Murder on the Salsette (11 page)

“Thank you.”

“What precisely has Dudley done?”

“He seems to have fallen in with bad company,” said Dillman. “That's why your remarks about his time at school were so valuable. You've been a sort of character witness.”

“His character did have severe defects, I fear.”

“What did he do when he left Winchester?”

“He went up to Cambridge to read jurisprudence, and spent
three years indulging in the very pleasures that Cicero and I had warned him against. He got a poor degree. We don't expect that of Wykehamists.”

“And afterwards?”

“He drifted from one job to another.”

“In the law?”

“For the most part, Mr. Dillman. Then he dabbled in politics.”

“Supporting the Conservative Party, I assume.”

“Of course,” replied the other. “For all his faults, he hadn't allowed himself to be corrupted by Liberal values. His father and grandfather were military men who'd both served in India. It was a family with real backbone. When he stirred himself into action, Dudley displayed authentic Nevin spirit. I think it's the one thing he did that his father could approve of wholeheartedly.”

“His dabbling in politics?”

“To do him justice, it was rather more than that.”

“Oh?”

“He stood for Parliament in a by-election.”

“Really?” said Dillman in surprise. “I would have thought his attitude a little too flippant for something as serious as that.”

“Dudley gave a good account of himself, I'm told. He fought hard to retain the seat for the Conservatives but he was beaten by a small majority. Now, if you really want a coincidence, Mr. Dillman,” he went on with a high-pitched laugh, “I can offer you one that will astound you.”

“Can you, Mr. Sinclair?”

“The Liberal candidate who actually won that by-election is also on the ship—a fellow by the name of Sylvester Greenwood. What do you make of that, eh? Old adversaries, locking horns once again.”

______

Sitting in the purser's office, the woman was in tears. When she was introduced to Genevieve Masefield, she dabbed at her eyes with a scented handkerchief and made an effort to control herself.

“Will you get it back for me?” she pleaded. “Everything of any real value to me was in that purse, Miss Masefield. It's not the money I worry about but the photographs. Some of them are irreplaceable.”

“We'll do all we can to retrieve them, Mrs. Verney,” said Genevieve.

“Just give us the details,” suggested Max Cannadine.

“Where and when did this theft occur?”

May Verney blew her nose into the handkerchief before launching into her tale. She was a stout Englishwoman in her forties with a pudgy face that was furrowed by anxiety, and a habit of adjusting her hair with her right hand as she spoke. Her story bore some similarity to that of Mrs. Lundgren. Like the Norwegian passenger, she had had her purse stolen on deck.

“It was right beside me,” she explained. “I was reading in a deck chair, and I must have drifted off to sleep. When I woke up, the book was still in my lap but my purse had gone.”

“And you reported the theft instantly?” said Genevieve.

“Yes, Miss Masefield.”

“I can confirm that,” said the purser. “Mrs. Verney came in here a few minutes ago and I sent for you at once. The theft must have occurred sometime in the last half hour.”

“I couldn't have been asleep for more than twenty minutes or so,” insisted Mrs. Verney. “I never doze off for any longer than that.”

“Were there many people on deck?” asked Genevieve.

“Dozens.”

“Was anyone sitting or standing close to you?”

“Lots of people.”

“Can you remember any of them, Mrs. Verney.”

“Only that ancient Indian gentleman.”

“Who was that?” said Cannadine.

“And old man with a white beard. My husband said that he must be a Sikh because of his turban. The man is a fortune-teller, it seems. I heard him saying that he could predict the future.”

“How close was he standing to you?”

“Very close, Mr. Cannadine,” she said, brushing a curl back from her forehead. “When I fell asleep, he was no more than a couple of yards away. When I opened my eyes, both he and my purse had vanished.”

EIGHT

T
hough her face remained impassive, Matilda Kinnersley was actually impressed with the girl for once. As she checked her appearance in the mirror in her cabin, she tossed a compliment over her shoulder.

“Well done, Sukinder,” she said. “You've obviously worked hard.”

“Thank you,
memsahib
.”

“You can read the language so much better now.”

“I try,” said Sukinder, clutching the book to her chest.

“It's your conversational English that needs attention.”

“We'll work on it every day, my dear,” said Major Kinnersley. “By the time we get home, Sukinder will be almost word perfect. In time, she'll blend in with the rest of the household.”

“I sincerely hope so, Romford.”

“She's looking forward to it—aren't you, Sukinder?”

“Yes,
sahib
,” said the girl without conviction.

“Off you go, then,” Mrs. Kinnersley told her, turning round.
“Look at the next chapter this afternoon. You can read that aloud to us later on.”

“Yes,
memsahib
.” Sukinder gave a servile nod and let herself out of the cabin.

“I told you that she'd improve,” said the major.

“Only because I exerted a little pressure on her.”

“I did the opposite, my dear. I encouraged her very gently. Push her too hard and Sukinder withdraws into herself. You mustn't frighten her so much.”

“It's the only way to get results.”

“I don't accept that.”

“Well, it was with her mother,” said Mrs. Kinnersley. “If I hadn't shouted at her so much, we'd have got no work out of her. It was the same with the other servants. You have to be tough and uncompromising with them. They interpret any kindness as a sign of weakness.”

“I disagree, Matilda.”

“I'm the one who'll spend the most time with the girl.”

“True.”

“I expect her to take her place with the rest of the domestic staff.”

“Sukinder understands that. I explained it to her once again during our walk around the deck.”

“You were gone a very long time, I must say.”

“We bumped into various people.”

“Such as?”

“The Ackroyds were the first.”

“Oh, yes,” she said with approval. “Gerald and Phoebe are very agreeable types. He must be in line for a knighthood sooner or later. Do you remember that time he introduced us to Lord Curzon?”

“Do I?” he echoed. “Never forget it, my dear. Lord Curzon was
my idea of what a viceroy ought to be. He understood the country and its importance to us. Do you know what he told Prime Minister Balfour?”

“What?”

“The plain truth. That as long as Britain ruled India, we were the greatest power in the world.”

“Nobody disputes our supremacy, surely?”

“The Boers did, my dear. So did the Zulus. That's why we had to teach them a lesson in South Africa. I know that they both had freakish victories against us, but they were vanquished in the end. Anyway,” he went on, “to come back to the Ackroyds. They were having a stroll on deck before playing bridge with the Simcoes.”

His wife sniffed. “Those dreadful people from Cheltenham?”

“I think you were a little unkind to them, Matilda. The mother is crippled. You should have been more gracious.”

“I didn't
feel
gracious.”

“That doesn't mean you had to be rude to them.”

“They're not our sort of people, Romford.”

“I'd go along with that,” he agreed. “When I left the Ackroyds, I came across someone else whom I'd never wish to meet socially again.”

“And who might that be?”

“Mr. Dillman. The American gentleman.”

“That's a contradiction in terms.”

“Had the nerve to engage me in conversation, but I wasn't standing for that. I gave him short shrift. We must ensure that we never get stuck at a table with him again.”

“We should make an effort to sit with the Ackroyds,” she decided. “I know that Gerald's deafness is a nuisance at times, but at least they're our equals. They talk the same language as us. You can't say that for anyone else aboard this ship.”

______

While continuing her investigations, Genevieve Masefield still had to maintain an appearance of normality. She could not simply disappear from sight in order to do her work. Luncheon found her filing into the first-class dining saloon with the rest of the passengers. She had intended to eat with the Simcoes, but when they did not show up, she sat at a table that included Wilbur Rollins and the Ackroyds. To make sure that he missed nothing, Gerald Ackroyd kept his ear trumpet in position. The American author was soon broaching his favorite subject.

“Grace Darling is the most famous heroine of the waves,” he said, “but my book will also dwell on the bravery of Ida Lewis, who rescued two soldiers from drowning in Newport Harbor when they were returning from Fort Adams.”

“Those women are surely the exception to the rule,” said Ackroyd.

“No, sir. Their example spurred on others.”

Phoebe Ackroyd was critical. “I'm not sure that it's right for a young woman like Grace Darling to be working in a lighthouse.”

“She was born to it, Mrs. Ackroyd.”

“I'm glad that I wasn't. What about you, Miss Masefield?”

“Oh, I don't think that I'd ever qualify for inclusion in Mr. Rollins's book,” Genevieve said modestly, “but I shall nevertheless look forward to reading it.”

“Wonderful!” said Rollins. “I've sold one copy already.”

Having given her order to the waiter, Genevieve scanned the room.

“If you're looking for the Simcoes,” said Mrs. Ackroyd, “you're out of luck. They're still in their cabin, licking their wounds.”

“You played bridge with them again, didn't you?” said Genevieve.

“We did,” said Ackroyd. “Splendid session.”

His wife smiled. “Gerald and I had our revenge against them.”

“Not true, Phoebe. It was a case of honors even.”

“No,” she corrected. “We ended up with a profit of five pounds. It might not have made up for what we lost yesterday afternoon, but it taught Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter that we're formidable opponents.”

“You sound as if it were a military engagement,” said Rollins.

“To some extent, it is.”

“In the nicest possible way,” added Ackroyd. “It's not so much cut and thrust as clever tactical maneuvering. Rather like chess, only with more speed and less deliberation. Do you play bridge?”

“No,” replied Rollins. “I don't play any card games.”

“You would if you'd been based in India,” Mrs. Ackroyd said soulfully. “What else is there to do during those long evenings? Card games were our salvation. One develops an addiction for them.”

“I prefer to study women at sea.”

Ackroyd chortled. “Fruitful subject of study wherever they are!”

“Don't be coarse, Gerald,” chided his wife.

“Harmless remark, Phoebe. Meant no offence.”

“None taken, Mr. Ackroyd,” said Genevieve. “So Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter were not pleased to be beaten, you say?”

“No,” returned Mrs. Ackroyd, “though they were more surprised than upset. They thought their system was invincible.”

“Not when we're around,” said Ackroyd.

“Yesterday, we were trounced. Today, we fought back. The Simcoes made us promise to have a deciding battle tomorrow.”

“What's the choice of weapons?” asked Rollins. “Swords or pistols?”

“We simply pit intellects against each other.”

“They must be keen,” commented Genevieve. “I gather that Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter will be playing another couple this
afternoon. That will make four sessions of bridge in two days—with another to come tomorrow. I wouldn't have the stamina for that.”

“We would,” boasted Mrs. Ackroyd. “Wouldn't we, Gerald?”

“Yes,” he said. “We could play bridge all day and every day.”

“Don't you ever get bored?” asked Genevieve.

“Never, Miss Masefield.”

“There's two ways to stave off boredom,” said his wife with an air of authority. “First, you make sure that you play for money.”

Ackroyd nodded. “Adds real spice to a game. Gives you incentive.”

“And what's the second way?” said Genevieve.

“That's easy,” explained Mrs. Ackroyd. “You keep on winning.”

Constance Simcoe lay back in her Bath chair as she was wheeled around the main deck. After lunching with her daughter in their cabin, she had instructed their steward to take her out into the fresh sea air before an afternoon devoted to bridge. Paulo Morelli parked her in the stern of the ship, so that she could watch the water being churned up by the two propellers, spreading out into an ever widening triangle behind them. Clouds were scudding across the sky but there was no prospect of rain. A cool breeze was sweeping the decks.

“Is it always like this, Paulo?” she asked with exasperation.

“Like what?”

“Can't you feel the way the ship rocks to and fro?”

“Is much worse during a storm.”

“Then I hope we don't get caught in one. This is bad enough. I just wish that the
Salsette
was a little more stable.”

“She is like a woman,” said Morelli, grinning. “Very pretty, but she will shake you up a little.” He bent solicitously over the Bath chair. “You not happy out here?”

“We'll stay for a while. It's the first time today that I've left the cabin, and I need a change of scene. My daughter and I have been too busy playing cards.”

“It helps to pass the time.”

“And to exercise the mind, Paulo.”

“I cannot say about that. I no learn to play.”

“They must have card games in Italy.”

“When I was a boy,” he explained, “the only game that I like is to run after the girls. Is how I meet my wife, Sophia. We go to the same school. We know each other many years.”

“Childhood sweethearts?”

“Is right.”

“How often do you see her?”

“Not enough. To be a steward, I have to travel.”

“What does your wife think of that?”

“Sophia accept this.”

“But you write to her, presumably.”

“All the time. I write, I send money, I tell her I love her.”

“I can think of one or two wives in England who'd prefer to have a husband on that basis,” observed Constance with a smile. “There's a lot to be said for time apart in a marriage.”

“Does your daughter think that, as well?”

“I don't know.”

“She is a beautiful young lady.”

“I think so, as well.”

“Every man who sees her, he like her.”

“Perhaps,” she said, not wishing to pursue the subject.

“In Italy, she would have been married years ago.”

“That's immaterial, Paulo.”

“It show the difference between my country and yours,” he argued, unaware that he was annoying her. “In Italy, your daughter, she would have had
bambinos
by now.”

Constance was icy. “Fortunately, we are not Italians.”

“You no like Italy?”

“Only to visit.”

“What about children? You no want to be a grandmother?”

“That's not something I'm prepared to discuss with you, Paulo.”

“But the best age for a woman to have a
bambino
is when—”

“Enough!” she interrupted. “I did not come out here to talk about my private life. All you have to do is to push me.”

Morelli was hurt. “I thought you like us to speak together.”

“On certain topics, perhaps. This is not one of them.”

“I very sorry.”

“Take me back to the cabin.”

“Already? We only just arrive.”

“The roll of the ship is making me feel seasick.”

“Then I move you somewhere else on the deck, yes?”

“No, Paulo. You move me back to my cabin—now.”

“Why you so angry with me?” he asked, standing beside her. “Is it because you lose at cards today?”

“No!” she snapped.

“What I say to upset you?”

“Just do as you're told, man.”

“But I think we are friends.”

“I am a passenger,” she emphasized, “and you are a steward. That means you do what I ask you to do without arguing about it. Now, wheel me back to my cabin—or I'll ask for a steward who can obey orders.”

“I do whatever you tell me,” he promised.

“Then do it!”

Morelli was bewildered. Hitherto pleasant toward him, Constance Simcoe had suddenly turned on him and he could not understand why. What he wanted to avoid, however, was being reported to the chief steward again. Responding to her command,
therefore, he took hold of the Bath chair, swung it gently round, then pushed it back in the direction of her cabin, fearful that it might be the last time she asked him bring her up on deck. When he reached the cabin, he took out the key from his pocket.

“Just knock on the door,” Constance said pointedly, “then you can leave me. My daughter will take over from here.”

“Thank you for bringing me up to date, Mr. Dillman,” said the purser.

“I wish that I had more to report.”

“You're obviously making some headway.”

“I still have no hard evidence,” said Dillman. “That worries me.”

“You've established a firm connection between the murder victim and a member of Parliament, who happens to be onboard. I think it was disingenuous of Mr. Greenwood to tell you that he only met Mr. Nevin on one occasion.” Max Cannadine scratched his head reflectively. “Though, technically, I suppose, he may be correct.”