Violet Rymer found it difficult to contain her joy. Knowing that she would be seeing Philip Garrow that afternoon, she was in a state of continuous excitement from the moment she awoke. Over breakfast in their suite, her parents both remarked on the welcome change in her manner.
“You seem to be in a good mood today, Violet,” said Rymer.
“Do I?”
“Starting to enjoy the voyage at last?”
“It’s impossible not to enjoy it, Father.”
“That’s why we brought you with us, dear,” said Sylvia Rymer. “It’s a unique experience and we wanted you to share in it.”
“It’s one of the reasons we brought you,” added Rymer. “But not the main one, of course. We all know what that was.”
“Matthew,” murmured his wife warningly.
“There’s no point in hiding it, Sylvia.”
“But do we need to discuss it now?”
“I can’t think of a better time. Now that we’re in the privacy of our own suite.” He began to butter some toast. “Violet formed an unfortunate attachment and it was our duty to put a stop to it. Which we did. The day will come when she’s profoundly grateful to us.”
Biting back a retort, Violet lowered her head and brooded. Sylvia Rymer gestured to her husband that he might change the topic of conversation but he ignored her advice. After chewing a piece of toast, he sipped his coffee, then returned to the attack.
“Appalling fellow!” he snapped. “God knows how a daughter of mine could get involved with a such a person. No breeding, no manners, no prospects, no nothing! Just one more Irish layabout!”
“That’s not true!” defended Violet, looking up.
“I met the rogue.”
“Philip is not a rogue, Father.”
“Don’t argue with me.”
“Need we argue at all?” said his wife with a pacifying smile. “It’s all in the past now, so why don’t we leave it there?”
“Because I’m not sure that it is in the past, Sylvia. We sent him packing but Violet clearly hasn’t forgotten him. Have you, Violet?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“She will, Matthew,” said Sylvia Rymer. “In time. It was all rather sudden. Violet had strong feelings for the young man. You can’t expect those to fade away.”
“Whose side are you on here?” he demanded.
“Yours, of course.”
“We’re her parents, Sylvia. Our job is to protect our daughter.”
“And we did that.”
“Then let’s hear no more nonsense about ‘strong feelings’ for that disgraceful individual. Garrow was an absolute bounder!”
“No!” protested Violet.
“You should never have let him within a mile of you.”
“He was kind to me.”
“Well, of course, he was.” Rymer sneered with heavy sarcasm. “And we all know why. He turned that Irish charm on like a tap. But it didn’t work on me, young lady. I’ve seen too many of his type to be taken in by them for a moment. That’s why I had to step in the way I did.”
“Violet understands that,” said Sylvia Rymer, jumping in swiftly before her daughter could reply. “Nothing can be served by bringing it all up again now. Especially as Violet is beginning to take some interest.”
“Not before time!”
“Let the matter rest, shall we?”
“As long as Violet appreciates what we’re doing for her.”
“I’m sure that she does.”
“How many girls of her age have an adventure like this? The maiden voyage of the most famous liner in the world. Any other daughter would give her eyeteeth for such an experience.”
“Violet knows that. Don’t you, dear?”
“Yes, Mother,” said the other, taking the line of least resistance.
“You didn’t mean to contradict your father, did you?”
A conscious effort was needed. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry, Father.”
“I should think so, too!” he said.
“More coffee?” asked his wife, lifting the pot.
“I’ve finished, thank you.”
“Violet?”
“Not for me, Mother.”
“Then all we have to do is to decide how we’re going to spend the morning,” said the older woman, replacing the coffeepot on the table. “I promised to meet Janet Palgrave at ten. She’s such an extraordinary woman. Not at all what you’d expect from the wife of a clergyman.”
“No,” said Rymer. “Clergymen’s wives are usually mousy little women with buck teeth and that awful stink of poverty. Makes a change to find one who actually dresses with some taste. Well,” he continued, putting his napkin aside. “You go off with Mrs. Palgrave. I need to spend some time with Mackintosh. From what I hear, I don’t think he’s getting value for money from that land agent of his.”
“What about you, Violet?” asked her mother.
“I’m going to explore the ship a little more,” said the other. “I still haven’t been up on the boat deck yet. And it’s such a nice day.”
Her parents traded glances and had a silent conversation.
“You need some company,” decided Rymer at length.
“I made a sort of tentative arrangement with the Latimers,” lied Violet, fearing supervision. “I liked them enormously.”
“There’s only room for two people in a honeymoon, dear,” said her mother. “I think it might be more tactful to let them be on their own.”
“Violet can take Mildred with her,” decreed Rymer.
“Mildred!” gasped the girl.
“She’s been cooped up down here ever since we embarked. Unfair on her. We must give the woman some freedom. Can’t ask a maidservant to be on duty twenty-four hours a day. No,” he said with finality. “Explore the ship with Mildred. It will be a little bonus for her. Something to tell the rest of the staff about when we get back to London.”
Violet quaked. She knew why she was being told to take the maidservant with her. Mildred was her chaperon. Her parents still wanted to keep their daughter under close surveillance.
“What did the postmortem reveal?” asked Dillman.
“Little more than we already knew,” said Halliday. “Especially as they were having to hurry. It wasn’t a full postmortem, but Roland Tomkins was able to make some useful comments.”
“Oh?”
“From the nature of the injuries, he’s certain that Barcroft was struck from behind by a right-handed man. As for the weapon, he thinks it must have been made of wood. Metal would have done even more damage, if that’s possible, ripping the skin open. Lionel Osborne agreed. A metal implement would have left different lacerations.”
“What else did they find?”
“That the killer took no chances. Belt-and-braces man.”
“Belt and braces?”
“He wanted to make absolutely sure that his victim was dead. When he battered him senseless, he turned him over and stabbed him through the heart. There was a puncture wound in his chest.” The purser heaved a sign. “We only saw him lying facedown so we didn’t know there was a second wound.”
“No,” said Dillman. “And there was so much blood about, it never occurred to me that some of it was coming from a stab wound. I don’t suppose the killer was obliging enough to leave a weapon behind?”
“Not a hope of that!”
“What did Mr. Tomkins think?”
“That the wound was inflicted by a long, narrow-bladed knife. He was surprised how neat and precise the incision was.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Roland said that any surgeon would have been proud of it.”
“It gives us something to go on, anyway.”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman, but it also reinforces what we already knew. This man is highly dangerous. He carries a knife. I think you should consider Captain Watt’s offer of a firearm.”
“At a later stage, perhaps. I certainly don’t want to walk around with a loaded pistol on me just yet.” He indicated his suit. “Can’t have that bulging under my jacket. It would spoil my appearance.”
“I know that you like to be something of a dandy but safety must come first. You need a means of defense, Mr. Dillman.”
“Only when I close in on the killer.”
“Did you ever carry a gun when you were a Pinkerton man?”
“Occasionally, Mr. Halliday. Like most operatives, I had to know how to use a firearm. When I was in pursuit of desperate criminals, I knew they’d be armed.”
“So is this man.”
“Only with a knife.”
“He knows how to use it.”
“I know how to take it off him,” said Dillman calmly. “What about the body? Has that been safely stowed away?”
“It’s in cold storage. Under lock and key.”
“And the cabin?”
“Cleaned up and sealed off.”
“What about the steward responsible for it?”
“I told him there were problems with the plumbing and that we’d had to move Mr. Barcroft to another cabin. He didn’t complain. One less passenger to worry about.”
“Did he remember delivering that Champagne to the cabin?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillman. Not long after ten last night, he reckons.”
“And he saw Mr. Barcroft alive?”
“Alive and alone.”
“That gives us a more accurate of idea of time, anyway.”
Dillman was talking to the purser in the latter’s cabin and he could see that the events of the night had taken their toll on his companion. He also knew how busy Charles Halliday was going to be.
“I won’t hold you up much longer,” he said. “And I have several lines of inquiry I need to pursue but I wondered if I might make a suggestion?”
“Please do, Mr. Dillman.”
“We’re all anxious that none of this will get out.”
“That would be fatal.”
“Then you might employ some diversionary tactics. The best way to ensure that none of the passengers start asking questions about Henry Barcroft is to keep them fully occupied. Lay on some special events to focus their minds.”
“Special events?”
“The obvious one is a dog show. Dozens of first- and second-class passengers seem to have brought dogs with them. Organize a contest of some sort and I’m sure it will arouse enormous interest. Dog owners are fiercely competitive and there must be somebody on board competent enough to act as a judge.”
“There may be something in that.”
“It’s only one of many ideas. You can probably come up with a dozen better ones yourself. But don’t forget the third-class passengers. They’re entitled to some entertainment as well.”
“There are precious few dogs in third class, Mr. Dillman.”
“But a large number of children. What about a fancy-dress contest for them? I know that most of their parents have little money and only few belongings with them but it’s amazing what they can achieve with a some imagination.” He saw Halliday’s deep frown. “Am I making sense?”
“Oh, yes. Great sense. Vital to keep a happy ship and we could lay on plenty of extra attractions. Problem is finding the time to do it.” He forced a grin. “But we’ll manage it somehow, Mr. Dillman. And thanks.”
“I know what would be the best attraction of all.”
“What’s that?”
“A recital by Itzak Weiss. How often do most people get a chance to hear someone as distinguished as him? The music room would be bursting to the seams. I don’t suppose you could persuade Mr. Weiss to honor us, could you?”
“I wouldn’t even try. Itzak Weiss is traveling as a passenger. We can’t impose on him. Besides, we have our own orchestra. They don’t include any virtuosos, maybe, but they provide excellent music.”
“Just a thought.” Dillman paused at the door. “I almost forgot.”
“Yes?”
“Have you spoken to the chief engineer yet?” Halliday let out a long groan. “I take it that he didn’t believe your story.”
“Called me a rotten liar to my face.”
“But he must have been glad to get his property back.”
“He was, Mr. Dillman. Only one thing puzzled him.”
“What was that, sir?”
“Well, the thief had been very selective. When he broke into Fergus Rourke’s cabin, he took some drawings and left others. Yet one of them was an elaborate wiring diagram of the whole vessel. It would have been incomprehensible to anyone but a trained electrician.”
“I don’t think Henry Barcroft could claim to be that.”
“So why did he steal that particular diagram?”
Dillman shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s too late to ask him.”
* * *
The Lusitania maintained its impressive speed, cleaving through the water with ease and leaving it churned up into white foam by its four massive screw propellers. It was a bright day though an occasional cloud drifted across the sun to block out its rays and deprive it of some of its warmth. Most passengers wore hats and long coats as they promenaded. Those who reclined in deck chairs also took the precaution of wrapping themselves up. Some of the novelty of the voyage had worn off and the buzz of enjoyment had mellowed into a quiet satisfaction as people settled into routines, punctuated at regular intervals by their meals.
Ellen Tolley was only one of a number of artists on deck. With her back against the rail, she used a pencil to draw a sketch of the bridge and upper section of the vessel. As she checked another detail, her head went down to her sketch pad again. When she looked up, the smiling face of Dillman loomed over her.
“Good morning!” he said.
“Hello, there!”
“I didn’t know you were an artist, Ellen.”
“I’m not really. It’s just something to pass the time, George. Main thing is, it gets me out in the fresh air.”
“May I see?”
“Sure,” she said, offering him the sketch pad. “Not that there’s much to see as yet. I’ve only been out here for a short while.”
“Then you must work fast,” he said, studying the drawing and noting its clear indication of talent. “This is terrific. You’ve got a great sense of perspective.”
“Is that what it’s called? I just draw what I see.”
“Do you do portraits as well?” he asked, returning the pad.
“Why?” she teased. “Would you like to sit for me?”
“Anytime, Ellen.”
She laughed. “It’s a nice offer but I guess you’ll be too busy sitting for someone else, so I’ll defer to her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw the pair of you at the breakfast table this morning. You were so engrossed in each other, you didn’t notice anyone else. Who is she?”
“Miss Masefield?”
“Is that her name? Beautiful lady!”
“Very beautiful.”
“Trouble is, you’re not the only guy to spot that. Miss Masefield has quite a following. She dined at the captain’s table last night, seated between Itzak Weiss and that English lord with the monocle.”
“Lord Carradine.”
“That’s him. Both men were hanging on her every word.”
“You’re very observant.”
“I was so jealous of her, George. How does she do it? I’d love to dine at the captain’s table like that. Do you have any pull with her? Reckon she could wangle me an invitation to join the elite?”
“You’re already one of the elite,” he said gallantly.
“Thank you, kind sir.”
“But the truthful answer is no. I have no pull at all with Miss Masefield. It was pure coincidence that we had breakfast together.”
“That’s not how it looked to me.”
“Appearances can deceive,” he said easily, looking around. “Is your father not with you this morning?”
“No, he wanted to rest his bad leg. I left him reading in his cabin. This voyage hasn’t been much fun for him so far.”
“But you’re enjoying it, aren’t you?”
“Every moment. Apart from the time when I had to stop a runaway American at full speed the other night.” She grinned amiably. “And even that had its pleasanter side. I got to make a new friend.”
“That cuts both ways.”
She looked at him quizzically, and a wistful look came into her eye.
“New Jersey will sure seem dull after all this.”
“You’ll liven it up, Ellen.”
“I daresay I will at that!”
“I’ll let you get on with your drawing. Good-bye.”
“Nice to see you again, George.”
She returned to her sketch and Dillman walked away, pondering the differences between Genevieve Masefield and Ellen Tolley and deciding that his ideal woman would be a subtle blend of the two. It was not a thought on which he allowed himself to dwell. Private pleasures had to be subdued beneath the call of duty. Wearing only a suit, he became aware how cold it was now that the sun had been smothered by another cloud, but he was glad that he had taken an exploratory walk around the boat deck. The brief meeting with Ellen Tolley had been a delight, following on, as it did, from breakfast with Genevieve Masefield. He hoped that he had not used up all of his good fortune for the day.
When he went down to the promenade deck, he was in search of Jeremiah Erskine but it was the man’s wife whom he first encountered. Clad in a fur-collared coat, Dorothea was standing at the rail with Ada Weekes, whose wide-brimmed hat was flapping gently in the breeze. Both women gave him a cordial welcome.
“You must be very hardy, Mr. Dillman,” said Ada Weekes. “No coat, no hat, no scarf. We’re in northern latitudes.”
“I’ve always had warm blood, Mrs. Weekes,” he said.
“We suspected that,” commented the other woman with a twinkle. “Jeremiah is the same. He refuses to wear thick vests or anything of that sort. He thinks it’s a sign of weakness.”
“Cyril is the opposite,” confided Ada Weekes. “He never stirs out without proper underwear. When we went to the Grand National last year, it was so cold that he wore three vests and two pairs of socks. You’d have thought we were going to Siberia.”
“Does he hope to see any racing in America?” asked Dillman.
“Oh, yes. He loves it. We both do.”
“So does Jeremiah,” explained Dorothea Erskine. “He’s a great fan of all sports. You may not think it to look at him but he was quite an athlete in his day. And a skillful boxer.”
Dillman was interested. “Boxer? Mr. Erskine?”
“Yes, in fact—” She broke off with a laugh. “No, I won’t tell you that. You’ll think that it’s so ridiculous. Yet it did happen. I can’t deny it.”
“Deny what?” pressed Ada Weekes.
“It seemed so unromantic when he first asked me.”
“Go on.”
“Oh, no. It will sound so absurd to anyone else.” She turned to Dillman. “Have you ever made a proposal of marriage, Mr. Dillman?”
“Not exactly.”
“But I expect that you will one day.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“And where would you like it to take place?”
“That depends on the lady,” he said, “though I can’t think of a better setting than the Lusitania by moonlight. It’s so evocative. Given the opportunity, I reckon I could propose at least three times a week on a ship like is.” The women laughed. “Without any effort.”
“You have a wicked side to you, Mr. Dillman,” said Ada Weekes. “But I have to admit that I’d find it hard to resist a man who proposed to me on board an ocean liner. As it was, I had to settle for the potting shed. It was the only place where Cyril and I could be sure of being alone.”
“At least it was somewhere private,” said Dorothea Erskine with a smile. “Jeremiah proposed to me in public. At a boxing match.”
“Heavens!” shrieked the other woman. “What were you doing there?”
“I can’t really remember except that he was so keen for me to go there with him. Jeremiah hates opera, you see. And he’d sat through so many just to please me that I felt I owed it to him. The curious thing was that I rather enjoyed it. Strong young men, fighting each other like demons. Not that I’d wish to go again, of course,” she said quickly, anxious to dispel any possible misunderstanding. “It’s not an experience one cares to repeat. But it did produce a proposal of marriage. During a heavyweight bout, actually. I think that Jeremiah felt he was on home ground, so to speak. He would have lost his nerve in a box at the opera.”
“But not in the middle of a boxing match,” said Ada Weekes.
“It could have been worse, I suppose. He proposed to his first wife on a crowded railway platform in Birmingham.”
“Oh, Mr. Erskine was married before, was he?”
“Yes. His first wife died some years ago.”
“I see.”
“I understand that your husband was involved in a card game last night,” said Dillman, starting to fish. “How did he get on?”
“Very badly, I think.”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“No, he wouldn’t talk about it when he got back.”
“Was he too upset?”
“He was still so angry with himself.”
“I wouldn’t mind them playing cards if they didn’t go on so late,” said Ada Weekes, clicking her tongue. “It was well past midnight when Cyril came back to our cabin.”
“Jeremiah was a little earlier than that. But he hadn’t come straight from the card game. He’d been for a walk on deck. I could see that by the look of him.”
“In what way?” said Dillman.
“His face was pinched, as if he’d been out in a cold wind. And his clothing was soiled. I think he must have brushed against something dirty in the gloom out here.” She smiled loyally. “He loves playing cards. It’s such a pity that’s he’s not very good at it.”
It was an awkward meeting. Rosemary Hilliard was just about to leave the second-class lounge when Philip Garrow walked into it. They all but collided. The unexpected encounter compounded their embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized.
“It was my fault.”
“Mine. I should have looked where I was going.”
“Yes,” said Rosemary quietly. “Perhaps we’ve both been rather guilty of doing that.” She manufactured a smile. “Good morning, anyway.”
“Hello. I didn’t see you over breakfast.”
“I stayed in my cabin.”
“I had half a mind to come in search of you.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well you didn’t.”
“Why?”
She moved aside as four people came into the lounge.
“We’re blocking the entrance. And I must go.”
“But I want to talk to you, Rosemary.”
“After last night?”
“Can’t we forget that?” he said earnestly. “I was to blame and I apologize.” Two more people brushed past them. “Look, can we sit down and have a proper conversation?”
“I’d rather not, Philip.”
“Then at least come for a walk on deck with me.”
She considered the offer. “Five minutes,” she said at length.
“Am I being rationed now?”
“It’s all I’m prepared to give you.”
“Then I won’t waste a second of it. Let’s go.”
Repeating his apology all the way, Philip Garrow escorted her to the boat deck and found a quiet place beside the rail. He could tell that her pride had been injured and he did his best to assuage her wounded feelings. Rosemary Hilliard slowly relaxed but she still kept him at a distance. In the bright morning light, she looked older and more tired.
“It was a mistake, Philip,” she said bluntly.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“We should never have let it get that far.”
“But it was what we both wanted Rosemary. You know that. Be honest with yourself.”
“I’ve spent hours being honest with myself. Long, painful hours. They’ve left me feeling rather silly and very ashamed.”
“What is there to be ashamed about?”
“We met, we had a pleasant time together, and that should have been that. Instead of which …” She bit her lip. “Instead of which, I let myself behave very foolishly and I’m old enough to know better. I’m a respectable woman, Philip. I just can’t imagine how I let myself get into a situation like that.”
“It all seemed so natural.”
“That was the trouble.”
“I kicked myself for letting you down like that. If I’d had any sense, I’d have taken you into my cabin when I had the chance and then we’d both have been happy this morning.”
“No, Philip. I’d have felt far worse.”
“Worse?”
“I’ve got enough guilt as it is.”
“Why should you feel guilty?”
“I’m a married woman. Or, at least, I was. I have a social position. I can’t get involved with a man I hardly know, especially when he’s so much younger than I.” She held up a hand to rebut the protest he was about to make. “We went too far, too fast. I was shocked.”
“Well, I was delighted,” he said, stung by her words and going on the attack with a passionate declaration. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in ages, Rosemary. I don’t care if I’ve known you for five minutes or five years. You’re a very special lady and it pains me to think I’ve upset you in any way. Nobody could respect you more than I do. I wasn’t making assmptions about you last night. I was just praying that I’d have the courage to go through with it. The courage and the luck.”
Touched by his words, Rosemary reached out to clutch his arm but she took a step back when he brought up a hand to brush her cheek. Not yet ready for a proper reconciliation, she was embarrassed by a display of affection in public. Doubt and apprehension still lingered. She looked at him steadily for a long time, then gave a wan smile.
“You’ve had more than five minutes, Philip.”
“Don’t go!”
“I need some time on my own.”
“Can we meet later?”
“I’ll have to think about that.
“In the lounge, perhaps? Over dinner?”
“Make some other friends.”
“But you’re the one I want, Rosemary.”
She fixed him with a cool stare for a moment before turning on her heel and walking away. Philip Garrow was tempted to go after her but common sense held him back. Rosemary was in no state to be talked around. She needed to be given space and time. Only then would there be a possibility of reeling her back in again.
He gazed idly around the boat deck, surprised at the number of people who were milling about, noting with dismay that almost everyone but he seemed to be part of a group or a family. He recognized some of the passengers who had joined the ship with him at Queenstown. They were not simply visiting America out of curiosity. Necessity was forcing them to emigrate there. Like them, Garrow was facing an uncertain future, traveling between two worlds, searching for a security that had so far eluded him.
His thoughts turned to Violet Rymer but no sooner did she enter his mind than she appeared before his eyes. He was startled. Warmly attired in a coat and hat, she was strolling along the deck with a plump woman whom Garrow remembered seeing at Violet’s home. A sense of joy competed with feelings of remorse. Pleased to see her at last, he was detemined not to let her see him, especially as her companion would also observe him. With his head turned away from the two women, he hurried to the nearest staircase and plunged down it, grateful that they had not come on the scene two minutes earlier. It was a narrow escape.
Dillman did not track down Jeremiah Erskine until well after noon. The man was seated alone in the corner of the smoking room, puffing absentmindedly at a cigar and reading a book with halfhearted interest. Erksine looked subdued. He was not in a sociable mood.
“What’s the book, Mr. Erskine?” asked Dillman, going over to him.
Erskine looked up. “Nothing that would appeal to you.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s a book on photography, Mr. Dillman.”
“Then you’re probably right. It’s a subject I know little about.” He indicated the chair beside Erskine. “May I join you for a moment?”
“If you must.”
“I didn’t realize that you were a photographer,” said Dillman as he lowered himself down. “You’re a man of many parts, Mr. Erskine. Your wife was telling us earlier about your passion for boxing.”
“The noble art of self-defense.”
“There hasn’t been much nobility in the fights I’ve witnessed. It’s been more a case of the ignoble art of attack.”
“Then you haven’t seen real boxers, sir. They rely on speed, balance, and fast hands. They don’t stand toe-to-toe and slug it out like two drunken sailors. Boxers have style. Panache.” He closed his book and stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “Does the name Byron mean anything to you?”
“Lord Byron? Of course.”
“Read his poems, I suppose.”
“Some of them.”
“Did you know that he took boxing lessons?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, he did,” said Erskine knowledgeably. “From the best possible teacher. A man called Gentleman John Jackson. Champion of England. Jackson had a boxing school on Bond Street. Lord Byron was only one of his famous pupils. What he learned was pugilism of the highest order.”
“Mrs. Erskine said that you fought yourself at one time.”
“Oh, that was a long time ago, Mr. Dillman. When I was much younger. These days, I fear, my sporting prowess is confined to the golf and tennis.”
“Lawn tennis?”
“We have our own court.”
“Then I envy you, sir.”
“Keeps me fit in summer months.” Erskine pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Almost time for luncheon. My stomach never lies.” He shot Dillman a searching glare. “What else did my wife say about me?”
“Very little.”
“Is that the truth?”
“She was with Mrs. Weekes when I met her.”
“Women will gossip so.”
“They see it as taking an interest.”
“Sheer nosiness most of the time!” His gesture took in the whole room. “Wonderful to have a safe refuge like this.”
“Yes,” said Dillman casually. “I believe I saw you talking to that journalist yesterday evening. In the dining saloon.”
“Journalist?”
“Henry Barcroft.”
“Oh, him? Yes, nice chap. Rather took to him.”
“Not many people have said that, Mr. Erskine.”
“Eh?”
“They tend to find Mr. Barcroft a little too forward. Too brash.”
“That’s what I like about him,” returned the other. “He’s brimming with confidence. Can’t stand people who hide their light under a bushel. Barcroft is bright and he knows it. He’s ambitious. He’ll go far.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Not well at all. We’ve only met, what, two or three times. But that was enough. When you’re in business, you learn to size a man up quickly. I could see at once that Barcroft had the spark.”
“Spark?”
“That glow inside a man that gets things done. That drive and urgency.” He pulled himself out of the armchair. “I must go back to the cabin to fetch my wife,” he said, looking shrewdly at Dillman again. “You never done any boxing?”
“Not what you’d would call boxing, Mr. Erskine.”
“Pity. You’ve got the build for it.”
“But not the enthusiasm.”
“Oh, that’s critical. It’s the enthusiasm which helps you to absorb the punishment. We all enjoy landing well-aimed punches. But you may have to take a few in the process. It’s your enthusiasm for the sport which carries you through. Will you stand up a moment, please?”
“Of course,” said Dillman, rising to his feet.
Erskine appraised him. “Yes,” he said, “you’d have a longer reach and a decided height advantage but I still think I might pack the stronger punch. I’d have enjoyed a bout with you. In my day, that is. Always liked a challenge.” He slapped Dillman playfully on the arm. “Excuse me. My wife will be wondering where I am.”
Erskine walked off and left Dillman with his arm still stinging.
Nairn Mackintosh and his wife were luncheon guests in the Rymers’ suite and thoroughly approved of the Scotch salmon being served. Wine flowed freely but the men still had room for two glasses apiece of malt whiskey at the conclusion of the meal. Sylvia Rymer went out of her way to be hospitable, realizing that it was not just a pleasant social occasion. Though the Mackintosh estate was not even mentioned, she knew that it had aroused her husband’s interest and that he was eager to befriend the wealthy Scotsman in order to win his confidence. Further down the line, perhaps, that friendship might eventually lead to some kind of proposition relating to the Highland property. Luncheon was a first important investment.
While the others at the table talked, laughed, and argued happily, Violet Rymer was largely reduced to the status of an onlooker. She smiled when it was required and answered questions from the guests with studied politeness but her mind was elsewhere. The tryst with Philip Garrow had been set for that afternoon. Fervently hoping that nothing would happen to imperil it, she watched her father’s steady consumption of alcohol with some relief, knowing that it would put him in a liberal mood and, at some point, send him quietly to sleep.
It was Sylvia Rymer who noticed how the time had raced past.
“Come on, everybody!” she announced. “We must go.”
“Must you?” complained Rymer.
“The concert starts in ten minutes, Matthew.”
“But we were just about to have another glass of whiskey.”
“I’ve had enough, thanks,” said Nairn Mackintosh, holding up a gnarled hand. “If I touch another drop, I’ll nod off during the concert.”
“That won’t do,” said his wife. “You snore so loudly.”
They all laughed and got up from the table. Violet had agreed to go to the concert with her mother but planned to leave in the interval in order to hurry off to her assignation, secure in the knowledge that one of her parents would be listening to music while the other, most probably, was taking a nap. The plan seemed to be working.
“Why don’t you come with us, Matthew?” asked his wife.
“No, thank you, Sylvia.”
“But you’ll enjoy it. There’s some Mozart in the program.”
“I’ll sit this this one out, dear. Feel a bit drowsy, to be honest.”
“I’m not surprised,” she chided.
After a flurry of farewells, the four of them left the suite and headed for the music room. By the time they arrived, it was already quite full but they managed to find seats together. Violet made sure that she was sitting on the end of the row. The orchestra was small but they were all talented musicians. When the conductor appeared, he was given a generous round of applause. He took his bow, faced his orchestra and lifted his baton, waited for ten seconds, then led them into the melodious world of Franz Schubert.
Neither Sylvia Rymer nor her daughter had any idea that they were being watched through the glass doors by a plump woman in a light gray dress. As soon as the concert was under way, Mildred left and went straight back to the suite. Matthew Rymer was waiting in the parlor, his coat off, his waistcoat open. He was toying with a glass of whiskey.
“Well?” he said.
“The concert has started, sir.”
“That gives us plenty of time, Mildred.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you enjoy your walk this morning?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I promised you a tour of the ship,” he said airily. “I told you that there would be treats if you came with us.”
“Being here at all is a privilege in itself, sir.”
“Is it, Mildred?”
“You know it is, Mr. Rymer.”
“Are you grateful that I brought you?”
She gave a submissive smile. “Very grateful.”
Matthew Rymer gazed at her with quiet pleasure for a while. Then, he reached into his waistcoat pocket to extract a large gold watch. After checking the time, he replaced the watch and looked up again at Mildred.
“Why don’t you lock the door?” he said.