Murder on the Celtic (19 page)

“I did — he challenged me to do so. When I proved that I could
unearth something about him, he became rather truculent. I knew that he had once been a Mormon and that provoked him.”

“Why? Is he ashamed of his past?”

“Who knows?” She stifled a laugh. “There is one explanation, I suppose, but it's too unkind on him, so perhaps I shouldn't voice it.”

“No, no. Do go ahead.”

“Well, he came to me in the hope that I could put him in touch with his late wife. Since I revealed that he'd been a Mormon, he was afraid I'd ask, ‘
Which
wife?' He may have been married to several.” She raised an eloquent eyebrow. “I'm relieved I wasn't one of them.”

“I'm told there was some friction between him and Sir Arthur.”

“That was entirely Mr. Agnew's fault. Everything was going well until Sir Arthur mentioned that he had once been a surgeon on a whaling boat. The way that Mr. Agnew turned on him you'd have thought he'd committed a heinous crime.”

“Did he strike you as a man who bears grudges?”

“Mr. Agnew? Oh, yes,” said Thoda darkly. “He never forgives.”

“Will you be holding any more séances?”

“I don't think so. They always exhaust me.”

“Then you're entitled to rest on the remainder of the voyage.”

“I'm not allowed to, unfortunately, Miss Masefield.”

“Why not?”

“Having psychic powers can be a burden sometimes. My mind keeps picking up things when my body would rather just relax. What you saw last night was an example of automatic writing,” she went on. “The words just come to me in a steady flow.”

“You made Mrs. Trouncer very happy.”

“If only I could do the same for you!”

“Oh, I was more than content to be an observer last night.”

“I'm not talking about the séance, Miss Masefield. When I woke up this morning I had a presentiment and it alarmed me somewhat.”

“What kind of presentiment?”

“It concerns your husband.”

“But you've never even met him, Mrs. Burbridge.”

“Yes, I have — through you, Miss Masefield. You and he are very close, so I sense things that affect both of you.”

“And what did you learn this morning?”

“Something very disturbing,” said Thoda, taking her gently by the wrist. “You must warn him before it's too late.”

“Warn him about what?” asked Genevieve.

“The fact that his life is in grave danger.”

TEN

S
ince his wife had an appointment there that morning, Conan Doyle accompanied her to the hair salon, intending to go on to the library. To do so, he had to walk straight past Nobby Ruggles in the men's salon, and the barber caught sight of him through the window. Excusing himself from his customer, Ruggles brushed some hair from his sleeve and hurried out to waylay the author.

“Good morning, Sir Arthur,” he said.

“Ah — hello there, Ruggles.”

“Have you come for that free haircut?”

“Not just yet, I'm afraid.”

“Any time, sir. I'm always here.”

“I daresay you're kept very busy in there.”

“Not as busy as the ladies' hairdressers,” said Ruggles. “An average haircut for a man will take twenty minutes — half an hour, if it includes a shave as well. In the ladies' salon, customers can
be there for hours. It's difficult to keep up a conversation for that long.”

“Yes,” said Conan Doyle, “I suppose that's part of your stock-in-trade, isn't it? Being able to chat to your clients.”

“I listen more than I talk, sir. This job is an education. I've learned so much from various customers.”

“And it's a lot safer than being in the army.”

“Safer but not so exciting,” said Ruggles. “I often think of my days in uniform. They gave me so many memories.”

“Not all of them happy ones, alas,” observed Conan Doyle.

“No, Sir Arthur.” He stepped in closer. “But while you're here, I'd like to take this chance of passing on some information.”

“Information?”

“It's about an America gentleman who came for a haircut earlier on. If I were you, sir, I'd keep well out of his way.”

“Why?”

“He was a most unpleasant man. He said that he knew you.”

“Are you talking about Philip Agnew, by any chance?”

“The very same.”

“Then you've no need to tell me any more,” said Conan Doyle with distaste. “Mr. Agnew and I crossed swords on sight. Because I happened to have killed a few seals in younger days, he thinks I'm the most wicked man since Herod the Great.”

Ruggles thrust out his chest. “I did speak up for you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“It only seemed to annoy him even more.”

“Mr. Agnew is rather too easily annoyed. But,” he added with a sigh, “one must be charitable, I suppose. The fellow is still suffering from the death of his wife. I know, from personal experience, how distressing that can be.”

“He was downright rude,” said Ruggles, “and there's no excuse for that. I'll not let anyone run you down.”

“Good man, Ruggles.”

“I just thought I ought to mention it to you.” He glanced over his shoulder and made to leave. “I've got a customer waiting, so I must go.”

“Good-bye.”

He paused. “Oh, I forgot to mention the main thing, Sir Arthur.”

“What's that?”

“This afternoon's concert. I'll be taking part again.”

“Good for you,” said Conan Doyle, dreading what was to come.

“I thought I'd give them another gem from the master,” said Ruggles with a grin, “so I chose your poem ‘The Groom's Story.'”

“Why not recite something from Kipling?”

“Because there's nothing to compare with this.”

Adopting a stance, Ruggles declaimed the first verse at speed.

Conan Doyle quailed inwardly. He did not want a repetition of the previous day, when he was dragged reluctantly into the public gaze. Nobby Ruggles hovered as if expecting applause.

“You won't be able to miss the concert now, sir.”

“That depends on my wife,” said Conan Doyle, groping for an excuse. “It's possible that she may have other plans.”

“Lady Conan Doyle can't miss one of your poems.”

“She's read them all many times, Ruggles.”

“But it's not the same as seeing them brought to life.”

“Indeed not. You certainly fill them with drama.”

Ruggles clapped his hands. “I've just had an idea.”

“What is it?”

“If you can't get to the concert this afternoon,” said the barber helpfully, “I can give you a private performance in your cabin. How does that sound, Sir Arthur?”

Choking back a reply, Conan Doyle pointed at the salon.

“Your customer is getting impatient, Ruggles. Go to him.”

Dillman received the warning with complete equanimity. Genevieve could not believe he was so calm when she herself was so worried.

“You have to take it seriously, George,” she said.

“I do,” he replied, “but I didn't need Mrs. Burbridge to tell me that I was in danger. Whenever we hunt a murderer we put ourselves at risk. If someone has killed once, they'll have no compunction about killing again. That's why we have to be on guard all the time.”

“Perhaps you should go armed.”

“That's a last resort, Genevieve. I'll only be courting peril when I start to get close to the man, and I'm some way off from doing that. I'm still not certain of his motive.”

“The one you suggested to Mrs. Lowbury.”

“Murder for gain?”

“Yes, George. His billfold was stolen.”

“You don't have to kill a man in order to steal from him. You could knock him unconscious or simply pick his pocket. No, I think that David Lowbury was singled out for another reason. It's our job to find out what it was.” He took the business card from his pocket. “We can start with this gentleman.”

She read the card. “Frank Spurrier?”

“I found it on the main deck near that lifeboat.”

“There's no mystery there. Mrs. Lowbury told me that her
husband had Mr. Spurrier's business card. It must have dropped out of the pocket when his coat was removed.”

“That's one explanation.”

“What's the other?”

“David Lowbury was sending a final message.”

“You mean that he deliberately left the card there?”

“It's a possibility we have to consider,” said Dillman. “What puzzled me was how Mr. Lowbury got to the main deck in the first place. If he'd been killed or overpowered near his cabin, it would have taken a strong man to carry him there. But,” he continued, taking the card from her, “if he'd been held at gunpoint, he could have been forced to walk there.”

“Knowing that he was about to die,” said Genevieve, following his train of thought, “he wanted to identify his killer, so he dropped the card.” She shook her head. “No, George. I don't believe that Frank Spurrier is implicated. He's a respectable businessman.”

“We've arrested quite a few of those over the years.”

“He'd befriended David Lowbury. Why kill him?”

“I don't know, Genevieve.”

“In any case, the murder took place while Mr. Spurrier was having dinner. He couldn't be in two places at once.”

“Granted,” said Dillman. “Though I've yet to confirm that he was actually in the dining saloon last night. He certainly didn't take up his usual seat opposite David and Jane Lowbury.”

“Do you know why that was?”

“Yes, I asked him.”

“What did he say?”

“That he had no wish to eat with Mr. Lowbury. They may have been friends at one point but they seem to have had an argument, and it left a bitter taste in Spurrier's mouth.”

“Did he tell you what the argument was over?”

“No, Genevieve, but the gentleman with whom you've been dining was there at the time.”

“Joshua Cleves?”

“He, too, spoke harshly of Mr. Lowbury.”

“Then the argument must have been quite serious. It takes a lot to upset Mr. Cleves. He's the most tolerant and carefree man I've ever met. Nothing seems to trouble him.”

“David Lowbury did.”

“Why did you speak to them?”

“I only intended to talk to Spurrier,” said Dillman, “but he refused a private discussion. Since Cleves was in the lounge with him, he heard everything I had to say. Mrs. Lowbury was puzzled by the fact that Spurrier had not sat at their table. When I asked him if he'd been in the dining saloon earlier, he more or less exploded.”

“Frank Spurrier?”

“You'd have thought I'd accused him of high treason.”

“That's most unlike him,” said Genevieve. “He's always so calm and collected. In fact, it's that icy control of his that unnerved me when I first met him. I can't imagine him losing his temper.”

“I was on the receiving end of it.”

“Did you tell him that David Lowbury had disappeared?”

“Of course.”

“And what was his response to that?”

“Good riddance!”

Genevieve was puzzled. Everything she had heard was completely at variance with what she knew of Frank Spurrier and, indeed, of Joshua Cleves. She wondered what could possibly have upset them so much. It could not have been the way that Dillman had approached them. He was always tactful and discreet. The argument with David Lowbury had clearly cut deep.

“I daresay you want
me
to speak to Mr. Spurrier,” she said.

“No, Genevieve, we'll hold off for a while.”

“But that card might be the clue we need.”

“We can't even be certain that it is a clue,” he said realistically. “Speculation is one thing — proof is quite another. It's important that Spurrier doesn't know that you're a detective or he'll clam up on you as well. I think you should creep up on him from another direction.”

“You want me to talk to Joshua Cleves instead, is that it?”

“Yes. He and Spurrier are obviously friends. They'll be aware of each other's movements. As you and Cleves are dining companions, you can speak to him without arousing suspicion.”

“What am I to find out, George?”

“Why he and Spurrier fell out with David Lowbury. That could be crucial. Also, of course, I'd like to know if Spurrier was in the dining saloon last night, and if so, did he leave at any point during the meal?” Genevieve let out a gasp of surprise. “What's wrong?”

“I've just remembered something.”

“You saw him there?”

“No,” she said, “but I know someone who did slip away from the table at one point — Joshua Cleves.”

It was the second report that morning and it worried the purser. The
Celtic
had sailed over halfway across the Atlantic and the only crime that had occurred had been the theft of a book written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Within the space of the past twelve hours, Nelson Rutherford also had to contend with a possible murder and two burglaries. The woman sitting opposite him in his office was May Hoyland and she was quivering with concern.

“When did you first become aware of the theft?” he asked.

“Not until after breakfast, Mr. Rutherford.”

“Where was the necklace kept?”

“In a box. I know that I should have had it locked away in a safe,” she went on hurriedly, “but it's very dear to me and I like to have it to hand. We had no trouble at all when we sailed to America. Nothing was taken from our cabin.”

“But the only thing that went astray this time was a diamond necklace?”

“That's right. Sophie — my daughter, that is — was wearing her jewelry. I was foolish enough to take the necklace off and leave it unguarded in the cabin.”

“How did you discover that it had gone?”

“I lifted the box this morning and felt how light it was.”

“I see,” said the purser. “I suppose there's no possibility that you could have put the necklace down somewhere else in the cabin?”

May smiled wryly. “I may be getting old, Mr. Rutherford, but I'm not senile yet. When I take it off, that necklace always goes straight into its box. It was a wedding present from my second husband. I cherish it. I'm extremely careful how I handle it.”

He jotted down the details on a notepad. He was tempted to point out that if Mrs. Hoyland valued the necklace that much, she should never have left it alone in her cabin, but that would only have been adding further pain. She freely accepted that she was to blame. His task was to console her.

“What are the chances of getting it back?” she said hopefully.

“Very strong, Mrs. Hoyland,” he replied. “We have some excellent detectives on board. They're very experienced in this sort of thing.”

She was disturbed. “Are you saying that the White Star Line is plagued by thieves?”

“Far from it. What's happened is the exception to the rule.”

“Yet you told me earlier that I was the second victim.”

“Let's just concentrate on your necklace, shall we?” he said, trying to still her anxiety. “You returned to your cabin shortly after dinner. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Mr. Rutherford. I took off the necklace there and then.”

“Intending to undress for bed.”

“That's right,” she said.

“Where was your daughter at the time?”

“Attending a séance. I knew that she might be late coming back, so I thought I'd read while I was waiting for her. I'd already finished one book, so I decided to pop along to the library to borrow another.”

“How long were you away?”

“No more than fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“That's when the theft must have occurred because it was the only time the cabin was unoccupied.”

“We had breakfast served there instead of going to the dining saloon. I take a long time to wake up in the mornings,” she told him. “And I'm not ready to face the world until I've had breakfast. When I discovered that my necklace had gone, of course, I wished that I hadn't touched a thing. I felt sick, Mr. Rutherford. I was shocked.”