Murder on the Salsette (19 page)

“I hope so, Matilda,” said the other, sipping her tea. “Gerald is such a dear. I hate it when I have to remonstrate with him. But where's Romford?” she went on. “I thought he was going to join us in here.”

“He'll be along any moment. He's been helping Sukinder with her written English. Romford has far more patience with her than I do.”

“How do you think she'll fit in when you get back home?”

“To be candid, I have my doubts.”

“I know one or two other families who've taken Indian servants back to England with them,” said Mrs. Ackroyd, “and it's worked out quite well. I'm sure that will be the case with Sukinder.”

“The girl is so slow—at least, that's one explanation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, her mother was quite intelligent—lazy, mark you, but she was quick to learn when she put her mind to it. That's why Romford was so eager to take the daughter back with us. If we got the best out of her, he said, we'd have a first-rate servant.”

“You don't share that view, obviously.”

“Not entirely,” said Mrs. Kinnersley. “I'm beginning to wonder if Sukinder is playing games with us. She's only
pretending
to be slow to learn the language. Her mother speaks it very well, so the girl has heard English being used at home for years now. Why is the child so far behind in her lessons?” she asked. “Is it because she's struggling—or is Sukinder trying to deceive us?”

Sukinder was grateful when she found him. Relatively few people were on deck that windy afternoon, but the blustery weather had not deterred Guljar Singh. He was talking to another Sikh on the starboard side of the vessel. Sukinder waited until the other man had left before coming forward. Guljar Singh gave her a welcoming smile.

“Hello, Suki,” he said. “How are you today?”

“Cold,” she replied, rubbing her hands together.

“It will be much worse than this in England.”

“If I get there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I do not wish to leave India,” she confided. Head to one side, she looked at him quizzically. “Is it true that you can look into the future?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“I would like you to tell me my fortune, please. Do I have to pay?”

“No, no,” he said, holding up a wrinkled hand. “I wouldn't dream of taking money from a child like you. But you must be warned, Suki. I do not see everything clearly. I just sense that certain things will happen.”

“How do you do that?”

“I have this gift.”

Before he could put it at her disposal, he saw someone walking along the deck toward him and his manner altered. Genevieve Masefield was moving with a purposeful stride. If she had come to
arrest him, Guljar Singh hoped that it would not be in front of the girl. That would be a mortifying experience for him.

“Hello, Mr. Singh,” said Genevieve when she reached them. “I just wanted a brief word with you, if I may.”

“Here?” he asked uneasily.

“I came to apologize.”

“For what?”

“Jumping to conclusions earlier on.”

Guljar Singh heaved a deep sigh of relief and introduced her to Sukinder. Delighted to be offered an apology, he was glad that it was in front of a witness, albeit only a young girl.

“I'm certain that you were not involved,” said Genevieve.

“That is what I told you, Miss Masefield.”

“I had to find out for myself.”

“So you will be asking me no more questions?”

“None at all.”

“Thank you. It was good of you to come out here like this.”

“It's the least I came do, Mr. Singh,” said Genevieve. “I caused you unnecessary embarrassment. I hope that you'll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

“Of course, of course. I bear no ill will.”

“I'm so pleased to hear that.”

When she offered her hand, Guljar Singh shook it warmly. It had taken an effort for her to make the apology and he appreciated it all the more as a result. He watched her walk away. Sukinder was curious.

“What did the lady do to upset you?” she asked.

“Nothing, Suki. It is all forgotten now.”

“Who is she?”

“Someone who made an honest mistake. Now then,” he went on, turning to her, “you wanted me to foretell your future, didn't you?”

“And to ask you a big favor, please.”

“A favor?”

“You are the only friend I have on this ship.”

“I'm sure that's not true, Suki.”

“There is nobody else that I can trust to do it.”

“To do what?”

She became wary. “Promise me that you will tell nobody.”

“You have my word,” he said, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “So—what is this favor?”

Wanting to reflect on what Lois Greenwood had told him, Dillman went back to the place where the murder had been committed. Letting himself into Dudley Nevin's cabin with the key, he tried to envisage where the man must have been standing when he was stabbed. The position of the discarded
kukri
again puzzled him. It was nowhere near where the body had fallen. Had it been thrown away on impulse after it had done its work, or had it been deliberately left behind as some kind of symbol? Dr. McNeil believed that the fatal wound had either been inflicted by someone lashing out crazily at Nevin, or by a skilled assassin who was determined to make his victim suffer great pain. Dillman thought of the Gurkha, who was a friend of Sylvester Greenwood.

Lois had unwittingly given him what might turn out to be the breakthrough that was needed. She had overheard her father saying that he had been to a cabin to confront someone. Though she did not provide a name, it had to be Dudley Nevin. By virtue of his contacts in Delhi, Greenwood's brother-in-law had discovered that Nevin was traveling to Bombay by train to embark on the
Salsette
. If Greenwood had altered his own plans in order to be on the same vessel, then he must have had a compulsion to see Nevin, and Dillman knew that it would not have been simply to discuss the result of a by-election in Reading. Something else must have connected the two men.

Thanks to the man's daughter, Dillman could place Greenwood in the cabin, but he had no evidence to put a weapon into his hand, or for that matter, into the more practiced hand of his Gurkha friend. He was still building on supposition. If either of the two men
had
been the killer, Nevin's blood would have stained their clothing. That opened up the possibility that somebody might have seen one of them, returning to his cabin in a disheveled state. Whenever he had seen Greenwood, the man had been dressed with meticulous care. Had he suddenly changed his suit on the day of the murder?

After rehearsing all the possibilities, Dillman decided that he had to confront the member of Parliament with certain facts. He left the cabin and locked it behind him. He was about to walk away when Tabitha Simcoe came gliding along the corridor toward him.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but isn't that Mr. Nevin's cabin?”

“Yes, it is.”

“We haven't seen him for ages. Not since he played bridge with us, in fact. Is he all right?”

“No,” replied Dillman, inventing an excuse to explain his absence, “I'm afraid that he isn't. Mr. Nevin is unwell. Dr. McNeil has told him to rest until we reach Aden.”

“What a shame!”

“My name is George Dillman, by the way,” he said, extending a hand. “I'm a friend of Dudley's.”

She shook his hand. “Tabitha Simcoe.”

“I think that he must have been ill when he played bridge with you, Miss Simcoe. He told me that he gave a poor account of himself.”

“That was certainly true. He let his partner down badly.”

“But you and your mother are formidable opponents, I hear.”

“We try, Mr. Dillman,” she said with a bland smile. “Do you, by any chance, play bridge?”

“It's not one of my accomplishments, I fear.”

“That's a pity. We might have found a partner for you.”

“I'd have been a liability, Miss Simcoe.”

“I'm sure that you could never be that.”

This was not the shy and restrained woman that Genevieve had described to him. Tabitha was brimming with confidence and able to pay him a frank compliment. She was looking at him with the same undisguised approval he had seen in the eyes of Madame Roussel. When she was not burdened with her mother, it seemed, Tabitha Simcoe blossomed into full womanhood.

“Haven't I seen you, pushing a Bath chair around?” he said.

“Mother is crippled.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Actually, the last few times I've noticed her, she was being wheeled along by one of the stewards.”

“Mother had to dispense with his services.”

“Oh? Was he pushing her too fast?”

“No, Mr. Dillman,” she said, “he was getting above himself and Mother would never countenance that. She had the fellow demoted. Paulo Morelli is where he belongs—toiling in second class.”

Morelli was thrilled with his new assignment. Overwhelmed with remorse at losing his position in first class, he had now been given the opportunity to make amends and he resolved that he would do so. Apart from Genevieve Masefield herself, there was nobody on board whom he would rather watch than Madame Berthe Roussel. On three previous voyages, she had been a conspicuous figure and he regretted that it had never fallen to him to be her steward. She had the look of a woman who reveled in flattery, and who would give generous tips. It would have been a pleasure to work for her.

Instead, he had been given the task of trailing her as unobtrusively as he could. Morelli did as he was told. Without speculating on why she was under suspicion, he watched her in the second-class
lounge, then on a brisk walk around the main deck, and finally going back to her cabin. With a tray under his arm, he lurked nearby in case she came out again. It was twenty minutes before she emerged, wearing a different dress and glancing at her watch. Since she was coming in his direction, Morelli walked toward her as if on some errand, and strode past. She was not even aware of his presence.

Once round the corner, he stopped and went slowly back again. He saw Madame Roussel about to ascend a companionway and trotted along the corridor to catch her up. When she vanished from the top of the steps, he went up them, looking in both directions. He was just in time to see her furtively checking the number of a cabin before letting herself in with a key. Morelli was intrigued. Strolling past the cabin, he made a note of the number, then went around the corner at the far end of the corridor and waited. It was exciting work.

“I am the detective!” he said to himself. “I am good at it.”

Mrs. Verney could not understand it. She was quivering with indignation.

“Why haven't you arrested him, Miss Masefield?” she demanded.

“Because I'm not convinced that he's the thief,” replied Genevieve.

“He must be—he was there at the time.”

“How do you know, if you fell asleep?”

“There was something so shifty about the man.”

“I thought he was rather dignified.”

“Miss Masefield interviewed this fellow,” explained Max Cannadine, “and she came to the conclusion that he was innocent of the charge.”

Mrs. Verney was upset. “You let him go?” she said to Genevieve.

“There was no evidence on which to apprehend him.”

“You could have searched the man.”

“He was hardly likely to have your purse on him, Mrs. Verney.”

“No,” said Cannadine, “and we have to be careful not to make false accusations against anyone.”

The three of them were in the purser's cabin. Mrs. Verney had come to see if her property had been recovered yet, and Genevieve had been brought in to tell her how the investigation was going. Disappointed that there was no sign of her missing purse, the victim was close to tears.

“So, in fact,” she said morosely, “you've made no progress at all.”

“Yes, we have,” Genevieve told her. “We have another suspect who is being kept under close scrutiny.”

“Who is it—another Indian?”

“We're not able to tell you that, Mrs. Verney,” said the purser, getting up from behind his desk to open the door. “But you can rely on one thing. As soon as we make an arrest, you'll be told.”

Giving a resigned nod, May Verney rose to her feet, thanked them for their help, and left the cabin with an air of discontent. Cannadine closed the door behind her and pulled a face.

“One consolation, anyway,” he noted. “It wasn't Ethan Gilbert.”

“He'd want the pleasure of arresting the thief himself.”

“Arresting him—or strangling him with his bare hands?”

“In his mind,” said Genevieve, “it amounts to the same thing.”

“Are you absolutely certain that this Guljar Singh is innocent?”

“George thinks that
you'd
be a more likely thief.”

Cannadine laughed. “That's the nicest thing anyone has said about me all day.” He became serious. “We
are
going to solve these crimes, aren't we?” he asked.

“We hope so.”

“I was banking on rather more than hope, Miss Masefield.”

“This evening will be the critical time.”

“When will you conduct the search?”

“During dinner,” she told him. “George and I will actually go into the cabin, but we'll have a lookout to help us.”

“Oh, and who's that?”

“Paulo Morelli.”

“Morelli?” he said anxiously. “Are you sure you can rely on him?”

“I think so. He snatched at the chance to redeem himself.”

“As long as he doesn't get overzealous. What do you expect to find in the course of your search?”

“Some or all of the property that was taken,” she said. “George thinks we might stumble on some clues about the murder, as well. If someone has bloodstained clothing in his wardrobe, we'll know where the blood came from. I have high hopes of this search, Mr. Cannadine.”