The Prince and the Prosecutor: The Mark Twain Mysteries #3. Peter J. Heck
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I had no ready rejoinder to this. Instead, my memory called up the image of my first encounter with Prinz Karl, when he had created a scene at the ticket office. Had he really tried to pay for his passage with a check drawn against insufficient funds in his bank account? Even if he had, he had quickly produced cash to make good the deficiency. Was it simply a misunderstanding, or were his finances more irregular than one would assume from his self-proclaimed status as the younger brother of the heir to a principality—even one that had fallen on hard times? And what, if anything, did he expect to gain from the imposture, if such it was? I searched my brain for answers, but found none.
After a while, Mr. Clemens and I roused ourselves to dress for dinner. The rain continued, and so we made our way to the dining room through an inside passageway. The motion of the ship was more perceptible now. We must have come out of the harbor into the open sea, where one would feel the influence of the ocean waves as well as the stormy weather. While I was by no means uncomfortable, it crossed my mind that many activities I took for granted on dry land would become more difficult on a moving ship—drinking a cup of coffee, for example, or eating soup. I wondered if the ship’s cooks took the weather into account when planning a day’s menu, or if they went ahead, unheeding, with a predetermined bill of fare.
The end of the passageway opened into a larger hallway, where we found a good-sized crowd waiting for the dining room doors to open. There was a buzz of conversation as people introduced themselves to other passengers or simply carried on the usual small talk among strangers brought together for a social occasion. Mr. Clemens’s entry caused a little stir. As people became aware of the famous writer in their midst, heads turned, and there was a noticeable change in the tempo of the conversation. If experience were any guide, the novelty of his presence would soon dissipate, and he would be able to go about his business without constantly being stared at.
Over to one side, I spotted a small group of people my own age. My first instinct was to look for my Yale friends, until I recalled that steerage passengers wouldn’t be allowed in the first-class dining room. (Even so, I wouldn’t have put it past Bertie Parsons to put on his best suit and try to bluff his way in; he had been a great party-crasher in our college days.) But Robert Babson was there, talking loudly, to a group that included his fiancée, Theresa Mercer, and the blond young lady I’d seen with the Babsons earlier that day, and who I guessed was Robert’s sister. Before, seeing her in her street clothes, I had thought her quite pretty; now, in a more formal dark green velvet dress, she was stunning. I decided it might be worth my while to further cultivate her father’s acquaintance, and perhaps get an introduction.
Near them, Mr. Clemens spotted the Kiplings. Since I would be sitting at the same dinner table with them, I went with my employer as he ambled over to greet the couple—not at all sorry for the chance to see Miss Babson at closer range. “Hullo, Clemens,” said Kipling. “I see you’re ready to entertain the captain and his millionaire guests.”
“Oh, I doubt we have too many millionaires aboard,” said Mr. Clemens. “Most of them will have been seduced onto one of the newer and faster ships—nothing with less than four smokestacks will suit the fancy crowd. Mind you, I wouldn’t have turned down a ticket on a fast four-stacker, myself. But with Henry Rogers footing the bill, I reckon I’m obliged to economize where I can.”
“Yes, economy’s one of the cardinal virtues,” said Kipling. “Not such a great one as to persuade a fellow to take passage in steerage, of course.”
“Well, you’re too young to remember the old-time steamships,” said Mr. Clemens. “These days, I reckon even steerage is better than anything the richest man alive could buy, back then. The cabins were about as dismal and uncomfortable as the greatest minds of the day could contrive to make them: no electrical lights, no place to sit and talk except the dining room, no decorations or paintings or music. The decks were awash even in calm weather—why, on one trip I took, the captain told me he’d pumped the whole Atlantic Ocean out of his hold sixteen times during the crossing. Or maybe it was only fifteen times. It’s a pity I can’t recall the exact figure; a man shouldn’t quote such an important statistic without being certain it’s completely accurate.”
Mr. Kipling laughed, as did several of the bystanders, who as usual seemed to consider any of Mr. Clemens’s remarks (even in private conversation) to have been made for their own entertainment. Just as the laughter was subsiding, another voice cut through the noise of the crowd: “There’s that pompous ass again. He’s as tiresome as Rubbia—let’s hope he isn’t sitting near us at dinner.” It was Robert Babson’s voice. When I turned to look, I saw him staring with ill-disguised hostility at Prinz Karl von Ruckgarten, who had just come into the hallway, dressed in a semi-military uniform and carrying his gold-headed cane.
One or two of the group around Babson giggled in response to his rude comment, although I was pleased to notice that his sister did not seem amused. Instead, she laid a hand on his elbow and said something to him, too quietly for me to overhear. It was easy to guess what she had told him, though: He glared around the room to see who might have noticed what he said. His eyes locked with mine for a moment, and I looked away, feeling uncomfortable at having drawn his attention. From what I had seen of him, we had little in common; but neither did I have any reason to start off on the wrong foot with someone who had given me no particular offense or injury. Especially someone with such an attractive sister . . .
My thoughts were interrupted by a burst of light, which I realized came from the suddenly opened doors leading to the dining room. The light was emitted by numerous electrical bulbs reflecting off dazzling crystal chandeliers. The tables were covered with pure white linen, with fine gold-trimmed china at each place, flanked by sparkling cut-glass goblets and an impressive array of silverware. For a moment, the crowd seemed stunned by the sheer brilliance of the vista that had opened before them; then, as if of a single mind, we surged forward into the light, each of us searching for our proper place in the huge dining room.
Dinner that first evening at sea turned out to be memorable; not so much for the food (excellent as it was) as for what happened at the end of the meal.
Seated at the same table with the Kiplings and me were Dr. Lloyd Gillman, a retired surgeon, and his wife, Elizabeth; Lt. Col. Sir Henry Fitzwilliam, a retired British army officer who had served in Africa and India, and his wife, Helen; and Angus Rennie, an engineer whose broad accent betrayed his Scottish origins. (Having no previous experience with British titles, and whether they take precedence over military rank, or the other way around, I was not certain whether to address Fitzwilliam by his title, his military rank, or both, until Mr. Kipling came to my rescue by calling him “Colonel.”)
The colonel had finished straightening his silverware (as if to arrange it in a more precise military alignment) and was busy perusing the wine list, when Mr. Kipling introduced himself and Mrs. Kipling to the others at the table. “Kipling, Kipling,” the colonel said, looking intently at him. “Any relation to that writer fellow, the one out of India?” (He pronounced it In-ja, just as Mr. Kipling did.)
Mr. Kipling smiled modestly, and admitted that he was indeed related to the writer—“very closely related, in fact.” At this, Mrs. Kipling laughed, and everyone at the table joined in, getting the joke. We were on easy terms from then on.
“You know, I’ve read your stuff about India,” said the colonel, beaming. “I was stationed there a good fifteen years, and I daresay I know it better than most. I might pick a bone with you here or there, but I must admit you’ve got India spot on. I say, when you were in Lahore, did you happen to meet Dr. Hogworthy? Extraordinary chap—why, he used to go out into the Punjab without even a native translator. He’s back in London, now—you really ought to look him up.”
The two of them were soon embarked on a lively discussion of India, which I found fascinating. Here were two men who had been practically on the opposite side of the world, speaking with easy familiarity of exotic places and customs. Their conversation almost made me neglect my dinner of poached salmon in a delicate wine sauce, until Mrs. Kipling