Murder on the Salsette (22 page)

“Of course not!” exclaimed Greenwood.

“Do you deny that you had a motive to kill him?”

“That's irrelevant.”

“I don't think so. Well, sir?”

“I've wished him dead a hundred times,” he admitted.

“Is that why you've kept a careful note of his movements?”

“No, Mr. Dillman.”

“Then what was the reason?”

“I wanted to tell him about Eileen,” said Greenwood, snatching the photograph from him. “I needed to call him to account.”

“Why?”

“Because nobody else was in a position to do so.”

“Go on,” encouraged Dillman.

There was a long pause. Greenwood gazed at the photograph as
if trying to draw strength from it. When he finally spoke, there was wistful note in his voice.

“Eileen Penfold was a friend and colleague of mine,” he explained. “She worked as a stenographer on my newspaper. She was young, hardworking, and eager to please. Unfortunately, she was also rather naive. That meant she was easy prey for him.”

“For whom—Dudley Nevin?”

“Yes. He knew that he couldn't win that election by fair means, Mr. Dillman, so he resorted to foul ones. Nevin hit on the idea of discrediting me by finding some scandal in my past, and the only way he could do that was by befriending someone who'd worked with me.”

“Miss Penfold.”

“I'd left the paper at that point, so Eileen wasn't even aware of my political ambitions. It never occurred to her that Nevin had taken an interest in her to get at me. Frankly,” he said with disgust, “I've no idea what attracted her to him. He did have an oily charm, I suppose, and he obviously knew how to flatter her.”

“Was she able to tell him what he wanted?”

“No, Mr. Dillman. There was nothing to tell.”

“How did Nevin respond to that?” asked Dillman.

“He didn't believe it. He thought that she was simply being loyal to me. If he wined and dined her enough, he reasoned, he'd win her confidence.” He handed the photograph back to Dillman. “This was taken before they attended a ball in Chelsea. Eileen had never been to anything like that. It must have seemed like a fairy tale to her.”

“What happened?”

“Dudley Nevin took cruel advantage of her,” Greenwood said bitterly. “He told her that he loved her, naturally, but he was just using the girl. Eileen didn't realize that. She was enthralled by him, and would have told him everything that he wanted.”

“But there were no skeletons.”

“Not even a stray bone.”

“So what did Nevin do?”

“Cast the girl aside,” replied the other. “Since he couldn't find any real scandal in my life, he tried to invent some. But that, too, backfired. He lost the election and turned tail, forgetting all about the night he'd seduced that poor girl.”

“Did she pine for him?”

“No, Mr. Dillman. By that time, Eileen had come to see the truth of the situation. It made her feel so foolish—and guilty. She even came to me to apologize, as if it were her fault.” He ran a hand through his beard. “I felt so embarrassed.”

“Why was that?”

“At a time when I was celebrating my victory in the election, Eileen was suffering so dreadfully. Her whole life had been ruined,” he explained. “That night they spent together had consequences.”

“She was pregnant?”

Greenwood nodded. “Have you any idea of the stigma that an unmarried mother carries in England?”

“Yes, I do,” said Dillman. “We have more than our share of narrow minds on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“Eileen faced a grim future. Girls like her are socially ostracized. What chance would she have of finding a husband when she had a bastard child in tow? She must have been at her wit's end.”

“What about her family?”

“They supported her at first,” said Greenwood. “Her father offered to pay for her to leave home before her condition became too obvious. She was to be hidden from view until it was all over. He took it for granted that Eileen would have the baby adopted.”

“But she didn't.”

“She was its mother. She wanted to bring it up.”

“Is that what she's doing, Mr. Greenwood?”

“Unhappily, no,” the other man said sadly. “Eileen Penfold died of complications that set in during childbirth. She'd brought a baby boy into the world. To their credit, her parents decided to care for it.”

“Mr. Nevin should have taken some responsibility.”

“That's what I told them, and Mr. Penfold wrote to him a number of times. He never even had the courtesy of a reply from India.”

“I'm beginning to see why you disliked him so much.”

“I detested him,” said Greenwood, getting to his feet. “When I knew that we were coming to India, I was determined to get in touch with him somehow and put some pressure on him to accept his responsibilities. As it happened, my brother-in-law was able to save me the trouble of going all the way to Delhi. He found out that Nevin would be sailing to Aden on the
Salsette
.”

“I know the rest, Mr. Greenwood.” Dillman produced the other photograph. “Unless you can tell me who this is.”

Greenwood looked at the picture of the woman in the automobile.

“I can tell you whom she was—Nevin's fiancée.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he brought her to the count. He was so confident of winning that election that he turned up with a full complement of supporters.” He gave a complacent chuckle. “I was able to send Dudley Nevin away with a red face. It was one more indignity for Eileen Penfold to endure, of course. In the very newspaper for which she worked, they printed a picture of the defeated Conservative candidate and his fiancée. Not that the engagement lasted very long,” he continued. “When there were allegations of electoral misconduct against Nevin, this young lady had the good sense to get rid of him.”

He returned the photograph and Dillman put both of them back into his pocket. Some of his assumptions about Greenwood
had been wrong, and he chided himself for that, but he did not feel that the man had proved his innocence beyond doubt.

“Dudley Nevin was stabbed with a
kukri
,” he said.

“So?”

“Do you know what that is?”

“It's a knife favored by Gurkhas.”

“There are three of them aboard and they're friends of yours.”

Greenwood stifled a laugh. “You think that I instructed one of them to act as my assassin?” he said. “That's preposterous.”

“Is it?”

“Wait until you meet them, Mr. Dillman. They're the most peaceable characters, I assure you. On behalf of my party, I was asked to build up contacts with political groups while I was in Bombay. One of those men you saw with me is a member of the Indian National Congress.”

“I see.”

“As for the murder weapon, it's not only Gurkhas who carry a
kukri
. You can buy them as souvenirs in any market. As a matter of fact,” he went on, crossing to the wardrobe, “I was given one myself by my brother-in-law. Would you like to see it?”

“That won't be necessary, sir,” said Dillman, who had already examined the knife and now realized it had no sinister association. “I've taken up enough of your time.”

“Have we cleared the air, Mr. Dillman?”

“Completely.”

“I'm afraid that you'll have to look elsewhere for the killer.”

“We will, sir.”

“Though I would ask one favor.”

“And what's that, Mr. Greenwood?”

“If and when you do catch the man, give me a call.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I'd like to shake his hand.”

“That's rather callous of you, sir,” said Dillman. “I always have some compassion for a murder victim, whoever it might be.”

“You didn't know him as well as I did.”

“Perhaps not.”

“And you didn't see the look on Eileen's face when she confessed to me how she'd got entangled with him.”

“That's true.”

“If you ask me,” said Greenwood harshly, “Mr. Dudley Nevin got exactly what he deserved.”

The purser had been very pleased to see the stolen property recovered, but Madame Roussel was positively delirious with joy. Emitting a cry of delight, she threw her arms around Cannadine's neck to plant a kiss on his cheek. There was only one thing that she felt was missing.

“Where is the other detective—
l'Américain
?”

“Mr. Dillman is busy, I'm afraid,” explained Genevieve.

“But I ask him to return my jewelry in person.”

“He might still do that, Madame Roussel,” said the purser, looking at the items on his desk. “You can reclaim your property now, if you wish, but I'd urge you to leave it in my safe overnight.”

“Yes, please. I will do that.”

“Meanwhile, you might wish to thank Miss Masefield.”

“
Bien entendu
.”

“It was she who led the investigation into the thefts.”

“
Merci
, mademoiselle,” said the Frenchwoman, kissing Genevieve on both cheeks. “
Merci beaucoup
.”

“We did promise to get it back for you,” said Genevieve.

“And you keep the promise.”

“That's official P and O policy,” noted Cannadine. “We always
honor our promises. Now, if you will, I'd like you to examine your property to make sure that all of it is there and that nothing has been damaged.”

“Is what I would like to do.”

Putting her purse down, Madame Roussel pored over the desk and inspected every item with care. She wore a two-piece dress that had been carefully shaped to fit her contours. Above the long, tight, embroidered black skirt was a white bodice with puffed sleeves and a draped lace corsage. She had on all the jewelry that had not been stolen. Cosmetics had been used artfully. In the limited space of the purser's office, her fragrance had more impact.

As she watched the other woman, Genevieve was reminded that she and Dillman had both considered Madame Roussel as a possible suspect. She was grateful that the Frenchwoman was unconscious of the fact, though she still wondered what the latter was doing when she let herself into a cabin that was clearly not her own. What had she been carrying when she emerged sometime later? There was still a veil of secrecy to be lifted from her.

“Is all there,” said Madame Roussel, clapping her hands.

“Good,” said the purser.

“Ask the other detective to bring it to my cabin in the morning.”

“Mr. Dillman may have other commitments,” warned Genevieve, slightly peeved at the preference shown to her partner. “But your property will be restored to you, have no fear.”

“Then there is only one more thing I want.”

“What's that, Madame Roussel?” asked Cannadine.

“The name of the thief.”

“Why don't you let us worry about that?”

“Because this man,” said the other, flushing with indignation, “he go into my cabin. He
invades
me. He makes me feel not safe. Is a terrible thing to do to me. I tell him so to his face.” She swung round to stare at Genevieve. “Who is he, mademoiselle?”

“His name is Guljar Singh,” said Genevieve.

“And where is this
voleur
now?”

“He is probably being arrested by my partner.”

Guljar Singh was mystified. When he left the dining saloon, he was met by Dillman and asked to accompany him back to the cabin. The old man could not understand why. He padded along beside the American.

“Is something wrong, my friend?” he asked.

“I'm afraid so, Mr. Singh.”

“There is trouble in my cabin?”

“Yes,” said Dillman.

He was unhappy about being the one to accost the Sikh, especially as he was preoccupied with the murder investigation, but Dillman did not want Genevieve to make the arrest. She had already had two brushes with Guljar Singh. Besides, weak as he appeared, the old man might possibly be armed and therefore posed a danger. By the time they had reached the cabin, Guljar Singh had made a deduction.

“You are not only a passenger on this ship, I think.”

“No, Mr. Singh.”

“You work with the lady detective. Is it not so?”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “I'm employed by P and O and I've been assisting Miss Masefield in her investigation into a series of thefts.”

“But she has already spoken to me about those,” protested Singh, “and she knows that I am innocent. She even gave me an apology.”

“That may have been premature.”

“I do not follow you.”

“Mr. Singh,” Dillman said quietly, “is there anything in your cabin that may have been taken from other passengers on this vessel?”

The Sikh was offended. “That is a horrible thing to ask me.”

“Nevertheless, I have to put the question to you.”

“Then I will give you your answer,” said the other, unlocking the door and walking into the cabin. “There are no stolen goods here, Mr. Dillman. See for yourself. Go on—search high and low.”

“We've already done that.”

Guljar Singh gaped. “You came into my cabin without permission?” he said, appalled by the news. “You had no right to do that. None at all.”

“Actually, it was my partner who first let herself in here.”

“Miss Masefield? But she
knows
I am not a thief.”

“She thought she knew,” corrected Dillman. “That was before she discovered what you had hidden away in your wardrobe. I saw it for myself. Do you deny that you had a small bundle in there?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then perhaps you'll explain why it contained the jewelry that had been stolen, along with the three purses taken from ladies on deck.”

Guljar Singh was so stunned that he staggered back a few paces. Dillman rushed to grab him with a steadying hand and helped him to sit in the chair. The old man was saying something in Hindi that the detective could not understand. He began to sob quietly.