,” I told the young woman. “Tell me about your marriage to Pierre Glacet.”

She sighed and began her story. “As you can see, there is a great difference in our ages. I met him on a weekend holiday in Cherbourg last year, and he persuaded me to work for him.”

“Work? What sort of work?”

“He is a consulting detective like yourself, Mr. Holmes.”

At last I understood the meaning of the man's words, “I am like yourself.” He too knew my identity, as most everyone on the ship seemed to. “Being in his employ hardly necessitated marriage, did it?” I asked.

“He specializes in cases involving family matters. Often his investigations involve checking into hotels to keep certain parties under surveillance. He needed me to pose as his wife, and since he was a moral man he felt we should be truly married if we were to share a hotel room.”

“You agreed to this?” I asked with some astonishment.

“Not at first. The idea of being married to a man more than twice my age, who had a greying beard and walked with a cane, was more than I could imagine. I agreed to it only when he assured me it would be a marriage in name only, for business purposes. The pay he offered was quite good, and I agreed to try it for one year.”

“What happened next?”

“We went through a brief civil ceremony, which he assured me could be easily annulled. I quickly found out, Mr. Holmes, that I had made a foolish mistake. The first time we shared a hotel room while shadowing someone he was a perfect gentleman, sleeping on the sofa while I took the only bed. After that things began to change. He mentioned the troubles with his leg and how uncomfortable hotel room sofas were. I allowed him to share the bed but nothing more. Gradually he began taking liberties and when I objected he reminded me that we were legally man and wife. After a few months of that I left him.”