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Rain peppered the decks, dotting her dress as Isabella dashed to the public areas marked for second- and third-class passengers.
Since noon rapidly approached, she headed for the dining hall. After last evening’s luxurious dining room with glittering chandeliers, white linens and crystal, and fresh flowers on every table, the bare tables and stoneware plates were a strong reminder of the reality of her voyage. The food was heavy but bland, washed down by offered beer or tea. She chose tea, introduced herself to her tablemates, then gave a half-ear to their conversation about immigration to Australia while she puzzled over the previous half-hour.
Do I want to help Gemma Stropeford and Lady Peverell?
Maybe she should reverse that question. Her friend Cecilia had taught her several important lessons since their meeting last October, one of which was to act to benefit her own self before others. The important person to help in this instance was Lady Peverell. Restoring the diary to Gemma Stropeford would gain Lady Peverell’s good will.
Gemma’s plight did strike deep. Cecilia had been trapped in a loveless marriage. Before her late husband’s death conveniently solved the divorce issue, Cecilia had anticipated years before she would be free to marry the man she loved.
Nor was Isabella certain she even liked Gemma. The younger woman was certainly naïve about the world. Her youth explained her flighty behavior and selfish intent. Too easily Isabella could cast disparaging words at the young bride. Her scattered conversation had thrown open the door to her interior closet, a jumble with few redeeming qualities.
Gemma fit well into the mad whirl that infected much of London’s young society. The war over, they celebrated living without a care for any consequences to themselves. That hectic need for the next new experience had captured Cecilia for a time, until she broke away and finally realized hope for the future.
Did Gemma have any of that hope? She hadn’t attempted loyalty to her new husband. She knew and had known for years that she wouldn’t marry the man she claimed to love. She didn’t deny herself what she wanted; she had only pursued what offered temporary happiness.
Although Isabella had only observed Douglas Stropeford twice, she knew he had a flawed personality. He berated his new wife in public. He’d thrown a letter and notes at her, yet he hadn’t opened the letter. She couldn’t determine if he had a temper or if extreme frustration with his wife drove him.
If he had the diary, why hadn’t he confronted Gemma with it?
He hadn’t ripped out the most damning pages. Was he holding those back? Waiting for an opportunity to confront his bride with them? Holding them as evidence for his lawyers? Then why had he claimed that he didn’t want a divorce?
Those questions had too many missing pieces. Her brief was to find the diary.
Where would anyone hide it? Especially if that person didn’t want it to be read? Would Stropeford trust his valet with it? Had someone else had access to it? The maid would have, but would the maid risk stealing the diary?
Who else had access to their stateroom?
Her first guess of the shipping office was a place to start. What was the best way to discover if Douglas Stropeford had mailed a package to London?
She ran a hand down her neat two-piece, a simple jacket and long skirt in slate blue, demure garb that she’d donned for the interview with Lady Peverell. The same attire should give her a professional look that might impress a clerk.
The postal station combined a mailing desk with a shipping office. Located on the third lower deck, the small anteroom was crowded by a long desk that separated the workers from the passengers who ventured there. A partial wall, with open doors to the back on either side, added to the separation.
A clerk stood ready at a central point behind the desk. Tall and thin, he had close-cut frizzy curls, grizzled with silver. The houndstooth clerk’s jacket fit him loosely. He clasped his hands on a closed ledger. A two-inch stack of envelopes bound with twine rested beside him. Behind the partial wall, men talked, and things thumped.
She entered with a smile, which the clerk didn’t return.
Subterfuge was needed. No mail clerk would answer a casual query about stamped mail or packages. Most of the Nomadic’s stewards were Greek, and Isabella had won a bit more cordiality from them with the prep-school Greek her father had taught. The BAON line employed from across Europe, stewards from Greece with a scattering from other countries, chefs from France and Germany, and assistants from the Netherlands and Belgium and Italy. The clerks, though, with their paper-heavy work, were all from England, in keeping with the company’s roots.
This man’s appearance gave few clues to his origin. Clean-shaven, he wore a starched collar over his white shirt. Starched cuffs hung loosely at his wrists. His shoulders were squared. He looked a bastion of British clerkdom, and she had to besiege the very postal regulations he had vowed to uphold.
“Good afternoon, sir. Lady Peverell, in Stateroom 7, has sent me on an errand.”
Nothing about the clerk’s facial expression changed, not by a twitch or a blink. “May I inquire as to your name, ma’am?”
That was definitely an English accent, London polish with a Tyneside underlay. “Of course. I am Mrs. Madoc Tarrant. My berth is C 31. And your name, sir?”
One eyebrow rose at her unusual request. “August Clemmings. How may I assist Lady Peverell, Mrs. Tarrant?”
The Peverell name and influence in English society might be known to this man. Her hopes rose. “Lady Peverell wishes to know if you have received a package that her friend wished to have mailed.”
The clerk frowned. “Postal regulations forbid the return of letters and packages once those are received and stamped for mailing.”
Isabella let her smile falter. “I do realize this is an uncommon request. Lady Peverell does not wish to remove the package from mailing. She merely wishes to know that the package was received.” Placing a hand on the desk, she leaned closer and confided, “You see, her friend’s husband offered to mail the package, but her ladyship has no confidence that the task was performed.”
Both of August Clemmings’ eyebrows lowered. “I do wish that regulations allowed me to assist Lady Peverell. However—.”
Before he continued with a refusal, Isabella added, “I would merely need to confirm the package’s receipt. Do you have a logbook or a ledger to record receipt of such packages?” Her gaze fell to the ledger.
Clemmings hesitated then opened it. “What day would the package have been mailed?”
“Yesterday or the day before or the day before that. Lady Peverell did not say.”
He opened to the last page with writing. “Perhaps the name of the person mailing the package?”
“Would it have that name if a servant mailed it for them?”
“One would certainly hope so.” His pursed mouth gave a silent speech about the vagaries of clerks who attended the desk when August Clemmings was off-duty.
“The package was to be mailed by Lady Gemma Stropeford. Her husband is Lord Douglas Stropeford. I believe his servant is Henredon. Her maid is Tamman.”
Clemmings ran his finger down the page. He turned back a page and did the same then did the next pages. “No. No packages or letters received from any of those names.”
Her dismay did not have to faked. “There hasn’t been? Oh dear. Are you certain?”
He flipped a third page, and she saw the tallied numbers at the bottom of columns. “This page is from our docking in Southhampton, before we started this voyage.”
“Oh. The package would certainly not have been mailed before we came on board. Well.” She gave a decided nod. “With your help, Mr. Clemmings, I have fulfilled my errand for Lady Peverell. The package has not been mailed.”
“Do you have any other requests, Mrs. Tarrant?”
“No. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Clemmings. Good day to you.”
He closed the ledger and resumed his stance. “And to you, ma’am.”
Isabella puzzled over the problem as she climbed to the first lower deck. The Silver Lounge was packed with everyone driven inside by the rain.
Not seeing anyone that she knew, she abandoned the lounge and ventured along the Silver Star passageway. She peeked into the Quiet Room, a salon for those not wanting the gaiety of the lounge. The locked library, little more than a cubicle, would be accessible only during morning hours. Rain had drenched the deck-side windows of the Sun Room. One couple looked around as she hovered in the doorway. The other couples were too involved in their conversations to notice. Isabella gave a cursory survey for hiding places before retreating.
A clatter of dishes in the dining hall bespoke stewards preparing for dinner service, and she remembered Lady Peverell’s invitation to dinner. The rain soaked her as she darted along the deck for the stairs to the third-class berths.
A ship had hundreds of places to secrete a thin diary. She needed more information. She needed a better understanding of who had taken the diary. Gemma blamed her husband. Isabella disagreed.
Why was the diary taken? That was the crucial question. As evidence for a divorce, then yes, Lord Stropeford was the culprit. But the pages and letter he’d flung at his wife insinuated rather than proved. The notes on Gemma’s breakfast tray were additional proof that someone possessed the diary.
The only reason for this morning’s note was proof of possession, with a threat of more and worse to come.
The only reason to threaten Gemma was blackmail.
Gemma couldn’t pay with pound notes, not aboard ship. Any letter to her banker, authorizing a withdrawal, could be stopped. Her only source of money was her jewelry.
Would the next torn-out page be accompanied by a blackmailer’s request?
