Murder on the Lusitania (11 page)

She hesitated for a full minute, playing nostalgically with her wedding ring under the table while she did so and keeping him on tenterhooks. He could not believe he had made such a bold suggestion, but he did not regret it. When she reached a decision, Rosemary gave a little nod of approval. Philip Garrow was utterly delighted. It had all been so easy. As he sipped his Champagne once more, the thrill of conquest shot through his whole body.

Violet Rymer might have been a thousand miles away.

* * *

Dinner was an occasion of unrelieved joy for Genevieve Masefield. The meal was delicious, the company interesting, and her impact on them was undeniable. Itzak Weiss insisted on kissing her gloved hand before he retired to his cabin with his wife and Lord Carradine was now besotted with her, encouraging Genevieve to ignore his title and call him by his Christian name. The crowning moment of the dinner was when the captain invited her and a few others to join him on a tour of the bridge.

It was only when she picked up her purse that Genevieve recalled the article she had stuffed into it. Since she wanted to avoid Henry Barcroft, she cast around for a means of returning his article without actually having to meet him in person, and her eye alighted on Dillman. As she walked across the saloon in the wake of the captain, the idea that had formed became ever more appealing. Genevieve acted on it.

“Good evening, Mr. Dillman!” she said pleasantly.

“Oh, hello there, Miss Masefield.”

“I’m glad I bumped into you. I wonder if I might ask a favor?”

“By all means,” he said, spreading his hands.

Dillman had just risen from his seat with the rest of his table. A chance meeting with Genevieve was an unexpected treat. She looked even more ravishing at close quarters and was wearing that beguiling perfume. She held out some sheets of paper, folded over.

“That journalist we met this morning,” she began.

“Henry Barcroft?”

“I’m sure you’ll run into him again at some point. He seems to have a thing about you, Mr. Dillman. You’re his mystery man.” She thrust the papers into his hand. “Could you possibly give this article back to him for me, please? Tell him that I have no objection to the way he’s quoted me even though I don’t actually remember saying that. Thank you so much.”

“I’ll see that he gets it, Miss Masefield.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“To tell the truth, I’d rather not have to speak to the man again.
I find him rather obnoxious.” She gave him a token smile. “Do excuse me. Captain Watt is going to take us up to the bridge.”

Dillman waved her off, then glanced at the article in his hand. He was a little peeved to be used as a messenger boy once more, but saw an immediate advantage, quite apart from incurring Genevieve’s gratitude. The article gave him an excuse to track down Barcroft and find out how the journalist had spent the evening. Though no proof of guilt had yet been found, the man was still the prime suspect concerning the theft from the chief engineer’s cabin. Dillman stowed the article away in his pocket and joined the general exodus.

The Rymers tried to shepherd everyone from their table into the lounge but the Latimers felt that their honeymoon was best continued alone and they excused themselves. The rural dean was inebriated enough to start voicing some trenchant opinions about the future of the Anglican Church, and Nairn Mackintosh countered by waving the banner of Presbyterianism at him. Their respective wives joined in the good-humored discussion and Matthew Rymer was not excluded for long. His appetite for debate sharpened by brandy, he took a delight in provoking both the rural dean and the elderly Scotsman. Sylvia and Violet Rymer were amused spectators.

Before he could take a seat beside them, Dillman felt a tug at his elbow and swung round to see the friendly face of Ellen Tolley.

“I just came over to say hello,” she began.

“I’m glad you did, Ellen. Lovely to see you.”

“What a meal!”

“The food gets better and better.”

“Did you try the gateau Mexicaine?”

“No, I opted for the petits fours.”

“You missed a treat, George.”

“I’ll remember that next time the gateau is on the menu,” he said, looking around. “But I was hoping for a chance to meet your father.”

“He’s just limped off, I’m afraid. That leg of his gives him so much pain. Daddy went off to change the dressing.”

“It’s a recent wound, then?”

“Yes,” she explained. “Daddy had an accident in England. All his own fault. He does tend to be a bit clumsy at times. But he’s a real stoic. Hates to show any discomfort in public. That’s why he’s slipped off quietly to the cabin.”

“Does that mean you’re free to join us?” he invited.

“No, thanks, George. Not this evening. I’m very tired. If I sit down, I’ll probably go straight off to sleep.” Her tone became confidential. “Made a pig of myself in the dining saloon and rich food always makes me feel drowsy.” She touched his arm. “Go back to your friends.”

“Unless you need a pathfinder again.”

“What?” She laughed. “Oh, last night. No, I think I’ve mastered the way back to the cabin now. Just about.”

“If you get lost, send up a distress flare and I’ll come running.”

“I bet you would at that!”

“I’m always ready to help a lady.”

“You’re a sweet guy,” she said fondly. “See you around, George.”

Ellen touched his arm again and gave him a farewell grin. Dillman watched until she was out of sight. He then realized that Violet Rymer was standing beside him.

“That was she, wasn’t it?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The person you were looking at during dinner. Who is she?”

“A friend.”

“She seemed to be more than that, Mr. Dillman.”

“I’m afraid that you’re jumping to conclusions, Miss Rymer. We only met yesterday. And that was only for a matter of minutes.”

“But you’re both Americans!” said Violet as if it were conclusive proof of a deep relationship. “I just caught that drawl in her accent.”

Dillman was amused. “Believe it or not, we Americans are just as conservative as you when it comes to certain social conventions. The young lady is a friend and I was pleased to see her. But that’s where the story ends. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I’m sorry on your behalf, Mr. Dillman. I sort of hoped that—”

“Forget about me,” he said firmly, cutting her off. “All you need to think about is yourself, Miss Rymer. My advice is that you should have an early night. There’s an important day ahead of you tomorrow.”

She trembled visibly. “I know! I can’t wait!”

Second thoughts had set in well before the end of the meal, but they did not find expression until she was walking along the corridor with him. Rosemary Hilliard came to an abrupt halt then waited for another couple to go past before she spoke.

“I’m not at all sure about this, Philip,” she said uneasily.

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know that I should be going into a man’s cabin.”

“We can go to your cabin, if you prefer.”

“That’s not the answer.”

“Then what is?” he said, starting to get cold feet himself. “All we need do is to have a drink together and chat. Get to know each other a little better. I thought that’s what you wanted to do.”

“It is.”

“Then why hold back now?”

“I don’t know.”

There was a long pause during which Philip Garrow’s own doubts began to make themselves felt. He foresaw complications. His readiness to betray Violet had surprised him and he did not feel the slightest twinge of guilt but had agreed to meet her in the very cabin into which he was trying to entice Rosemary Hilliard. Whatever happened, the two women had to be kept far apart. If he took Rosemary into his cabin, he would be taking a dangerous step, setting up expectations that might rebound on him. What if she called on him when he was alone in the cabin with Violet? The very thought of it made him shudder.

“Are you cold?” asked Rosemary, seeing him shake.

“A little.”

“So am I, Philip. I should have brought a wrap.”

“Shall we go to your cabin to fetch one?” he suggested, seeing
a way to shift the location from his own territory. “Where exactly is it?”

“Never you mind!” she teased.

“Is it a state secret?”

“As far as you’re concerned, yes.”

“Is it an inside cabin?”

“Mind your own business, Mr. Garrow,” she said playfully.

“I’ve got a porthole in mine. I can see the ocean through it.”

“I’ve seen enough ocean to last me a lifetime. There’s a limit to the amount of pleasure you can get simply from watching waves.”

“Much more fun to create your own waves,” he said with more bravado than he felt. “What would you like to do, Rosemary?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’ve come this far. Why turn back?”

“Instinct, I suppose.”

“About me?”

“Oh, no, Philip. About me. I don’t think I’m quite ready for this yet.”

Garrow saw the hesitation in her face. At the same time, he sensed that it would not take much persuasion to dispel her fears. All that she wanted was reassurance and flattery. If he made the effort, he was sure that the words would trip off his tongue as easily as they had done so far. But his own reservations were gaining in strength. He looked down the corridor toward his cabin and turned back to Rosemary. Potential problems loomed ahead larger than ever. He became tongue-tied.

“I’ve never done this sort of thing before,” she confessed quietly. “To tell you the truth, I’ve rather shocked myself. That’s not meant as a criticism of you, Philip,” she added quickly. “I don’t blame you in any way. I’m old enough to take responsibility for my own actions. But the truth is that I’ve never looked at a man since my husband died, let alone spoken to one in the way that you and I have spoken. It’s all happened so fast. That frightens me. On the other hand,” she continued, brushing her hair back from her face, “I don’t want to let you down. I’d hate you to think of me as a … well, as a woman who leads men on, because I’m not like that
at all. And, as you say, having come this far …” She took a deep breath. “Tell me what to do, Philip. I’ll leave the decision to you.”

Philip Garrow was caught on the horns of a dilemma. Before he could extricate himself, someone came along the corridor and walked between them, forcing them to step guiltily apart. It was Albert. As he passed Garrow, the steward shot him a look that made him squirm with embarrassment. It robbed him of the last few shards of his confidence.

“Well?” asked Rosemary. “What are we going to do?”

“Go up on deck for a walk,” he said. “I need some fresh air.”

“Six longcloth nightdresses trimmed and embroidered with tucks, four silk chemises with trimmed edging and four with insertion tucks, six slipped bodices with trimmed edging, six flannel petticoats embroidered with silk, two silk petticoats, two plain skirts, one pair of white corsets, three evening gowns, two fancy underskirts, one twill dressing gown ...”

Janet Palgrave’s memory was phenomenal. Allowed a privileged glimpse at Anna Latimer’s bridal trousseau, the rural dean’s wife had memorized each item and was retailing them in turn to Sylvia Rymer and her daughter. Without wanting to, Dillman also heard the droning recital while trying at the same time to contribute to a debate among the men about salmon fishing. There were limits even to his civility and Dillman felt that they might be reached if he remained trapped in the lounge indefinitely with the Rymer party. Issuing thanks and apologies, he rose from his chair and moved away in time to escape the Palgrave litany about knickers, handkerchiefs, and black hose. At that point in the evening, he suspected, the bride was probably dispensing with every item in her trousseau.

Retreating to the smoking room, he found two games of cards in progress. Edward Collins had found new victims for his nimble fingers. Cyril Weekes and Jeremiah Erskine were at a separate table with four other men, both faring better without the professional skills of Collins to hamper them. Weekes peered at his cards through his pince-nez as if puzzling over a conundrum. Erskine,
by contrast, glared fiercely at his hand, breathing heavily through his nose as if working up his anger for a charge across the room. Dillman watched them for a while until the cigar smoke became too troublesome. As soon as he left, he was confronted by Charles Halliday. The purser gave him a nod of recognition and drew him behind some potted palms so that they could talk in private.

“Well met, Mr. Dillman!”

“Were you looking for me, Mr. Halliday?”

“Not especially,” said the other, “but now that I’ve bumped into you, I might be able to use your help. Before I do that, of course, I’d like to hear how your inquiries have been going.”

“Slowly,” admitted the other.

“No glimmer of light in the darkness yet?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What have you found out?”

Dillman described his research among the other journalists and his visit to the wireless room. He also mentioned his surveillance of Edward Collins, who was winning too consistently to be relying entirely on luck but who somehow convinced his playing partners that he was a relative novice at the poker table.

“Anyone losing a large amount of money to him?” said Halliday.

“Not yet. He’s too cunning for that.”

“Taking a bit from here and a bit from there.”

“He won’t make a real killing until the last night on board,” guessed Dillman. “Otherwise, he’ll scare everyone off. What would you like me to do, Mr. Halliday? Spread the warning?”

“No, just keep a friendly eye on him. If he cheats, of course, that’s another matter. We simply can’t have that sort of thing on board.”

“Collins doesn’t need to cheat. He outplays the rest of them with ease. He was collecting IOUs from three of them when I left.” Dillman gave a sigh. “Lambs to the slaughter. But you said a minute ago that you might be able to use my help.”

“That’s right. More complaints have been coming in.”

“Henry Barcroft again?”

“How did you guess?”

“He’s managing to upset almost everybody.”