Murder on the Celtic by Conrad Allen Page B

flow, Jean.”
    â€œYou also need your sleep as much as I do,” she warned. “You’ll have plenty of time to write on this voyage. If you confine it to daylight hours, it will be much easier on both of us.”
    But her husband was not listening. Seated at the table, he was already jotting down the first few lines that had come into his mind. His wife did not protest. She knew how much his work meant to him. Leaving him to it, she withdrew quietly into the bedroom.
    Genevieve Masefield rose early the next morning and glanced through the porthole. It looked as if they were blessed by a fine day. Bright sunshine was already burnishing the sea. On the horizon she caught a glimpse of another liner. After having a bath, she dressed and made her way to the dining saloon for breakfast. Before she could enter the room, Frank Spurrier materialized at her elbow.
    â€œGood morning, Stella,” he said.
    â€œOh,” she replied, startled by his sudden appearance. “Good morning. But, as I told you, my name is not Stella Jameson.”
    â€œI know. It’s Miss Genevieve Masefield.”
    â€œHow did you find that out?”
    â€œI have my spies.”
    â€œI don’t like being spied on, Mr. Spurrier,” she said firmly.
    â€œThen you shouldn’t be such an object of fascination,” he said with a disarming smile. “You turned a lot of heads over dinner last evening. I was by no means the only man who wondered who you were and what your name was. Since you were dining with Lord and Lady Bulstrode, you were even more conspicuous.”
    â€œI can see that your spies have been working hard.”
    â€œIn truth, there’s only one of them, Miss Masefield. I suppose that you might call him an unpaid informer.”
    â€œOh? And who might that be?”
    â€œYour other dinner companion — Joshua Cleves.”
    â€œYou know the gentleman?”
    â€œWe’ve done business on many occasions,” said Spurrier, producing a card from his waistcoat pocket and handing it to her. “We’ve bought from each other.”
    â€œAn auction house,” Genevieve noted, studying the card. “It must be a successful one if you cross the Atlantic so often in first class.” She slipped the card into her bag. “Mr. Cleves was very personable.”
    â€œYes, Josh can be very charming when he wishes to be.”
    â€œDo I detect a note of disapproval?”
    â€œNot at all,” he said blandly. “We’re old friends. I’m very fond of him. It’s just that — like the rest of us, I suppose — he does tend to suppress certain facts about himself.”
    â€œYou mean that he has a dark secret?”
    â€œThere’s nothing sinister in his past — as far as I know, anyway. Though he dislikes being reminded of the fact that he’s the child of Polish refugees. I’ll wager that he made no mention of it over dinner.”
    â€œNone at all, Mr. Spurrier.”
    â€œThat’s typical. It’s almost as if he wants to pretend that his parents didn’t exist. He changed his name to Cleves to disguise his heritage — and to make the name easier to pronounce, of course.”
    â€œI don’t see any harm in that.”
    â€œThere is a whisper of ingratitude about it, I feel.”
    â€œIngratitude?”
    â€œYes,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “Josh’s father came from humble origins yet went on to build up a chain of delicatessens in New York that eventually sold for millions of dollars. If I’d inherited that kind of money, I’d have felt obliged to keep the family name.”
    â€œWhy are you telling me all this?” asked Genevieve with growing suspicions. “You claim to be a friend of Mr. Cleves, yet you’re highly critical of him.”
    â€œI just wanted you to understand the sort of person he is. Josh has many virtues — he’s cultured, forthright and