Murder on the Celtic by Conrad Allen

stage.”
    â€œYes,” said Rutherford with a sigh. “Fame can be a real problem at times. We’ve carried celebrated writers, actors and politicians before, and some of them do get besieged.”
    â€œI don’t think that will happen to Sir Arthur somehow. Most of the passengers will not even know who he is. Sherlock Holmes is far more famous than the man who actually brought him to life. On the other hand,” Dillman continued, “Sir Arthur has just completed a long lecture tour. His photograph will have been in many American newspapers. Someone will recognize him.”
    â€œAs long as they don’t pester him unnecessarily.”
    â€œI’ll be on hand to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
    â€œDid you meet Lady Conan Doyle?”
    â€œNo, she was resting when I visited their stateroom.”
    â€œA charming lady,” said Rutherford, “though quite a bit younger than her husband. I understand that she’s his second wife.”
    â€œShe is,” confirmed Dillman. “His first wife died after a long illness. He seems very happy with the new Lady Conan Doyle. In fact, when they came into the dining saloon, that was the first thing that struck me about them.”
    â€œWhat was?”
    â€œThey had a wonderful air of contentment, as if quietly delighted in each other’s company. It was rather touching. They looked like the perfect advertisement for marriage.”
    Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had been pleasantly surprised over dinner. Once he had yielded up his name to the people opposite them at the table, he braced himself for the usual questions about Sherlock Holmes, but, miraculously, they never came. His dinner companions clearly knew who he was, but they spared him any interrogation about his work and deliberately introduced neutral topics of conversation.
    â€œI was reminded of the first time we met,” he said as he and his wife entered their stateroom. “I had the identical sense of relief then. It was at an afternoon tea party on March 15, 1897.”
    Lady Conan Doyle smiled nostalgically. “Do you think I’ll ever forget a date like that?”
    â€œAs with this evening, I thought I’d have to deal with the same tedious cross-examination about my work. Instead, you asked me if I’d seen the exhibition of photographs of Nansen’s expedition to the Far North. It was the last question I expected.”
    â€œI knew that you’d once sailed to the Arctic on a whaling ship, so I assumed that you’d be interested in Nansen’s voyage.”
    â€œI was fascinated by it. That’s why I went to hear him lecture at the Albert Hall where he received a medal from the Prince of Wales. The remarkable thing is that
you
were there as well.”
    â€œPure coincidence.”
    â€œOh, it had a deeper significance than that, Jean.”
    â€œBut we didn’t know each other then.”
    â€œWe were destined to meet. We were drawn together.”
    â€œWell,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek, “I won’t argue with that. What I can tell you is that, when I went to hear Nansen at that meeting of the Royal Geographical Society, it never crossed my mind for a second that I would one day end up as your wife.”
    â€œDo you have any regrets?”
    â€œNone at all, Arthur.”
    â€œNeither do I, my darling.”
    â€œGood.”
    Lady Conan Doyle was a striking woman in her thirties with a pretty face framed by curly dark-blond hair. Her bright green eyes shone with intelligence and he had discovered at that fateful first meeting how quick-witted and well read she was. The former Jean Leckie had been trained as a mezzo-soprano. When he heard her singing Beethoven’s Scottish songs, he had been enchanted. The fact that her family claimed lineal descent from Rob Roy, one of the nation’s greatest heroes, was another powerful source of attraction for him.
    â€œI always