Murder on the Lusitania (19 page)

When he got to his table, he was given three different versions of the thefts and saw once again the insidious nature of rumor. Doing his best to play down the crimes, he joined in the small talk while letting his gaze traverse the whole room. Dillman knew nobody else at the table apart from Cyril and Ada Weekes. For two people with typical English reserve, they had a remarkable ability for widening the circle of their acquaintances. Dillman was sorry that the Erskines were not there but, when the opportunity arose, he brought them into the conversation.

“I don’t see Mr. and Mrs. Erskine here,” he said to Cyril Weekes.

“They’re dining in a private suite this evening.”

“I see.”

“Erskine is still licking his wounds over last night.”

“How heavily did he lose at cards?”

“Oh, I don’t think it was the money that worried him,” said Weekes, spearing a potato with his fork. “He could afford to lose ten times that every night for a year. No, what upset Jeremiah Erskine was that he played so recklessly. He’s a businessman. Used to winning every time, whatever the stakes. He can’t cope with the idea that others have more skill at the poker table.”

“More skill and more luck.”

“They go together, Mr. Dillman.”

“What exactly does he do?”

“Erskine? Just about everything. Imports this, exports that, buys and sells whatever he chooses, by the sound of it. He seems to have a finger in several pies. Certainly moves among the rich and famous.”

“Does he?”

“Yes, he was boasting about the fact that he’ll be dining with Mr. Morgan when he gets to New York.”

Dillman was impressed. “J. P. Morgan?”

“John Pierpont, of that name. Even I’ve heard of him.”

“They don’t come any richer than J. P. Morgan.”

“I know that,” said Weekes, popping the potato into his mouth and chewing. “I teased Erskine about him.”

“Teased him?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman. I warned him that I’d let out his dirty secret. Sailing on the
Lusitania
. The Cunard Line is about the only one that isn’t owned, at least in part, by J. P. Morgan. How would he feel if he knew that Erskine didn’t sail on one of
his
steamers?”

Dillman said nothing but he found the comment intriguing. The conversation turned to the subject of royalty and it was some time before Cyril Weekes was free for a more private exchange. Dillman picked at his sorbet and leaned in close to him.

“I understand that Mr. Erskine was at the concert this afternoon.”

“Only for the second half, according to Ada.”

“Didn’t you see him arrive?” asked Dillman. “Mrs. Weekes said that you were there yourself.”

“I was but I sneaked out at the interval.”

“Oh?”

“In effect, Erskine and I changed places.”

“Weren’t you enjoying the music?”

“Very much, old chap. But I had something on my mind.” He made sure that his wife was not listening. “I told Ada that I had an upset tummy but the person who got me out of there was Catullus.”

“Catullus?”

“Remember that competition I mentioned on the train? The one that involved a Shakespearean sonnet?”

“Yes. 'When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes.’ Right?”

“Well remembered, sir. The truth is that I’m something of a
dab hand at Latin elegiacs so I’ve been working on my own version. Not to send in to the
Westminster Gazette
, mark you. Just to keep my hand in.”

“I knew that you’re a scholar, Mr. Weekes.”

“I was.” The other sighed. “One loses so much with the passage of time. When I left Oxford, I taught Classics for some years at a public school. In our country, public schools are actually private schools. Don’t ask me to explain the idiosyncrasies of the English language or I’ll be here all night. Anyway, that was my first job. It was also where I met Ada. Her father was the headmaster.” His eyes twinkled. “But that’s another story and, besides, the poor chap is dead.”

“I thought you said that you were in business, Mr. Weekes?”

“Yes, I was. When I retired from the groves of academe.”

“What sort of business?”

“The only sort that appealed to a person who prefers to live in the past rather than the present. I became an antiques dealer. As I’m sure you noticed, England is one huge antique shop, so one is never short of things to sell. I did specialize, of course.”

“In what?”

“Clocks and musical instruments.”

Dillman masked his surprise between a smile of interest.

“Oh, I meant to ask you,” continued Weekes quietly. “How well have you got to know the Rymers?”

“Not well at all, I’m afraid. Why?”

“That tomfoolery I quoted from the
Westminster Gazette
.”

“How a young man induces his fiancée to break an engagement?”

“You have got a memory, Mr. Dillman!”

“It amused me.”

“But it didn’t amuse the Rymers, did it?” said Weekes. “I wonder if I stumbled on something when I read that piece out. Broken engagement, what? Is that why Violet Rymer looks so desperately unhappy? And why her parents watch her so carefully?” He nudged Dillman. “There’s a young man in the story somewhere. I’d bet on it. What do you think?”

* * *

Philip Garrow was in a rueful mood. As he sat in the corner of the second-class lounge, he nursed a drink and reviewed the events of the afternoon with considerable misgivings. Violet Rymer had actually been alone with him in his cabin yet none of the expected intimacies took place. Instead of advancing their relationship, their meeting had set it back slightly and he could not fully understand why. She had changed. When he first met Violet in an art gallery, he had been struck by her aura of innocence. It had made it difficult to strike up a conversation with her because she immediately went on the defensive. Garrow had been extremely patient. It took three separate meetings to talk his way past her guard. Once that was done, he encountered no further resistance. Until now.

What had changed her attitude toward him? She still loved him but her love was no longer so endearingly uncritical. Violet had raised doubts, expressed fears, put up barriers. The money had done the real damage and he cursed himself for being stupid enough to mention it to her. It would have been much easier to tell her one more lie, to say that he had inherited the money from a relative or earned it in some way. To admit that he had been bought off by her father had been a gross tactical error. In her eyes, the money was tainted. It upset her that Garrow drew so much satisfaction from being able to use it against her parents. What thrilled him had only appalled her.

Draining his glass, he sought for some positives. Violet had, after all, come to him. She had agreed to see him again the next day, albeit under different circumstances. Their relationship was solid enough to overcome the temporary setback. Garrow’s mistake was in looking at their reunion from his point of view. He expected to appear before her once again as her savior, a knight in shining armor who had come to rescue his fair damsel in distress. But his new suit was rather tarnished armor and the fair damsel had no wish to be saved in the way he had envisaged. Instead of thinking of his own gratification, he should have to tried to put himself in her position.

Violet Rymer was a shy, nervous, immature young woman who
had been through a domestic crisis. Having met her parents, Garrow knew the kinds of severe pressures they could exert on their daughter. Violet’s suffering had been exacerbated by the fact that she thought she had lost her lover altogether. It was unrealistic to expect her to move from despair to ecstasy in one great leap. Garrow conceded that freely. He was to blame. He had tried to take far more from her than she was yet ready to give and that had damaged the trust between them. It would need careful rebuilding in the few days that remained.

His confession about the money had shaken her but it had also had one good effect. It deepened her resentment of her father. Garrow could see the disgust in her eyes. She would never look at either of her parents in quite the same way again. The more she hated them, the more she would turn to him. All he had to do was bide his time and refrain from any more false moves. The future was still bright for him. The mistakes and misjudgments of the afternoon could be retrieved.

“Hello, stranger,” said a gentle voice.

He looked up. “Rosemary!”

“I didn’t see you in the dining saloon.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Pity. You missed another excellent meal.” She regarded him closely. “Are you sure that you’re all right, Philip?”

“Fine, fine,” he said, rising to his feet.

“You were brooding on something when I came in.”

“Was I?”

“Her name didn’t happen to be Rosemary Hilliard, did it?”

He rallied at once. “Why? Would you object?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then I won’t come clean.”

“Not even if I buy you a drink?”

Her manner was pleasant but still a trifle guarded. On the other hand, it was she who had sought him out. Rosemary was offering an olive branch and he reached out to take it.

“Be my guest,” he offered.

“I asked you first, Philip. What would you like?”

“Another glass of whiskey, please.”

“What kind?”

“The only kind. Irish whiskey.”

Once again, a meal in the first-class dining saloon had been an educative experience for Dillman. What he had learned about Jeremiah Erskine had only deepened his suspicions, but he had begun to have doubts about Cyril Weekes as well. The man’s proficiency at the card table sat uneasily beside his declared passion for Latin elegiacs. One thing was now certain. There was an antiques dealer aboard who would know the exact price of a French Empire clock and the approximate value of a Stradivarius. By a strange coincidence, that expert walked out of a music concert that he claimed he was enjoying and was absent during the time when both objects were stolen. Dillman wondered if Catullus had really exercised that much attraction for his companion. Weekes was a deep man.

He was also alert and attentive. His comments on the Rymers had been very apt though Dillman did not tell him that, preferring instead to adopt a neutral stance on the subject. When he looked at the Rymer table now, he saw that Violet Rymer was almost as uncomfortable as she had been on the first night. While her father was in a humorous vein and her mother was reveling in the social niceties, Violet sat bolt upright and wrestled with her thoughts.

Genevieve Masefield had no inner torments to spoil her meal. Throughout the evening, Dillman had noticed how happy and relaxed she was, mixing easily with the titled dinner guests who surrounded Lord Carradine and charming her host once again. When he gazed over at her table, he saw that she was in fact watching him this time with an intensity she had never shown before. For a second, he was oddly disconcerted.

When the meal was over, Dillman wanted to slip away to speak to the purser but Ellen Tolley descended on him and took him by the arm. She insisted that he join them in the lounge for a drink and he gave way under her persuasion. The three of them
reclined in chairs, Caleb Tolley using a footstool on which to rest his leg. Ellen was bursting with gossip and her father seemed content to let her hog the conversation.

“I don’t believe her,” she said.

“Who?” asked Dillman.

“Your admirer. Miss Genevieve Masefield.”

“I wouldn’t call her an admirer.”

“You didn’t see how often she glanced across at you during the meal. That was more than curiosity, believe me. You fascinate her, George. I think she’s fallen for your Bostonian sophistication.”

Dillman grinned. “I didn’t know that I had any, Ellen. In any case, Miss Masefield is rather more interested in the sophistication of the English aristocracy. My charm can’t compete with that. Whenever I looked at her, she was absorbed in a conversation with Lord Carradine.”

“That’s a smoke screen. She’s only toying with him.”

“I don’t know that I'd agree with you there, Ellen,” said Caleb Tolley. “And I don’t think you should embarrass Mr. Dillman by raising this subject in the first place. I invited him to a drink, not to listen to an analysis of his private life. Now, you behave yourself, young lady.”

“George doesn’t mind, do you, George?”

“Not at all.”

“There!”

“Back off, Ellen,” warned the older man.

“But I haven’t told him what Genevieve said.”

“Mr. Dillman doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Every man wants to hear praise of himself.” She beamed at Dillman and gabbled the information before she could be stopped. “We were in the ladies’ room together and I asked her if she had serious intentions with regard to you because, if she didn’t, well, it meant that you were sort of available, whereas if she did, there’d be no point in nursing vain hopes because nobody would stand an earthly chance against her. And Genevieve denied—”

“That’s enough!” interrupted her father.

“—that she was interested in you,” continued Ellen unchecked. “But I think she was lying. I know admiration when I see it. That lady was all but drooling over you, George.”

“English ladies don’t drool,” said Caleb Tolley, quelling her with a look, “and we’re drawing a line under this topic. I’m sorry, Mr. Dillman,” he said, turning to him, “but Ellen gets a little excited at times. She’s always been rather headstrong. As I’m sure you've noticed.”

Dillman gave her a forgiving smile but made no comment.

Tolley appraised him. “What’s your line, Mr. Dillman?”

“I don’t exactly have one at the moment. I’m on my way home to get my future sorted. I started in the family business in Boston. We design and build luxury yachts. Somehow, I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life doing that so I opted out.”

“How did your parents feel about that?”

“If my father’d had a rope handy, he’d have lynched me. Dillmans don’t give up on the family business. They carry on the tradition.”

“You see?” said Ellen. “He’s a rebel. Just like me.”

“Nobody is just like you,” said Tolley with an indulgent smile. “Now, let Mr. Dillman finish.”

“That’s about it, really. Always wanted to visit England so I took a vacation there and managed to get on the
Lusitania
for the return voyage. Quite what will happen when I get home, I can’t say.”