Murder on the Lusitania Read Online Free PDF Page B

Carlotta.
    “Might I make an appointment to speak to you sometime in the morning, then?” asked Barcroft. “I am told that the Veranda Café is an ideal place for an informal chat.”
    “I am not sure that I wish to be quoted in a newspaper,” continued Abigail guardedly. “Journalists have a habit of twisting one’s words.”
    “I would send nothing off without your approval.”
    “That is different,” said Carlotta reasonably. “But what do you mean about sending your article off?”
    “The ship has a wireless room. They will transmit whatever I give them. Even in the middle of the Irish Sea, as we are now, I could get through to my editor.” Barcroft turned to Genevieve. “What about you, miss? May I ask for the privilege of an interview with you as well?”
    “I’m not sure about that, Mr. Barcroft.”
    “What is your objection?”
    “I have no wish to see my name in a newspaper.”
    “That objection is easily overcome,” he promised. “You’ll remain completely anonymous. If I quote you in the article, I’ll simply refer to you as a charming young lady on her first trip to America.” He fished gently. “I take it that it
is
your first trip?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “May I ask the purpose of the visit?”
    “To stay with us,” said Abigail bluntly. “And if you must ask us questions, confine them to the
Lusitania
. You are not entitled to probe into our private lives. Remember that, young man. As far as you are concerned, we are just three more faceless passengers.”
    “You could never be that,” he said with gallantry, looking around all three of them. “I have never seen three more distinctive faces.”
    Abigail sniffed but Carlotta’s cheeks dimpled at the compliment. Genevieve, too, mellowed slightly toward the stranger as the idea occurred to her that he might be useful.
    “Whom else have you interviewed?” she said.
    “Dozens of people,” he replied, keen to impress. “I spoke with Mr. Cunard himself, of course, and with the Countess of Dunmore. Then there was Mr. Jacob Rothschild, the MP Mr. Robert Balfour and his wife, Sir William Wiseman, and so on.”
    “All this for one article?” said Abigail tartly.
    “I am very thorough.”
    “Do you really need our opinion, Mr. Barcroft?”
    “Indeed, yes,” he insisted. “The more reactions I can glean, the better. As American passengers, you have a special interest for me because you must already have made one transatlantic voyage in order to get to Europe. You have a point of comparison. You can measure the
Lucy
alongside the
Lucania
or whichever ship brought you over.”
    “The
Ivernia
,” corrected Carlotta.
    “How did she compare with the
Lucy
?”
    “Oh, she is not in the same class.”
    “I thought this interview was going to take place tomorrow?” said Abigail, who still had reservations about the journalist. “My sister and I need to sleep on it before we decide if we will speak to the press.”
    “What harm can it do?” asked Carlotta.
    “None,” said Genevieve, “if our names are not to be used. Actually, I would rather get it over with now. If you would prefer to go to bed, I’ll remain here with Mr. Barcroft and answer his questions.”
    The journalist beamed and took pencil and pad from his pocket. An interview alone with Genevieve was exactly what he sought. Abigail Hubermann forced him to moderate his pleasure.
    “If you stay, Genevieve,” she affirmed, “then so will we.”
    “Yes,” said Carlotta loyally. “For as long as it takes.”
    “Good!” said Barcroft with false affability. “May I sit down?”
    A light meal with the Rymers was less of a trial than Dillman had anticipated. Though still in homiletic vein, Matthew Rymer was much more relaxed, and even ventured, albeit with plodding slowness, into the realms of humor when he described the recent purchase of a property. Dillman learned that his host had amassed a small fortune by means of property speculation, enabling him not merely to