Murder on the Salsette (15 page)

“Naturally.”

“When you have a moment, I'd be grateful if you could look through them to find out when Madame Roussel was on the ship before.”

“Right,” Cannadine agreed. “I will.” He grimaced. “I do wish I hadn't said that I relished the chance of seeing you and your partner at work. I had no idea you'd have your hands this full.”

“Neither did we.” Genevieve got up from her chair. “But what do you say to my request? Do we have your permission in principle?”

“In principle, Miss Masefield. But try everything else first.”

“We will, I assure you.”

“Before you go,” he said as she moved to the door, “I wanted a word on another matter. It appears there's been a serious rift between Mrs. Simcoe and her steward.”

“Yes,” said Genevieve. “Paulo told me all about it. He begged me to find out what he'd done wrong.”

“Did you know that he's been downgraded to second class?”

“No, I didn't. That will really hurt his pride.”

“I had him in here last thing at night. Paulo was weeping. It's
taken him so long to get the promotion to first class, and it suddenly vanished before his eyes. I agreed to speak to the chief steward on his behalf.”

“What did he say?”

“That there was nothing he could do. Mrs. Simcoe alleges that her steward made improper remarks to her on deck, and she has to be believed. Paulo's behavior has been criticized before, I fear,” he confided, “but only by younger women. I can't imagine that he tried to woo Mrs. Simcoe with that charm of his.”

“Whatever he said to her, she was deeply offended. I know that. I dined with her last night. Both she and her daughter were still angry with Paulo, though they didn't fully explain why.”

“He wondered if it might be to do with a card game.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently the Simcoes lost at bridge that morning.”

“I heard all about it from Mr. and Mrs. Ackroyd. They beat them.”

“Paulo's story is that it put Mrs. Simcoe in a foul mood,” said the purser. “He made the mistake of mentioning the loss at cards to her while they were on deck. Mrs. Simcoe rounded on him.”

“She and Tabitha do take the game seriously.”

“Seriously enough to play for money, I gather.”

“Yes,” said Genevieve, “but they met their match in the Ackroyds.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Mrs. Ackroyd was boasting about it over luncheon. The Simcoes won the first session and the Ackroyds, the second. They're meeting to play the deciding game this morning.”

“Really?” said Cannadine with a grin. “I'd love to be a fly on the wall of the cabin when
that
happens.”

______

“They can't possibly have a run of luck like that again,” said Constance Simcoe, seated at the table as she played patience. “I wouldn't have minded so much if Phoebe Ackroyd hadn't bragged about it to other people.”

“What time did you tell them to come?” asked Tabitha.

“Ten o'clock. I thought we'd start earlier today.”

“And this afternoon?”

“We're playing the Kingtons again.”

“That will be a lot easier. They're relatively new to the game.” She heard a tap on the door. “That can't be the Ackroyds already.”

“Find out, please.”

Tabitha opened the door to admit Phoebe Ackroyd, who waddled into the cabin with an apologetic smile. She went over to Constance.

“We may have to disappoint you, I'm afraid,” she said.

“Why?”

“My husband has mislaid his ear trumpet.”

“That won't stop him playing bridge, will it?” said Constance.

“Gerald feels at a disadvantage without it.”

“I feel at a disadvantage without my legs, Mrs. Ackroyd, but I've learned to live with my problem. Your husband is only partially deaf, after all. That's not a major handicap.”

“When did he lose the ear trumpet?” said Tabitha.

“He thinks it must have been in the lounge last night,” explained Mrs. Ackroyd, “though he's not certain. Gerald is a little forgetful in his old age. He had the ear trumpet with him at dinner, I know that. Then I went to bed early and left him to have a brandy in the lounge.”

“I'm sorry about this,” said Constance, “but I really don't think it's fair of you to let us down at the last moment.”

“Yes,” added Tabitha. “It's too late to rustle up someone else now.”

“There are the Kinnersleys. They play bridge.”

“Unfortunately,” Constance said coldly, “we don't get on all that well with the major and his wife, so that wouldn't be an option. It's you and your husband or nobody.”

Phoebe Ackroyd was in two minds. Eager to play, she was worried that her husband would not be at his best without his ear trumpet. When she looked down at the cards, however, she felt very tempted.

“We don't
want
to disappoint you,” she said. “And we did promise to give you the chance to recoup your losses.”

“Or to increase them,” observed Constance with a smile as she collected the cards. “You and your husband are worthy opponents.”

“That makes such a difference,” said Tabitha.

“If you wish, we could always forget money altogether and simply enjoy the game for its own sake.”

“No, no,” protested Mrs. Ackroyd. “There must be a financial inducement. That's what makes bridge so thrilling.”

“We'll play on any terms that you prefer,” offered Constance. “With or without your husband's ear trumpet.”

Phoebe Ackroyd needed only a few moments to reach her decision.

“We'll play,” she announced. “Gerald and I can't possibly miss an opportunity like this.”

The sky was overcast that morning and the wind was gusting. Most of the passengers were discouraged from spending much time on deck. It meant that the second-class lounge was quite full. When Dillman arrived there, however, he saw that Archibald Sinclair had found himself a quiet corner in which to study Cicero.

“May I join you for a short while?” Dillman asked politely.

Sinclair looked up. “Oh, yes. Please do, Mr. Dillman.”

The detective sat down. “If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few more things about Mr. Nevin.”

“Fire away.”

“Do you happen to know if he was ever married?”

“Not married, I'm certain of that. But he was engaged at one time.”

“Do you happen to know to whom?”

“I don't keep that close a watch on my former pupils, Mr. Dillman.”

“Of course not.” Dillman took out the two photographs that he had found in the dead man's billfold. “Do you by any chance recognize either of these ladies?”

Sinclair studied the photograph of the young woman sitting in the car and shook his head. When he looked at the second photograph, however, his eyebrows shot up.

“I may have seen this young lady before,” he said.

“Where?”

“In Dudley's apartment. My wife and I called there before he took us out to dinner. I'm fairly certain that there was a large photograph of this pretty young creature on a shelf.”

“Did he tell you her name?”

“We didn't ask. We were only in the room for a few minutes.”

Dillman put the photographs away. “You mentioned that he stood for Parliament and that the candidate who beat him in the by-election was aboard this ship.”

“That's right—a Sylvester Greenwood.”

“How do you know him?”

“Because his picture was in all the newspapers at the time. Mr. Greenwood is quite memorable. He's a stocky fellow with a black beard and a sense of purpose about him. He and Dudley were pictured together in the
Times
.” He sucked in his breath. “An unsavory business.”

“What was?”

“The allegations that were flying about, Mr. Dillman.”

“Allegations?”

“Of electoral impropriety,” explained Sinclair. “Dudley always was one for sailing close to the wind. It seems that he was so desperate to win the seat that he may have bent a few rules.”

“Was there a court case?”

“No, thankfully. The charges were dropped in the end. But not before we'd had to endure the sight of a Wykehamist being blackened in public. Dudley denied the allegations, naturally,” he went on, “but the speed with which he fled to India suggested that they might have some foundation to them.”

“In other words, Mr. Greenwood had good reason to dislike him.”

“To detest him, probably. Nobody likes to lose a parliamentary election because of illegal practices. In the event, Sylvester Greenwood did actually win but I suspect that the affair still rankles.”

“So do I,” said Dillman to himself.

“Dudley made no mention of any of this to me, I have to say.”

“I can understand why, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Politics is such a dangerous game,” said the old man. “Look at my good friend, Marcus Tullius Cicero,” he went on, tapping his book. “After he helped to suppress the Cataline conspiracy, he was made consul. Then he supported the senatorial party against Julius Caesar and, after the emperor had been assassinated, he attacked Mark Antony in a series of speeches. Cicero was executed for sincerely held beliefs. The odd thing is this. After his death, his influence became stronger and stronger. Well, I'm still under his spell over two thousand years later.” He took off his eyeglasses as he laughed shrilly. “Who knows? Maybe that will happen to Dudley. When he dies, we may come to respect his finer qualities.”

Dillman had severe doubts about that but he said nothing. The second interview with Archibald Sinclair had brought important
new facts to light, and the detective was grateful that he had taken the trouble to visit the second-class lounge. He was soon given an even stronger reason for gratitude. When he glanced up, he saw Sylvester Greenwood standing in the doorway, deep in conversation with one of the Gurkhas onboard.

TEN

A
ny fears that Genevieve Masefield might have had about the thief going to ground were soon dispelled. The purser summoned her to his office to meet Ethan Gilbert, a big, barrel-chested man in his fifties with his curly brown hair graying noticeably at the edges. A Texan by birth, Gilbert had a deep voice and a slow drawl. When he had been introduced to the detective, he explained why he was there.

“Martha was too upset to come herself,” he said. “That's how much this has shaken my wife. I mean, we travel all round the world without losing so much as a red cent, then
this
happens.”

“What does, Mr. Gilbert?” asked Genevieve.

“Martha had her purse taken.”

“From where?”

“The main deck.”

“When was this?”

“About half an hour ago,” he said. “I'd have come sooner but it took me a long time to calm her down. My wife is a very sensitive woman. She
feels
things.”

“Nobody enjoys being the victim of theft,” remarked Cannadine.

“Were you with Mrs. Gilbert at the time, sir?” said Genevieve.

“No, I wasn't,” replied Gilbert, “and I regret that bitterly. If I'd found some guy trying to take her purse, I'd have beaten him to a pulp.”

Ethan Gilbert had the physique to fulfill such a threat, and enough anger to want to wreak revenge on his wife's behalf. He was demanding prompt action to recover his wife's purse.

“It's quite windy on deck this morning,” noted the purser. “I'm surprised that your wife wanted to sit out there.”

“Martha is from Chicago,” said Gilbert. “Winds don't bother her.”

“Where was the purse when it was taken?” asked Genevieve.

“On the deck chair next to her.”

“Was Mrs. Gilbert distracted in some way?”

“She was talking to the lady on the other side of her.”

“Were there any people about at the time of the theft?”

“Only a few, apparently,” he said. “They were walking briskly along the deck. There weren't many people hardy enough to sit out there.”

“I don't suppose that your wife remembers any of the bystanders.”

“Only one of them, Miss Masefield.”

“Oh? And who was that?”

“This old Indian guy with a white beard,” he recalled. “He was talking to someone nearby at one point. By the time that Martha realized that her purse had been taken, this fellow with the turban had gone.”

Genevieve was certain that he was referring to Guljar Singh, the elderly Sikh who had been nearby when an earlier theft had taken place.

“I'll need to see the exact spot where the crime occurred,” she said.

“Then you'll have to wait until she's recovered.”

“Was there much in the purse, Mr. Gilbert?”

“Does it matter?” he said testily. “The fact is that it was stolen from right under Martha's nose. Even if it had been empty, it would have been a shock to lose it.”

“I appreciate that,” said Genevieve, “but it would be helpful to know if there were any valuable items, things that the thief might keep. The likelihood is that he'll dispose of the purse but retain any cash or items that he can sell. Was there anything distinctive in that purse that he might hang on to?”

“You'll have to ask Martha that. What's making her holler is that she's lost photographs of our children.”

“The thief is unlikely to keep those,” warned Cannadine.

“He'd better—or he'll answer to me!”

“Let us handle this, Mr. Gilbert.”

“Your wife is not the only victim, you see,” said Genevieve. “In fact, she's the third person to have a purse taken from the main deck, and we're investigating a theft from a cabin as well.”

“What kind of a ship is this?” asked Gilbert, slapping the desk with a palm. “Don't you have any protection against this sort of thing?”

“We have experienced detectives aboard, sir,” said the purser, “and they'll stop at nothing to recover any lost property.”

“Well, I hope they find it. If they don't,” vowed Gilbert, “I'm going to stand at the gangway when we reach Aden and search everyone's luggage till I get back what someone took from my wife.”

“We can't allow you to do that, sir.”

“Just try and stop me.”

“It may not be necessary,” said Genevieve in an effort to soothe him. “We know that the man has certain items in his possession, and your wife may be able to tell us of some additional ones. Find those and we find our thief. That means we can return property to four separate passengers.”

“Martha's the only one I care about,” he stressed, opening the door. “We came on this trip to celebrate our silver wedding anniversary. I'm not taking my wife home with any bad memories of this vacation. She wants her purse back and I mean to get it.”

After glaring at the two of them, he went out and closed the door. Max Cannadine looked at Genevieve and raised an eyebrow. She responded with a long sigh.

“If only his wife had come here instead,” said Genevieve.

“He was a rather aggressive customer, wasn't he?”

“I think that he could be more trouble than Madame Roussel.”

“Not if the crimes are solved.”

“They will be if you sanction the search of the cabins.”

The purser hesitated. “Has it really come to that, Miss Masefield?”

“I'm afraid so. This thief is light-fingered. We're unlikely to catch him committing a crime, so we have to track down the stolen goods.”

“So be it.”

“I'll tell George—and I'll mention this latest theft to him.”

“There's something else you might care to pass on, as well.”

“Is there?”

“You asked me to look at passenger records for you.”

“That's right, Mr. Cannadine,” she said. “I wanted to know when Madame Roussel sailed to Bombay from Aden.”

“The first time or the second time?”

“I don't follow.”

“It turns out that this is her fourth voyage on the
Salsette
. She
went to Bombay and back to Aden ten days ago—in first class both ways. Now she's doing the same again, except that the return leg is second class this time.”

Genevieve was agog. “Four trips in so short a period?”

“Perhaps she likes us,” said the purser.

* * *

Wrapped up against the wind, Major Romford Kinnersley strode along the main deck with Sukinder by his side. Unlike him, she did not seem to feel the cold, though the roll of the ship made her slightly queasy and she put a hand to her stomach from time to time. Kinnersley was in a censorious mood.

“You must learn to be more punctual, Suki,” he told her.

“I sorry,
sahib
.”

“Mrs. Kinnersley was very cross when you turned up late this morning. She expected you to be there on time.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What kept you?”

“I sleep too long.”

“Then it's a habit you're going to have to break,” he pointed out. “I know it would have been easier if your cabin had been closer to ours, but that couldn't be arranged. There are clocks in all the public rooms. You can tell the time from those.” Sukinder nodded. “And you must try not to upset Mrs. Kinnersley,” he continued. “When you get to England, you'll take all your orders from my wife.”

“Yes,
sahib
,” she said mournfully.

“It will be a big opportunity for you. I hope you realize that.”

“I do.”

“Most girls of your age would love to be taken to England to work. The standard of living is much higher there, even for those in domestic service. Your mother understood that, Suki. That's why she was keen to send you there in our care.”

“I am missing Mother.”

“That's only natural.”

“I am missing her now when I no feel well.”

“What's wrong with you?” She rubbed her stomach. “A touch of seasickness, eh? That will soon pass. Lie down in your cabin for a while.”

“Yes,
sahib
.”

“But don't forget that we'll expect you to read to us this afternoon.”

“I remember.”

“Your mother read English very well.”

“She like to speak it.”

“So should you. There'll be no opportunity to use your native language when you get to England—unless you write to your mother, that is.”

“I am writing all the time.”

“Learn to do it in English. It's what your mother would expect.” He saw how crestfallen she was. “Yes, I know,” he said considerately. “It's rather overpowering for you, isn't it? Taken away from your home, your family, your friends. Going to a strange country so far away. But you'll come to thank us in the end, Sukinder. And one day, perhaps, if you do what you're told, it may be possible to bring your mother over to visit you in England. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” said Sukinder, tears in her eyes.

“That will give you something to look forward to, eh?”

“I think so.”

“Right. You run along and get some rest. I can see that you're not at your best while the ship is rocking like this. But we'll want you in our cabin this afternoon, remember. Be on time.”

“Yes,
sahib
.”

Glad to be released, she hurried off up the deck with a hand
still on her stomach. Kinnersley was about to retrace his steps when he saw a familiar figure bearing down on him. Gerald Ackroyd was wearing a scarf and a hat to ward off the buffeting wind.

“Good day to you, Romford!” said the other.

“Nice to see you, Gerald.”

“Was that your servant toddling off? Pretty little thing.”

“Sukinder is not at her best this morning.”

“What's that?” asked the other, cupping his hand to his ear. “You'll have to speak up in this wind, old chap.”

Kinnersley raised his voice. “I said that Suki is not feeling well.”

“Seasickness or homesickness?”

“A mixture of both, I suspect.”

“They do make excellent servants, though,” said Ackroyd. “It's the thing I really missed when I left India. Along with my friends, of course.”

“What are you doing out here on such a blustery day?”

“Working up an appetite for luncheon. And—this is between the two of us, mark you—trying to keep out of Phoebe's way.”

“Upset the lady wife, have you?” said Kinnersley with a grin.

“It wasn't my fault, Romford.”

“What did you do?”

“Lost my ear trumpet somewhere,” replied Ackroyd. “Can't for the life of me think where it is. Anyway, we've just had a couple of dreadful hours, playing bridge with the Simcoes. Have you met them?”

“Yes,” said Kinnersley. “Can't say we took to either of the ladies.”

“They're pleasant enough in their own way, I suppose. And they do play cards as if they intend to win. I admire that trait in anybody.”

“I take it that you and your wife lost?”

“Heavily,” said Ackroyd. “Phoebe was so convinced that we'd put the pair of them to the sword again that she raised the stakes—even
though she must have realized that I wouldn't be quite so adept without my ear trumpet.”

“How much did you lose?”

“Too much, Romford. And, of course, I got the blame.”

“Well, you were the one who let the ear trumpet go astray, Gerald.”

“Thank heaven I did,” said Ackroyd, chortling merrily. “I don't think I'd like to have heard some of the things that my wife called me.”

Spurred on by what he saw in the second-class lounge, George Dillman went off in search of Dr. McNeil. Now that he had witnessed a connection between Sylvester Greenwood and one of the Gurkhas aboard, he wanted to know more about the wound that had killed Dudley Nevin. He found Rory McNeil in the medical room, checking supplies against a list. The Scotsman looked up at him.

“I was wondering when you'd come to see me,” he said.

“I'm sorry if you feel neglected, Dr. McNeil.”

“If only I were. The passengers have kept me busy, treating minor complaints and begging me to cure their seasickness. I also had to put some stitches in a rather nasty gash on someone's leg, so I feel that my presence on the ship is justified.”

“You were invaluable when it came to dealing with Mr. Nevin.”

“That was a first, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “I've had fatalities before, especially on long voyages, but I've never had to handle a murder victim. It was a novel experience and I think I learned from it.”

“Did the purser tell you about the letter that I found?”

“Yes—from the man's cousin. At least we'll have someone to take charge of the remains when we dock in Aden.”

“Mr. Cannadine has sent a telegraph to the P and O agent there,
telling him what to expect. We must just make sure that all the passengers disembark before we unload the corpse.”

“Don't forget the ones joining the ship at Aden,” said McNeil. “We don't want to frighten them either. I don't think I'd feel too happy about setting off on a voyage if I saw a coffin being carried past me.”

“We'll arrange it discreetly,” promised Dillman.

“I forgot. You've done this before, haven't you?”

“Once too often, Dr. McNeil.”

“How is your investigation going?”

“I've been gathering evidence steadily,” said Dillman. “In fact, that's why I'm here. I just wanted to check some details with you.”

“About what?”

“The wound, principally. I assume that you cleaned it off to examine it properly.” McNeil nodded. “What did you find?”

“Exactly what I expected to find—that a
kukri
is a deadly weapon.”

“Do you think that Mr. Nevin put up much of a fight?”