Murder on the Marmora (5 page)

* * *

It was ironic. When her engagement was broken off, Genevieve Masefield had sailed on the maiden voyage of the
Lusitania
with the intention of starting a new life on the other side of the Atlantic. She had been eager to get away from the man she was to have married and liberate herself from all the many associations with him. In the event, she had met Dillman and finished up working in harness with him. It meant that she had not escaped Nigel Wilmshurst at all. Having tried to flee from him on one ship, she was now trapped with him on another. The irony had a cruel edge to it.

After delaying her arrival in the dining room until the last
moment, she took the vacant seat that had been kept for her between Myra and Lilian Cathcart, feeling that, under the circumstances, the women might act as a useful camouflage. But she did not need them. When she finally plucked up the courage to survey the room, Genevieve saw no sign of her ex-fiancé. She started to relax. By the time the main course was served, she even began to enjoy the meal.

Myra Cathcart was at her most voluble, joining in every conversation with gusto and scattering her opinions freely. Lilian was more subdued but even she was making a conscious effort to take part in the exchanges. Now that they were afloat, she seemed to have shed her earlier fears about the ship’s safety. Disappointed that the royal party was not dining in public, she shifted her attention to Genevieve instead.

“It’s nothing like I ever imagined,” she confessed. “There are moments when it feels more like being in a hotel than sailing at sea.”

“That’s what the best cruise ships are,” said Genevieve. “Floating hotels.”

“Filled with delightful ladies,” ventured the man on the opposite side of the table, sharing a benign smile among the three of them. “I could not have chosen a better seat.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dugdale,” Myra said sweetly. “Though I don’t pretend that I can compete either with Miss Masefield or with my daughter.”

“Oh, but you do, Mrs. Cathcart. Mature beauty is without compare.”

Myra laughed gaily and Lilian blushed—unused to coping with compliments herself, she found it even more difficult to handle those paid to her mother. Genevieve was interested to see how the two women reacted. She found Walter Dugdale, who had made the comment, to be amusing company. He was clearly a man of eccentricities. He was the only man in the room who wore a Norfolk jacket, and his beard was so long and pointed that it made
him look like a sorcerer. Genevieve put him in his mid-fifties but he could well have been much older. He sat directly opposite Myra. A native of Chicago, the thin, almost emaciated Dugdale had the easy manner of a veteran traveler.

“What a pity I’m to lose you and your daughter in Egypt!” he sighed.

“There’s a long time before we get there, Mr. Dugdale,” said Myra.

“I know, and I’m going to make the most of every second of it.”

“You sound very decisive.”

“I’m the sort of man who can make up his mind quickly, Mrs. Cathcart.”

“Have you sailed on P and O ships before?” asked Genevieve.

“Oh, sure,” he replied, “Many times. I ought to buy shares in the company. I might get back some of the money I’ve spent on them over the years. I love the experience of a cruise. Nothing to beat it, in my view.”

“And you’re going all the way to Australia?” said Lilian. “It will take you ages.”

“That’s the attraction, Miss Cathcart. Where better to be than in a floating hotel with no sense of rush and no pressure of work?”

“Does that mean you’re retired?” Myra probed.

“More or less,” said Dugdale, stroking his beard. “More or less.”

The American was attentive to both Genevieve and Lilian but his real interest seemed to be in Myra. He kept fishing gently for bits of personal information about her, and she was doing the same with him. Genevieve tried to strike up a conversation with the man opposite her but it was difficult. Stiff and solemn, Karl-Jurgen Lenz was a taciturn German in his fifties, with a quiet intensity. He limited himself to curt replies but listened carefully to what was being said. Like Dugdale, his gaze drifted most often to Myra Cathcart. A photographer by trade, Lenz was on his way to Egypt.

They were halfway through the main course before Genevieve finally managed a word with the young Englishman who sat on the other side of Lilian. He had been too busy talking to the elderly couple opposite him to pay much attention to those beside him, and Lilian was too shy to initiate a conversation with a stranger. When Genevieve leaned forward to eat, she could see him out of the corner of her eye. He was slim, fair-haired, and had an almost boyish face. His voice was educated and his manner open. Genevieve was glad when she eventually had the chance to speak to him. She introduced herself and Lilian Cathcart, then waited to hear his name.

“Delighted to meet you both,” he said with a smile. “I’m Roland Pountney.”

Genevieve was jolted without quite knowing why. Then she remembered where she had heard the name before. It was on the list of shipboard acquaintances that had been given to her by Mrs. Prendergast. The man was a suspect.

Nigel and Araminta Wilmshurst dined together in the privacy of their cabin. They wanted nobody else to intrude on their wedding night. When they retired to bed, the ship was dipping and rising gently over the waves. The bride had had far too much champagne to feel nervous and she yielded up her virginity to the man she loved with a mixture of innocence and urgency. Afterward, cradled in his arms, she purred with contentment. The evening was everything she had hoped it might be.

“Have you ever done that before, darling?” she whispered.

“No, of course not,” he lied.

“You seemed to know exactly what to do.”

“Only because you helped me, Araminta.”

“My brother did it before he was married,” she confided. “I wasn’t supposed to know about it but one of his friends told me. They took Tony off to this place and paid a woman to …” Her
voice trailed off. “I thought it was the most shameful thing to do, but, apparently, it’s not unusual. I just hope that his wife never finds out about it.”

“I trust you’ll have more sense than to tell her.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Nigel. She’d be cut to the quick. I can imagine how I’d feel if anyone told me something as revolting as that about you.”

“Well, they’re not going to,” he said, “because there’s nothing to tell.”

“I’m so glad.” She kissed him. “What will we do tomorrow?”

“Exactly the same.”

“Nigel!” she said with a giggle.

“Isn’t that what a honeymoon is for? It gives us the chance to get to know each other properly, and I certainly want to know my wife a lot better. If it was left to me, I’d spend the whole voyage in bed with you.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

He pretended to be hurt. “Are you tired of me already?”

“Don’t be silly!”

“You’d rather we slept apart?”

“Never!” she cried, clinging tightly to him. “But I would like to see something of the ship. And you did say we’d dine with the royal party at some stage. We can hardly do that if we stay in here all the time.”

“Are you saying that you prefer the Duke of Fife’s company to mine?” he teased.

“Why can’t I have both?”

He grinned indulgently. “You shall, Araminta. You shall.”

“You’re so good to me, darling. Thank you.”

She kissed him on the lips and he responded with ardor. It was some time before he let his head roll back on the pillow. His wife nestled up against him.

“Nigel …”

“Yes?”

“That other woman you were engaged to once—”

“This is hardly the moment to talk about her,” he said with irritation.

“I just want to ask you something. You did say that we’d have no secrets, and I’m bound to wonder. I simply want to know the truth then put it firmly behind us.”

He was brusque. “You know all there is to know, Araminta. I made a ghastly error and drew back, the moment I realized it. I’ve been grateful ever since.”

“But you must have got close to her at one point,” she persisted. “Close enough to want to do with her what you and I just did as husband and wife. There must have been some love and tenderness between you.”

“Well, there wasn’t,” he said, sitting up. “Now, please, let’s drop the subject.”

“Just answer me this.”

“Araminta—”

“One last question, I promise you. Supposing you met her again …”

“There’s very little chance of that happening.”

“But suppose that you did, Nigel. How do you think you’d feel?”

“I know damn well how I’d feel,” he said harshly. “My stomach would turn at the very sight of her. See her again? I’d run a mile!”

FIVE

O
n their first night afloat, the royal party found the
Marmora
surprisingly comfortable. Once they had grown accustomed to the pulsing rhythm of the engines and the undulations of the vessel, they slept soundly in their beds. Over breakfast next morning, served in the salon that connected their two cabins, they were full of praise for the vessel. Lady Maud, in particular, was anxious to explore it further.

“Can we go out on deck now?” she asked, swallowing a last piece of toast.

“Don’t be so hasty, Maud,” said her mother.

“But I’m dying to see the ship properly. So is Alex.”

“Yes,” said Lady Alexandra. “We’ve been cooped up in here far too long.”

“There’s so much to
see
, Mother, and we’re missing it all.”

“Not if you look through the porthole in your cabin,” said the Princess Royal.

Maud pouted. “That’s not the same.”

The two daughters were pretty girls but they had inherited too many of their mother’s features to be judged truly beautiful. They had long, pale faces and large eyes. At seventeen, Alexandra had already acquired something of her mother’s dignity and solemnity. Three years younger, Maud was still excitable. She turned to her father as a court of appeal.

“May we go on deck soon?” she pleaded.

“Of course,” he said with an indulgent smile, “but only when we are all ready to venture out. We are not ordinary passengers, Maud. We cannot go wandering about the vessel at will. Decorum has to be observed. As soon as we step outside our cabins, every eye will be upon us. That imposes responsibilities.”

“I know, Father.”

“Then curb your impatience. We’ll go out as a family.”

Maud nodded obediently. “May we get down from the table?”

“If you’ve had enough breakfast.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Alexandra.

“We’ll call you in due course,” promised Fife.

“Clean your teeth then look for some warm clothing,” their mother advised. “It will be quite chilly on deck at this time of year.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Maud.

The two girls got down from the table and went into their own cabin. Princess Louise watched them go. Fife drained the last of his coffee and addressed himself to the small pile of correspondence at his elbow.

“I’m not sure that I’m ready for a stroll just yet,” Louise said.

“You must have a morning constitutional, my dear.”

“Later on, perhaps.”

“We can’t keep the girls waiting too long,” he said, reading an invitation card before setting it aside, “or we’ll have mutiny on our hands.”

“Maud seems to think that we’re on the royal yacht, where she can go on deck whenever she chooses. We’re only four among
hundreds of passengers this time. The rules have changed.”

“I think that our daughters appreciate that, Louise.”

“I hope so.” She glanced at the little pile of envelopes. “Anything interesting?”

“Invitations, for the most part,” he said, glancing at a note on P and O stationery. “This one is from Sir Marcus Arundel, suggesting that we might join them in their cabin for drinks one evening.”

“Oh dear!”

“We have to be sociable, Louise.”

“Yes,” she sighed resignedly. “I suppose so.”

“You’re becoming too reclusive, my dear. If we’re not careful, we’ll end up being called ‘the Hermits of Mar Lodge.’ ”

“I love Mar Lodge. It’s so wonderfully private.”

“Almost as private as you,” he teased before slitting open another envelope. “Ah, yet one more invitation. Lord Wilmshurst’s son.”

“Do we know him?”

“No,” he replied, “but I was closely acquainted with his father at one time. Lord Wilmshurst was the best shot I’ve ever seen. And he had an extraordinary fund of sporting anecdotes. Interesting to see if the son takes after his father.”

“I don’t share your passion for anecdotes.”

“This young fellow won’t bore you with anything like that, Louise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he and his wife are on honeymoon.”

She was startled. “Honeymoon? Yet they seek the company of others?”

“Mr. Wilmshurst sounds like a gregarious bridegroom. He doesn’t just want us there for drinks; he’s suggesting that we dine with them.” Fife saw the mild disapproval in her face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t commit us to a meal until I’ve had a chance to meet the chap. But I do owe it to his father to be congenial.
Besides, the girls will expect some company while we’re aboard. It’s such an agreeable way to pass the time.”

After speaking to Roland Pountney for two minutes, Genevieve Masefield knew that she could cross his name off the list of possible suspects. Whoever had stolen the money and jewelry from Mabel Prendergast’s cabin, it was most certainly not this young man. During dinner on the previous evening, it had been impossible to have a proper conversation with him, especially with Lilian Cathcart sitting between them, so Genevieve was pleased to bump into him when she took a stroll around the deck. Pountney displayed a row of perfect teeth and politely touched his hat. After exchanging a few remarks about the weather with him, she asked him where he had been when the ship set sail.

“Up here on deck, of course,” he replied. “Weren’t you, Miss Masefield?”

“Yes, Mr. Pountney.”

“It’s always a unique moment. I never miss it.”

“Nor me.”

“The only problem was that I had to share it with that gloomy German.”

“Herr Lenz?”

“That’s right. He stood beside me and had the gall to tell me that German liners were superior to any built in our shipyards. Apparently, he was commissioned to photograph ships from the Hamburg-Amerika Line so he feels that he’s an expert on maritime travel.”

“He hardly said a word to me all evening.”

“When we stood at the rail, I couldn’t stop him talking.”

“Perhaps he’s shy in female company.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s the case,” said Pountney, “I had the feeling he revels in it. Herr Lenz is one of those strong, silent, watchful types. He seemed to be enchanted by the lady beside you.”

“Mrs. Cathcart? Yes, she managed to attract a lot of attention.”

His eyes twinkled. “So did you, Miss Masefield.”

Genevieve acknowledged the compliment with a smile. Roland Pountney was an affable young man with an air of quiet prosperity about him. Everyone promenading on the first-class decks was well dressed, but Pountney was immaculate in his overcoat and hat. Even his black leather gloves were of exceptional quality. Clearly, he was not the man who had broken into Mrs. Prendergast’s cabin. When the ship left Tilbury, he had stayed on deck for some time.

“You said last night that you were traveling on business,” she recalled.

“In the world of finance, alas, one always travels on business.”

“And you’re going to Egypt?”

“First of all,” he said. “I don’t believe in buying a pig in a poke. I like to see where my money is going. I’m investing rather a lot of it in a project in Cairo.”

“It’s very sensible of you to carry out an inspection, Mr. Pountney.”

“It doesn’t pay to be too trusting, Miss Masefield, especially where foreigners are concerned. Not that I have any prejudices against them, mark you,” he added. “Most of my investments have been abroad. That’s why I’ve prospered so much.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“The world is my oyster.” He laughed softly. “I’m a seeker after pearls. But tell me a little about Mrs. Cathcart, if you will, please.”

“Myra? Why?”

“Because she sounded like an interesting lady. I only caught snatches of what she was saying but she had far more life about her than that daughter of hers.”

“Lilian is inclined to be reticent.”

“It’s not a problem that troubles her mother. Mrs. Cathcart talked and laughed her way through the entire meal. I could see the effect she was having on the two men opposite. The American
gentleman was entranced with her,” Mr. Pountney said.

“His name is Walter Dugdale.”

“He was even more taken with the lady than Herr Lenz. I know that it’s very early to make such a judgment, but I think your friend may have made a conquest—if not two of them.”

“Hardly!” said Genevieve. “That’s the first time she’s met either of them. Myra Cathcart might be amused at the notion that she’d caught Mr. Dugdale’s eye but I doubt if she’d be pleased to hear that Herr Lenz had taken an interest in her. She made an impression on both of them, I grant you, but that’s as far as it goes. Mr. Dugdale was excessively polite, that’s all.”

“He’s a rich American bachelor.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw no sign of a Mrs. Dugdale. Did you?”

“No,” said Genevieve, “but my guess is that he has been married.”

“More than once, probably,” Mr. Pountney agreed. “They make a hobby of it over there.”

Genevieve laughed.

“I didn’t mean that to sound quite so flippant, and I might be wrong about Mr. Dugdale, but he—and Lenz, for that matter—were doing something that few men in their position would have done.”

“What was that, Mr. Pountney?”

“Paying far more attention to Mrs. Cathcart than to you.”

“I was not exactly ignored.”

“No,” he agreed, “but you didn’t collect the sly glances that your friend was getting from both men. They must have been blind, Miss Masefield,” he continued, touching his hat again. “Had I been sitting opposite you, I wouldn’t have noticed any other woman at the table. Good day to you.”

After bestowing an admiring smile on her, he strolled off along the deck.

______

When he saw the man in action, George Porter Dillman was forced to revise his opinion of the purser. Brian Kilhendry oozed professional charm. The blunt Irishman who had given Dillman such a tepid welcome was now chatting happily to passengers in the first-class lounge. He seemed to have mastered some of their names already and dealt with their various requests with practiced ease. Kilhendry was relaxed yet supremely in control. After glancing at his watch, the purser excused himself and headed for the door.

“Good morning,” said Dillman, intercepting him.

“Good morning, Mr. Dillman,” said Kilhendry. “Did you sleep well?”

“Extremely well.”

“We can hold our own against the Cunard Line, you know.”

“I never doubted it for a second, Mr. Kilhendry. But I’m glad of a quiet word.”

“I’m busy, I’m afraid. Save it for Martin Grandage.”

“This won’t take a moment,” said Dillman. “It’s something that your deputy might not even know about. I gather that you took possession of some Egyptian relics.”

“That’s correct,” the purser admitted crisply. “Several of them are locked away in our largest safe. I know nothing about such things, but Professor Goss, the gentleman who entrusted them to me, tells me they’re highly valuable.”

“I know. I had dinner with him and his family.”

“Oh, of course. The professor is American.”

“I was more interested in the security of his property than his nationality, Mr. Kilhendry. While the major items were lodged with you, many smaller ones were not. Mr. Goss—he prefers to be called that rather than ‘Professor’—has kept some of the relics in his cabin. I think that you should persuade him to let you put them under lock and key.”

“Why?”

“Because it eliminates the risk of theft.”

“Who would want to steal a handful of ancient stones?”

“Who would want to rob a harmless old lady in second class?” asked Dillman. “Yet that’s precisely what happened while the ship was leaving her berth. Even your famed nose has not been able to pick up the scent yet. Those ancient stones in Mr. Goss’s cabin are worth a great deal, in the right hands.”

“They’re in the right hands, Mr. Dillman. Those of your fellow countryman.”

“What happens if they go astray?”

“I should imagine the professor—or Mr. Goss—will be rather upset.”

“Don’t you think you should make sure that eventuality will not occur?”

“I can see that you’ve never been a purser,” Kilhendry said tartly. “We don’t
compel
our passengers on the P and O. We give them fair warning and leave it at that. If they wish to keep items of value in their cabins, that’s their decision. Most of the property is insured before they even step on board. It’s yet another safeguard that we offer on P and O Lines. Excuse me, Mr. Dillman,” he went on, “but I have important work to do. Take your next unnecessary fear to Martin Grandage.”

He stalked off and left the detective both annoyed and pensive. Irritated by the purser’s abrupt manner, Dillman wondered yet again what had provoked it. How could a man who was so effortlessly pleasant to the passengers aboard the ship, be so offhand with one of his colleagues? Something more than mere dislike of the Cunard Line was involved. Dillman resolved to find out what it was. In the meantime, a more immediate problem confronted him. Polly Goss was bearing down on him with a mixture of nervousness and bravado. Her smile was tense.

“Hello, Mr. Dillman,” she said.

“Good morning, Miss Goss.”

“I just wanted to apologize for my father. He does go on, I’m afraid. You must have been bored rigid over dinner.”

“Not at all. I was fascinated by what he was saying.”

“He treats everyone as if they were students in class.”

“Well, I was only too grateful to be taught by him. Your father is obviously a leading expert on his subject.”

“Yes,” she conceded, “but that subject is so frightfully dull.”

“Not to anyone who’s interested in Egyptian civilization.”

“I’m not, Mr. Dillman.”

“You may change your mind when you actually get to Cairo,” he said. “I envy you the opportunity. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, myself. Before that, of course, you have the voyage to enjoy. There seem to be lots of young people aboard. I’m sure you’ll soon make new friends.”

She grinned at him. “I’d like to think that you’re one of them.”

“Of course. That goes without saying.”

“And I will play the flute for you—if you wish, that is.”

“Yes,” he said with feigned enthusiasm, “that would be very nice.”

“Do you want to fix a time?”