Murder on the Marmora (21 page)

“Was it a man called Karl-Jurgen Lenz?”

“That’s the fellow,” said Longton, removing his monocle. “Unsavory character. Never know what a man like that is thinking. Wouldn’t trust him an inch, Mr. Dillman. He’s far too shifty.”

Genevieve Masefield needed some thinking time. She had gathered so much conflicting intelligence that she returned to her cabin so she could assimilate it in private. Pencil and paper were useful allies at such a time. Genevieve listed all the information
she had gathered, beside the names of the people who had given it. Somewhere amid her scribbles, she believed, was a vital clue that needed to be teased out. She searched for it in vain. Dillman had taught her to look for a pattern at such times but that, too, eluded her. She was still seated at her table when there was a gentle tap on her door.

Genevieve was circumspect. It was unlikely to be Myra or Lilian Cathcart, both of whom she had spoken to earlier. That left Roland Pountney and Nigel Wilmshurst as the most likely visitors. Neither of them was welcome. The other possibility was Frau Zumpe, whom she had not seen since the latter’s drunken confession on the previous night. When the tap on the door was repeated, she noted it was too soft for a man and too tentative for Frau Zumpe. Genevieve elected to open the door and was dumbfounded when she saw Araminta Wilmshurst standing there. They stared uneasily at each other for some while. It was the visitor who finally broke the silence.

“Miss Masefield?”

“Yes,” said Genevieve.

“I’m Araminta Wilmshurst. I believe that you know my husband.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Eventually.” She was almost shaking with nerves. “May I speak to you, please?”

“This is not really a convenient time, Mrs. Wilmshurst.”

“It’s very important to me. I’m sure you understand that.”

Genevieve could see the effort it had taken her to pay the visit, and she felt sorry for her. At the same time, she sensed that any conversation between them would be awkward and possibly hurtful. Her instinct was to turn the woman politely away but she decided instead to confront a problem that she could not go on dodging.

“You’d better come in,” she said.

“Thank you, Miss Masefield.”

Araminta stepped into the cabin and gave it a cursory glance before turning to look at Genevieve, who closed the door after them. She had not realized that Genevieve was so much taller than she was. Araminta took a deep breath before speaking.

“I have to know the truth, Miss Masefield,” she began.

“Truth?”

“About you and my husband.”

“Then the person you should be asking is him and not me.”

“I’ve heard what Nigel has to say. I’d very much like to believe him.”

“Then that’s what I’d advise you to do, Mrs. Wilmshurst,” said Genevieve. “Our relationship was over some time ago and I haven’t seen him since. It was pure accident that we happened to be on the same ship.”

“I accept that. What I find much harder to accept—in spite of his denials—is that Nigel has lost all interest in you. He kept looking at you during dinner last night.”

“Well, I didn’t look at him, I can assure you.”

“Yet there is still something between you.”

“Not on my side, Mrs. Wilmshurst.”

“It’s the way his voice changes whenever he talks about you.”

“I’m surprised that he even bothers to mention me,” Genevieve said briskly. “What happened between us was over and done with long before you. We both have good reason to forget that period in our life.”

“
You
do, I’m sure,” said Araminta.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you were the guilty party.”

Genevieve blanched. “Is that what your husband said?”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Araminta Wilmshurst was in a highly vulnerable state. Only some deep anxiety could have brought her to Genevieve’s cabin. She wanted a reassurance that Genevieve could not give her. Yet
behind her tentative manner there was also a slight air of triumph, a conscious awareness that she had married the man to whom Genevieve had once been engaged. It put Genevieve in a difficult position. Wanting to spare her visitor any pain, she tried to bring the conversation to an end.

“Mrs. Wilmshurst,” she said gently, “I appreciate why you came but I’m not able to help you in any way. Nigel—your husband—is the only person who can do that. I know that I pose a problem. Seeing me during your honeymoon must be like finding a specter at the feast. I apologize for that but it’s not my doing.”

Araminta was almost derisive. “Nigel said that you always had a glib answer.”

“I am not being glib, believe me. I’m trying to show you some consideration.”

“He told me that you’d try to patronize me, as well.”

“Does he know that you’re here?”

“No, of course not. This is between the two of us, Miss Masefield.”

“Not when a third person is involved. Now, listen, Mrs. Wilmshurst. This may sound glib and patronizing but I don’t care. I think that you should leave and forget you ever came here,” said Genevieve, crossing to the door. “There’s no reason why we should even see each other for the remainder of the voyage.”

“You’re not getting rid of me as easily as that,” said Araminta, folding her arms. “I came for the truth and that’s what I intend to get.”

“Whose version do you want—mine or your husband’s?”

“Yours. I need confirmation of what Nigel told me.”

Genevieve was brusque. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilmshurst,” she said, “but I don’t want to come between the two of you. I suggest that you believe the version of events you’ve been given. Your life will be much happier that way.”

“In other words, you deny that you were to blame.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Because you can’t,” said Araminta, becoming more strident. “You couldn’t bear it when Nigel threw you over. It’s quite obvious that you were only after his money and his title. And you might have got it if he had found out about your infidelity.”

Genevieve gasped. “My infidelity?”

“I dragged the details out of Nigel earlier on.”

“I see. And you believed him, of course.”

“He’s my husband!”

“Yes,” said Genevieve, struggling for control. “He is, Mrs. Wilmshurst. That’s what I’m forcing myself to remember, because it’s the only thing that’s keeping me from demanding that you get out of my cabin. I’ll not be insulted like this.”

“All I want is your admission that it’s true.”

“Then you’ll have to wait a very long time.”

Araminta pointed a finger. “Are you calling my husband a liar?”

“Let’s just say that his memory may be slightly at fault on this particular subject.”

“Why else would a man break an engagement?”

“Ask him,” said Genevieve. “Jog his memory.”

“You’re patronizing me again,” Araminta complained. “Do you know what I think? I think you’ve never really forgiven him for casting you off. That’s why you want to cause trouble for him. That’s why you’re trying to distract him.”

“I can’t wait until he gets off this ship, Mrs. Wilmshurst.”

“I know. It’s because he reminds you of the terrible thing you did to him.”

“He reminds me what a lucky escape I had.”

“Now who’s being insulting? Nigel is a wonderful man and he’s
mine
.”

“I don’t envy you that, Mrs. Wilmshurst. I hope that you’ll both be very happy.”

“How can we be, when you’ve come out of his past to haunt him?”

“I’m not the one who’s done the haunting,” said Genevieve.

“What do you mean?”

“Ask your husband.”

“Are you saying that you’ve met with him? You’ve
spoken
to him?”

“Not with any pleasure, I assure you.”

“You’re lying,” challenged Araminta. “Nigel swore to me that he hasn’t been anywhere near you. Why should he be? After the way you betrayed him, he ought to hate you. It was a shameful way to behave.”

“I agree,” Genevieve retorted, stung by the attack. “But I wasn’t the person who was guilty of betrayal, Mrs. Wilmshurst. There was shameful behavior and it did bring an end to the engagement. I was the person to break it off and not your loving husband.” She opened the door wide. “You asked for the truth,” she said. “Now you know it. Good-bye, Mrs. Wilmshurst.”

FIFTEEN

T
he photograph took much longer than they had expected. When Karl-Jurgen Lenz had set up his equipment, he arranged the group in different positions until he was satisfied that he had the best result. Fife was patient but his wife was increasingly restive. She regarded the camera as an intrusion into her privacy and wanted the photographic session to be over quickly. The children were always ready to face a camera, and they beamed obligingly until their mother pointed out that they should try to show more dignity. Nigel Wilmshurst, dressed, like Fife, in white tie and tails, was annoyed that his wife did not seem to be enjoying the occasion. He had used his father’s name to secure the privilege of dining with the royal party and of having a photograph with them, yet Araminta now appeared to be strangely indifferent to both.

“Why is he taking so long?” asked Lady Maud.

“Herr Lenz will be ready in a moment,” said Fife.

“We’ve been standing like this for ages.”

“Be quiet, dear,” suggested her mother.

“But I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” said Lady Alexandra.

Fife quelled them with a look. “It will be over very soon.”

They were in the sitting room between the two cabins allotted to the royal party. A table had been set up in the middle of the room and six places had been laid. Candles burned in the silver candelabra at either end of the table.

“What is he
doing
?” murmured the Princess Royal.

“I think he’s almost ready, Louise,” said Fife.

Lenz waved a hand to indicate that Wilmshurst should move in closer to his wife then vanished under his black cloth to make final adjustments. The Duke and Duchess struck their familiar pose and their daughters tried to emulate them. Wilmshurst stole a quick glance at his wife, hoping for at least a sign of excitement from her, but Araminta’s face was impassive and her gaze dull. The next moment, there was a sudden flash that was accompanied by a startling noise. Lenz gave them a formal bow.

“Thank you,” he said. “It was an honor for me.”

“We’ll be interested to see the results,” said Fife.

“You will not be disappointed, I think.”

“Thank you, Herr Lenz.”

Lenz turned to Wilmshurst. “Shall I take a photograph of you now, sir?”

“No,” replied Wilmshurst.

“But you ask for one with your wife.”

“Another time, Herr Lenz. I’ll be in touch.”

Wilmshurst was not just anxious to get rid of a man who was irritating all of them; he could see that his wife was in no mood to be photographed with her husband even though she had been thrilled by the notion when she first heard of it. Gathering up his equipment, Lenz thanked everyone again then left through the door that Wilmshurst held open for him. When the man had gone, Wilmshurst was deeply apologetic.

“I’m dreadfully sorry about that,” he said, “I thought the whole thing would be over in a minute or so. Herr Lenz stayed long enough to paint our portraits, let alone take our photograph.”

Fife was tolerant. “Perfection takes time. You cannot rush an artist.”

“I do think there was a needless delay. He was enjoying the pleasure of being here so much that he couldn’t drag himself away.”

“Well, he’s gone now. Perhaps we should all take our places.”

“Yes, Father,” Lady Maud said with alacrity. “What are we having for dinner?”

“Wait and see,” advised Fife.

The Duke and Duchess sat at either end of the table. Their daughters sat on one side of it, with the Wilmshursts directly opposite them. The female members of the dinner party wore evening dresses. Araminta, in white satin, contrived a first smile.

“It’s so kind of you to invite us,” she said.

“In point of fact,” Fife observed drily, “it was your husband who extended the invitation and we were grateful to receive it. I hope that you didn’t mind changing the venue to our cabin?”

“Not at all,” said Wilmshurst. “Araminta and I are delighted to be here.”

“It’s in the nature of an experiment, I fear,” warned the Princess Royal. “There’s a renowned French chef aboard and he insisted on cooking a meal especially for us.”

“It was too tempting an offer to resist,” said Fife.

“I’m glad that you accepted, your grace,” said Wilmshurst. “It will make the occasion even more memorable. A German photographer, a French chef—what next? I wonder. A Chinese waiter, perhaps? It is taking shape as a truly international evening.”

“With you and your wife as the guests of honor.”

“Surely not!”

Fife beamed at them. “Honeymoon couples take precedence
over everyone else,” he asserted, snapping his fingers. “That means there’s only one way to begin.”

Alerted by his signal, the waiter who had been lurking outside the door now entered with a tray that bore a bottle of champagne and six glasses. He set the tray down on a side table and, to the amusement of the two girls, opened the bottle with a resounding
pop!
They were delighted to be given a glass of champagne each. When everyone else had a glass in front of them, Fife raised his up in a toast.

“To the happy couple!” he announced.

His wife and children echoed the toast and sipped from their respective glasses, but the visitors looked far from happy. Wilmshurst responded with a smile but Araminta looked positively discomfited. When they looked at each other, there was a visible tension between them. It was not a good omen.

With so much information to exchange, Dillman and Genevieve met in his cabin before dinner. He was in formal attire and she wore a beautiful evening dress in ivory-colored taffeta, with elbow-length gloves of a slightly darker hue. Gold earrings and gold necklace completed the effect of unforced glamour. Dillman told her about the latest theft and about the biting criticism he had received from the purser.

“I’m glad I wasn’t there, George,” she said.

“So was I, though Mr. Kilhendry might have moderated his language in your presence. Fortunately, Mr. Grandage acted as a buffer between the two of us.”

“He’s turning out to be a real friend.”

“He didn’t think much of my theory, I’m afraid. Neither did the purser.”

“What theory is that?”

“I’ve come around to the view that the thief and the killer may be the same person. Yes,” he went on, seeing the doubt in her
eyes, “I know that it seems unlikely on the face of it. I just have this conviction that I’m right.”

“But nothing was stolen from Mr. Dugdale’s cabin,” she argued.

“Nothing that we know of, Genevieve.”

“Are you saying he disturbed a thief and that the man rounded on him?”

“No, it didn’t happen that way, I’m certain of it. Mr. Dugdale let the man into his cabin because he had no reason to fear him. Until he turned his back, that is. The murder came
before
the theft.”

“If indeed anything was actually taken.”

“Yes, I could be way off-target here.”

“That’s unlikely, George. You have an uncanny knack of hitting the bull’s-eye. But, wait a moment,” she said, thinking it through. “If the thief wanted something in his cabin, why not simply steal it when Mr. Dugdale was not there? He had no need to commit murder at all.”

“Oh, yes, he did. He was impelled to do so.”

“By what?”

“I’m still trying to work that out, Genevieve,” he confessed. “But this latest theft has convinced me that I’m on the right track.”

Genevieve frowned. “I don’t see how.”

“It’s part of the smoke screen. What better way to impede a murder investigation than by diverting the people who are carrying it out? You were diverted by the theft from the Braddock sisters,” he said, “and I’m distracted by what happened to Mr. Goss. How can we concentrate fully on the murder when we have these other crimes dumped in our lap? Mr. Dugdale is dead. He’s in no position to harry us. The other victims do exert pressure on us, Genevieve. Because they were charming old ladies, you want to do your very best for the Misses Braddock.”

“I’d want to solve the crime even if I didn’t like them.”

“Yes,” he continued, “but there’s an added incentive for you.
It’s the same in my case. I know the Goss family; I share their pain. The person who stole from their cabins was well aware of my friendship. He knew that I’d run to help them. There’ll be more to come, I’m sure. The smoke screen will get thicker and thicker until the murder of Walter Dugdale is all but obscured. Do you follow my reasoning?”

“I do, George. But it’s based on a troubling assumption.”

“Someone knows who we are.”

“Yes, we’ve been picked out as the ship’s detectives. But
how
?”

“It wouldn’t be difficult,” he said. “When Mrs. Prendergast was robbed, all the thief had to do was to stay in the vicinity of her cabin until someone went to question her about the crime. You could have been seen going in and out.”

“What about you?”

“I can fool the vast majority of passengers, but there’ll always be one or two who can see through my disguise. Like us, professional criminals develop their instincts,” he told her, “and the man we’re after is extremely professional.”

“Have you discussed this with the purser?”

“He didn’t give me the chance, Genevieve. Nor did Mr. Grandage. All that they’re concerned with is limiting the damage caused by the various crimes. They look to us to come up with solutions.”

“We haven’t managed to do that, so far.”

“No,” he admitted, “but we do have some suspects. Herr Lenz is one and Claude Vivet is definitely another. They both had good reason to hate Mr. Dugdale. I’ll add a third name to the list: Sir Alistair Longton. He certainly knew that I was friendly with the Goss family because he joined us for dinner one evening. Sir Alistair also persuaded Mr. Goss to show him the very items that were later stolen.”

“Have you had the chance to question him, George?”

“Yes, and he was very plausible. He claimed he’d never tell anyone about what he’d seen in that strongbox and I believed him at the time. Now,” said Dillman, “I’m not so sure. It was almost as
if he knew that there’d been a robbery and was protesting his innocence. Also, shortly after the Braddock sisters had money taken from their cabin, Sir Alistair deposited a sizable amount in the purser’s safe.”

“Would a professional criminal be so obvious?”

“Who would suspect someone like Sir Alistair Longton? He’s a distinguished old gentleman who patently has enough money to travel in style. It’s impossible to imagine him stealing from someone else’s cabin or bludgeoning a man to death. You’d sooner accuse the captain of these crimes,” said Dillman. “If Sir Alistair
is
involved—and it’s by no means certain—then he must have an accomplice. A younger man.”

“Roland Pountney.”

“How did you know I was going to put him on the list?”

“Because he’s definitely on mine, George.”

She told him about her suspicions of Pountney and how he had been expelled from Harrow. His reaction to that expulsion surprised Dillman. It was a setback most people would try to conceal rather than celebrate with a laugh.

“Did he just volunteer the information?” asked Dillman.

“No,” she said. “Nigel Wilmshurst told me. He has no time for Mr. Pountney. Nigel looked down his nose at him. Mind you, he does that to most people.” She pulled a face. “And that brings me to another problem.”

“Has he been bothering you?”

“His wife came to see me.”

Genevieve explained what had happened and how guilty she felt about have to disillusion Araminta Wilmshurst, but her hand had been forced. Genevieve had her own pride. She was not going to be branded by anyone as a woman whose promiscuity had led to the breaking of an engagement. Dillman sympathized with her.

“It was the only thing you could do,” he said. “You had to set the record straight.”

“The poor woman looked as if she’d been poleaxed.”

“Do you think she believed you?”

“Not entirely,” she said, “but I planted a seed of doubt in her mind. By the time she left my cabin, she was starting to disbelieve her husband. There could be ructions. I fear that Nigel will turn on me.”

Dillman took her by the shoulders. “I’m always here, if that happens.”

“Thank you, George, but this is a battle I have to fight on my own.”

“Not as long as I’m on this ship.” He kissed her softly. “Remember that. At the slightest sign of trouble, just light a couple of distress flares.”

Genevieve hugged him in gratitude.

“What state was his wife in when she left your cabin?”

“She was totally confused.”

“Does she have enough strength to challenge her husband about this?”

“I couldn’t say,” replied Genevieve. “What I do know is this: If she does confront Nigel, I’d hate to be there when it happens.”

Claude Vivet outdid himself. Working alone in the corner of the kitchen, ostracized by the other chefs, he produced a meal that was truly worthy of the royal party and their guests. It began with a plate of miniature savories, attractively cut into various shapes, to whet the appetite. A delicious bouillon, made from his own recipe, followed. Then came a choice of fish, meat, or game, all of it exquisitely cooked, carefully garnished, and served with a selection of vegetables so tender that all of the diners called for more. Before an array of desserts was offered, a salad was served, to cleanse the palate.

Wine had been selected by Vivet for each course of the meal and each bottle was the perfect complement to his delectable food.
Araminta Wilmshurst drank more heavily than her husband had ever seen her do before. Worried at first, he came to see it as bonus because his wife began to relax at last. Once or twice, when Fife told an anecdote, she even exploded into the characteristic giggle that had attracted Wilmshurst to her in the first place. Fife was a charming host and his daughters were supremely well behaved. What surprised the visitors was how hesitant the Princess Royal was. At no point did she initiate a conversation, restricting herself to an occasional comment yet listening intently to the remarks of others. Talk turned to the inclination of certain Englishmen to marry foreign wives. Fife reeled off a whole catalogue of them.