“Yes.”
“We are, too. I’m sure we’ll see one another again during the voyage. Aloha for now.” She hurried away.
“Handsome woman,” John said.
“And happily married, from the look of her.”
He laughed. “I have eyes only for you, my dear.”
“And what big eyes they are, my dear.”
As cold as it was on deck, Sabina insisted on remaining at the rail until the steamer passed through the Golden Gate. A hot-coffee thaw, then, followed by luncheon in the dining saloon. Afterward John went to one of the smoking rooms to foul the air with the noxious pipe tobacco he favored, and she returned to their cabin. She was unpacking their trunks when he joined her. Whether on purpose or not, he had an uncanny knack for avoiding prosaic chores.
When she finished, he surprised her by suggesting that they share “a relaxing nap” — a none too subtle euphemism, judging by the gleam in his eye.
“Really, John,” she said. “In the afternoon?”
“Why not in the afternoon? You yourself declared that this was to be a second honeymoon.”
Well... why not, indeed?
The bed was quite comfortable, and there was something about the ship’s motion and the gentle throb of its engines that made the bon voyage “nap” especially satisfying — a lovely start to their adventure.
Except for the weather, the first two days at sea continued to meet Sabina’s expectations. The sky remained overcast with intermittent showers and the wind blew sharp and cold, canceling deck games and outdoor seating, but there were enough indoor diversions to satisfy her, if not John. He spent much of Sunday studying the dossier on Lonesome Jack Vereen and Nevada Ned Nagle and the information on the Honolulu detective, George Fenner, that the Pinkertons had supplied, reading his favorite volumes of poetry by Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson, and wandering the decks in spite of the inclement weather.
Sabina, who hadn’t packed any reading matter of her own, took refuge in the ship’s well-stocked library. One book caught her immediate attention — The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Among the dozen chronicles of the famous British sleuth’s exploits was “The Five Orange Pips,” which reminded her of the wedding gift she and John had received from Charles Percival Fairchild the Third, the benignly daft scion of a wealthy Chicago family who imagined himself to be Sherlock Holmes.
The gift had been five tiny white-gold nuggets, no doubt meant to represent five orange pips. In the true account those pips had been omens of death; to Charles the Third’s upside-down way of thinking, the five gold nuggets were just the opposite, felicitous omens for the success of their marriage. She had been impressed by the offering, but not John. He couldn’t abide the man; “an infernal crackbrain” was the mildest of his descriptions. This was because Charles had rather amazingly proven himself to be a detective of considerable skill in his own right, having outmatched John’s deductive prowess on the occasion of their first meeting. Sabina, however, had a soft spot for him. He had helped to bring about the resolution of two of their other investigations, including one in which he was framed for the murder of his wealthy cousin; and before leaving San Francisco for parts unknown he had surprised her with a present of the kitten she’d named Eve.
In the package with the five gold nuggets, which had been mailed from Salt Lake City, Charles had included a note stating that he planned to return to San Francisco shortly — a reunion that Sabina had been looking forward to. But six months had passed and Charles had yet to put in an appearance or to initiate contact again. Had something happened to him? She hoped not. Charles had a mercurial temperament and often acted on sudden whims (something she herself had imprudently done not long ago); he might well have postponed his return visit for some incomprehensible reason, still be in Utah or any of countless other places. She would not be surprised if one day a month or a year from now he walked into the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services — preferably when she was there alone...
On Saturday evening she and John dined by themselves, but when they entered the dining saloon on Sunday all the tables were taken. There was seating at two of the four-person tables, one of which was occupied by Margaret Pritchard, the woman they’d encountered on deck before sailing, and a large, distinguished-looking man some ten years her senior. Mrs. Pritchard spied Sabina and smilingly gestured for her and John to join them.
Lyman Pritchard, it developed, was an executive with J. D. Spreckels and Brothers, agents for several Hawaiian sugarcane plantations and a leading exponent of trade between the United States and the Islands. John D. Spreckels was also the founder and owner of the Oceanic Steamship Company, Sabina knew, which likely meant that the Pritchards were traveling gratis or at a much reduced rate. They visited San Francisco annually for a week of business meetings, get-togethers with old friends, and shopping for items unavailable in Honolulu.
John identified himself and Sabina as owners and operators of “a private consulting service,” and neatly forestalled questions about just what sort of consultations they engaged in by revealing that they had been married just six months. Margaret said, “Oh, then this trip is a belated honeymoon?” to which Sabina replied more or less truthfully that it was.
The dinner fare proved to be very good — oysters, Dungeness crab, roast lamb, fresh vegetables, a fruit medley that included pineapple and mango — and the Pritchards were convivial companions. Margaret was genuinely and effusively friendly, her chocolate-drop eyes sparkling when she described the picturesque attractions that awaited them on Oahu — Iolani Palace, Diamond Head, the Manoa and Kalihi valleys, the landlocked bay known as Pearl River. Sabina felt an immediate rapport with her. She liked Lyman, too; it was plain from the attention he paid to his wife that he doted on her. John also found them good company. He was quietly charming, a certain indication that he felt socially at ease.
Margaret again wore the white jade earrings, and beamed when Sabina complimented her on them; they had been an anniversary present from her husband, she said, giving his hand an affectionate pat. He smiled at her, and in a habitual gesture akin to John’s whisker-fluffing, ran a long forefinger over his ginger-colored mustache — which he’d grown wide and brushy, Sabina guessed, to compensate for the sparseness of his hair. They had been married nine years, having met in San Francisco on one of Lyman’s business trips, and had not as yet been blessed with children.
At the end of the meal, as they lingered over coffee, Margaret asked where they would be staying on Oahu. Sabina said, “We don’t know for certain. We decided on the voyage on short notice and have no reservations. The Oceanic agent recommended the Hawaii Hotel and said we shouldn’t have any difficulty getting accommodations there.”
“Oh, my. The Hawaii Hotel is a decent hostelry, but it is located in Honolulu proper and there are quite a few more visitors than usual these days. The city proper isn’t the best place to be just now, I’m afraid.”
“The Spanish-American war and increased U.S. military presence, for one reason,” Lyman said. “Strained relations with Japan, for another. And there have been public protests against the probable annexation by disgruntled natives loyal to Queen Lili‘uokalani.”
“Does that mean the city is unsafe?” John asked.
“No, not at all. None of the protests have been violent. Tourists have no cause for concern. That is, as long as they avoid Nuuanu Street and Chinatown after nightfall.”
John’s ears perked up. Nuuanu Street was where the Honolulu detective, George Fenner, hung his hat and shingle. “Chinatown I can understand,” he said, “but why the other?”