Murder on the Marmora (24 page)

“It was a factor, there’s no doubt about that. In the cold light of day, of course,” he went on, “Mrs. Wilmshurst is going to learn the ugly truth.”

“Only if I press charges.”

“But you must, Genevieve. He assaulted you.”

“Let me sleep on it.”

“He deserves to be punished.”

“To some extent, he already has been,” she pointed out. “You beat him black-and-blue, George. I could see how much you hurt him. And a night behind bars will be a real humiliation for someone like Nigel.”

“So it should be,” he said. “Show him no mercy.”

“It’s his wife that I keep thinking about. She’ll suffer as well.”

“The decision is up to you, Genevieve. But you know my feelings.”

“I do. I’m still very confused by it all. Give me time.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” She kissed him on the cheek then lowered herself into a chair. “Well,” she said, “this has all been a distraction. When you came here this evening, you weren’t expecting to have to rescue me like that.”

“No, I came to talk about the other crimes that have been committed.”

“Then let’s do that, shall we? I saw you in the lounge with Roland Pountney.”

“Yes,” he said. “Mr. Pountney troubles me. When I’m listening to him, I feel as if I’m acting in a play with someone who’s taken a role so often that he knows the lines perfectly. All I had to do was to provide him with his cue.”

“Could he be our man, George?”

“He’ll certainly bear more scrutiny.”

“I wonder why he was expelled from Harrow.”

“I have a feeling that we’ll find out in due course,” said Dillman. “I also think that there’s one avenue we haven’t fully explored. If, as I believe, something was stolen from Mr. Dugdale’s cabin after he was killed, there may be a way of finding out what it was.”

“How?”

“By asking a person he invited in there.”

“Frau Zumpe?”

“She may have seen something, Genevieve, or he may have mentioned a valuable item that he kept in his cabin. I know it will be tricky,” he said, “asking a woman what happened during a tender moment, but it’s the only option we have.”

“I agree. I’ll be happy to speak to Frau Zumpe.”

“Good. It may give us the break we need.”

“While we’re on the subject of German passengers,” she said, “I still think we should keep Herr Lenz under observation. There’s something very odd about that man.”

“I’m glad that you mentioned him.”

“Why?”

“Because of something that happened when I left the lounge,” he said. “The thief has been able to get in and out of cabins at will. That means either he can pick a lock very easily or—much more likely—he has a master key. Only two people have master keys to all the cabins.”

“The purser and the chief steward.”

“Exactly. Imagine my surprise, then, when I saw Mr. Kilhendry sneaking out of a cabin on the main deck earlier on. He looked so furtive. I made a note of the cabin number and checked it against my list. Who do you think it belongs to, Genevieve?”

“Karl-Jurgen Lenz?”

“The very same,” he said. “Now, why should the purser be calling on him?”

Araminta Wilmshurst spent a sleepless night alone. After she heard her husband storm out of the cabin and slam the door behind him, she began to have misgivings about the way she had locked him out of the bedroom. She waited for him to return but he never came. Instead, a note from the deputy purser was slipped under the door. Araminta was appalled to learn that her husband had been arrested because of drunken behavior.

When he had walked out on her, she decided, he had turned to alcohol for solace—and had far too much of it. Araminta felt that she was partly to blame. Overcome with guilt, she wanted to go to her husband but she knew that he would hate to be seen in such circumstances. All that she could do was to lie on the bed and brood about the way their honeymoon had suddenly turned sour.

Next morning, when she heard a knock on the door, she bounded over to it.

“Nigel?” she asked.

“No,” said a guttural voice. “It is Karl-Jurgen Lenz.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I wish to arrange a time for the photograph, Mrs. Wilmshurst.”

“Not now, Herr Lenz.”

“I can speak with your husband, please?”

“This is not a convenient moment,” she said, anxious to send him on his way. “My husband is not here, I’m afraid. He’ll get in touch with you when we’ve made a decision. Good-bye, Herr Lenz.”

“Good-bye.”

There was a long pause before she heard his heavy footsteps retreat down the passageway. Araminta was consumed with embarrassment. How could she and her husband even contemplate having their photograph taken when there was so much unresolved hostility between them? What would people think of the couple when they discovered that he had been locked up in a cell for the night? Araminta felt lost, lonely, and utterly bewildered. The cruise was turning into a nightmare.

She went back into the other room and sat disconsolately on the bed. It was all her fault, she decided. If she had not been impelled to confront Genevieve Masefield, none of these unpleasant consequences would have happened. Thanks to her, a rift had opened in the marriage and she had no idea how to close it. She heard a key being inserted in the lock and rushed into the sitting room. Nigel Wilmshurst let himself into the cabin and stood despondently before her. His face was bruised, his eye black, and his shirt stained with blood. There was a hangdog expression on his face.

“Nigel!” she cried, embracing him. “What happened to you?”

George Porter Dillman had never enjoyed any of his visits to the purser’s office but the one he paid this morning was particularly uncomfortable. Without even consulting him, Brian Kilhendry had gone over his head.

“You released Mr. Wilmshurst?” Dillman said angrily.

“I’d never have locked him up in the first place.”

“He assaulted Genevieve Masefield.”

“Then he needed to be cautioned and sent back to his cabin,” said the purser. “That’s what I did this earlier this morning. You can thank your lucky stars he’s not going to sue you for grievous bodily harm.”

“I only used necessary force.”

“He claims that you beat him to a pulp.”

“The man was attacking Genevieve,” retorted Dillman. “I couldn’t let him do that. Don’t you care if a member of your staff is set on like that?”

“Of course. I take it very seriously.”

“Then why do you side with the attacker and not the victim?”

“I side with nobody until I’ve heard the full facts of the case.”

“But you already have, Mr. Kilhendry. I was a witness.”

“Yes,” said the other, “but your version of events doesn’t quite accord with the one I had from Mr. Wilmshurst. What I really need to hear is Miss Masefield’s account. It’s up to her whether or not charges are pressed.”

“The man deserves to be locked up for the rest of the voyage.”

Kilhendry was offhand. “That may be how you did things on Cunard, Mr. Dillman,” he said, “but we try to handle things with more tact on the P and O. And there’s another consideration. Mr. Wilmshurst has friends in high places. The last thing we want is bad publicity.”

“Are you telling me that you’re
afraid
of him?” Dillman challenged.

“Not at all. I just prefer to tread carefully. You should do the same.”

Dillman was fuming. “If I hadn’t intervened last night, my partner might have been seriously injured and perhaps even sexually assaulted. I witnessed the attack,” he emphasized. “How was I supposed to ‘tread carefully’ in that situation—ask Mr. Wilmshurst if he needed some help?”

“There’s no call for sarcasm,” said Kilhendry.

“You should have talked to me before you even thought of releasing him.”

“I make the decisions on my ship, Mr. Dillman.”

“Does Mr. Grandage approve of what you’ve done?”

“Leave him out of this.”

“In other words,” concluded Dillman, “he doesn’t. He has some notion of loyalty to his staff. Follow your code and we’d let people like Mr. Wilmshurst run riot at will. What does he have to do before you sanction his arrest—assassinate the Princess Royal?”

“A night in the cell sobered him in every sense,” said Kilhendry. “He’s deeply sorry for what happened and is prepared to make a full apology to Miss Masefield.”

“He committed a criminal act against her.”

“Then it’s up to her to take the matter further, Mr. Dillman. You can huff and puff all you like. Until I’ve spoken with her, the sensible thing is to release Mr. Wilmshurst so that he can go and explain things to his wife. Have you considered her?”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “I asked Mr. Grandage to put a note under her door.”

The purser was offended. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“Perhaps he felt that you’d overrule him.”

Kilhendry stared at him with undisguised dislike. He was quite unrepentant about what he had done. Dillman met his gaze without flinching. Ever since they had met, the purser had put a series of obstacles in his way. Though Kilhendry exhorted the two detectives to solve the crimes that had been committed, he did nothing to help them. Now that someone had actually been arrested, Kilhendry had seen fit to release the man.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Dillman said quietly.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you do, Mr. Kilhendry. It’s not just the fact that we
used to work for Cunard. For some reason, that puts us in your bad books straightaway. But there’s something else as well. It’s to do with me.”

“I warned you that I don’t have the highest opinion of your nation.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said Dillman, “because I have great respect for the Irish. At least, I did until I met you. Most of the Irishmen I’ve encountered have been friendly, outgoing people. You’re the opposite. Why is that?”

“I can be friendly and outgoing with people I care about.”

“That seems to cover almost everyone on board except Genevieve Masefield and me. I’ve even seen you being nice to the other Americans on board,” noted Dillman. “You turn on that Irish charm of yours like a faucet. Why do we never see it?”

“Because you’ve done nothing to deserve it yet,” said Kilhendry.

“I made an arrest. That’s what I’m paid to do.”

“But this case is not as simple as it looks. It transpires that there’s some history between Mr. Wilmshurst and your colleague. At one time, it seems, they were engaged to be married. According to him, some provocation was involved.”

“He forced his way into her cabin.”

“So did you, Mr. Dillman. There’s a broken lock to prove it.” He turned his back. “So why don’t you leave it to me to sort out this mess? You should be out there hunting the real criminals we have on board.” Kilhendry faced him again. “What are you waiting for?”

Genevieve Masefield was still undecided about whether or not to press charges. Though she had been frightened at the time by the assault, she had recovered quickly and no longer felt as vengeful as she did at first. If she had been dealing with Nigel Wilmshurst in isolation, she would have had no qualms about demanding formal action against him, but there
was
his wife to consider. Even though Araminta had made some scathing comments about her,
Genevieve felt sympathy for the woman. Araminta would have been mortified to hear of her husband’s arrest. Wilmshurst himself would have been thoroughly chastened. When she gave her statement to the purser, therefore, Genevieve said that she needed more time for reflection before she reached a decision. During the course of the morning, she devoted a lot of thought to the problem but no easy solution presented itself.

Hoping to speak to Frau Zumpe, she was unable to find the woman until luncheon and by then it was too late. Dillman had assigned her another task. Genevieve was to sit beside Roland Pountney throughout the meal and keep him distracted while her partner searched the man’s cabin. Both detectives agreed that Pountney had to be considered a major suspect. When she sat opposite him, Genevieve knew that she might be looking into the eyes of a killer.

“How nice to see you again, Miss Masefield,” he began. “I had the feeling you were dodging me.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” she asked.

“Oh, this and that. One senses things.”

“I’ve no reason to keep out of your way, Mr. Pountney. As you see, here I am.”

“And very welcome, at that!”

They shared a table with the Cheritons and the Braddock sisters. Genevieve was happy to be part of a wholly British contingent though she was disconcerted by the hopeful smiles that Elizabeth Braddock kept shooting in her direction. She was desperate to give the two sisters some good news about the theft from their cabin but she was not yet in a position to do so. Genevieve concentrated on her main purpose.

“How did you get into the business world, Mr. Pountney?” she asked.

“By accident, I suppose,” he replied. “When I left Oxford, I suddenly found myself without any immediate means of supporting
myself. I was sent down, you see,” he confided with a grin. “Expelled from Harrow, sent down from university. Not the most promising start to a career, is it? But we Pountneys are made of stern stuff.”

“What happened?”

“An uncle of mine came to the rescue. He had a thriving business, selling antiques in London, and took me under his wing. That was it, really,” he said. “I turned out to have a flair for the work. He taught me about how and when to invest, how to set profit margins, and how to recognize a situation where you can make a real killing. After a couple of years, I felt able to branch out on my own.”

“Into antiques?”

“No, I moved into another field. If you can sell one thing, you can sell them all.”

“You’ve done remarkably well for someone of your age.”

“I had plenty of incentive,” he said. “My father despaired of me when I was kicked out of university. He’d funded me for so long, I felt that I owed him a reward of some kind so I turned over a new leaf. And here I am,” he announced, spreading his arms. “No blotches on the family escutcheon for a decade. I’m proud of that.”

“When did you first start traveling abroad?”

“Ah, that was the real stroke of fortune, Miss Masefield.”