Murder on the Celtic (18 page)

“Mine certainly did,” he said reflectively. “Our preacher was always condemning certain writers from the pulpit because he felt they were unchristian. I used to sneak off to the library to find out why those books had upset him so much.”

“And did you?”

“No, I always enjoyed the books immensely.”

“So you disobeyed your preacher.”

He smiled. “You'll have to add that to my list of faults.”

“Coming back to the theft, do you take my point, George?”

“I can see that a Mormon might be outraged by A Study
in Scarlet,
but how could Mr. Agnew possibly know that Sir Arthur had a copy with him?”

“Perhaps he didn't,” she argued. “By way of revenge, he went to steal anything written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and happened on that particular novel.”

“But he was taking part in the séance.”

“Not for the whole time. Mr. Agnew was so disappointed with what happened that he stalked out early on.”

“Knowing that Sir Arthur and his wife were still absent from their stateroom.” Dillman pursed his lips in thought. “This may have nothing to do with him being a Mormon,” he continued. “Philip Agnew had another reason to detest Sir Arthur — he's killed animals. If he did steal that book, he might have done it out of sheer spite.”

“Would you describe Mr. Agnew as a spiteful man?”

“Oh, yes. Extremely spiteful.”

Nobby Ruggles waited until his first customer had settled into the chair before putting a cape of crisp white linen around him. Tying it at the back of the man's neck, he glanced in the mirror so that he could see Philip Agnew's face.

“A trim, sir?”

“Yes, but don't take too much off. I've got little enough hair as it is. Just tidy it up, please.”

“Of course, sir.”

Ruggles swiveled the chair slightly so that he could look at his customer from the front, then he used his comb to train a few wayward strands back into place. Most of the surviving hair had retreated to the fringes, but there was still a narrow band stretching across the top of his head like a hirsute bridge across a dome
of baldness. Having sized up his task, Ruggles reached for his scissors and began work.

“Did you go to the concert yesterday, sir?” he asked.

“No,” said Agnew bluntly.

“Then you missed some wonderful entertainment. The purser always takes part. Mr. Rutherford plays the clarinet.”

“I've got no time for music.”

“Then you would have enjoyed the conjurer.”

“I doubt it.”

“The act that everyone really enjoyed was the lady with the performing dog. It was a poodle and she's taught it lots of tricks.”

“Then I'm glad I wasn't there,” said Agnew brusquely. “I hate performing animals of any kind. I own a menagerie where I give my animals as much dignity as I can. Circuses are the worst. They make lions, tigers, elephants and seals do things that the creatures would never do in the wild. I think it's shameful. I love animals. I'd never humiliate them.”

“But the dog seemed to enjoy doing the tricks.”

“Why couldn't the owner just let it be a dog?”

During his years as a barber Nobby Ruggles had learned never to upset a customer. To that end he never talked about politics, religion or marriage, three subjects that could easily become too controversial. If any of his customers broached them, Ruggles took the line of least resistance and agreed with everything they said. Agnew was evidently not a man with whom to pick an argument. Instead, Ruggles asked politely about the menagerie and heard how it had been set up and developed.

When the topic had been exhausted, Ruggles brought the conversation back to the concert. He beamed proudly.

“There'll be another concert this afternoon, sir.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“I only mention it because I'll be one of the artistes.”

“What do you do?” asked Agnew. “Cut someone's hair on stage?”

“No, sir. I recite poems.”

“That's worse than watching a poodle stand on its hind legs.”

“My work has been well received,” said Ruggles defensively. “At yesterday's concert I gave a performance of ‘Corporal Dick's Promotion' and got a big round of applause. The man who wrote the poem also congratulated me and you can't have higher praise than that. Sir Arthur thought I had a real talent.”

Agnew grimaced. “Would that be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I dislike the man.”

“He's one of my idols.”

“I don't approve of any man who slaughters animals.”

“You should have seen what he did for us during the Boer War.”

“Who cares about that?”

“I do, sir. I was there, in the British army.”

“Then show your medals to someone else,” said Agnew sourly. “All I know about the Boer War is that the British army went to South Africa and killed thousands of wild animals.”

“We had to eat, sir.”

“Live off fruit and vegetables as I do. It's healthier for you.”

“Shall I tell you why I respect Sir Arthur so much?”

“Not unless you want me to call for another barber. What's your name, by the way?”

“Ruggles, sir. Nobby Ruggles.”

“Are you allowed to take tips?”

Ruggles's face brightened. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, you won't get one if you mention that man's name again.”

“Sir Arthur?”

“I told you not to mention it!” bellowed Agnew.

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“How much longer are you going to be, Ruggles?”

“I'm almost finished.”

“Then hurry up and let me out of this chair,” said Agnew, glaring angrily into the mirror. “Hearing about the lady and her poodle was bad enough. But I'm not going to sit here and listen to you talking about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I loathe the man.”

George Dillman went back to the main deck that morning to take a closer look at the lifeboat in which the frock coat had been found, and to search in its vicinity. The light rain did not deter him. Having peeped into the boat again, he secured the tarpaulin.

“You won't find him in there,” said a voice behind him.

Dillman turned to face Saul Pinnick. “Who?”

“Mr. Rush.”

“I wasn't looking for anyone of that name.”

“He did think about it,” said Pinnick. “Sleeping in one of the lifeboats, that is. But he found it too uncomfortable. Sorry,” he went on. “We haven't met, have we? I'm Saul Pinnick.”

“Pleased to meet you. My name is George Dillman.”

“What brought you out here in the rain?”

“I wanted some exercise,” said Dillman, careful not to disclose his reason for being there. “You mentioned a Mr. Rush.”

“Yes,” said Pinnick, “he's like us. He was turned back at Ellis Island because of his bad chest. Mr. Rush was a miner, you see. It's a job that plays havoc with your lungs. He took it hard, being refused entry to America. I'm sorry for him. He'd suffered enough already.”

“Had he, Mr. Pinnick?”

“Yes, his wife died on the way to America. Cruel. Mr. Rush was supposed to be the invalid in the family, but she was the one who passed away. It was a real tragedy. She was buried at sea.”

“I think I heard about that,” said Dillman, recalling what Carr had told him. “Is this gentleman a friend of yours?”

“Not really, but I like to keep an eye on him.”

“Why?”

“He worries me, Mr. Dillman,” said the old man, pulling up the collar of his overcoat and adjusting his hat. “To lose his wife was a savage blow, but he felt that she'd have wanted him to go on to be an American citizen.”

“But he was rejected on health grounds.”

“That happened to Mirry and me as well, so I know how it feels. For Mr. Rush, it was like a death sentence. It took away his will to live. He talked about joining his wife in a watery grave.”

“He threatened to commit suicide?” said Dillman in dismay.

“In so many words.”

“You should have reported this, Mr. Pinnick. The chaplain could have spoken to him and tried to give him some peace of mind.”

“It would have been a waste of time.”

“Is he still on board?”

“Oh, yes. I saw him at breakfast earlier on. He was as pale as a ghost,” said Pinnick sorrowfully, “but who wouldn't be after spending the night on deck?”

“So he really did sleep out here?”

“He did, Mr. Dillman, and he wasn't the only one.”

It was a useful reminder. Every time Dillman had crossed the Atlantic, some steerage passengers had chosen to remain on deck at night unless a gale was blowing. Instead of sharing a small cabin with three, or even five, other people, they elected to brave the elements to get a measure of privacy. Dillman was
bound to wonder if any of those curled up on deck had witnessed anything suspicious the previous night.

“Where would I find this Mr. Rush?” he asked.

“I couldn't say. He comes and goes.”

“But he turns up for his meals?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman. That's the one hopeful sign I've had from him. It's like I told Mirry — she's my wife. A condemned man is always given a hearty breakfast before execution, but Mr. Rush has decided that he likes lunch and dinner as well.” He wiped his face as rain was blown in under the brim of his hat. “It's getting much worse. I'm going back indoors. What about you?”

“I'll continue my stroll, Mr. Pinnick.”

“Good-bye.”

Dillman waved him off. Pinnick scurried away and disappeared through a door. After pulling his hat down, Dillman carried on with his search, bending down to look under the lifeboat and along the bottom of the bulwark. At first he could see nothing, so he moved a few yards to the left, still without success. He was about to move to the other side of the boat when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a tiny white object floating in a little puddle that had formed against the bulwark. Dillman picked it up and realized what he was holding. Sodden and misshapen, it was a business card.

He could just make out the name on it — Frank Spurrier.

When she knocked on the cabin door, Genevieve Masefield had to wait some while before it opened. Jane Lowbury looked tired and forlorn. Having shed her evening dress, she was wearing a dressing gown and slippers. She seemed smaller and frailer than Genevieve recalled.

“How do you feel today, Mrs. Lowbury?”

“Not very well.”

“I spoke to your steward,” said Genevieve. “He told me that you refused to eat any breakfast this morning.”

“I'm not hungry, Miss Masefield.”

“You must have something.”

“Later, perhaps.”

“Do you want some company?”

“No, thank you,” said Jane. “I just want to be on my own.” She rallied slightly. “Have you found out anything else?”

“Mr. Dillman is conducting a search at this moment.”

“Does he think there's any chance that David is still alive?”

“We must never give up hope, Mrs. Lowbury,” said Genevieve, trying to sound optimistic. “I know that this is not the best time for you, but we would like to talk to you again in due course.”

“Why? What can I tell you?”

“More than you may realize,” said Genevieve. “You may have information that can help us to solve this crime. We'd like you to reconstruct, in your own mind, everything that happened to you and your husband since you boarded the ship — every last detail. Write it down, if need be. Could you do that for us, please?”

“I can try, Miss Masefield.”

“Thank you. And if you need me, don't hesitate to call. Your steward will soon find me.”

“You're very kind.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Not really,” said Jane. “I dozed off for an hour or so, but that was all. I keep thinking about what happened to David.” She bit her lip. “Excuse me. I'll have to go.”

“Of course.”

Holding back tears, Jane closed the door. Genevieve wished that she could have offered more comfort to the woman. It made her think of her own situation. Married by the captain on board
a P&O cruiser on which they were working at the time, she and Dillman had spent the first weeks of their marriage sailing first-class to Australia. Even though they had duties to discharge, it had been an idyllic time. Genevieve could imagine how she would have felt if her husband had been snatched away from her while they were on their honeymoon.

She turned away from the cabin and walked down the corridor. Someone came around a corner ahead of her and seeing Genevieve, greeted her with a cheerful wave. Thoda Burbridge hurried forward, her ample frame and double chin wobbling in unison.

“Good morning!” she called.

“Good morning, Mrs. Burbridge.”

“I hoped to see you over breakfast.”

“I ate it in my cabin today,” said Genevieve. “But I must thank you again for letting me join you at the séance. It was captivating.”

“Sir Arthur called it mesmerizing, and he chose the word with care. As a doctor he had a particular fascination with Mesmer, a physician who achieved miracle cures with the aid of hypnotism.”

“You achieved a small miracle yourself last night. To be honest, I came into your cabin as a skeptic, but I left as a believer.”

“I'm so glad that everything worked,” said Thoda. “I'd have felt such a fool lugging that table of mine aboard without using it in a successful séance. All the vibrations were right, you see.”

“Unlike the first attempt.”

“I'd rather forget that, Miss Masefield. I made the mistake of inviting that American gentleman, Mr. Agnew. He was not in sympathy with what the rest of us were trying to do.”

“I believe that you sensed something about him.”