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Authors: Conrad Allen

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“I’d be grateful if you didn’t actually touch anything, Mr. Dillman.”

“I don’t think I’d dare to. How old are these things?”

“Some go back almost four thousand years,” said Goss, putting more stone fragments on display. “Each one has its own special story to tell.”

Dillman bent over to peer at the largest of the fragments. A series of symbols had been chiseled neatly into the stone. He tried to make out what they represented.

“Are these hieroglyphics, Mr. Goss?”

“That’s right. Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Beautiful but quite mystifying.”

“It’s a pity we have only this fragment left,” said Goss. “It’s from an Egyptian obelisk. The inscription is easy to read,” he went on, pointing to the symbols he identified. “This squiggly line stands for ‘water.’ This bird is an owl. This item here is a tethering rope, and I think that’s probably a pool, even though only half of the symbol is left. Don’t you think it’s fascinating?”

“What fascinates me is how you can tell so much from so little.”

“It’s a trick that takes years to master.”

“How can you be so accurate in dating these remains?”

“We can’t,” admitted Goss. “We have to rely on educated guesswork.”

Dillman was puzzled. “But didn’t you tell me earlier that some of these things came from the reign of Rameses I?” he said. “If he was on the throne for only two years, how on earth can you be certain the relics come from so precise a date?”

“Because he was kind enough to leave me a clue, Mr. Dillman.”

“A clue?”

“Rameses I had his name put on these,” Goss said with a grin, indicating two of the fragments. “You’d have to be an expert in transliteration to know that, of course, so you’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Where are they from?”

“One is part of an inscription from a statue of Rameses I. There’s a much larger section of the statue locked away on board. And the other,” he said, nodding at the second fragment of stone, “is probably from a sarcophagus that was built by a talented mason. Time and effort went into this.”

“You should have been a detective, Mr. Goss.”

The other man smiled. “That’s exactly what I am, I suppose.”

He showed off every item, saying a few words about each before wrapping it carefully in cotton wool and putting it back in the strongbox. Dillman was intrigued. He had only ever seen such relics in a glass cabinet in a museum. To get so close to them in the company of an acknowledged expert was quite thrilling. He was sorry when the three padlocks were clicked back into place. Goss put the strongbox into the wardrobe and locked the door before removing the key.

“As you see, Mr. Dillman, I do take certain precautions.”

“Very sensible of you, Mr. Goss.”

The door to the adjoining cabin opened and Rebecca Goss
came in with her daughter. Both women were dressed in their finery for dinner but it was Polly who was the more striking. She wore a full-length evening dress of black velvet with hoops of red velvet from the hem to the shin. Its plunging neckline was softened by lace. Around her neck was a gold chain with an opal pendant. What made her look so arresting was the fact that she had used cosmetics for the first time. They had been so artfully applied that Dillman suspected some help from the mother. Polly Goss seemed years older. She reveled in Dillman’s scrutiny of her.

Formal wear was not compulsory, but both men wore white tie and tails though with differing success. Dillman looked even more elegant but Goss was faintly incongruous. His sleeves were too long for him and his trousers too short, but it did not trouble him. When he had his beloved relics beside him, nothing else mattered.

“We waited until we heard you finish in here,” explained Rebecca Goss.

Her husband blinked. “You were eavesdropping?”

“Not exactly, Morton.”

“Mr. Dillman and I were having a private conversation.”

“We had to know when we could come in.”

“Yes,” said Polly. “We were afraid to interrupt you but we didn’t wish to be late for dinner.” She smiled at their guest. “You look very smart, Mr. Dillman.”

“And you look very fetching,” he replied. “So does your mother.”

“Thank you,” said Rebecca, pleased with the compliment. “I wish that my husband had your build. He’s the bane of every tailor in Boston. Though it’s not really the way his clothes are made. It’s the way that Morton wears them.”

Goss shrugged. “I prefer comfort over everything else, Rebecca.”

“A little concern for your appearance would not come amiss.
Talking of which,” she went on, “has anyone else seen that strange gentleman from Chicago? The one who was wearing a Norfolk jacket?”

“His name is Mr. Dugdale,” said Polly. “We met him in the lounge earlier.”

“He has this pointed beard and bushy eyebrows. They make him look almost satanic,” said Rebecca, “but he seems the nicest man. He kept us amused for hours.”

“That’s an achievement!” Goss said under his breath,

“Mr. Dugdale speaks fluent French.”

“How do you know that, Mrs. Goss?” asked Dillman.

“Because we heard him, didn’t we, Polly?”

“Yes, Mother,” replied her daughter. “He put that odious Frenchman in his place.”

Goss was baffled. “ ‘Odious Frenchman’?”

“His name was Monsieur Vivet. He kissed my hand and kept leering at me.”

“He’s the sort of person who kisses every woman’s hand,” Rebecca added with disapproval. “I admire Gallic charm in small doses but Monsieur Vivet tried to drown us in it. He came very close to being offensive.”

“Who is this fellow?” wondered Dillman.

“A famous chef, apparently.”

Polly scowled. “Famous for kissing your hand when you don’t want it kissed.”

“Be fair to him,” said her mother. “Monsieur Vivet is a man of international repute. I just wish that he didn’t keep boasting about it. If Mr. Dugdale hadn’t been there, the little Frenchman would have talked our ears off.”

“Do you see what happens when I let my wife off the leash, Mr. Dillman?” said Goss with a chuckle. “She rounds up some of the oddest characters on the ship.”

“Walter Dugdale may have been odd; Claude Vivet was simply intolerable.”

“Why was that, Rebecca?”

“Because he kept talking about himself.”

“According to him,” said Polly, “he’s going to prepare a meal for the royal party. Not that he’s been invited to do so yet but he was certain they’d jump at the offer once they realized they had him aboard.”

“Did he say anything about the food on the
Marmora
?” asked Dillman.

“He thought it was abominable.”

“I can see that he’s determined to win friends in the kitchens.”

“He was revolting, Mr. Dillman,” declared Rebecca. “Luckily, Mr. Dugdale was there to help us out. I don’t know what he said, because I don’t speak French, but it finally got rid of Monsieur Vivet. We owe him our thanks.”

“Well,” said Dillman, glancing at his watch, “time to go and force ourselves to eat what he considers to be abominable food. Personally, I think it’s delicious.” He opened the door. “You’ve given me a timely warning, Mrs. Goss. I’ll steer clear of this fellow. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s having my hand kissed by a stranger.”

The women laughed, then Rebecca glanced in the mirror to make a few final adjustments to her appearance. When she had finished, she went out on her husband’s arm. Polly smiled meaningfully at Dillman. He offered his arm and she clutched it as if she had spent the whole day waiting for that particular moment. Dillman could smell her perfume. It had been liberally applied. He led her politely out of the cabin.

Dinner was a sustained ordeal for Genevieve Masefield. No sooner had she taken her seat between Myra and Lilian Cathcart than she saw a familiar figure coming into the dining room. Attired in
white tie and tails, Nigel Wilmshurst was escorting a slim and attractive young woman in a white satin dress. Even from that distance, Genevieve could see that his wife was wearing the most gorgeous jewelry. To her relief, the couple sat on the other side of the room with their backs to Genevieve, but she remained on edge in case Wilmshurst happened to glance over his shoulder. It made her a nervous conversationalist. Even the phlegmatic German noticed she was ill at ease.

“You feel unwell, Miss Masefield?” he asked.

“Not at all, Herr Lenz,” she replied. “I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

“Then you need—how do you say it?—the early night.”

“I’ll rally in due course.”

“Good. I like that.”

“Are you enjoying the voyage, Herr Lenz?”


Ja
. I am.” He shot a glance at Myra Cathcart. “Very much.”

Genevieve felt Lilian Cathcart stiffen beside her. She was enjoying the meal even less than Genevieve. Her mother was once again basking in the attention of two men and the rivalry between them was more open. Walter Dugdale had seized the initiative by telling Myra about his house in Chicago. He was evidently a man of means. Karl-Jurgen Lenz, not to be outdone, talked about his recent photographic exhibition in Berlin and asked Myra if she would like to visit Germany one day. Genevieve felt very sorry for Lilian. Unable to develop a friendship herself, she was horrified at the ease with which her own mother was handling two potential suitors. It left her feeling tetchy.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come on this cruise,” she said.

“It’s too soon to decide that yet,” remarked Genevieve. “Besides, your mother hardly could have gone on her own, could she?”

“To all intents and purposes, that’s what she has done.”

“I think you’re exaggerating a little, Miss Cathcart.”

“Am I?” said Lilian, as the two men tried to talk to Myra at the
same time. “I might as well not be here, Miss Masefield.”

“Well, I’m very glad that you are. You’re my guide to the royal family. I knew next to nothing about the Princess Royal and her husband until you filled in the details. You made me see them as real people. I’m grateful to you for that.”

“Oh. I was only saying what everyone knows.”

“But we
don’t
know, Miss Cathcart. Because we don’t care as much as you do.”

Lilian’s face shone. “I love the royal family and every aspect of it. I can’t think of anything nicer than working at Buckingham Palace or Windsor or Sandringham.”

“Have you ever tried to pursue that ambition?”

“My parents put a stop to that. Father wouldn’t even entertain the idea that a daughter of his would be in service, even if I were employed by the royal family. He said I should aim higher than that.” She grimaced. “Left to him, I’d have married the general manager at one of his factories.”

“Is that what your mother wanted as well?”

“It’s not what
I
wanted, Miss Masefield.” Lilian retreated into a hurt silence and watched the two men vying for her mother’s attention.

Still in his Norfolk jacket, Walter Dugdale paid Myra gracious compliments and continued to find out more about her background and interests. Lenz, by contrast, wore white tie and tails with some style. He was more talkative than hitherto but he was not holding his own against the American. Genevieve noticed a hint of frustration in the German’s eye. It eventually gave way to a quiet malevolence as he tried to score points off his rival. The more they were drawn to Myra Cathcart, the less the two men liked each other. Dugdale managed to conceal his enmity beneath a bland smile but Lenz did not have the same social skills. His hostility became more open.

When the meal came to an end, the rivals were still engaged in
a verbal joust so they could impress Myra. Her daughter was disgusted by it all and turned away. Genevieve, however, was mesmerized by the way Myra coped with the battle for her affections. The older woman laughed merrily as if it were a situation to which she was accustomed. Yet she had been married to the same man for many years and never had been on a cruise before. Unlike her daughter, she had a natural aptitude for the pleasures of shipboard life.

Genevieve was so enthralled by the little triangular drama being played out in front of her that she forgot all about Nigel Wilmshurst. When she happened to glance across the room, she was given a severe jolt. Rising from his chair, Wilmshurst turned around and saw her for the first time. Genevieve contrived a pale smile of recognition but it was not acknowledged. Wilmshurst turned his back on her with contempt and quickly took his wife out of the room. Genevieve did not know whether to be insulted or relieved. He had cut her dead.

SEVEN

G
eorge Porter Dillman recognized him immediately. The description he had been given of Walter Dugdale was so accurate that he had no difficulty in identifying him. Seated alone at a table, Dugdale wore his distinctive Norfolk jacket and stroked his beard as he contemplated the boiled egg on the plate in front of him. A mere handful of people had made their way to the dining room for an early breakfast. Dillman had planned to eat alone but curiosity took him across to his fellow American.

“May I join you?” he asked.

“Please do, my friend,” said Dugdale, indicating the seat opposite. “There’s nothing quite so joyless as eating alone—unless, of course, it’s solitary drinking.” He extended a bony hand. “Walter Dugdale.”

Dillman shook his hand before sitting down. “George Dillman,” he said. “But I already knew who you were, Mr. Dugdale. Your name was mentioned in dispatches.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently, you went to the aid of two ladies in distress.”

“That sounds like me,” Dugdale said with a grin. “Who were they?”

“Mrs. Goss and her daughter.”

“Ah, yes. The ladies from Boston, They were set upon by this overeager little Frenchman: Claude Vivet, master chef. At least, that’s what he would have us believe. I could see that he was bothering them so I suggested he take his culinary skills elsewhere.”

“Were those your exact words?”

“No,” admitted Dugdale. “I favored a more direct approach. French is a language that lends itself to confrontation. I suppose that’s not surprising in a country that’s been seasoned by revolution.”

Dillman took an instant liking to the man. He found him wry, quirky, and genial. Dugdale talked freely about his career in business and, in return, Dillman explained how he came from a family that designed and made oceangoing craft. His companion studied him shrewdly.

“I thought there was a hint of the sailor about you, Mr. Dillman.”

“I was born less than a mile from the sea.”

“I was born close to Lake Michigan but that didn’t make me want to become a yachtsman. On the contrary, I came to hate water. Never even learned to swim.”

“Neither did a lot of sailors,” said Dillman. “Curious, isn’t it?”

“I’d say that was a case of tempting Providence. Do you swim?”

“Oh, yes. My father taught me at a very early age.”

Dillman ate a frugal breakfast but lingered over it because he was enjoying the conversation so much. Walter Dugdale was clearly savoring the detective’s company. He could sense that he was talking to an experienced traveler.

“May I ask why you wear a Norfolk jacket?” said Dillman.

“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”

“None at all. But it did rather set you apart during dinner last night.”

Dugdale grinned. “That was the idea, Mr. Dillman,” he confided. “One of my blessings is that I don’t possess the herd instinct. I like to stand out. If every other man in here had dined in a Norfolk jacket, I’d probably have turned up in white tie and tails. Call it perversity, if you wish. Or call it a blow struck in the name of individuality.”

“That takes a certain amount of bravery,” Dillman said with admiration.

“Bravery or folly? The two are often interchangeable.” Dugdale fingered his jacket. “As for this,” he went on, “it’s warm, hard-wearing, and good enough for the King of England. Those are three excellent reasons to choose it. It’s the best possible souvenir of the Old Country.”

“Do you visit England often?”

“Whenever I can, Mr. Dillman. I’m a confirmed Anglophile.”

“So am I,” confessed Dillman. “London is so refreshingly different from any American city. I spent hours just wandering around its streets. There’s so much to see.”

“The sights I most enjoy in London tend to wear lovely dresses and have exquisite manners. The English lady is beyond compare, in my view,” announced Dugdale, with the air of a man who had made a special study of the subject. “You only have to look at some of the divine creatures who have graced this voyage with their presence. Nothing can touch a true English rose. Don’t you agree?”

Dillman thought about Genevieve. “I believe that I do, Mr. Dugdale.”

“I mean no disrespect to American women. They have their virtues, as I should know. I married two of them,” he said with a cackle. “But there’s something about their English counterparts that makes them effortlessly superior.”

“Breeding? Class?”

“It goes deeper than that, my friend.”

“Does it?”

“Oh, yes. When I find out the secret, I’ll let you know.”

Dillman smiled. “I think I’d prefer to look for that secret myself.”

“What better way to employ our leisure hours on the
Marmora
?”

Walter Dugdale’s eyes lit up as he saw Myra and Lilian Cathcart coming into the room. Gulping down the last of his coffee, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and rose from his seat with an apologetic smile.

“Do excuse me, Mr. Dillman,” he said, “but I have to continue my research.”

Nigel and Araminta Wilmshurst had breakfast in their cabin. Facing each other across the table, they were still in their dressing gowns as they picked their way through the generous spread before them. While the young bride was still bubbling with happiness, her husband seemed rather distracted.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing, Araminta.”

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then what was I talking about?”

“Your parents.”

“That was five minutes ago, Nigel,” she said with mild reproof. “You see? You’re not listening at all. You were miles away.”

He blew her a kiss. “I’m sorry, darling. I promise to concentrate from now on.”

“Is there something on your mind?”

“Yes,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Pleasing my wife.”

“You haven’t been yourself since we left the dining room last night.”

“I ate something that disagreed with me, that’s all.”

“Really?” she said with anxiety. “Why didn’t you tell me? Have you taken anything for it? There’s a doctor on board, you know.”

“It wasn’t that serious, Araminta. Some minor tummy trouble.”

“Then you should complain. The food is supposed to be of the highest standard.”

“It is,” he said, indicating his empty plate. “You can see that from the way I tucked into my breakfast. I’m fine now. The problem came and went very quickly.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been acting so strangely.”

“I’m taking a little time to get used to the idea of being married.”

She giggled. “I’m not. I’m loving every minute of it.”

“So am I, Araminta.” He smiled warmly. “What would you like to do today?”

“Keep my husband’s attention.”

“You’ll have no difficulty doing that, I promise you. In fact, you may have to beat me off to get rid of me. Now,” he went on, setting his napkin aside, “I’ve got two nice surprises for you.”

“Wonderful! I adore surprises.”

“Sir Marcus Arundel has invited us for drinks this evening. It turns out the royal party will be there, so you’ll have the chance to meet them sooner than you thought. If we’re on our best behavior, I’m sure that the Duke and Duchess will be bound to accept the invitation to dine with us.”

“That’s marvelous, Nigel!”

“I strive to give you pleasure.”

“But you said there were two nice surprises.”

“I’ve discovered that there’s a photographer on the ship,” he said. “A German fellow who had an exhibition of his work in England, so he must be good. I thought it would be fun if I asked him to photograph us.”

“Oh, yes. It would be a lovely souvenir.”

“Only one of many that you’ll have on this trip.”

“Thank you, Nigel.”

“I haven’t asked him yet, mind you. He may refuse.”

“Nobody could refuse you a thing,” she said fondly, “because you’re the most gorgeous man in the world and I love you dearly. Who else would have thought of arranging a honeymoon like this?”

“I take all my wives to Egypt,” he teased. “Force of habit.”

Araminta giggled. She had forgotten how preoccupied her husband had been earlier on. He was hers again now, and that was all that mattered. When she finished her breakfast, she got up to give him a kiss then went off into the bathroom. A few minutes later, the steward arrived. Wilmshurst waited until the man had loaded everything onto his trolley before sidling across to him. He kept his voice low so that there was no danger of being overheard by his wife.

“I need a favor,” he said, taking some coins from his pocket to slip into the steward’s hand. “There’s a friend of mine aboard and I need to know the number of her cabin. Can you find it out for me, please?”

“Of course, sir. What was the name?”

“Masefield. Miss Genevieve Masefield.”

The man smirked. “Leave it to me, sir.”

Genevieve was in a quandary. If she had breakfast in the dining room, she risked the possibility of another brush with Nigel Wilmshurt; yet, if she stayed in her cabin, she was a sitting target for Myra and Lilian Cathcart, both of whom had tried to engage her as an ally. On balance, she preferred another rebuff from her former fiancé to being cornered by a mother and daughter who each sought her help. Accordingly, she braced herself and went off for a late breakfast. Genevieve was in luck. The Cathcarts were just leaving as she arrived, and neither Wilmshurst nor his wife was in the dining room. She was able to enjoy a meal with the Cheritons, a family of three—father, mother, and son—whom she had met on her way to Tilbury. Ill health was taking them to Egypt for the winter but they made light of their disabilities. Genevieve was struck by the kindness of Alfred Cheriton, the son, an unmarried man in his forties, who was escorting his elderly parents to a country that would be kinder on their weak lungs. Whenever one of his parents wheezed, he looked at them with mingled concern and affection.

They were interested to hear that Genevieve was going all the
way to Australia, and accepted without query her plausible explanation for the visit. The Cheritons could not believe that a young woman would choose to travel all that way on her own.

“It’s very courageous of you, Miss Masefield,” said the son.

“Why?”

“I don’t think that I’d be able to do it alone.”

“But I’m not doing it alone, Mr. Cheriton,” said Genevieve. “I have people like you and your parents to make the journey a painless one. On a cruise like this, nobody is allowed to be lonely. We become one big family.”

“There’s some truth in that,” he conceded. “Everyone is so friendly.”

Genevieve would have been happy to go on talking to the Cheritons but she had work to do. Excusing herself from the table, she went off in search of the deputy purser. Martin Grandage had asked her to keep him informed of any progress she made in the search for the thief who had robbed Mabel Prendergast and, though she had no suspect in mind as yet, she felt that it was time to give him a report. Grandage was busy when she got to his office and she had to wait a few minutes until he had placated an angry passenger who was complaining about the noise from the engines. When the man stalked off with a set of earplugs in his hand, Grandage invited her in and told her about the complaint.

“What did he expect?” he asked. “There’s no such thing as silent engines. As it is, his cabin is about as far away from them as it could be. If he wants the ship to sail, he’s going to have to put up with a modicum of noise.”

“You soon get used to it,” said Genevieve.

“That’s what I told him. The earplugs should help. I just wish I’d had the sense to wear a pair myself before he came charging in here.”

“I could hear his raised voice through the door.”

“He wasn’t the loudest today, Miss Masefield.”

“Then who was?”

“Your next customer. Frau Zumpe.”

“Does that mean we’ve had another theft, Mr. Grandage?”

“We’ve had the crime of the century,” he said with a smile. “Frau Zumpe insists that we solve it immediately or she’s threatening to sue the P and O. She’s not a dear old lady like Mrs. Prendergast, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose—Frau Zumpe would wring its neck with her bare hands if it so much as honked at her.”

“Who is she?” asked Genevieve.

“A fearsome lady in first class. She’s like something out of a Wagnerian opera. Frau Zumpe doesn’t actually wear body armor but you feel that she might. She’s a female warrior with a voice like a foghorn.”

“I think I’d prefer Mrs. Prendergast.”

“So would I, Miss Masefield, but we have no choice in the matter.” He waved her to a seat but remained on his feet. “Have you made any headway yet?”

“Not exactly,” said Genevieve. “I’m still eliminating possibilities.”

“ ‘Possibilities’?”

“People Mrs. Prendergast met on her journey to Tilbury. Or acquaintances she made on the ship itself. Whoever went into her cabin knew that she was safely out of the way on deck. I thought it might be someone who’d met her and noticed her expensive jewelry. That could still be the case,” she concluded. “Thieves often size up their victims by what they’re wearing.”

“That’s not what happened with Frau Zumpe.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she doesn’t wear jewelry of any kind. She’s such an incendiary lady that it would probably melt. What she had taken from her cabin was money,” he said. “A substantial amount of it. I didn’t dare point out that she should have given it to us to look after. Had I done that, I think she might have attacked me. Frau Zumpe was already in a foul temper.”

“Why?”

“Because she felt that she was being palmed off with the deputy purser.”

“How will she react to a female detective?”

“I dread to think, Miss Masefield.”

“You could always send George Dillman along instead of me.”

“No,” he decided. “I’m afraid it has to be you. My guess is that one man is responsible for both thefts. There are similarities between both cases. Since you’re looking after Mrs. Prendergast, you’ll have to take on Frau Zumpe as well.”

“As you wish, Mr. Grandage. I’ll do my best to pour oil on troubled waters.”

“There’s only one way to do that.”

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