The mood of celebration continued and intensified throughout the evening until the Lusitania seemed to be hosting one enormous party. People who would normally have been attending Evensong at that hour or reading to their children from the family Bible were happily ignoring all precepts about the nature of the Sabbath. Passengers in first class might be attending a banquet but those in third class were not excluded from the sense of occasion. Jollity and camaraderie ran along the serried ranks of wooden benches, and a cheer went up when someone began to play a concertina. The vessel was traveling in international waters. It was outside time and outside the normal restraints of social life.
Decorum was, however, still maintained to a degree in the first-class dining saloon. Notwithstanding the festive atmosphere, there was a visible display of hierarchy with the most distinguished guests seated at the captain’s table and others of note also taking up favored positions. George Porter Dillman was at once a participant in, and observer of, the glittering occasion, enjoying a splendid meal for its own sake while keeping the entire room under observation. Seated near one wall of the saloon, he was well placed to let his gaze roam, and his first general impression was one of dazzling opulence. Purser Halliday’s prediction had been accurate. The ladies had reclaimed their jewelry from the safe with a vengeance. There were so many diamond tiaras, costly earrings, sparkling necklaces, and gold brooches on show that Dillman felt he was attending a royal function.
Lord Carradine was at the captain’s table, dispensing small talk with consummate ease and evincing all the attributes of a bon vivant. Dillman was interested to see that the Rymers had forsaken their private eyrie to dine in public. Matthew Rymer seemed to be delivering one of his lectures to the rest of the table with occasional comments from his wife but Violet Rymer was as reserved and distrait as usual. Alone of the dinner guests, she was clearly suffering.
Whenever he looked around, Dillman’s eye always ended up on the same person. Seated between the Hubermanns, she was poised and yet vivacious, taking a full part in the general discussion and entrancing every man at the table. Dillman thought she was the perfect example of English beauty. What surprised him was that there was no sign of the journalist who had escorted her into the saloon. Unless he was hidden by one of the pillars or potted palms, Henry Barcroft had vanished. Dillman half expected him to have wangled himself a place at her table, but Fortress Hubermann had obviously proved impregnable.
Two other surprises lay in store for Dillman. Steeling himself to endure an evening’s proximity to the morose Jeremiah Erskine, he instead found the man in an almost lighthearted vein. Champagne was the main reason for this transformation but the other was the presence of his wife, Dorothea. She was the biggest surprise of all. Years younger than her husband, she was a slender woman in a most striking pink evening gown and wearing a diamond necklace the equal of any piece of jewelry in the room. Dillman was amazed that Erskine was even married. The man’s funereal manner suggested a lonely and disappointed bachelor. That his wife should be so young and handsome was astonishing, but it certainly made for a more pleasant meal as far as the American was concerned.
Dorothea Erskine was an alert, intelligent woman with firm opinions on every subject that came up. She was even ready to contradict her husband from time to time. Instead of resenting her opposition, Erskine reveled in it, chortling into his beard at each new polite rebuke. Cyril Weekes also came into his own at the table, revealing a gift for humorous anecdote that brought titters of amusement from all of them, including his wife—even though the stories must all have been wearisomely familiar to her. There were five other people at the table and Dillman was glad of the opportunity to widen his circle of friends. As the only American present, he came in for some gentle ribbing and fielded the inevitable questions about New York.
“Is it really as different as they say?” asked Ada Weekes.
“In some ways,” replied Dillman.
“New York is surprisingly civilized,” added Erskine with a muted guffaw. “One might almost be in London!”
“I hope not,” said Weekes. “I want it to be delightfully foreign.”
“I’m sure that none of you will be disappointed,” said Dillman, looking around the table. “Visitors from England are always given a warm welcome. You just have to allow for the idiosyncrasies of the American way of life.”
Dorothea Erskine agreed with him and started a debate about national characteristics. It carried them right through the main course. Dillman was just about to eat his dessert when he became conscious that someone was watching him. It was a strange feeling, and he could not make out if it was pleasant or unsettling. His initial hope was that he was arousing interest in a certain person between the Hubermanns, but he saw that she was, in fact, giving instructions to one of the waiters. His gaze searched the saloon until it finally rested at the Rymers’ table. It was the pale blue eyes of Violet Rymer that were fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and appeal. Dillman felt that she was issuing a silent cry for help. When he met her gaze, she gave a brief smile, then seemed to lose her nerve and look away. It was puzzling.
When the meal was over, some guests remained at their tables to prolong their conversations but most began to disperse. Dillman saw the alacrity with which Lord Carradine crossed to the Hubermanns’ table to extend an invitation to his new young acquaintance. Since he wisely included the two sisters in his invitation, it was readily accepted and all three ladies rose from their seats. Dillman accepted that she was beyond reach for the rest of the evening. Lord Carradine would have a private lounge to which he could adjourn with his select friends. Dillman had already noted that the aristocrat was unencumbered by a wife or a partner. It allowed him to be singularly attentive to the young lady who had sparked his interest.
“I feel the need of a cigar,” declared Erskine.
“Then go to the smoking room,” urged his wife. “You know how much I hate the smell of those foul cigars.”
“Of course, my dear.” He glanced up. “Anyone care to join me?”
“I will,” said Weekes.
“Anyone else? Dillman?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Erskine. I don’t smoke.”
“How bizarre!”
Everyone at the table rose to their feet and made for the door. Cyril Weekes fell in beside Dillman and gave him a companionable nudge.
“Keep an eye on the ladies, old chap, will you?”
“With pleasure.”
“Don’t want them being abducted, do we?”
“How long do you expect to be?”
“One cigar leads to another. You know how it is. Besides,” he said, lowering his voice. “Much as I adore the fairer sex, I do like to retreat into a male preserve on occasion. No ladies in the smoking room.”
“Quite so, Mr. Weekes.”
“Old Erskine was in fine form this evening, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Dillman.
“I meant to ask you about something he said this afternoon.”
“Mr. Erskine?”
“Over tea. What exactly is this Mafia Society?”
“Why?” teased the other. “Do you wish to become a member?”
Weekes burst out laughing, then shared the joke with Erskine as he led him off to the smoking room. Watching them go, Dillman began to see the affinity between the two men. He suspected that they had a bond that went far deeper than a mutual passion for cigars. Most of the ladies in the group repaired to the powder room and the American was left to settle into an armchair and chat with two abandoned husbands and a lone banker. He was rescued by the appearance of Violet Rymer, who slipped into the lounge on her own with the clear intention of speaking to him. Dillman excused himself and went across to meet her.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Miss Rymer!” he said, indicating the chair he has just vacated. “Would you care to join us?”
“I can’t stay, Mr. Dillman.”
“Are your parents coming into the lounge?”
“No, they’re going back to our suite.”
“I’m so glad you all ventured out this evening. It was a veritable banquet. I’m only sorry that you didn’t seem to enjoy it.”
She lowered her head. “Was it that obvious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I did try.”
“I’m sure you did. It’s not a crime to be shy. Though I don’t think it was only a case of shyness, was it?”
She looked up searched his eyes. “No, Mr. Dillman. There was something else. But I musn’t keep you from your friends. I only came to ask you a favor.”
“Consider it done, Miss Rymer.”
“I wondered if you’d dine with us again sometime.”
“Of course.”
“You’re the only friend I have on board this ship. It’s an agony for me to be in the dining saloon with all the other passengers. I feel that they’re all staring at me. That they all know.”
“Know what?”
“Nothing,” she said evasively. “So you will come?”
“If your parents have no objection.”
“None at all. They like you.” Affection suddenly welled up in her eyes but she could not put it into words. She bit her lip. “I must go.”
“May I ask one question first?”
“If you wish.”
“When exactly is your birthday, Miss Rymer?”
“A week tomorrow.”
“So you’ll celebrate it in New York?”
“There won’t be any celebration involved.” She sighed.
“But there has to be,” he insisted. “Reaching the age of twenty-one is an achievement. A vital turning point in anyone’s life. You’ll be a fully fledged adult. Able to make your own decisions. Pursue your own ambitions. You may not have voting rights, of course, but everyone will have to treat you differently.” He nodded meaningfully. “Everyone, Miss Rymer. Including your parents.”
Tears threatened instantly. Squeezing his arm in gratitude, she took out a handkerchief from her purse, then hurried away before she needed to use it. Violent Rymer was in pain and Dillman feared that he had just added to it with his comment. Moved by her plight, he had to resist an urge to go after her. He would have to help her by stealth.
Philip Garrow had to wait until late into the evening before he got the information he wanted. Having smoked a cigarette on the boat deck and maintained a desultory conversation with some chance acquaintances, he was making his way back down to his cabin when he heard a loud whisper behind him.
“ ’Arf a mo, sir!”
He turned to see Albert furtively beckoning him back down the corridor. Garrow followed the steward until they came to a storeroom. After checking that nobody could see them, Albert ushered him inside before shutting the door behind them and switching on the light. The steward was panting slightly and there was a light film of perspiration on his brow. He gave a conspiratorial smirk.
“More private in ’ere, sir.”
“Have you spoken to your brother?”
“Don’t rush me,” said the other, holding up a palm. “Been all over the place, looking for you. Give me time to catch my breath.”
“I thought you’d forgotten me,” said Garrow.
“Not that stupid, sir. Never forget someone as generous as you. Not that I ’aven’t earned my money, mind you,” he asserted, flicking a speck of dust off his white jacket. “Broke lots of rules on your be’alf. Lots.”
“Does that mean you made contact with your brother?”
“Yes. Wasn’t easy, though.”
“But you managed it.”
“Me and Jack is old ’ands at this, sir.”
“Did he agree to do it?”
“Only when I gave him your fiver.”
“And?” pressed Garrow, twitching with impatience. “What, then?”
“Jack said he’d do what he could. Not as simple as it sounds. Stewards only cover their own cabins. They don’t get to see the full list of passengers. Jack ’ad to do a bit of snooping. Took time.”
“But he got results?”
“Eventually.”
“Wonderful! Which cabin is it?”
“Suite, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“Two bedrooms leading off a shared lounge and dining room. One of the regal suites. ’er parents must have money.”
Garrow was dejected. “So she doesn’t have a separate cabin?”
“No, sir. You’d ’ave to go past them to get to ’er.”
“That’s nothing new!”
“Tricky situation.”
“Yes,” said the other, running a pensive hand across his chin. “I suppose that I should have expected something like this. They never let her out of their sight. No wonder she feels suffocated.” He stepped closer to the steward. “Could your brother get a message to her?”
“Depends.”
“He won’t lose by it. Nor will you, Albert.”
The steward grinned. “Expensive young lady!”
“Worth every penny.”
“Take your word for it, sir. Jack might be able to get a message to her. On the quiet, like. But there’s no telling when that might be. If they got a suite, they might be taking their meals in there as well.”
“They’re bound to let her out at some stage.”
“Jack’ll be waiting.”
“How will he recognize her?”
“ ’e knows ’er name. And he’ll speak to the steward who looks after their suite. Casual, like. Ask ’im what sort of people these Rymers is. Probe ’im about the daughter. We always gossips about passengers, sir. Don’t you worry. Jack will pick ’er out.” He gave another smirk. “Don’t want my brother slipping a love letter to the wrong young lady, do we? Could be embarrassing, that.”
“Actually, it won’t be a letter.”
“Oh?”
“I want your brother to give her this,” he said, feeling gingerly in his pocket. “And he must be discreet. Completely discreet.”
“Family characteristic of ours, sir.”
The steward held out his hand and Garrow placed a small object into his palm. Albert squinted down at it and then wrinkled his brow.
“A tie pin, sir?”
“She’ll understand.”
Dorothea Erskine began the exodus. After sitting in the lounge with the others for the best part of an hour, she decided it was time to leave.
“I’m ready for bed,” she announced, brushing her necklace with a reverential palm. “And I must have this locked up in the safe again.”
“Shall I fetch your husband, Mrs. Erskine?” volunteered Dillman.
“No, thank you. Let him smoke on. Mrs. Weekes?”
“I’ll come with you,” said Ada Weekes, getting up from her chair. “It looks as if Cyril will be in there for some time yet. If you do see him, Mr. Dillman, please tell him that I’ve gone back to the cabin.”
The other two couples also elected to leave and it gave Dillman the opportunity to break away from the stray banker. The lounge was still quite full. As he made his way to the exit, Dillman reflected on how tolerant both Ada Weekes and Dorothea Erskine seemed to be. Neither had complained about their respective husbands’ long absence in the smoking room, and they left without recrimination. It was almost as if they had willingly licensed the departure of their spouses. Dillman did not believe that all the wives aboard would be quite so indulgent.
When he first entered the smoking room, he could not find them. It was only when his eyes grew accustomed to the fug that he was able to pick them out, and he saw at once what had detained them. Instead of withdrawing to enjoy a postprandial cigar, Cyril Weekes and Jeremiah Erskine were seated at a table with four other men and playing cards. Evidently they were not novices. Though both were relaxed and urbane, they studied the cards with the intense concentration of men who took the game seriously enough to play for high stakes.
Dillman now understood why they were drawn together. Judging by the amount of money beside him, Erskine was not faring too well but Weekes appeared to be holding his own. There was a whisper of a smile on his lips. Dillman remembered the annual visit that his friend made to the Grand National and surmised that it must be only one of many race meetings attended in the course of a year. Cyril Weekes was an inveterate gambler. It was more than likely that he had first met Erskine across the card table on the previous evening. They were birds of a feather, flying side by side.
After watching them for a few minutes, Dillman let his eye travel around the rest of the table. Two of the other men were smoking cigars and a third was puffing at a cigarette through a long holder. It was the fourth man who intrigued Dillman. As one game concluded, he shuffled the pack with expert ease, then dealt the cards out. He was a big sleek man in his early sixties with a silver beard and a gleaming bald head. A prominent nose separated two small, watchful blue eyes that glinted in the light of the table lamp. Dillman knew him from Purser Halliday’s description. The man who looked like an art dealer was the notorious Edward Collins. Weekes and Erskine were up against a professional.
It was an education to watch them in action. Dillman enjoyed a game of poker himself but it was an article of faith with him that he never played for money. These men would never play without it. It was fascinating to watch the nuances of behavior as they indulged in bluff and counterbluff, or tried to lure their companions into a trap. Edward Collins was supremely in control. He did not win every round but he usually managed to claim the pot when it had the most money in it. By comparison, Weekes had only small successes. Erskine lost heavily.
Collins was careful to apply no undue pressure. He did not wish to frighten the others away by emptying their wallets too greedily at one sitting. It was important to leave them with the feeling that they might recoup their losses on other nights. Accordingly, he lost the last few games, surrendering the final one to Erskine when his bluff was called.
“My luck’s run out,” decided Collins. “Time to quit, I think.”
“Only until tomorrow,” said Weekes.
“Count me in,” said Erskine, pocketing his money.
“What about you other gentlemen?” asked Collins.
One shook his head but the other two were eager to rejoin battle. Edward Collins thanked them before rising to his feet and reaching for his silver-topped cane. As he went past Dillman, the latter got a closer look at him. Edward Collins seemed to be so cultured and dignified. Decency shone out of him. He inspired trust. Dillman would have bought an Old Master off him without a tremor but he would never sit at a card table with him.
Weekes spotted the American for the first time and came over.
“Did my wife send you after me?” he said.
“No, sir. Mrs. Weekes decided to go back to the cabin.”
“Oh, dear! Is it that late?” He consulted his watch. “By Jove! So it is. I rather lost track of time in here. Why didn’t you join us, Mr. Dillman?”
“I have no skill at cards.”
“Not a question of skill, old chap.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“Luck. That’s the secret.”
“I prefer other pleasures.”
Weekes gave him a sly wink. “So did I at your age. And why not? Every dog and all that. What?” He turned to Erskine. “My wife has gone off to bed. So has yours, probably.”
“She usually does,” said Erskine. “I’ve got her well trained.”
“What did you use? Lumps of sugar?”
“A diamond necklace.”
The two men chuckled aloud and ambled out unsteadily together.
Dillman was glad to get out of the smoking room. His eyes were stinging and the fug was catching in his throat. He made his way to the promenade deck and stood at the rail. It was quite chilly and there were few people about. There was enough moonlight to show how choppy the waves were but the ship rode them with impressive grace and stability. Dillman reviewed the evening. It had been instructive. He had met new friends and learned more about the relationships between existing ones. A visit to the smoking room had also introduced him to Edward Collins. A collective pattern of behavior was beginning to emerge among the first-class passengers, but he saw nothing that might cause any real alarm. Jeremiah Erskine had sensed disaster in the air. Dillman smiled as he considered the possibility that the fellow had merely anticipated his own drubbing at the card table.
The cold wind was encouraging the other passengers to return to their cabins, but Dillman strolled the length of the deck before he was ready to leave. He turned a mariner’s eye upward to identify the stars and would probably have stayed there for some time had he not been disturbed by a sudden noise. He looked along the deck in time to see the figure of a man, descending some steps at speed. Dillman only saw him in shadowy outline but he recognized him at once. It was Henry Barcroft. Without quite knowing why, Dillman set off in pursuit of him.
It was a long and bewildering chase, though he was not sure if the journalist even realized that he was being followed. At all events, Barcroft managed to stay too far ahead of him to be caught. Each time Dillman got within sight of him, the man seemed to vanish around a corner or plunge down another staircase, showing a remarkable knowledge of the ship’s labyrinthine passages. Eventually, Barcroft vanished altogether and Dillman was left staring in dismay up and down a long empty corridor, wondering which direction his quarry had taken. A decision had to be made. Turning to the right, he broke into a trot and headed for some double doors, pushing them firmly open and surging through, only to find himself colliding with someone.
The young woman let out a cry of surprise and stumbled back. Dillman managed to save her from falling by embracing her in penitential arms. He released her at once and took a step back.
“I do beg your pardon! I had no idea anyone was there.”
“Nor more did I,” she said, still shaken. “But I suppose I should be grateful that, if I had to bump into anyone, I picked a fellow American.”
“George Porter Dillman.”
“You were in one heck of a rush, Mr. Dillman.”
“I was looking for someone.”
“But hit me instead. Amidships. Literally.”
“Are you all right?” he said with concern.
“I’ll live. Just about. But who were you after?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. “Nobody else came this way.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. My name is Ellen Tolley, by the way.” They shook hands. “I like to think I’m pretty tough but you’re a big guy to stop.”
“I can’t apologize enough, Miss Tolley.”
“Ellen, please. Why stand on ceremonies? We’ve just been introduced in the most direct way.”
“That was my fault. I can’t apologize enough.”
“Does that mean you’ll insist on Mr. Dillman?”
“Not at all,” he said with a grin. “Call me George, please. It will be nice to hear my Christian name again after all this time.”
“It’s a deal, George.”
Ellen Tolley was a bright-eyed, fresh-faced woman in her early twenties with short dark hair that curled naturally and full lips that parted to reveal a perfect set of teeth. Her green striped dress was smart without being arresting and there was a noticeable absence of jewelry. There was a girlish ebullience about her that made her seem younger than her years. While he was appraising her, she was taking the measure of him and she liked what she saw.
“You must be the tall, dark, handsome man that the fortuneteller said I would meet. Trouble is, she forgot to mention you’d be traveling at a hundred miles an hour when our paths crossed.”
“I didn’t expect anyone else to be there.”
“I gathered that.”
“Most people have gone off to bed.”
“That’s where I’d be, George, if only I could find my cabin. I’m lost. I’ve been wandering around for ages and getting nowhere. Some of these signs are so confusing.”
“Allow me to guide you back, Ellen.”
“Just point me in the direction of the dining saloon and I’ll be okay. That’s where I went wrong. I turned left instead of right. All that Champagne. My father would go crazy, if he knew.”
“Your father?”
“Yes,” she explained. “We’re traveling together. He had a headache and went off to his cabin early. I assured him I’d be able to find my own way back. I daren’t tell him I went astray. Daddy has always been very protective. It’s got worse since Mom died.” She adjusted her dress. “You traveling alone, George?”
“Completely alone.”
“Where you from?”
“Boston.”
“Civilization! We live in New Jersey. I hate it.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you about it another time,” she promised. “Right now, I’d appreciate a few directions to the dining saloon.”
“I insist on escorting you there.”
“What about the person you were chasing?”
“Forget him.”
“Who was he, anyway?”
“Nobody.”
He walked back down the corridor and she fell in beside him. It was refreshing to be with someone so friendly and unrestrained by convention. Ellen Tolley had great charm and an easy confidence. He could almost feel the zest buzzing out of her. He found himself comparing her with Violet Rymer and wishing that the latter had some of her vitality, but he knew it was a forlorn hope.
“Have you been on vacation, Ellen?”
“Six weeks.”
“What did you see?”
“Real history for once. England is dripping with it.”
“Sorry to leave?”
“Yes and no,” she admitted. “I wanted to stay but, then again, I was not going to pass up the chance of sailing on the maiden voyage of the Lusitania. It really is everything it’s cracked up to be.” She gave a rueful laugh. “If only they’d supply us with a route map.”
“Even the stewards haven’t got all their bearings yet.”
“You seem to be doing pretty well, though.”
“Mixture of guesswork and luck.”
But he knew exactly where he was going now. Dillman took her up a flight of steps and along a corridor before turning a corner. Ahead of them lay the first-class dining saloon, its lights now largely extinguished.
“At least let me see you to your cabin,” he said.
“Kind of you, George, but I guess not.”
“Another time, maybe.”
A long pause. “Maybe,” she said at length. “Aren’t you going off to your own bed?”
“I’m on the deck above this.”
“Then this is where we separate.” She offered her hand again. “Thanks for being my pathfinder. I could have been lost for hours.”
“Good night, Ellen,” he said, shaking her hand.
“Sweet dreams.”
“I hope the bruises don’t show in the morning.”
“If they do,” she joked, “I may sue.”
She gave him a cheery wave and Dillman set off up the staircase. He might have lost Henry Barcroft but he had found Ellen Tolley. It was a fair exchange. It was only when he got back to his cabin that it occurred to him to ask himself where the journalist had been going at that time of night and why he had taken such pains to cover his tracks. Barcroft replaced Edward Collins at the top of his mental list for surveillance.
Ellen Tolley edged her way into first position on a different list.