Page 66 of The Vanished

Geneva would have preferred to go up to her room, but she had been spending a lot of time on her own, so she pulled up a chair and sat down next to the girls. It was warm by the fire, and, since no other lamps had been lit, the library felt cozy and safe.

“I’m starving,” Honor said.

“Me too,” Rose chimed in. “Maybe we should ring for tea.”

Geneva wasn’t very hungry and would have happily forgone dinner, but a cup of tea would be just the thing.

“I’d rather have chocolate,” Honor said. She walked over to the bellpull and gave it a tug. “We’d like a pot of chocolate, and some scones if there are any left over,” she informed the parlormaid.

“Can you please bring me a cup of tea, Sally?” Geneva asked the woman before she retreated.

“Of course, my lady.”

The girls chatted easily, but Geneva stared into the leaping flames, suddenly too worn-out to participate. She kept going over her conversation with Rory, and felt torn between sadness and relief. Perhaps in a different world they might have been happy, but she could see now that their relationship had been doomed from the start, just as Honor had predicted. That hadn’t stopped her from making a play for Rory herself, but Geneva had the feeling that Honor probably wanted something quite different from the handsome Irishman. She wasn’t looking for a future, or even love. Perhaps she’d simply wanted to know what it was like to be kissed. If she craved anything beyond that, Geneva wasn’t prepared to dwell on it. Rory would be gone in less than a fortnight, so she’d have one less problem to occupy her mind.

Sally brought a loaded tray and set it on the low table. There was a pot of chocolate, four scones, clotted cream, and jam, and a smaller pot of tea for Geneva. Cook had also sent up a plate of ginger biscuits. The tea was wonderfully hot and strong, and Geneva helped herself to a biscuit. She felt queasy, and her head was beginning to ache, probably the result of the tension she had felt earlier. Honor and Rose paid her no mind as they fixed their scones and sipped on the chocolate.

“What ship did Jesse arrive on?” Rose asked as she brushed the crumbs from her fingers.

“The RMS Olympic,” Honor replied.

“He must have met the passenger who died on the crossing.”

“What passenger?” Geneva asked.

Rose leaned in closer, her voice conspiratorial. “Mother doesn’t like me to read the papers, but I sometimes purchase a copy of the Telegraph when I go out for a walk and read it in my room. Then I throw it on the fire, so she doesn’t find out. I’ve been so isolated, it makes me feel a little better to know what’s going on in the world.”

“So, what happened on the Olympic?” Honor hurried her.

“A passenger died the night before the ship was due to arrive in Southampton. The ship’s surgeon thought his death was suspicious, so the captain radioed to shore, and the police came aboard before the ship docked.”

“And?” Honor pressed, her eyes round with curiosity.

Rose looked distinctly disappointed. “The police surgeon carried out a postmortem. Natural causes, I’m afraid. It seems he came into contact with something that caused him to go into anaphylactic shock.”

“Can that really happen?” Honor exclaimed. Rose nodded wisely. “But wouldn’t he know if he was fatally allergic to something?”

“Maybe he’d never encountered it before,” Rose speculated. “And perhaps it was his first time traveling first-class.”

“He must have enjoyed some fancy dinners.

“And cocktails,” Honor said. “I’d never had a gin fizz before. Imagine if it killed me.”

“It happens very rarely,” Rose said.

“How do you know?”

“It said so in the paper. The article said that a bee sting, shellfish, or even strawberries can cause anaphylaxis. Little chance of getting stung by a bee in December, but he might have had a bite of lobster or shrimp without realizing it. It could have been in the soup,” Rose mused. “Or maybe someone dropped a sliver of strawberry into his cocktail.”

“The poor man,” Geneva said. “And how ghastly for his traveling companions.”

“He was traveling alone,” Rose said.

“What was his name?” Honor asked.

“William Heller. There was a photo of him in the paper.”

“I’d have loved to see it.”