Murder on the Lusitania (2 page)

Cyril Weekes could not be kept silent for long, but his wife was happy to contribute nothing but the odd smile and stray remark. Weekes volunteered the information that he and Ada were sailing to New York to celebrate his retirement from business, though he did not specify the nature of that business. Rymer announced that the trip was a present for Violet on the occasion of her forthcoming twenty-first birthday but Dillman saw no sign of enthusiasm for the voyage in her eyes. The expensive gift instead seemed to depress her. The most she could rise to was a wan smile.

“What is it like to sail the Atlantic, Mr. Dillman?” asked Weekes.

“Invigorating, sir.”

“Are we in any danger of seasickness?”

“Not in a vessel as large as the
Lusitania
,” said Dillman confidently. “You will feel as comfortable as if you were in the Ritz Hotel. It is first-class travel in every sense.”

“So it should be, at those prices,” mumbled Rymer.

“Tell us about New York, Mr. Dillman,” said his wife. “How does it compare with London, for instance? What should we aim to see?”

As the conversation gathered pace and intimacy, Dillman stroked his mustache and basked in the warmth of acceptance. Long before they reached Liverpool, he received separate invitations from the Rymers and the Weekeses to join them for dinner during the voyage. Friendship was secured. Dillman had the camouflage he needed. He was in.

It was a good start.

TWO

F
ew cities in Europe had as impressive a maritime history as Liverpool and none could match the pride and fervor with which the port sent off each successive ship on its maiden voyage. But even Liverpool had never known such an occasion as the departure of
Lusitania
on its first Atlantic crossing. The latest addition to the Cunard Line excited such curiosity and inspired such patriotic feeling that people came from all over the country to witness the event. Huge crowds milled along both banks of the Mersey, swelling in numbers until they passed the two hundred thousand mark. The object of their veneration, the elegant giant known as the
Lusitania
, had been anchored in midstream throughout most of the day while the
Lucania
took on passengers. Once the pride of the line, the latter now looked small, old, and dowdy when seen beside the looming beauty of the new vessel.

When the
Lucania
set sail at 4:30
P.M.
, the
Lusitania
moved slowly into its vacant berth, drawing a gasp of awe from the spectators as they watched a ship that was longer than the Houses of Parliament glide effortlessly over the water. It was a marvel of marine engineering. Many in the crowd wondered how a vessel with a gross weight of 31,500 tons could remain so buoyant in
the water. Here was a ship that was not only the biggest and most luxurious in the world; its quadruple screw propellers were powered by four direct-acting steam turbines and were capable of generating speeds in excess of anything ever seen in an oceanic liner.

None of those now staring at the huge vessel with its four red funnels gleaming in the sunshine doubted for a moment that it would regain the Blue Riband—the unofficial prize for the fastest Atlantic crossing—from the unworthy hands of the Norddeutscher Lloyd Line. British pride had been severely dented when its maritime ascendancy was usurped by Germany with technically advanced liners such as the
Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse
and the
Deutschland
. Centuries of dominance came to a juddering halt, a situation compounded by the fact that the German navy was now growing at an alarming rate. Political motives came into play. Government subsidies were hastily offered to Cunard. The
Lusitania
and its sister ship, the
Mauretania
, due to have its own maiden voyage in November, were built expressly as a means of reasserting British supremacy on the high seas and of sending a clear message to the German government.

Activity around the ship reached a peak as passengers converged eagerly on the pier. The customs sheds worked at full stretch, port officials were out in full numbers, a sizable police presence had been drafted to control the crowds, and a small army of hawkers moved among the spectators to sell food, drink, flags, postcards, and assorted souvenirs. The majority of passengers arrived by train but several were delivered by horse-drawn cabs or spluttering automobiles, each competing for space in the congested traffic. Electric trams brought those who could afford no better transport, and open carts emblazoned with the name
Lusitania
were pulled by pairs of horses from the hostels where emigrants had stayed overnight with their meager belongings.

Rich and poor alike streamed aboard the vessel, caught up in the heady excitement and determined to savor what was self-evidently one of the most important events in their lives. Coal barges had already filled the bunkers, and the decks had been swept clean of any lingering dust. The crew looked smart and
alert. There was a reassuring sense of readiness about them. Wearing trim uniforms and welcoming smiles, stewards waited to conduct passengers to their cabins and to provide basic information about the regimen aboard. In the ship’s kitchens, the chefs and their staff were already preparing the first meal. Saloon bars were well stocked and barmen were at their stations.

George Porter Dillman gazed around the pier to take it all in. As he strolled toward the ship, he looked at the shining faces of well-wishers and listened to constant barrage of noise. He had never known such an atmosphere of excitement. It was intoxicating. When the shadow of the
Lusitania
fell across him, Dillman paused to stare up at its massive hull and shook his head in wonder. Unlike most of the other passengers, he had already had a privileged tour of the vessel, but its sheer proportions still took his breath away. With an overall length of 785 feet and a breadth of 88 feet, she dwarfed every craft in sight. The river was dotted with steamboats, fishing smacks, motor boats, yachts, and dozens of rowing boats that had come to wave the
Lusitania
off. Against the great Cunard liner, they were minnows beside a whale.

“Awesome, isn’t she?” said a voice at Dillman’s elbow.

He turned to see Cyril Weekes standing there with his wife on his arm. The two of them looked up at the ship with controlled glee.

“Incredible!” said Ada Weekes. “Quite incredible!”

“Yes,” agreed Dillman. “Truly magnificent.”

“We are so fortunate to be here.”

“It is a great day for all of us, Mrs. Weekes.”

“Let us see if she has an interior to match,” suggested Weekes, moving forward. Dillman fell in beside them and joined the queue for the first-class gangway. “I must say, I did not expect to see crowds as large as this. Liverpool is such a friendly city. Rather drab and undistinguished in many ways but undeniably friendly.”

“You have been here before, sir?” said Dillman.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Dillman. We come to Aintree every year.”

“Aintree?”

“For the Grand National.”

“A famous steeplechase,” explained his wife.

“I know that, Mrs. Weekes,” said Dillman. “Its fame has spread across the Atlantic. I am just grateful that it was not mentioned in the presence of Mr. Rymer,” he added wryly, “or he would no doubt have felt obliged to lecture me on the whole history of the turf in England and the mysteries of bloodstock. With the very best of intentions, of course.”

They shared a laugh. Weekes gave an apologetic shrug.

“Do not be too harsh on us, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “Not all Englishmen are quite so arrogant as Rymer. I fear that he suffers from the national disease of insularity. This voyage may broaden his mind, though I beg leave to doubt it. You may have to endure more tutorials from him.”

“I don’t mind,” said Dillman. “I just wish he didn’t raise his voice every time he speaks to me. Mr. Rymer seems to think that being an American is akin to being both deaf and stupid.”

“Whereas you are patently neither,” observed Weekes shrewdly.

“Indeed not,” reinforced his wife.

Dillman acknowledged the compliment with a smile then followed them up the gangway. He liked Cyril and Ada Weekes. They struck him as a pleasant couple with a marriage that was happy without being too cosy. Weekes was an educated man, a Classical scholar from Oxford, yet he carried his erudition lightly. His wife was a quiet, watchful woman with a twinkle in her eye. Though he liked the Rymers less, Dillman nevertheless found them more intriguing. They seemed to be carrying a lot of emotional problems with them and Dillman looked forward to finding out exactly what they were. Behind the easy pomposity of Matthew Rymer, he sensed, was a bristling anger, and he wondered what had caused it. One thing was certain. Both his wife and daughter were afraid of him. And something even more than fear lurked in the eyes of Violet Rymer.

There were eighty-seven special cabins in the first class, most of which were situated on the promenade deck. The remainder of
the first-class cabins were on the main, upper, and boat decks, all of them accessible by the grand staircase, which more than justified its name. The entrance to the staircase was on the main deck and thus convenient for gangways from docksides, landing stages, and tenders. When they left the amiable turmoil of the quayside, first-class passengers entered a palatial world of woven carpets, embroidered curtains, paneled walls, dazzling mirrors, ornate light fittings, windows glazed with specially etched glass, and upholstered furniture of the highest quality.

It was truly a luxury hotel on the water.

Genevieve Masefield stepped aboard with an elation tempered with mild regret. Traveling alone, she was looking forward to the voyage and to setting foot on American soil, but a few uncomfortable memories still clung to her. Genevieve accepted that it might take time to shake them all off. Meanwhile, she could enjoy the pleasures of being a first-class passenger on the most remarkable ocean liner ever constructed. The steward who led her to her cabin on the upper deck was a tall man in his thirties with brilliantined hair and a flashy handsomeness that was kept in check by a submissive manner. One glance at Genevieve was enough to ignite his interest and he did his best to ingratiate himself with her, carrying her valise and assuring her that the rest of her luggage had already been brought aboard and stowed in her cabin.

A veteran of Atlantic crossings, he knew the importance of first impressions. Single women appreciated an attentive steward. Who knew where that appreciation might lead? Experience had taught him that social etiquette, so inflexible ashore, was sometimes abandoned at sea. The romance of an Atlantic crossing could turn single ladies into viable targets for the right man. When he unlocked her cabin door, he stepped smartly back out of her way so that she could go in first to appraise her accommodation.

Sweeping into the middle of the room, Genevieve pirouetted and looked around the whole cabin. It was sumptuous. The colors were tasteful, the decor superb. The bed had a comforting solidity, with its headboard quilted, its valance embroidered. Genevieve could not resist trying the springs with her hand. She gave a nod of
approval, then moved to study herself in the gilt-framed mirror as she removed the green straw hat to reveal lustrous fair hair parted in the middle and gathered into a small bun at the rear. The steward watched with growing fascination and ran his tongue across his upper lip.

“Is there anything I can get you?” he asked softly.

“Not at the moment.”

“Are you sure, miss?”

“Quite sure.”

“Would you like to be shown around the ship?”

“In time, perhaps.”

“Call me when you’re ready,” he said, gaining in confidence.

“But I understood that I was to have a stewardess.”

“Yes, miss. A stewardess will look after your cabin.” He flashed a knowing grin and took a step toward her. “But she may not be able to provide you with all that you want.”

Genevieve turned to confront him with an inquiring smile.

“All that I want?”

“Extras, miss.”

“Extras?”

“Personal attention.”

“Ah, I see,” she said, torn between amusement and annoyance.

“Just ring the bell and I’ll come running.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“My name is Eric,” he said, taking a bolder step toward her.

“Eric?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll bear that in mind as well,” said Genevieve sweetly. “And if you ever come near my cabin again, Eric, I will mention your name to the chief steward. I require no ‘personal attention’ from you, young man.”

“Oh.”

“Considerate as your offer is.”

The steward backed away, crestfallen. He groped for an apology.

“No offense was intended, miss.”

“Are you in the habit of bothering female passengers?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said softly, “because some of them might not be as forgiving as I am. Let us pretend that we never even met each other, shall we? Goodbye, Eric. Close the door behind you, please.”

He removed the key from the lock, set it down on the table and scurried out before shutting the door gently behind him. Genevieve turned back to the mirror to scrutinize herself for a moment. A hand fluttered up to touch her hair. She then adjusted the brooch at her neck. She was pleased with the way in which she had dealt with the steward. Eric would no doubt describe the encounter to his colleagues and the word would go out. Her territory was inviolable. She would have no further trouble from amorous young stewards with inflated ideas about the power of their masculinity. Eric’s advances had been so direct and presumptuous that they were almost comical. Genevieve laughed aloud.

Expectation built steadily to a climax. At 9:00
P.M.
precisely, the deep boom of the
Lusitania
’s whistle echoed right across the river. With her cargo, her mail bags, and over two thousand passengers aboard, she was ready to begin her momentous journey. Standing on the bridge with his officers, Capt. James Watt checked his watch then gave the order to set his ship in motion. The maiden voyage began. Assisted by tugs and wafted along on the cheers of the watching audience, the
Lusitania
moved slowly away from the landing stage, ablaze with lights to fend off the approaching dusk. Hats, handkerchiefs, flags, and walking sticks were waved madly along both banks. Horns were tooted on every vehicle within sight. Hundreds of cameras recorded the scene. Shrill hoots of acclaim went up from the Mersey ferries and from the other steam craft on the river. Oars were brandished in rowing boats. Fireworks were set off aboard a small yacht. The harbor gulls
added their own distinctive cries of joy as they dipped and wheeled in the air. Liverpool was sending yet another ship off on a rolling tide of goodwill.

The passengers shared the sense of exhilaration, crowding the decks to view the scene below and acknowledging the ovation with raised palms. The intensity of the experience surpassed anything they had envisaged. Whatever individual reasons they might have for making the trip were submerged in the general euphoria. They were all one now. First, second, or third class, they were making history on the churning water of the river. It was an unforgettable moment.

Dillman reveled in it. When he looked along the rail on the promenade deck, he saw that even Violet Rymer seemed to be deriving some pleasure at last. Her eyes were alight, her hands clasped tightly together and her hair blown gently by the breeze. For the first time, he noticed how attractive she could be. It was only when he moved closer to her that Dillman realized that she was not, in fact, relishing the occasion at all. Violet was raking the quayside with a mixture of hope and despair. Deaf to the remarks of her parents beside her, she was looking for someone among the masses on the shore. The ship moved on, the faces below became white dots in the gloom, and Violet Rymer bit her lip in disappointment. Whomever she had expected to see was not there. Turning away from the rail, she dabbed at a tear with a lace handkerchief.