Page 5 of Discovering Dahlia (The Blue Orchid Society #5)
The first morning of the cruise, Miles came into the dining room, inhaling the aroma of bacon and sausage. A fine spread was arranged on a sideboard table. His stomach rumbled, but he didn’t go immediately toward the food. He scanned the room, hoping to see Dahlia.
After a moment, he found her sitting at a table with her group of friends. The doctor, whose name Miles didn’t know, Benedict, and Chatsworth, sat with the five women. Miles was still not used to this shift in alliances. A year ago, Dahlia, Benedict, and Chatsworth would have been sitting with Ruben and Miles. He watched the group, wondering what they were discussing. Based on their expressions and how they all leaned close together, the topic was weighty. Had something happened?
On the other side of the room, Ruben sat with Lorene and the other Debs. When their gazes met, Ruben lifted a hand, waving for Miles to join them.
Miles nodded his acknowledgment, more out of habit than desire, and glanced back to the other table, wishing he could come up with a reason to sit with Dahlia’s group instead. But, after her cool reception the day before, he didn’t believe she would welcome him.
He filled a plate and sat at Ruben’s table and spread a white napkin on his lap. Miles felt disloyal for wanting to avoid him. The two had been friends for so long, and Miles felt indebted to the man. If not for him, Miles’s young life would likely have been less than pleasant. Ruben was the closest thing he had to a brother.
However, in the past year, his friend had changed. His words had become spiteful, his demeanor angry, and it seemed as though he always had a drink of some kind in his hand, which did not improve his temperament at all.
The ship engines churned deep below, making a low rumbling sound that was just loud enough to keep conversations at the various tables private.
The ladies were comparing the breakfast pastries, cutting them into small pieces so each could sample the various offerings.
Miss Grey arranged some of the pieces on a saucer and gave it to Miles. “My favorite is the almond croissant,” she said.
Miles popped the small bite she indicated into his mouth, nodding his agreement. The almond croissant was delicious.
A server brought tea, and Miles thanked her, reaching for the sugar pot. The crest of the SS Aurora was on one side of the dish, with the word Sugar artfully painted on the other. He smiled. Dahlia truly saw to every detail.
Lorene pushed her own plate of pastry pieces away. “None compares in the slightest to Jean-Luc’s creations. He is a true cuisinier ”—she sniffed, waving her hand around the table, indicating the food that was, to her mind, not up to the standard of her home’s personal chef—“not simply a cook turning out common fare for masses of people.” She glanced at Ruben, as if expecting her husband to agree with her assessment.
Ruben pulled her plate toward him and put a piece of pastry in his mouth. “There’s no need to be so fastidious, my dear.” He took another piece, chewing it with the first. “The food is quite good. Especially when one considers the limitations of a ship’s galley.” He looked across the room to where Dahlia was sitting.
Lorene followed her husband’s gaze, and her face fell. She covered her disappointment by taking a sip of tea.
Miles cut off a bite of sausage. He felt sorry for the woman. He’d seen similar treatment from Ruben toward her over the past year. Resentment, criticism, contempt. And it was taking an obvious toll. Lorene spoke less in her husband’s presence, and her face was drawn and tired-looking.
“The quartermaster is arranging a competition of quoits on the promenade deck,” Miss Rochester said in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “And we all know you have a particular skill with the game, Lord Meredith.”
It was true. Quoits was popular in the Midlands, where Miles’s family seat was located. He had played it since he was a boy, enjoying a bit of notoriety at various local fairs and family gatherings. But today he was glad for an excuse to miss it. “I’m afraid I’ve already made plans,” he said. “The captain has invited me for a tour of the ship.”
“Oh, that sounds very dull,” Lady Priscilla said. “I do hope you won’t be long.”
“Perhaps not,” he said carefully, not wanting to make a commitment. “Or perhaps we will be occupied all day.”
“Do you intend to go sea bathing at Boulogne-sur-Mer?” Miss Rothschild asked the group. “With the weather so warm, I imagine it would be lovely to take a dip.” She glanced across the room, and Miles could have sworn he saw the young lady blush. He followed her gaze but could not tell what or who had caused the reaction.
“There is to be a walking tour of the old city,” Miss Grey said. “But I would prefer the seaside, wouldn’t you, Lorene?”
Lorene looked up, appearing to be surprised out of her thoughts when her name was said. She did not look at her husband at all as she answered. “I would indeed.”
Once he finished breakfast, Miles excused himself and started for the exit to the promenade deck. Lady Covington left her group at the same time, meeting him at the doorway. Their tour of the ship would begin in just a few moments.
He stood aside, giving a bow and indicating for the lady to precede him. “Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, Lord Meredith.” Lady Covington glanced back before she walked out onto the deck. She stepped away from the door, but instead of preceding him up to the bridge, she stopped and turned to him. “I’m sorry to tell you, but our tour has been postponed.”
“Oh?” Miles asked. There was something in the way she spoke that led him to believe there was more to the story. “Has something happened?”
She glanced toward the doorway again, as if making certain they would not be overheard. “There was an accident,” she said in a lowered voice. Miles raised his brows, and she hurried on. “Mr. Vandelay—Dahlia’s assistant, you know—was injured. Not badly.” She added this last bit after Miles’s eyes widened.
He tipped his head, not fully understanding how the assistant’s mishap might affect their tour. Or why.
“An investigation is underway,” Lady Covington said, her voice so low that he found it difficult to hear over the sound of the engines. “The captain is making inquiries.”
Miles was quite disappointed that his morning plans had been postponed, but there was still Boulogne-sur-Mer this afternoon to look forward to.
She glanced toward the door again. “Dahlia doesn’t wish to alarm any of the passengers, so please keep this information to yourself.”
“Yes, of course,” Miles said. Obviously, if there was a safety issue that had already caused one injury and required the attention of the captain, it was wise not to cause panic.
“She and Benedict seem rather shaken,” Her Ladyship continued. “Jonathan recommended they remain alert.”
Alert? At the sound of Dahlia’s name used in conjunction with such a word of caution, Miles’s senses sharpened, and he focused more intently on both Lady Covington and the conversation. Her words were tinged with worry, and he noticed for the first time that the corners of her mouth were tight and her face pale. Miles did not know Lady Covington well, but the few times they had met, she had appeared practical and competent, if a bit socially awkward. Right now she seemed... afraid. He thought back over their short conversation, understanding it in an entirely different light. Had the accident been malevolent? Was Dahlia in danger? His thoughts moved quicker. “Who is Jonathan?”
“Inspector Jonathan Graham of the London Metropolitan Police, Lady Sophronia’s husband,” Lady Covington said as if of course everyone knew Jonathan. “He examined the scene.”
Miles’s mind was still trying to catch up. The scene? And why must Dahlia and Benedict remain alert? “What did he find?”
“Petroleum-based mechanical lubricant,” she said in a pragmatic tone. “He seemed concerned by both its location and its manner of distribution.”
What was she saying? Each of Lady Covington’s replies to Miles’s questions left him more confused. And alarmed. He should speak to someone else. Someone who would explain the situation in clear facts. “Where is the inspector now?” He hadn’t seen the man with the others at breakfast. Was he still investigating somewhere?
“In his cabin, I believe,” Lady Covington answered. “The endolymph fluid of his inner ears is still affecting the nerve endings that trigger an adverse response in his central nervous system, you see.”
“I don’t...” Miles’s voice trailed off and he rubbed his brow. A headache was starting to build. “Do you know his cabin number?”
A moment later, Miles knocked on the door of Cabin 19. Beyond, he heard a groan and then the shuffle of feet over carpet before the door was opened to reveal a gray-faced man in his nightclothes.
“Lord Meredith,” the inspector said. “I wasn’t expecting—”
Miles did not give the man an opportunity to turn him away. He pushed the door open fully and stepped around him, sitting on the chair facing the bed and setting his hat on the table beside him. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Inspector, but this could not wait.”
Graham closed the door. “Please, have a seat,” he said in a sardonic tone as he sat on the bed. He leaned back against the propped pillows, as if crossing the room had exerted him beyond his capability. In spite of his pallor and weakness, the inspector’s gaze was shrewd as he studied Miles. “How can I help you, my lord?”
Miles was glad introductions weren’t necessary. He had met the inspector before, nearly a year earlier, while the man, in disguise, pursued a murder case. He wondered if Inspector Graham’s scrutiny was a result of Miles’s friendship with the guilty party in that case. Or perhaps he just looked at everyone this way. “Lady Covington has made me aware that there is an investigation on the ship,” Miles said. “An accident, I understand, resulting in an injury. She gave very few details, but I was led to believe Benedict and Miss Lancaster may be in some type of danger.”
The inspector continued to study him. “I am not in the habit of revealing details of an ongoing case,” he said.
Miles wondered whether the inspector considered his interest in the situation to be suspicious. The way the man scrutinized him made him want to squirm or look away. But he knew doing so would only make him look guilty. Of what, he did not know. But under Inspector Graham’s severe gaze, he was almost ready to confess to any number of things.
The boat tipped slightly, and the inspector closed his eyes and groaned again.
“What happened to Mr. Vandelay?” Miles asked, emboldened now that the inspector was no longer staring at him. “What type of accident did he experience, and why are the circumstances under suspicion, requiring a police inspector’s examination and the captain’s attention? For what reason must Benedict and Miss Lancaster remain alert? Are they in danger of some sort?”
Inspector Graham cracked open his eyelids, watching Miles without responding. His jaw looked tight, and Miles suspected he was fighting a wave of sick.
“I should like to help, Inspector,” Miles said sincerely. “Benedict is one of my closest friends. If he or Miss Lancaster is under threat, I believe I should be aware.”
After a long moment, Inspector Graham nodded just the slightest bit. The nausea seemed to have passed. “As I am little use in this condition and I don’t wish for my wife and her friends to embroil themselves in yet another life-threatening situation, I believe I have little choice but to trust you, my lord.”
Miles remained silent as Inspector Graham rubbed his eyes.
After a moment, the inspector spoke. “Mr. Vandelay slipped on engine grease early this morning as he climbed the stairs to meet Miss Lancaster on the terrace deck.” Graham did not move, but Miles felt as if he leaned forward, his gaze growing more intent. “Upon inspection, I found bristles in the grease and determined a brush of some sort was used to spread it out evenly over the stair, making it invisible in the dark—and potentially deadly.”
Miles listened to his explanation, trying to picture the scene in his mind. “You believe the grease was put there deliberately.”
“I do.”
“With the malicious intent of causing a person to fall.”
The inspector gave a curt nod, but before Miles could ask further questions, a knock sounded on the door. He rose and opened it, finding a steward bearing a tea tray.
“For Inspector Graham,” the steward said. “Ginger tea to calm his stomach.”
Miles thanked the steward and, rather than bidding him enter, took the tray himself. He thought the inspector would prefer the privacy under the circumstances. He set the tea tray down on a low table and poured a cup. “Sugar?”
Inspector Graham shook his head, accepting the cup and saucer and holding them in his lap.
Miles returned to his seat. “Please continue, Inspector.”
“As I said,” Inspector Graham resumed, “Mr. Vandalay was on his way to meet Miss Lancaster when he slipped on the grease. She and Lord Benedict were on the terrace deck when it happened—she, as is her habit, having risen early to take in the sea air and he for his morning meditation practice.” The inspector took a sip of the tea and wrinkled his nose.
“Perhaps the sugar?” Miles asked again.
The inspector nodded, and Miles returned his cup a moment later with the sugar added, then returned to his seat once again.
“The two did not arrive together,” Inspector Graham continued. “Lord Benedict estimated he had been there for half an hour before Miss Lancaster joined him, which was twenty minutes before Mr. Vandelay’s accident.”
“And you assume, since neither Benedict nor Miss Lancaster slipped on their way up the stairs, that the grease was applied during that twenty-minute window,” Miles guessed.
The inspector nodded again, sipping the tea with a grimace. “Might I trouble you to fetch the sack of peppermints in my coat?” he asked, pointing to the wardrobe.
Miles did so, and the inspector offered a sweet, which Miles declined. He was becoming frustrated with the slow extraction of information.
“I don’t believe Vandelay to be the target,” Inspector Graham said, apparently finding the tea palatable with a peppermint in his mouth. “It is not his habit to meet Miss Lancaster that early, nor in that exact location.”
The implications in his words left Miles cold with dread. “You think someone laid a trap intended to harm either Benedict or Miss Lancaster.”
“You know them both well,” Inspector Graham said. “Who is the most likely target?”
“Benedict is a bit eccentric and outspoken when it comes to the working class,” Miles said, considering. “He has ruffled some feathers with his factory regulations. But none of those affected are on this ship. And Miss Lancaster... everyone here was personally invited by her. I can’t think of anyone who would wish her ill.” His thoughts flicked to Ruben and Lorene, but he dismissed the idea immediately. Ruben did not hate Dahlia, and Miles was certain neither was capable of the crime in question.
“I agree Lord Benedict is the more likely target,” Inspector Graham said, taking another peppermint. “But we cannot rule out Miss Lancaster entirely. She begins each morning on the terrace deck, goes up there directly after waking.” He frowned. “And routine is dangerous if someone intends a person harm.”
The chill in Miles’s gut intensified. Benedict and Dahlia were two of the most gracious people of his acquaintance. Both were immeasurably kind and generous. He couldn’t believe either of them to be the intended victim of such malice.
“We must also consider who would have access to engine grease,” Miles pointed out. “There cannot be many who know where to find it.”
“Do you know where to find it?” the inspector asked.
“Not precisely,” Miles said. “The engine room, I suppose. It may take a bit of searching, but it would not be difficult.” He drew a hand over his face, his thoughts swirling with questions.
“I am afraid I have no other insights,” Inspector Graham said. “You now know everything I know about this case.” He put a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes as another wave of nausea apparently overcame him.
Miles took the inspector’s cup and saucer and set a bowl on the bed next to him. He had never taken the role of nursemaid, and felt awkward in the situation. And he also felt an urgency to find Dahlia and Benedict. The inspector clearly needed rest, so Miles did not resume his seat. “I have taken enough of your time, Inspector. If there is anything you need...”
“Keep an eye on them, Lord Meredith.” The inspector looked even paler than when Miles had arrived. The conversation had apparently taken too much of his energy. “And if you see anything at all suspicious, tell me at once.”
Miles nodded, made his exit, and hurried through the passageway to climb the stairs to the dining room. Neither of those he sought were inside, so he continued on through the saloon. After a short search, he located them both on the promenade deck with their group of friends. Seeing them, Miles paused, leaning against the rail and letting relief wash over him, relaxing his muscles. He glanced around but saw that nobody on the deck was watching either Dahlia or Benedict with a nefarious sneer. But instead of feeling comforted, his worry returned. Someone on this ship meant one of his friends harm, and he pledged to himself not to allow anything to happen to them.