Murder on the Lusitania (7 page)

“Do join us, Mr. Dillman,” she said, endorsing the invitation in order to escape being alone with Barcroft. “Where do you build these yachts?”

“In Boston,” he explained, sitting beside her and catching a first whiff of her delicate perfume. “It’s a family firm. Over fifty years old now. We have an established reputation.”

“Is it a lucrative business?” asked Barcroft, resuming his seat.

“We don’t starve.”

“Only the rich can afford private yachts.”

“The firm has a long waiting list.”

“That shows how successful it is. But what I wanted to ask you was this, Mr. Dillman. In your opinion, will the
Lucy
manage to regain it?”

“Regain what?”

“The Blue Riband, of course.”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Barcroft.”

“Nonsense. I know very little about oceanic travel. You’re a veteran. That means you must have developed instincts. What do they tell you?”

“To beware of foolish predictions.”

“The
Lusitania
is bound to regain the Blue Riband,” said Genevieve. “That’s what everyone was saying over dinner last night.”

Barcroft grinned. “One of my colleagues is taking bets to that effect. I need your advice, Dillman. Should I put my money on a record?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because there are too many imponderables,” warned Dillman. “It’s far too early to judge. Bad weather might slow us down. Or we might be hampered by ice. It drifts down on the Labrador current and can be a real hazard. Then there’s the possibility of technical problems in the engine room, of course. And an outside chance of navigational error.”

“Not from Captain Watt, surely?”

“Highly unlikely, I agree, but it’s possible. The
Lusitania
is a superb ship but it would be unfair to expect too much of her on her maiden voyage. If you really want to know how to wager your
money, Mr. Barcroft,” he suggested, “the person to talk to is the chief engineer.”

“I’ve already interviewed Mr. Rourke.”

“Have you?” said Dillman artlessly.

“He and I didn’t exactly get on.”

“Why not?”

“Long story. Ah!” he said, as a waiter approached. “Our tea. We’re going to need a third cup. If Americans drink tea, that is.”

“Have you never heard of the Boston Tea Party?” said Genevieve.

It was a swift riposte to Barcroft’s gibe, and Dillman shot her a smile of thanks. The tray was unloaded by the waiter and a third cup ordered. The man went off to get it. Dillman turned to Genevieve.

“You seem to be without your sentries today, Miss Masefield.”

“Sentries?”

“The two ladies I keep seeing with you.”

“I didn’t realize I’d caught your attention, sir.

“I couldn’t help noticing the three of you together.”

“They’re the Hubermann sisters,” explained Barcroft. “I wouldn’t care to go three rounds with either of them. But I wouldn’t really call them sentries.” His oily smile warned Genevieve that a compliment was coming. “Miss Masefield is the
Lusitania
and they are her tugboats.”

“They are dear friends of mine,” said Genevieve sharply, “and I will not have them mocked.”

“I only spoke in jest,” said the journalist, semaphoring regret.

“And in rather poor taste.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Let’s go back to the chief engineer,” suggested Dillman. “You say that the two of you did not get on. What exactly was the problem?”

But there was no time for Barcroft to answer. Abigail and Carlotta Hubermann suddenly came into the room and swooped down on them. Two more cups and a second pot of tea were ordered and conversation turned to more neutral subjects. Dillman
concentrated on winning them over with a combination of charm and deference but he kept one eye on Henry Barcroft. The man was an enigma. His bonhomie was apparently inexhaustible. He was completely at ease in the company of Genevieve Masefield and the Hubermann sisters, even though none of them seemed to have any particular liking for him. Indeed, he was given a stern rebuke by Abigail at one point and a warning stare by Carlotta, but his broad smile survived intact. The more reproaches he was given, the happier he seemed to be. Dillman wondered how exuberant he would remain if he knew that his cabin was being searched at that very moment.

It was almost noon before the chance finally presented itself. While going about his own duties, the steward made sure that he went past the Rymers’ suite at regular intervals. Like his brother, Jack was short, stout, and well groomed but with a paler complexion and rather fewer teeth. A chat with a colleague elicited the fact that the Rymers were still in their suite, and he began to think they would be entombed there for the entirety of the voyage, making it impossible for Jack and his brother to earn another reward from a grateful second-class passenger.

Violet Rymer finally broke cover. Tired of being trapped with her parents, she excused herself to go for a walk on deck in order to work up an appetite for luncheon. Sylvia Rymer was too engrossed in her novel to wish to put it aside and her husband also sanctioned their daughter’s outing. They took it as a hopeful sign. Being locked in their lounge with a moping girl brought neither of them any pleasure. By giving Violet a degree of freedom, they might lift her spirits. Matthew Rymer went back to the study of his Bartholomew atlas and Marie Corelli weaved her spell anew for his wife.

Jack was lucky enough to see her actually coming out of the suite. That made the identification certain. Violet Rymer glanced over her shoulder, heaved a sigh, then set off down the corridor toward the stairs. The steward hurried after her, looking around to ensure that nobody else would see or hear them.

“ ’Scuse me, miss!” he called.

Violet stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“Got something for you,” he said, coming up to her and feeling in his pocket. “I am talking to Miss Violet Rymer, am I?”

“That’s right.”

“Then I’m to give you this.”

He offered something to her and she held out a palm to receive it. Mystified at first, she responded with a mild shriek when she saw what she was holding. Her hand closed on the tie pin and her legs buckled. The steward reached out to support her.

“Steady on, miss!” he said in alarm. “You all right?”

“Yes, yes,” she mumbled.

“You don’t look like it. Shall I fetch a glass of water?”

Violet slowly recovered. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“You sure?” She nodded. “Then I’ll be off, miss.”

“Wait!” she implored.

“I got my duties.”

“Who gave you this?” she asked, opening her palm. “I must know.”

“My brother, miss.”

“Brother?”

“Albert’s a steward in second class.”

“And who gave it to him?”

“A gentleman who wanted you to have it.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Never even met him, miss.”

“Did he give no name?”

“Who knows? I only did what Albert told me.”

“But he’s a second-class passenger, you say?”

Jack nodded, then scurried off down the corridor. Violet was in turmoil, not knowing whether to be anxious or elated. Philip Garrow was there, after all. She had given him the tie pin as a present. He had sent it back to her as a sign. Violet almost swooned with excitement. Putting a hand against the wall to steady herself, she debated whether she should try to make contact
with him or wait for a further message. Whatever happened, his presence on the ship had to be kept secret from her parents. There would be ructions if they discovered that he was aboard. As she looked at the tie pin again, she remembered the moment when she gave it to him and the kiss with which he expressed his gratitude. All hesitation fled. The miracle had happened and Philip somehow contrived to get aboard. Violet had to try to reach him at once. She would find her way to the second-class quarters and begin her search. But her resolve was short-lived. Before she could even get to the steps, a cabin door opened ahead of her and Ada Weekes stepped out. When she saw Violet, her face lit up.

“Going for a walk on deck?” she asked cheerily.

“Yes, Mrs. Weekes.”

“Then I’ll come with you, if I may.”

Charles Halliday was still in his cabin when Dillman returned there. The expression on the purser’s face told him that the search had been in vain. Dillman was disappointed but not surprised.

“Did they search the cabin thoroughly?” he asked.

“They turned it inside out.”

“And they found nothing?”

“Nothing that would point to Barcroft as our man. Apart from his clothing, all that was in there were his writing materials and a few articles which he’d drafted.” Halliday shook his head wearily. “No sign of any diagrams of the ship.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s off the hook.”

“No, Mr. Dillman. But it does mean that he’s one jump ahead of us. If he really is the thief, that is. He’s far too cunning to be caught with stolen goods in his possession. Did you manage to speak to him?”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “I’ve just come from him. We had a rather strained tea party with three ladies. Barcroft is a cool customer, I have to admit that. Until this voyage, he’d never met any of them, but he was chatting away as if they were lifelong friends.”

“What’s your guess?”

“I wouldn’t trust him an inch, Mr. Halliday.”

“Then he could be the culprit?”

“I’d rather give him the benefit of the doubt until we have proof. That means probing a little deeper,” he said, brushing his mustache with a finger as he thought it through. “I want to know much more about Henry Barcroft’s reason for being on this cruise. Which newspaper is he selling his articles to? What angle is he taking in them? Why doesn’t he move around with the rest of the press contingent? Who is he trying so hard to impress? In short, what’s his game?”

“Do you get the feeling he may have an accomplice?”

“No, I think he’s very much on his own.”

“Just when everything was going so well!” said the other, clicking his tongue. “We expect some petty pilfering, especially in third class, but not theft from the chief engineer’s cabin.”

“The Cunard Line has fierce rivals.”

“It’s a cutthroat business, Mr. Dillman.”

“They want to know what makes the
Lusitania
tick.”

“Men like Fergus Rourke. Technical advances are one thing. It takes blood, sweat, and tears to get the best out of them. That means you need a chief engineer who can hold the whip hand over his men. Stokers are a law unto themselves,” he said. “They work hard, drink hard, and fight like demons when they’ve a mind to, but they’ll break their backs for someone like Fergus Rourke. That’s why I’m so keen to get those stolen documents back. They’re his personal possessions. Upset him and the ripples will spread right through the engine room.”

“We’ll find them, Mr. Halliday. Somehow.”

“What’s the next step?”

“I’ll chat to some of the other journalists. See what they know about Henry Barcroft. Get some more background on him.”

“And then?”

“I’ll check the wireless room. If he’s been drafting articles, he may already have sent some off. That will at least tell us who’s paying him.”

“Good thinking!”

“Meanwhile, you continue your own inquiries among the crew.”

“We will, Mr. Dillman.”

“I’ll leave you to it, sir. I know how busy a purser always is.”

Halliday gave a hollow laugh. “I’ve had one of those mornings. Complaint after complaint! The best was from a lady in one of the regal suites. Did you know that we had Itzak Weiss aboard?”

“Yes. I saw his name on the passenger list.”

“Most people would be delighted to have a cabin next to one of the world’s great violinists. They get a free concert every time he practices. Not this particular lady! She was outraged.”

“Don’t tell me she complained about the noise?”

“Oh, no,” said Halliday with a grimace. “Her objection was that he kept practicing the Brahms Violin Concerto, which she hates. Tried to make me force him to play the Beethoven instead because she loves that. Imagine! Giving orders to a musician of Weiss’s caliber!”

“What did you say to the lady?”

“I told her to buy some earplugs.”

Dillman smiled. “You’re a true diplomat, Mr. Halliday.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell her where to put them.”

Violet Rymer was in a quandary. She was uncertain whether she should detach herself from Ada Weekes to begin her search or confide in the older woman and ask her for help. Both courses of action had obvious pitfalls. If she went charging off, she risked upsetting the older woman and there was no guarantee that she would find the man she sought in the melee of second-class passengers. Philip Garrow might be anywhere and her prolonged absence would arouse suspicion. At the same time, she drew back from sharing her secret with her companion. Ada Weekes was a sweet and understanding woman, but Violet doubted if she would take her side against her parents. She was much more likely to report the conversation to Sylvia Rymer, and that would be fatal.

In the end, Violet rejected both options and continued to pace
meekly along the deck beside the other woman. What she needed was a friend whom she could trust to act as a go-between, someone who would appreciate her dilemma and refrain from passing any moral judgment. Since she knew so few people aboard, finding such a person would not be easy. She recalled the man who had given her the tie pin but balked at the notion of employing him. The message she wished to send was far too important to be entrusted to a mere steward. A far more reliable intercessor was required.

Violet was still wrestling with the problem when a solution rose up before her. Striding along the deck toward them was George Dillman. He had already offered her tacit support and she sensed that he was a man of discretion. It was an outside chance, but it had to be taken. Acting on impulse, she excused herself from Ada Weekes and hurried off along the deck to confront Dillman. He touched the brim of his hat.

“Good day, Miss Rymer.”

“I must speak to you!” she gasped.

“Now?”

“Later. Could you meet me in the lounge?”