Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery (4 page)

   Lucy gave a great yawn and said, “You just need a little crime to attach them all to.”

   I ran my finger down the open page of my notebook and replied, “Well, we haven’t even completed our second day at sea yet. We will see what happens.”

   Lucy giggled, and I smiled knowingly before suggesting, “Let’s go in search of some clues.” 

   I was far too modest to tour the ship’s Turkish bath, but Lucy and I filled the remaining afternoon with a lengthy tour of the ship’s first-class offerings, while avoiding the bath.

   The ship had a lovely library and a reading room that was quite impressive. There was a smoking room for the men, which we peeked our heads into, and several lovely parlors for ladies to play bridge or sip tea.

   When we stopped to spy through the etched glass windows of the beauty parlor, an attendant opened the door and exuberantly invited us in. This seemed a good way to pass the time.

   The shop was operated by several lovely Parisian women. The only other customer was a bulky figure reclined in a chair next to a manicurist table.  

   Despite the green paste dried to her face and the cucumbers atop her eyes, I knew this to be the occupant of Cabin A-1. Her shape was rather singular. 

   As Lucy and I sat down for our own manicures, I listened to our neighbor speak. I had already gathered that she was an American. Her speech was rapid, and her consonants were hard; I suspected that she was from the East Coast.

   “At the bottom of the ocean, I tell you. I’ll never put my jewels in the ship’s safe again.” With that said, she wiggled the plump fingers that the beautician was filing, and light gleamed from her many jeweled rings.

   “It must have been terrifying,” said the beautician.

   “It was. No sooner did we strike the iceberg, then the ship keeled over to one side. My husband and I went straight to the life rafts, straight to them.
Woman and children first,
they cried out. Well, I ignored that and pulled my poor Jerome onto the cramped lifeboat. At first they thought he was just a lad, until some knucklehead pointed out otherwise. A crewman tried to remove him from the lifeboat! I reached out and clutched Jerome’s hand, told them if they could pry him from my grip, they could keep him.” She balled her fists, causing the attendant to drop her file.

   The woman who was showing me different shades of varnish to select from whispered, “She was on the
Tatiana
.”

   “Who is that, who is talking about me?” asked the occupant of A-1.

   “We were just explaining who you were—”

   The large lady sat up, the slices of cucumber falling from her eyes. Loudly, she introduced herself, “I am Maxie Beaumont. I’m sure you recognize who I am; I survived the sinking of the
Tatiana
, and my name was in all the papers around the globe. I have clippings from over five hundred newspapers. They called me Maxie ʻGrip
’
Beaumont.”

   She seemed very proud of this, so I smiled and nodded my chin. The sinking of the
Olivia’s
sister ship had taken place sixteen years beforehand, and as I had been rather young then, her name was not familiar to me.

   Lucy, far better mannered than I, said, “How very frightful. I don’t think I could ever sail again.”

   Mrs. Beaumont gave a toothy smile and replied, “You would if the Red Star Line gave you free passage for life!” These words were followed by an ugly, hollow chuckle.

   Lucy gave a dignified little laugh, and I simply nodded my chin again. 

   Mrs. Beaumont looked to me and said, “You, you are in the cabin a few doors down from to mine, aren’t you?”

   I confirmed her accusation and introduced both Lucy and myself.

   Ignoring pleasantries, Mrs. Beaumont responded in a scandalized tone, “I understand there is a Russian Countess in the cabin between us.”

   Curious about what this woman knew, I responded, “Do say.”

   “A relation to the Romanovs, her people smuggled her to England while the rest of the family was rounded up and executed—or at least, so she thought,” Mrs. Beaumont added with perverse satisfaction.

   Lucy gave a little gasp and jerked her hands from the cosmetologist who was painting them; pink varnish flew about the table. 

   After the mess was cleaned up, Mrs. Beaumont went on, “She was raised by a distant relative, and her identity was kept secret. From what I understand, she didn’t have a bean to call her own. All the dowry she had to offer was her title of countess, and that’s why she didn’t take
his
last name.”

   I had no reply, other than an open-eyed expression. This suited Mrs. Beaumont just fine.

   “Mathew Farquhar is his name. Handsome fellow, but poorly bred. He is the bastard child of a well-placed fellow and some cabaret singer. Scandalous, I tell you! He grew up having no idea who his father was. When the old sod died, Mathew was the sole beneficiary of his father’s will. He’s learned the right forks, if you know what I mean, but he still acts like he grew up in a tenement.” And this seemed to delight the hefty woman.

   “What a story,” I replied.

    Maxie Beaumont flashed her big pearly whites again and said, “That’s just the half of it. I found out just this morning that the countess has a twin sister in the States. She was thought to have been killed by the revolutionists, but she’s been hidden all this time.”

   This information seemed like less than half of the story to me, but with the intent to please the woman, I responded, “You don
’t
say?” 

   “Are you from Kansas City?” asked Mrs. Beaumont, rather sharply.

   “Close, Saint Louis…”

   “Oh,” she replied in a manner that I didn’t care for, before doubly insulting me and asking rhetorically, “And you are staying in a parlor suite cabin?”

    Lucy noticed my skin blush, and she asked Mrs. Beaumont, “Where are you from?”

  “New Jersey,” replied the woman, obviously not pleased to be asked. She then added, as if to elevate herself, “My husband is from Quebec.”

  “I’ve never been to Canada,” replied Lucy, in an effort to keep the conversation moving.

    Mrs. Beaumont’s beady eyes happened to spot my ruby engagement ring, and she plucked up. Pointing toward my fingers, she said, “Now, sister, that’s a rock.”

   In a reserved manner, I smiled and replied, “It had been in my husband’s family for many generations.”

   “Whatever you do, don’t put it in the ship’s safe! I had all my best in the
Tatiana
’s safe, and there it sits at the bottom of the sea.” She ended her warning with a mighty huff.

   Our nails were done, and then the women went to work on our hair. Mrs. Beaumont, seeing that we were quite the captured audience, described in great detail the fateful evening that saw the great RMS
Tatiana
sink—along with all of her jewelry.

   Her delivery of the tale was tedious, but this was the stuff of legend. The maiden voyage of the most luxurious ship ending in tragedy set the imagination in motion. As she prattled on, fixated on the details that caught her attention, I wished to know more about the mechanics of the sinking.

   My mind’s eye was seeing the true drama of the catastrophe when Mrs. Beaumont brought her story to a close with the same words she had before, “
Women and children first,
they told my poor Jerome as they tried to yank him out of the lifeboat. I reached out and clutched his hand, told them if they could pry him from my grip they could keep him.”

   Mrs. Beaumont, thank heavens, lost all interest in Lucy and me as she started pointing out to her beautician the many mistakes that had been made with her hair. She told the poor woman she’d return the following day to have it all redone. As it was, she was nearly late for a game of bridge.

   Lucy and I were both delighted with our own minor transformations and quickly abandoned the hair salon’s staff to a fate as fierce as a quickly approaching iceberg.

Chapter Three

Lucy appeared ever so elegant, turned out in a lovely emerald green gown. Her dark hair held just the perfect amount of curl, and she had artfully applied a dash of makeup to her sweet face.

   “Oh, Lucy,
you
look like a countess!” I held up my finger and rushed back to my bedroom. A moment later, I returned to the parlor and opened my hands to show dear Lucy what I had for her. “Here, tonight, you should wear these.”

   Lucy protested as I placed my fine string of pearls around her neck. I ignored her and said, “They look better on you anyway.”

   I’ve never minded being a plain girl. Whenever I wore the exquisite jewelry my Xavier gave to me, I always felt I was being decorated with ornaments, much like a Christmas tree. Lucy, however, looked quite natural with the lovely necklace about her.

    Knowing that the first-class passengers of the parlor suites would all be seated at one exclusive table for dinner, I decided to wear no jewel other than my ruby ring. Anticipating that Mrs. Beaumont would undoubtedly broach the topic of jewelry, I wanted Lucy to be the center of attention.

   Dressed in a fashionable black gown and little white gloves, I patted at my recently styled auburn hair and said, “Let’s be on our way.”

  Our cabin, located on B Deck, was just forward of the first-class formal dining room. Lucy was momentarily confused as to why I led her farther toward the bow to the magnificent grand staircase and began to trot upward.

   She then realized this would make for a grand entrance as we traveled across the deck above to the second elegant stairway just before the entrance to the dining room, and then descended the steps with perfect grace.

   On our honeymoon, I had sent Xavier on to the restaurant, pretending as if I had forgotten something in our cabin, and done just this same silly trick. A tear comes to my eye even now when I recall how his face lit up as he saw me on the top step. With more poise than I had ever known, I glided down the steps and felt as if I were the most beautiful girl in the whole of God’s creation.

   Lucy squeezed my hand as we went down the steps, and a few heads turned. Several men smiled at us, and their wives did their best to ignore us, two silly girls playing sophisticated world travelers.

   We crossed the lobby, and the steward recognized me and said, “Ah, Mrs. Xavier, such a delight to see you this evening.”

   I had always been very impressed with the crew’s service; of course, when I later found out just what passage aboard the
Olivia
costs, I certainly understood why they were so gracious.

   We were escorted to a nearby table, located centrally in the room. This gave us the opportunity to see everyone in the sumptuously decorated chamber, as well as allowing them to observe us.

   (Now, here, I need some professional advice. Would a description of the dining room be appropriate or would it slow down the action? The domed ceiling really is something to be seen. The stained glass is lit from behind and oh so beautiful. The room is decked out in burgundy and white, quite ritzy, to be sure.)

   Mrs. Beaumont and her husband were seated at the table, just as I suspected. Mr. Beaumont mumbled some greeting in French and made as if to stand, but his wife tugged at his fancy black jacket and ordered him to sit on account of his bad knees.

   “Jerome, these are the girls I was telling you about,” said Mrs. Beaumont, as she elbowed the poor man.

   Jerome Beaumont, as I’ve already said, was a tiny man, perhaps five feet tall and as slender as a weed. The man’s hair was sandy blond, and just beginning to show signs of grey. His attire was impeccable; dressed in black tie, he looked quite the dandy. Had a speck of lint appeared upon him, he seemed the sort who might have a bit of breakdown.

   Mrs. Beaumont was reading aloud from the menu card that listed the dinner selections when the steward approached once more. The man was just pulling out the chair beside me when the angry voice of Countess Orlov caused me to wince.

   Her Russian accent and broken English didn’t hinder her ability to express what she was thinking. “I sit not with these people—how dare you!” Lifting a gloved hand, she pointed to a table for two in the corner. “There, you take us to private table.”

   The steward mumbled an apology while the countess’s husband grumbled under his breath, “You needn’t be so hostile.”

   The countess retorted something in her native tongue and strode away. 

   Maxie Beaumont rolled her eyes and said, “Why, I never…”

   Mr. Beaumont seemed to have missed the complete episode, and he commented in French, which Lucy translated in a whisper, “Why haven’t they brought out the soup?” 

   The table set for eight seemed too large for the four of us. It became apparent once the soup was served that the Emerson brothers would not be joining us either.

   Attempting to make conversation, Lucy asked Mrs. Beaumont, “Did you make it on time to your bridge game.”

   The woman’s dark eyes squinted oddly and then she fixed a toothy grin on her face, “Oh, yes, but just barely.”

   Mr. Beaumont mumbled something to which his wife replied, “In fact I did lose, but we were only playing for matchsticks.”

   Two waiters arrived and carefully laid out our entries.  With dinner served, Mrs. Beaumont told us, once more, about the sinking of the
Tatiana
. Her husband completely ignored her as he enjoyed his meal. The man ate slowly, almost methodically. He smelled each morsel of food before he placed it on his tongue and chewed with great care.

   Mrs. Beaumont crammed her mouth full and swallowed mighty gulps, and even occasionally picked at her teeth while explaining how the
Tatiana
wasn’t equipped with enough lifeboats.

   Lucy and I listened while we ate less quickly than Maxie and without the dedication of Jerome.

   I was relieved when dessert was served; this was quickly devoured during a blessed moment of silence.

   Eager to part company with the Beaumonts, I placed my napkin on the table and suggested to Lucy, “Perhaps we should make our way to the ballroom and listen to the orchestra.”

   Before my friend could respond, Mrs. Beaumont jabbed her husband’s elbow and said, “Oh, yes, that sounds like a grand idea, doesn’t it, Jerome?”

   A pained expression crossed the man’s delicate face. His coffee was only half drunk and more than three bites of his lemon cake remained on his plate. However, Maxie Beaumont had spoken, and he had no choice in the matter.

   We made our way forward to a splendid ballroom. Maxie remained at my side down the wide hall as she informed me that a new orchestra had recently been hired.

   Paying more attention to her than our path, I tripped on a little flight of three steps leading into the ballroom. With surprising agility, Maxie reached out and grasped my wrist before I tottered down.

   As I thanked her, Jerome cried out proudly, “Maxie Grip!”

   We all gave a little laugh, mine out of embarrassment. 

   The ballroom was even more spectacular than the dining room. Wood-paneled walls were topped with stained glass windows, which were illuminated. Neat little tables lined the open dance floor, and behind these were larger tables for parties.

   The orchestra was playing a selection of popular jazz songs. A number of young people were dancing, dressed in black suits and formal gowns; it was a delight to witness.

   Xavier and I enjoyed dancing, though neither of us was really good at it. I lacked grace, and my poor Xavier was frightfully clumsy. We could clear a dance floor in the fashion of a bowling ball striking the pins. It hadn’t been safe for anyone to be too close to us.

   I slipped my hand into my purse and took a clove from my silver snuff box. The scent and the taste quickly eased my melancholy, and I felt as if my Xavier were near me.

   Good manners forced Lucy and me to follow the Beaumonts to an open table some distance from the lively orchestra. Mr. Beaumont said something in French, and his wife remarked, “I know; they don’t have to play so loud.”

   Mr. Beaumont took his pocket watch from his vest, checked the time, and uttered something else that I couldn’t understand.

   “It doesn’t matter how late we are out, Jerome, we’ll still need our sleeping tonic,” Maxie told her husband, and then, to me, she said, “With this ship swaying this way and that way, we can’t sleep through the night without a little assistance.”

   We were just settled when a familiar pair approached us.

  “May we join you?  My husband told me that I was dreadfully ill-mannered and must apologize,” said the countess with little grace. 

   “Think nothing of it,” I said before Maxie could make some ill-humored remark. “Travel is so taxing, and it creates such stress.”

   The countess bobbed her head and replied, “Like husband.”

   Maxie gave a great forced laugh, and she squeezed her husband’s little elbow until he winced.

   The pair sat down at the table, and Mathew Farquhar introduced himself and his wife. He was indeed a fine-looking man. With his black hair and strong features, he might have been an actor on the silver screen.

   After introducing Lucy and myself, I noticed that the countess’s eyes fell on my ruby engagement ring. When she realized that she had been staring at it for too long, she remarked, “Very beautiful ruby; it reminds me of the Romanov Star.”

   The comparison made me blush. “To me, it is just as valuable as any famous jewel.” 

   “It has been in family long time?” asked the countess, placing an economy on the amount of words she used to convey her thoughts in English.

  “My husband’s family, yes.”

   Mathew asked, “Are you meeting your husband in the States?”

   Quickly, with a polite and chipper tone, I responded, “I’m afraid my dear Xavier is in Heaven rather than the States.” Making it obvious that I wished to change the subject back to jewels, I pointed to the glistening diamond worn as a pendant on a gold chain around Maxie’s ever so large neck. “What a lovely stone; it looks quite dazzling.”

   Proudly, Maxie ran her chubby fingers about the gem and smiled. Politely, she, in turn, pointed to the countess’s emerald bracelet and said, “Forget about the china, look at those crystals.”

   The countess gestured at Maxie’s pendant and retorted, “That is crystals!” Indignantly, she jangled her bracelet and said, “These is perfect emeralds; my husband paid fortune for them.”

   Lucy, ever sweet-hearted, looked to the countess and said, “Mrs. Beaumont didn’t mean to insult your bracelet. What she said was a compliment. Mrs. Stayton and I had just discussed the confusion caused by slang the other day. We can all tell that they are high-quality stones.”

     “Yes, dear, no one is putting down your jewelry,” Mathew chimed in, fearful of his wife’s temper.

   The countess eased back in her chair and nodded. Although her nostrils were still flared, she tried to smile.

   Mathew decided to change the topic of conversation. He asked me that dreaded question I so hoped to avoid. “Mrs. Stayton, do pardon me for asking, but what happened to your husband?”

   It was obvious that the orchestra was just about to conclude the rather boisterous tune they were playing, so I hesitated until there was a moment of near silence before replying, “Spontaneous combustion!”

   The faces around me all contorted—save for Lucy’s, of course, who was used to my various explanations for my dear husband’s demise—and for good reason. Many people were fearful of spontaneous combustion; it was such a bizarre and seemingly mysterious occurrence. A colleague of my father’s, a fellow doctor at the Forest Park Men’s Hospital, had once, at a picnic, explained the happening to me in explicit detail.

  It seemed the horrible way of dying was misnamed. While in many cases, the cause cannot be verified, a nearby candle or lit cigarette is most likely the source. The typical case also involves an individual with a known habit of drinking alcohol. It was postulated that the poor inebriated person either brushed against a candle or fell asleep with a lit cigarette, and stymied by liquor, is unable to escape the flames.  This same doctor pointed out that he’d heard of fewer cases since the start of prohibition. He had more to say on the topic, but my complexion had turned rather pale, and he fell silent on the matter.

   After our little party recovered from the shock of my reply, I smiled sadly and batted my eyes. The orchestra was once again in full swing with another jazz tune. 

   Mathew mumbled the words, “I’m so sorry.”

   I responded by saying, “Tell me, Mr. Farquhar, where did you purchase your wife’s emerald bracelet? It is just lovely.” I was confident he wouldn’t attempt to redirect the conversation toward me again.

   Mathew’s reply took us to the bracelet’s country of origin, and then Maxie Beaumont shared a dull story of her own trip to this place.