Murder on the Salsette (16 page)

“He did his best, Mr. Dillman, as any of us would in that situation, but he wasn't a strong man. His muscles were slack and he was carrying too much weight. Dudley Nevin was out of condition. Also,” said McNeil, “there was another factor that would have slowed him down.”

“Was there?”

“He'd been drinking heavily. I could smell the whiskey on him.”

“There was a lot of blood,” said the other. “Could some of it have got onto his attacker?”

“I'm certain that it did—it probably stained his clothing.”

“In that case, he'll have got rid of it somehow.”

“It was the wound itself that intrigued me.”

“Why?”

“Well, I'm no expert on such things,” admitted the doctor, “but I would have expected more proficiency from a Gurkha. You know, one well-aimed thrust and it would all be over. Not in this case, however. The wound was very jagged.”

“Perhaps Mr. Nevin put up more of a struggle than we think.”

“That's one explanation, I suppose.”

“Can you suggest any others?”

“Yes, I think there are two possibilities.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the killer was either someone who didn't know how to use the knife and just lunged out at him.”

“Or?”

“He wanted to
hurt
his victim,” said McNeil. “The knife was twisted to inflict maximum pain, Mr. Dillman. When you catch up with this devil, you'll have to be very careful. He's dangerous.”

It was late morning before Martha Gilbert felt able to return to the spot where her purse had been taken. She was a short, slight woman with the kind of elfin features that took a decade off her age. Supported by her husband, she pointed out where she had been sitting and where the old man had been standing. Genevieve did not keep her there for long. Thanking the two of them for their help, she went off to confront Guljar Singh. Notwithstanding her partner's comments about him, she felt that he had to be questioned. On two separate occasions, the Sikh had been standing near someone whose property had been stolen. That was too much of a coincidence for Genevieve.

When she eventually found him, Guljar Singh was sitting cross-legged on the deck in the stern of the vessel, impervious to the rolling motion of the ship and to the wind that was making his beard dance so wildly. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be miles away. Not wishing to disturb his contemplation, Genevieve
waited patiently for several minutes until he became aware of her presence. When he saw her standing over him, the Sikh gave her a welcoming smile and hauled himself to his feet without any visible effort.

“Mr. Singh?” she said.

“That is my name, lady,” he replied. “Guljar Singh of Bombay.”

“My name is Genevieve Masefield and I work for P and O.”

“Indeed?”

“I'm employed as a detective on the
Salsette
.”

“A
lady
detective?” he said with a mixture of wonder and wry amusement. “What will they think of next? In my country, it would never happen. No, I do not believe it. You are too beautiful to be a detective.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Singh,” she insisted, “that's what I am.”

He gave a polite bow. “Then I stand corrected.”

“I need to speak to you with regard to some crimes that were committed on this deck.”

“Crimes?” He hunched his shoulders. “It is not a crime to tell fortunes, is it? I do not force anyone to pay me.”

“I'm talking about some thefts that occurred, Mr. Singh. Do you have any objection to answering a few questions?”

“None at all.”

“The most recent case happened this morning,” she told him, “shortly after breakfast. Were you on the main deck at that time?”

“Certainly. I prefer to be in the fresh air whenever I can.”

“There's an American passenger called Mrs. Gilbert who was sitting in a deck chair on the starboard side of the ship. You must have noticed her because there were so few people ready to brave this wind.”

“I remember two ladies, sitting side by side.”

“Talking to each other.”

“Yes, I was standing only a short distance away.”

“That's what Mrs. Gilbert told me. She's still very perturbed by the loss of her purse but she was able to give a description of you.”

“I was only there for a few minutes.”

“Did you notice her purse?”

“It was beside her on the empty deck chair.”

“Did you see anyone approach it?”

“No,” said Singh. “I was talking to a friend at the time. When he left me, I walked off in this direction.” A note of indignation came into his voice. “Is this lady saying that I am the thief?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why do you look at me with such suspicion?”

“I'm only doing my job, Mr. Singh.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yesterday—when you were on this deck again—a lady called Mrs. Verney had her purse taken while she was asleep. According to her, you were very close to her when she dozed off to sleep.”

“That may have been so. I did not notice.”

“Her purse was on the chair beside her.”

“And you think I took
that
, as well?” he said, deeply wounded by the charge. “What sort of person do you take me for?”

“I have to look into what the victims tell me, Mr. Singh.”

“Let them come here. Let them accuse me to my face.”

“The evidence is only circumstantial,” she confessed, “but I must take it seriously. Two thefts occur and the one person whom both ladies remember being in the vicinity is you.”

“So?”

“It is significant.”

“Only if I steal their purses,” he argued. He spread his arms wide. “Search me, if you wish. Search my cabin. Search my belongings. You will find nothing that I take from anyone else.”

There was such injured innocence in his voice that Genevieve wondered if she had made a gross error in approaching him.
Guljar Singh neither looked nor behaved like a thief, but that did not exonerate him. Genevieve had arrested older criminals than him before now, and ones with even more blameless appearances. Her suspicion remained.

“I may have to speak to you again in due course,” she said.

“You will not arrest me?” he taunted, holding out his wrists. “You will not put the handcuffs on me?”

“No, Mr. Singh.”

“But you should. If it is a crime to stand on deck near a lady in a deck chair, then I must ask for dozens of other offences to be taken into account. If this is your justice,” he said with disgust, “then I spurn it. I do nothing wrong yet you humiliate me.”

“I merely asked you some questions,” said Genevieve.

“Yes, but there were questions
behind
those questions. You are thinking that I am guilty before you even talk to me. This is it,” he decided, grasping his hands together and looking upward. “I
knew
that a terrible event would occur on this ship—and this is it. Guljar Singh is to be arrested for crimes that he never committed. You do the worst thing possible to me,” he said, trembling all over. “You try to take away my good name.”

Luncheon in the second-class dining saloon was served with customary speed and courtesy. The meal itself was delicious. Whatever else passengers might complain about, they could not fault the catering staff. Like everyone else in the room, George Dillman enjoyed the food and had no regrets about deserting first class once more. Sitting with Archibald Sinclair and his wife, he listened to them reminiscing about their visit to India, while keeping one eye on Sylvester Greenwood. The latter was seated at the other end of the saloon, saying very little and, judging by the expression on his face, throbbing with suppressed anger.

There was no sign of Lois Greenwood. Her parents were lunching alone. Dillman surmised that their daughter had been confined to her cabin as a punishment for her nighttime outing on the roller skates, and he felt sorry for her. He also regretted the absence of Guljar Singh. Hoping to sit with his friend again, he could not understand why the mystic had missed the meal, as well. The Sinclairs could only talk to him about India. Guljar Singh, on the other hand, symbolized it.

Sylvester Greenwood gave no indication that he even knew that Dillman was there. It enabled the detective to watch him carefully and to switch his attention occasionally to the Gurkha whom he had seen talking earlier to the Englishman. Seated with his friends as before, the Gurkha was involved in another earnest discussion. At one point, he bunched a fist and smashed it into the palm of his other hand for emphasis. Dillman noted the impressive breadth of his shoulders and the determination in his craggy face. Even when sober, Dudley Nevin would have stood little chance against such an attacker, if that, in fact, was what the Gurkha had been. Dillman reserved his judgment.

When the meal was over, the Greenwoods were among the first to leave. After chatting with his companions for a few minutes, Dillman excused himself from the table and headed for the door, expecting to resume his surveillance of Sylvester Greenwood in the lounge. Instead, the man was waiting for him outside. Scowling at Dillman, he pointed a finger at him.

“I'd like a word with you, sir,” he demanded.

“Of course, Mr. Greenwood.”

“Somewhere a little more private.”

“Then I suggest that we go on deck,” Dillman said easily. “It's too windy out there for most people this afternoon.” He indicated the way. “We should have all the privacy we want.”

They went down the corridor to the door that gave access to the deck. When they reached a bulkhead that gave them some protection from the gusts of wind, Greenwood swung round to face him. There was quiet fury in his voice.

“Stay away from my daughter, Mr. Dillman,” he ordered.

“But I enjoy her company.”

“Lois will not be speaking to you again.”

“Is that your decision or hers?” asked Dillman. “I would have thought she was old enough to choose her own friends by now. Where is she, by the way? Locked in her cabin?”

“That's a personal matter.”

“Not if I'm indirectly responsible. I'd hate to think that she was being disciplined simply because she spoke to me.”

“Lois needs to be curbed,” said the other, sharply, “and so do you.”

Dillman smiled. “Am I to be locked in my cabin, as well?”

“Who
are
you, Mr. Dillman?”

“An interested bystander.”

“No,” said Greenwood, eyelids narrowing, “you're much more than that. According to Lois, you questioned her about me.”

“Yes, I did,” admitted Dillman. “I was trying to find out why you lied to me earlier. When I mentioned the name of Dudley Nevin, you told me that you could hardly remember who he was—yet he actually stood against you in a by-election.”

“It's something I prefer to forget.”

“Then why do you keep your election poster framed on your wall?”

Greenwood was startled. “How do you know about that?”

“Is it true?”

“My daughter told you, didn't she?”

“Yes,” said Dillman, “and it does rather contradict your claim
that you'd rather forget the event that brought you and Mr. Nevin together.”

“That poster happens to be a souvenir of an important moment in my life,” explained Greenwood with dignity. “I'm very proud of being a member of Parliament—and proud of defeating a candidate who tried to cheat his way to victory. Perhaps Mr. Nevin didn't mention that to you. He flouted several electoral rules and was exposed for it.”

“I'm aware of that, Mr. Greenwood.”

“It's one of the reasons that he packed his bags and left England.”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “He admitted that he'd left under a cloud.”

“That was certainly true!”

“You obviously dislike the man.”

“I loathe him, sir.”

“Then why did you deny knowing him?”

“What business is it of yours, Mr. Dillman?”

“I'm curious, that's all.”

“Far too curious,” decided Greenwood, squaring up to him. “First, you befriend my daughter. Then you quiz me about my relationship with someone from my past. Then you go out of your way to interrogate Lois about me—and now you accuse me of lying.”

“But that's exactly what you did.”

“Nevin has put you up to this, hasn't he?” he challenged.

“My interest in you
was
first aroused by Mr. Nevin,” conceded Dillman, thinking of the blood-covered body of the civil servant. “But he's not aware that I'm talking to you now.”

“Keep him out of my way!”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Greenwood?”

“And stay away from me yourself.”

“Your daughter warned me that you had a temper.”

Greenwood was fuming. “You've seen nothing yet, believe me!”

“Just answer one last question.”

“Don't push me, Mr. Dillman.”

“Were you entirely surprised to see Mr. Nevin onboard this ship?”

There was a long pause. Sylvester Greenwood was torn between rage and embarrassment. Dillman saw him blink involuntarily several times. He believed that he had found a weak spot. He jabbed at it.

“Meeting him again was not a complete coincidence, was it?”

“I've nothing more to say to you, Mr. Dillman.”

“Not now, perhaps,” the detective said casually, “but I can assure you that we'll be talking again fairly soon.”

Greenwood was pugnacious. “No, we won't!” he asserted.

“We'll see.”

Dillman met his steely glare. Greenwood's muscles had tensed and his fists tightened. For a moment, Dillman thought that the man was about to throw a punch and he got ready to parry it. Instead, Greenwood looked over the American's shoulder at someone who had glided silently up behind him. Dillman turned around to find himself gazing into the stern face of the Gurkha he had been watching in the dining saloon. The man's dark eyes flashed.