Murder on the Salsette (21 page)

“I think that she's resolved to make the best of the situation.”

“She ought to be down on her knees, thanking us,” said Matilda Kinnersley, taking a last look at herself in the mirror. “It's a privilege to work for our family. It's about time that she understood that.”

“I'm sure that she does, my dear.”

“At one point, she had a kind of secret smile on her face. You don't suppose that she's been sneaking up on deck again, do you?”

“No, Matilda. She wouldn't dare to disobey us.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you put the fear of death into her,” said Kinnersley. “In any case, she's had her exercise for the day. I took her for a walk around the deck earlier. It was chilly out there, even for Sukinder.” She turned to face him and he managed a token smile. “You look wonderful this evening, my dear.”

“One has to make the effort.”

“It was well worth it.”

“Thank you,” she said, reaching for her purse. “By the way, we're dining with the Ackroyds tonight.”

“Oh, dear!”

“Why do say that?”

“Gerald tells me that they're not really speaking to each other.”

“I'm not surprised. He upset Phoebe by turning up to play bridge without the aid of his ear trumpet. She was furious with him.”

“It's not a hanging offense, is it?”

“In Phoebe's eyes, it is. They lost heavily.”

“We all take a beating at the card table occasionally.”

“Yes,” his wife said superciliously, “but not to someone like Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter. That is adding insult to injury. I mean, the Simcoes are such unbearable people. To lose to them is not merely an upset. It's a crushing humiliation.”

“What exactly did you say to Tabitha Simcoe?” asked Genevieve.

“Very little,” recalled Dillman. “We bumped into each other in the corridor and exchanged a few words, that's all. What did she tell you?”

“That you were not married.” He laughed. “It's not funny, George.”

“Would you rather that she'd told you I was?”

“Well, no.”

“Then it proves that my disguise works,” he said. “And so does yours, Genevieve. She may claim to have sharp instincts, but Tabitha clearly hasn't worked out that
you're
married, as well. Did she say anything nice about me?”

“Stop fishing for compliments.”

“There were favorable comments, then?”

“Let's forget about Tabby,” she said, bringing the discussion to a close. “She's beginning to annoy me.”

Meeting outside the second-class lounge, they were waiting for Paulo Morelli to join them before the search began. The steward was punctual. He came bounding along the corridor with a broad grin on his face. It suggested that he had something to report. After being introduced to Dillman, he told his tale.

“I follow Madame Roussel, as you ask me.”

“Where did she go?” asked Genevieve.

“Here, there, and everywhere. At four o'clock, she leave her cabin in a beautiful red dress and go up to the next deck. Madame Roussel looks for a number, finds it, and uses the key to let herself into a cabin. She is in there for almost half an hour,” he went on, taking a piece of paper from his pocket. “I make the note of the time.”

“Do you know the cabin number?” asked Dillman.

“Yes, sir.” He handed the paper to Dillman. “Is on here.”

“Good.”

“What happened when she came out, Paulo?” said Genevieve.

“She is very cautious,” replied the steward. “First, she put her head out of the cabin to make sure that nobody can see her, then she hurry off. Under her arm, she is carrying something that she did not take into the cabin. I could not see what it was, but it is valuable to her. Madame Roussel, she was hugging it to her.”

“Then what?”

“She went back to her own cabin and stay there until it was time to leave for dinner. When I see her sit down in the saloon, I come here.”

“Well done, Paulo!”

“This is good—no?”

“Very good.”

“I can go back to first class?”

“Not yet,” said Genevieve. “There's a lot more to do before that, and we need your help. George will explain.”

Dillman told him about the search and what his role would be. He stressed the importance of an early warning if anyone should return to a cabin unexpectedly. Morelli tried to revise his plans.

“You keep the lookout,” he said, “and I search the cabins.”

“No,” replied Dillman. “I know what we're after, Paulo.”

“But I am in and out of cabins all day long. Is my job. I will be quicker than you. I know where people hide things.”

“So do we,” said Genevieve. “You just do as George tells you.” Dillman took control. “Let's get started, shall we?”

They were methodical. Since only certain cabins were being searched, Dillman had listed them so that he took those occupied by men or by married couples, while Genevieve concentrated on those with exclusively female passengers in them. Morelli was stationed at a strategic point in order to keep watch. Using a master key, Genevieve first let herself into the cabin of their prime suspect, Madame Roussel. She could smell the perfume in the air. Having been there before, she knew exactly where to look, but she found no clues to indicate that the Frenchwoman was the thief. Nothing of value was kept in the cabin. She abandoned the search.

It was the same with the next two cabins that she went into. While her search was extremely thorough, she came out empty-handed on both occasions. Morelli trotted along the corridor to whisper to her.

“What is it you look for?” he asked. “I will find it.”

“You stay on guard, Paulo.”

“But I have the skills,
signorina
. Let me use them.”

“You're holding me up.”

“I sorry,” he said, retreating to his position.

Consulting her list, Genevieve checked the number of the next cabin that she was due to search, then noticed something. It was next door to the cabin occupied by Guljar Singh. Though that was
not down to be searched, she had a sudden urge to go into it, to satisfy herself once and for all that the old man was not involved in the thefts. Knowing that Dillman would strongly disapprove, she waited until he vanished into a cabin himself before crossing to the one in question.

She let herself in and looked around. Guljar Singh had brought very little luggage with him. There was only one battered old case in his wardrobe. It contained a few items of clothing and some books. Tucked away on the shelf in the wardrobe was what looked like a bundle of washing. Genevieve took it down to find that it was a cotton sheet that had been tied into a ball. She could feel something jiggling around inside it. Setting it down on the bed, she was about to untie it when she heard the sound of a key in the lock. Genevieve's heart pounded. There was nowhere to hide. She would be caught red-handed by the very man to whom she'd been forced to give her abject apology earlier on. How could she explain herself?

But it was not Guljar Singh who entered. It was Dillman.

“What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

“I thought I'd check it out, just in case.”

“This is Guljar Singh's cabin, Genevieve. It's not on the list.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then why bother with it? I couldn't believe it when Paulo told me that you'd come in here. The man is
innocent
, Genevieve.”

“Is he?” she countered, shaking the bundle. “Then what is Mr. Singh hiding in here?”

She undid the knot and opened the sheet. Expecting to find some personal items inside, Dillman was astonished to see instead three purses and a quantity of jewelry. From the description that Madame Roussel had given her of the stolen items, Genevieve recognized them as having come from the Frenchwoman's cabin. Controlling her own amazement, she looked at Dillman.

“What do you say now, George?” she asked.

TWELVE

S
ylvester Greenwood was quiet over dinner that evening. An opinionated man by nature, he liked to be at the heart of any discussion but he was curiously reticent on this occasion. Seated beside him, his wife was worried about him, but their daughter, on the opposite side of the table, hardly noticed her father's comparative silence. Lois was ready to pronounce on any and every subject, talking happily to people close to her, as if celebrating her return to the dining saloon. It was during a lull in the conversation that Daphne Greenwood finally voiced her anxiety.

“Are you all right, Sylvester?” she asked.

“Yes, my dear,” he replied. “I'm fine.”

“You've eaten so sparingly.”

“I don't seem to have much of an appetite this evening.”

“Are you sickening for something?”

“No, Daphne.”

“Has some of the food disagreed with you?”

He touched her arm. “Stop worrying about me, will you?”

“Or has something else upset you?” she wondered. “You haven't been the same since you spoke to that Mr. Dillman.”

“Dillman?” said Lois, hearing the name. “Have you been talking to him again, Daddy?”

“Yes,” he said.

“It wasn't about me, was it?”

“Not this time, Lois.”

“That's a relief,” she said. Leaning across the table, she lowered her voice. “Did you find out if he's a spy?”

“A spy?” echoed her mother. “What's this about spying?”

“A fanciful notion that Lois came up with,” said Greenwood, eager to get off the subject. “Mr. Dillman is no spy.”

“Then who is he?”

“He's the nice American that I met on deck, Mummy,” said Lois. “That first night I went roller-skating. I liked him but Daddy warned me not to speak to him again.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn't matter,” said Greenwood.

“He seemed very courteous when I met him earlier.”

“Oh, he is,” confirmed Lois. “And he has such a lovely voice. I could listen to him all day.” She glanced around. “For some reason, he doesn't seem to be here this evening.”

“Can we please forget Mr. Dillman?” Greenwood said irritably.

“If you wish, Daddy.”

“Let's talk about something else.”

“But I thought you agreed to speak to him after dinner,” noted his wife. “Why was that, Sylvester?”

“Never you mind, my dear.”

“But I do mind.”

“Daphne—”

“When someone disturbs you, I mind very much.”

“It's not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” she probed. “Is it to do with politics?”

“Indirectly.”

“Is that what you and Mr. Dillman were talking about?”

“To some degree,” he said.

“Everything seems to do with politics these days.”

“It's my profession, Daphne.”

“But it's taken over your whole life,” she complained. “I thought that we went to India for a holiday, but even there you managed to get involved in political matters. It was very irksome. I was very proud of you at the time—I still am, of course—but I'm beginning to regret that you ever won that by-election.”

Sylvester Greenwood felt more uncomfortable than ever.

* * *

Max Cannadine looked down at his desk with a mixture of delight and bewilderment. Arrayed in front of him was the stolen property that Genevieve and Dillman had recovered. A huge load was suddenly lifted from the purser's shoulders. He burst out laughing.

“That's incredible!” he exclaimed. “How did you do it?”

“I thought that the search would produce results,” said Genevieve.

“It certainly did that. Congratulations!”

“Thank you, Mr. Cannadine.”

“Where did you find all this?”

“In the last place we expected,” she told him. “That cabin wasn't even on our list, but I felt impelled to check it out nevertheless.”

“Thank heaven you did. Who was the occupant?”

“Guljar Singh.”

He was flabbergasted. “But you assured me that he was innocent.”

“That was a mistake.”

“Mr. Dillman thought that
I
would be a more likely thief.”

“He's been forced to revise that opinion,” said Genevieve. “It came as a real shock to George—and to me, I must confess. The old man fooled me completely.”

“Has he been arrested yet?”

“No, Mr. Cannadine. We thought we'd leave that until he'd eaten his dinner. After all, Guljar Singh is not going anywhere.”

“He'll go straight to a cell for this,” said the purser, indicating the haul on his desk. “I don't care how old or frail he is. A crime is a crime and it must be punished.”

“Oh, I agree. Though I'm bound to feel sorry for him.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” she confessed. “But having met him, I just don't believe that he's a bad man at heart. I think that Guljar Singh must have acted completely out of character.”

“Maybe.”

“The important fact is that we've recovered all the stolen items.”

“Thanks to you and Mr. Dillman.”

“You'll have the pleasure of returning them to their owners.”

“I think that you should be here for that, Miss Masefield,” he argued. “Credit where credit's due. You were the one who investigated the thefts so you should enjoy the gratitude of the victims.”

“I'll certainly want to watch you returning the jewelry to Madame Roussel,” said Genevieve. “She took rather a dim view of my detecting skills. I hope that she'll be more gracious towards me now. My advice is to see her on her own before the others.”

“Oh, I will. When Madame Roussel is in here, there's no room for anyone apart from you and me. She has such a presence, especially when she's enraged.”

“The sight of her jewelry will calm her down.”

“It's certainly calmed me down. Well,” he said reflectively, “that's four crimes solved. But the more serious one still remains, alas.
Given the choice, I'd much rather solve one murder than a dozen thefts.”

“So would we, Mr. Cannadine.”

“Has there been any progress?”

“George feels that there has,” she reported. “And he may well be finding some new evidence as we speak.”

“Why—what's he doing?”

“Searching the cabin of the chief suspect.”

“Sylvester Greenwood?”

“Yes. George felt he had the man on the run earlier.”

“That sounds promising.”

“But Mrs. Greenwood interrupted them at the crucial moment.”

“Damnation!”

“George arranged to have another interview with him later on.”

“Meanwhile, he's rummaging through the man's cabin.”

“With a lookout guarding his back,” she said. “Paulo is definitely doing his share of the work this evening. We'll just have to keep our fingers crossed that George turns something up.”

Sylvester Greenwood was not a person who believed in enjoying leisure. On his trip to India, he had brought an immense amount of work with him. While searching his cabin, Dillman was impressed by the man's diligence. In addition to sheaves of correspondence from his constituents, Greenwood was traveling with papers that related to various committees on which he sat, and with some hefty parliamentary reports. In India, he had acquired a number of books about its political activities. Dillman sifted through the documents as quickly as he could. Disappointingly, however, there was nothing there to connect Greenwood with Dudley Nevin.

Nor was there any bloodstained clothing in the wardrobe. That did not altogether surprise Dillman. Since he shared the cabin
with his wife, Greenwood would probably dispose of anything that would catch her eye and provoke alarm. What did interest the detective was a leather-bound address book. Flicking to the correct page, he saw that Dudley Nevin was listed with no less than four different addresses, two in England and two in India. Each time the man moved, it seemed, his new location was carefully noted. Greenwood did not wish to lose track of him.

Many of the items in the cabin belonged to his wife, and Dillman merely glanced at them. Daphne Greenwood was not under suspicion in any way. Nevertheless, when he found a small case with her name on it, he felt obliged to search it. Hidden away in the corner of the wardrobe, it felt quite heavy when he pulled it out. Placing it on the floor, he opened the lid to find a collection of what looked like souvenirs. In the middle of them, wrapped up in a thick piece of cloth, was an object that attracted his attention. He unrolled the cloth and realized what he was holding.

It was a
kukri
, a knife that was identical to the murder weapon.

Before he could examine his find, there was an urgent tap on the door. It was the signal from the steward that someone was coming. Dillman moved swiftly. Wrapping the
kukri
in the cloth again, he put it back, closed the lid of the case, then replaced it in the exact spot where it had stood before. He left the cabin and gave a wave of thanks to Morelli, who then vanished around a corner. Seconds later, Greenwood appeared in the corridor. Dillman strode nonchalantly toward him.

“I was hoping that you'd come back here,” he said. “It gets rather crowded in the lounge after dinner.”

“We can talk in my cabin.”

“That will suit me, Mr. Greenwood.”

“I've told my wife not to disturb us.”

“What about your daughter?”

“Lois will stay with her mother until I go back to them.”

Dillman was about to say that there was a possibility he might not be rejoining his family, but he decided against it. Suspicion, however strong, was not the same as incontrovertible proof. Even at this stage, Sylvester Greenwood had to be presumed innocent until clear guilt was established. When he followed the man into the cabin, Dillman pretended that he was seeing it for the first time.

“P and O always puts an emphasis on comfort,” he observed, looking around. “This is very well designed.”

“You didn't come here to admire my cabin, Mr. Dillman.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Then let's not beat about the bush, shall we?” said Greenwood, sourly. “Take a seat and get on with it.”

“I'd prefer to stand, if you don't mind.”

“Please yourself.”

Greenwood sat down in the chair beside the desk and crossed his legs. He looked calm but determined. There was no sign of the unease he had felt during dinner. He was ready to joust with Dillman.

“Perhaps we could start with the photograph,” said the detective, producing it again from his pocket. “Who is this young lady?”

“I'm afraid that I can't tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's none of your damn business, sir,” rejoined the other.

“It could be, Mr. Greenwood.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's yet another link between you and Dudley Nevin—the man you denied knowing at one point. Look,” said Dillman, deciding to put his cards on the table, “it's only fair that you should understand why I'm so interested in your relationship with him.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless, that is, you know already.”

“I haven't a clue what you're talking about,” said Greenwood, face expressionless. “Has Mr. Nevin accused me of something?”

“He's not in a position to accuse anybody, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Nevin is dead.”

The Englishman looked shocked. “
Dead?
”

“To be more exact,” explained Dillman, “he was murdered. For obvious reasons, we haven't made this public, and I'm only telling you in strict confidence. At least you'll now understand why I must ask you certain questions. They're part of a murder investigation.”

“When did it happen?”

“I don't wish to go into any details.” He held up the photograph. “You obviously recognized the young lady. Who is she?”

“Eileen is nothing to do with this,” insisted Greenwood.

“Is that her name—Eileen?”

“Yes. Miss Eileen Penfold.”

“This photo was found in Mr. Nevin's possession. Why was that?”

Greenwood squirmed slightly in his seat. He was no longer as composed as he had been. Dillman sensed that the man was vulnerable.

“I think that she may be the link,” he said.

“The link?”

“Between you and Mr. Nevin. That's what sent you to his cabin, wasn't it? Miss Penfold was a bone of contention between the two of you. Is that correct?” Greenwood was resolutely silent. “I intend to get an answer, no matter how long it takes. And if you won't give it to me, perhaps I should show this photograph to your wife.”

“No, no,” protested the other. “Daphne must be kept out of this.”

“Why?”

“Because she knows nothing whatsoever about it.”

“Is that because you're ashamed to tell her?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why all this secrecy?”

“My wife is highly strung, Mr. Dillman,” said Greenwood. “She's far too easily upset. That's why I've learned to suppress anything unpleasant in front of her. She was never even aware of Miss Penfold's existence. And before you misunderstand me,” he went on, “let me assure you that nothing improper took place between me and the young lady.”

“Why were you so shaken when you saw her photograph?”

“Because it brought back ugly memories.”

“Of what?”

Greenwood bit his lip. Lapsing back into silence, he went off into a reverie. Judging by the pained expression on his face, he appeared to be wrestling with some kind of inner demons. Uncertain whether or not he was dissembling, Dillman adopted a more direct approach.

“Were you involved in the murder of Dudley Nevin?” he asked.