Murder on the Marmora (17 page)

“No, you have a reason. You wish to annoy me.”

“Not at all,” said Dillman, raising both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Forgive me, Herr Lenz. I spoke out of turn. It’s none of my business.”

“I think you talk to Walter Dugdale about me. Is that it?”

“No, I assure you. Your name never even came into the conversation.”

“Then why you say what he say?” pressed Lenz, jabbing him with a finger. “Why you talk about my equipment? Mr. Dugdale, he have an argument with me one day. He try to threaten me. He say what a shame it would be if my camera was dropped in the sea one day. I tell you what I tell him.”

“And what was that, Herr Lenz.”

“My camera is my livelihood,” he declared, jabbing Dillman in the chest again. “It mean everything to me. I warn Mr. Dugdale that, if I catch anyone trying to steal it, I would kill him. You remember that.”

THIRTEEN

G
enevieve Masefield had an uncomfortable morning. It began, shortly after breakfast, with a bruising confrontation with Frau Zumpe, who was furious that her stolen money had not yet been recovered. When she heard there had been a third theft aboard, she was even more enraged, and accused Genevieve of being incompetent. It took almost half an hour to calm her down and persuade her to tell nobody else about the crimes that had been committed so that alarm would not spread. The woman was so tense and irascible, Genevieve had the feeling that something apart from the loss of her money was upsetting her, but she had no idea what it was.

After leaving her, Genevieve paid courtesy visits to Mabel Prendergast and to Vera and Elizabeth Braddock, assuring them she was still investigating their cases but unable to give them any hope of an early resolution. In its own way, the quiet despair of Mrs. Prendergast was as painful to Genevieve as the verbal assault by Frau Zumpe. The Englishwoman had less money and far less resilience than her German counterpart. She was suffering badly.
The extraordinary patience of the Braddock sisters came as a relief but Genevieve wished she could have brought more cheering news.

Late morning found her in the first-class lounge with a restorative cup of coffee. Though she had chosen a quiet corner where she could review the evidence she had gathered, she was soon spotted. Nigel Wilmshurst sauntered over to her with a grin.

“All alone and nowhere to go, Jenny?” he taunted.

She looked up with dismay. “What do you want?”

“The pleasure of seeing you again, of course. I told you I’d be back.”

“Well, I don’t have time to chat just now,” she said briskly, about to rise from her chair. “You’ll have to excuse me, Nigel.”

“But you haven’t even touched your coffee yet,” he argued, pointing to her full cup. “Don’t let me frighten you away. I won’t stop.” She settled slowly back in her chair. “How are you, anyway?”

“I’m fine, thank you. At least, I was until you arrived.”

He smirked. “Am I such a bogeyman?”

“Of course not. I just feel that we don’t need to pretend we’re friends. It will be much easier for both of us if we simply keep out of each other’s way.”

“But I don’t want to keep out of your way. I’m curious.”

“Nigel—”

“Yes,” he said, “I know that we parted on fairly hostile terms and I’ll admit that I was hurt at the time, but that pain has faded away now. I found someone else and I couldn’t be happier. I’m just rather sad that you haven’t met someone who’s willing to take you on.”

Genevieve bristled. “I don’t want to be ‘taken on,’ ” she told him.

“Does that mean you’re thinking of entering a convent?” he teased. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d feel at home in that kind of environment, Jenny. Or are you simply trying to assert your independence? Good Lord!” he exclaimed with mock horror. “Don’t tell me you’ve become a suffragette?”

“No,” she replied, “though I sympathize with their aims.”

“So what’s been happening to you since we last met?”

“I’ve tried to choose my friends with far more care.”

“Where have you been? What have you done?”

“That’s my affair, Nigel.”

“I’m genuinely interested,” he claimed. “We were so close at one time, then you vanished into thin air. Did you go abroad or something?” He sat down opposite her and lowered his voice. “I was sorry to lose you, Jenny. You must know that. In your heart, I’m sure that you must have a few regrets.”

“Yes, I do. I regret that I didn’t find you out earlier.”

“Now, that’s a cruel thing to say.”

“I’m only being honest.”

“Don’t you regret all those things that you lost?” he said. “An introduction to a world of glamour and privilege. Dinners at the Ritz. Parties, balls, opera, theater. Playing tennis on our private court. Swimming in our pool. I bet you do miss some of that, Jenny,” he added, leaning toward her. “You turned your back on the chance to be the future Lady Wilmshurst. You must be green with envy at Araminta.”

“No,” said Genevieve, biting back a tart rejoinder. “I don’t envy your wife in the least. I’ve told you, Nigel: I wish you both well. But I’d prefer to stay out of your life.”

“Once we get to Egypt, you will be. We’ll go off for a magical holiday in the sun while you sail on to that penal colony known as Australia. We’ll probably never meet again,” he said. “But since we
have
bumped into each other, can’t we at least be civil toward one another?”

“I don’t recall civility as being one of your major attributes.”

He laughed. “You see. You haven’t forgotten me at all!”

“Good-bye, Nigel.”

“All right, all right,” he said, getting up and raising both palms. “I’m going. But I daresay we’ll meet up again before too long. You
can’t get off the ship, Jenny. There’s no way to escape me.”

“There’s a very simple way.”

“Is there?”

“Yes,” replied Genevieve. “I introduce myself to your wife and ask her to keep a closer eye on you. I’m certain she’d oblige me.”

“But you wouldn’t do that. Your sense of decency would hold you back. You’d never try to inflict pain on another woman through me.” He smiled confidently. “I know you better than you know yourself, Jenny. You have scruples. That’s your weakness. I have very few. That’s my strength.”

Genevieve remained silent. There was an element of truth in what he said. She could never bring herself to use his wife as a means of getting rid of him. Araminta Wilmshurst was on her honeymoon with a man she adored. It would be vindictive to take away her happiness at such a moment. Genevieve had no defense. He was about to leave when a young man came into the lounge and waved cheerfully in their direction. Wilmshurst replied with a curt nod.

“Do you know Roland Pountney?” she asked.

“We were at Harrow together.”

“Were you friends at school?”

“Certainly not!” Wilmshurst said with disdain. “Pountney was not in my year.”

“You must have seen something of him.”

“Only for the short time the little blighter was there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Roland Pountney brought disgrace on himself. He was expelled.”

Dillman was on his way to see the deputy purser when they came out of the music room together. Polly Goss had had a much more successful practice with Claude Vivet and she was in good spirits. When she spotted Dillman, her face glowed.

“You’re too late,” she said. “We’ve just finished.”

“How did it go?” asked Dillman.

“Very well,” replied Vivet. “Polly is a good musician. She learn very fast.”

“Monsieur Vivet is teaching me how to play Debussy,” she said excitedly. “We’ve been here for hours. You must come and listen to us sometime, Mr. Dillman.”

“I will,” said Dillman. “When you give another public performance.”

He was pleased to see her looking so happy. The absence of her mother suggested that she had no qualms about being left alone with her accompanist, and she clearly liked the Frenchman now. Vivet had managed to win her over completely.

“The piano, I play only for pleasure,” said Vivet. “It is in the kitchen that I perform best. The piano is only—how do you say it?—a second string to my bow.”

“It’s a pity you don’t play the violin,” remarked Dillman, “then you’d have even more strings to your bow.”

Polly giggled but Vivet looked mystified.

“I’m sorry,” Dillman said. “That was a rather silly joke. Tell me, Monsieur Vivet,” he added, “why are all the best chefs male?”

“That is the wrong question,
mon ami
,” said Vivet. “You should ask why the best chefs in the world are all Frenchmen. The answer, it is that we have a great tradition. We
care
about our food in France. In other countries, they simply eat it.”

“Monsieur Vivet is going to cook for the Duke and Duchess of Fife,” said Polly.

Vivet gave a little bow. “Is a real honor for me.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” Dillman observed humorously. “France is a republican country, like ours. You don’t believe in royal families anymore.”

“Even a Duke and Duchess have to eat.”

“I think it’s very noble of Monsieur Vivet,” said Polly. “He’s supposed to be on vacation like the rest of us yet he’s giving up
his free time to work in a kitchen. That’s so kind of him. Don’t you think so, Mr. Dillman?”

“I do,” he said. “And I’m sure that the Duke and Duchess are in for a banquet. But you must excuse me,” he went on, moving away. “I have an appointment to keep.”

Vivet gave another bow and Polly raised a hand in farewell. Dillman strode off and went down the steps to the next deck. When he reached the office, he was glad to find Martin Grandage on his own. The deputy purser was going through some papers. He glanced up with a bright smile.

“Come on in, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “Take a pew.”

Dillman lowered himself onto the chair. “You look less harassed this morning.”

“That’s an optical illusion. I feel as if I’m beleaguered.”

“What’s the problem?”

“A passenger named Claude Vivet.”

“I’ve just been speaking to him,” said Dillman. “He’s a master chef.”

“He’s a master pain in the neck as well,” said Grandage. “Because he has such a reputation, the royal party agreed to let him cook dinner one evening. That means he has to use our kitchen. It’s caused an international incident, Mr. Dillman. Our chefs are Italian and they don’t like the idea of someone trespassing on their territory.”

“A case of too many cooks, eh?”

“It’s more a case of France versus Italy, and it’s all Monsieur Vivet’s fault. Apparently, he’s been pouring scorn on the quality of the food served on board. That really offended our chefs. They don’t want him near them.”

“Monsieur Vivet is not a man to hide his light under a bushel.”

“I know; I’ve met him. He lets it blaze forth like the beam of a lighthouse.” Grandage sat back with a grin. “This job will be the death of me. Thank goodness we’re getting rid of that little Frenchman in Port Said!”

“Well,” said Dillman, “at least you’ve had a little action. That’s more than I can say. My work largely involves stealth. I stay in the shadows.”

“Yet you managed to impress Brian Kilhendry.”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” said Grandage. “He told me about the visit you made to Mr. Dugdale’s cabin. Brian went there to sneer and came away thinking he’d underestimated you.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“It was only qualified approval, however. He still has reservations about you. But he liked your suggestion about instituting patrols.”

“Obvious thing to do,” said Dillman. “The thief strikes when he knows that his victims are distracted. Meals are the ideal time for him. When we have so many stewards on board, the sensible thing is to use them as auxiliary guards. Let them keep their eyes peeled during breakfast, luncheon, and dinner.”

“The order went out to the chief steward,” said Grandage. “He can’t put his staff on sentry duty but he’s promised to make sure that they’re out and about during those critical times. Did you manage to speak to our photographer?”

“Yes, we had a chat on deck yesterday afternoon.”

“Surly-looking individual.”

“Herr Lenz is not a man who seeks popularity,” said Dillman. “Except in one quarter, that is. He and Walter Dugdale vied for the affections of the same lady. Having met Lenz, I can see why Mrs. Cathcart preferred Mr. Dugdale, and it’s reassuring to know that someone on this ship likes Americans.”

Grandage laughed. “You’ll win the heart of the purser yet,” he said. “Brian is not as inflexible as he might look. But coming back to our jolly German, would you say that he’s a man who’s capable of murder?”

“More than capable. He had motive and means.”

“It might take more than jealousy toward Mr. Dugdale over this lady.”

“I think that Mr. Dugdale may have supplied it. He taunted Herr Lenz with the threat that he’d hurl his camera into the sea. Can you imagine how that must have rankled?” asked Dillman. “That camera is the most precious thing in the world to Lenz.”

“What about that money he deposited with us?”

“I still haven’t established where that came from, Mr. Grandage. I don’t suppose you sniffed it before you put it away in the safe did you?”

“Sniffed it?”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “If it came from the cabin belonging to the Misses Braddock, it might have smelled of lavender. According to Genevieve Masefield, the two old ladies use it by the bucketful. I doubt if the money would bear the scent, though. That’s a pity,” he decided. “If we could prove that Herr Lenz stole that cash—and that he battered Walter Dugdale to death—then my guess may be right.”

“ ‘Guess?’ ”

“That the thief and the killer are one and the same person.”

“How could that be?” asked Grandage with a look of disbelief. “Nothing was taken from Mr. Dugdale’s cabin. You found his billfold still in his pocket.”

“True,” said Dillman, “and there was no visible sign that anything was missing. But, then, we don’t know what he might have had that was worth stealing—and worth killing for in order to steal. Do you see what I’m driving at, Mr. Grandage? If we can link the murder with the thefts, then we’ll have taken a big step forward.”

“You said it was only a guess.”

“It is at this stage. I may be wrong, of course, but it’s a theory I’d like to pursue.”

“You’re the detective, Mr. Dillman. What does your partner say?”

“I haven’t really had the chance to discuss it with her yet. We’ve been too busy gathering intelligence from various sources. But I’ve a feeling that she might agree.”

Grandage scratched his head. “I’m not sure that I do,” he said. “There’s a big difference between robbing female passengers and committing a murder. What could Mr. Dugdale possibly have that would attract a thief who was prepared to stop at nothing? And how would the thief know it was there in the first place?”

“Good questions. I’ll try to find the answers.”

“I’ll be interested to hear them, Mr. Dillman.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll attempt to impress the purser again.”

“There’s only one way to do that, I fear,” said Grandage, with a chuckle. “You’ll have to become a British citizen.”