Murder on the Salsette (3 page)

“Why was that, Tabby?”

“They were ghastly.”

“Unable to shake off their reserve, you mean?”

“No, Genevieve. They were just so thoroughly unpleasant. Mrs. Kinnersley is the worst. She's the most dreadful snob. And she treats that poor girl abominably.”

“Their daughter?”

“Hardly,” said Tabitha. “I'd be amazed if Mrs. Kinnersley had any children—let alone any maternal instincts. No, this is a young Indian servant who travels with them. I feel sorry for the girl. I'd hate to be at the mercy of a woman like that.”

“Colonial life does give people airs and graces.”

“Mrs. Kinnersely was
born
with them.” Hearing the sharpness in her voice, Tabitha became apologetic. “Look, I shouldn't be harsh on her after so short an acquaintance. Please forgive me for being a trifle outspoken. Perhaps we just caught them on a bad day.”

“What was your mother's opinion?”

“Exactly the same as mine, Genevieve. Except that Mother expressed it rather more trenchantly.”

Genevieve was amused. “I can imagine.”

The ship's engines had been throbbing away while they spoke and they now took on a more powerful beat. After a loud blast on her hooter, the
Salsette
pulled gently away from the pier, cheered from below by the army of relatives, friends, and those who worked at the harbor. Even though she knew nobody whatsoever in the crowd, Genevieve waved as enthusiastically as anyone. Pleased to be going at last, her happiness was tempered with sadness that they were leaving a city where she and her husband had been able to be themselves for a change. Now that they were at work once more, they had to wear their masks.

“What will you remember most about India?” asked Tabitha.

“The kindness of the people.”

“Yes, Genevieve, it made me feel so guilty.”

“About what?”

“The way we've treated them. India is supposed to be the jewel in the crown of the British Empire, and we've all benefited from that. But where are the benefits for the Indian people themselves? Most of them live in abject poverty,” said Tabitha, grimacing. “The slums of Bombay are beyond belief. They made my stomach turn.”

“Yet the people don't complain,” observed Genevieve. “That's what is so remarkable about them. They have the gift of acceptance.”

“That's not a gift, it's a defect. They deserve better.”

“I agree with you, Tabby.”

“And they're entitled to have it.”

Once again, Tabitha heard a passion in her voice that she regretted and she apologized at once. Genevieve waved away her protest.

“You were right in what you said. We
should
feel guilty.”

“I spoke out of turn.”

“Only to me,” said Genevieve, “and that's what friends are for.”

“Yes,” agreed Tabitha, hugging her impulsively. “Oh, Genevieve, I can't tell you how wonderful it is to have someone with whom I can be honest. This voyage is going to be a delight for me.”

Genevieve felt mildly alarmed. Much as she liked Tabitha, she did not want to be monopolized by her for the next four days or she would be unable to do her job properly. It was important to widen her social circle, to get to know as many people as she could. Tabitha, she feared, wanted a more exclusive relationship with her. The other woman confirmed it by her next remark. Holding Genevieve by the shoulders, she gazed at her with a mixture of admiration and yearning.

“You're the person I've always wanted to be,” she confessed.

When the ship set sail, George Dillman was part of the crowd on the promenade deck, enjoying the occasion but taking a close look at the other passengers while he was doing so. Dudley Nevin was there, talking to an elderly woman with a parasol, and so was a Norwegian couple with whom he had exchanged a few words in the customs shed. Other faces imprinted themselves on his memory. Dillman wondered where the trouble would arise. Even when there were little over two hundred passengers aboard, the law of averages would come into play. Someone would probably be out to make money by stealing it, cheating at cards or extracting it from their victims by means of a confidence trick. Dillman had to remain alert.

As the cheers of the crowd began to die away, the short, red-faced, round-shouldered man beside him turned to look up at Dillman. His eyes twitched as he spoke.

“That was quite a send-off, wasn't it?” he commented.

“Yes,” said Dillman, realizing that he was talking to a fellow American. “Though I'm not entirely sure if they were sorry to see us go or glad to get rid of us.” He offered his hand. “George Dillman.”

“Boston, Massachusetts,” guessed the other, shaking his hand warmly. “Judging by your accent, that is. My name is Wilbur Rollins. New York City and proud of it.”

“You've every right to be. It's a fine place.”

“You're a long way from Boston, my friend.”

“I always wanted to see the world before I settled down.”

“I'm trying to do it the other way around,” admitted Rollins. “I made all the big decisions first—a wife, a family, a career—then had the urge to travel when I turned fifty.”

“On your own?”

The other man sighed. “My wife died two years ago, I'm afraid, and the children have families of their own now. Time to spread my wings.”

“I hope it's been a memorable experience.”

“Quite magical, Mr. Dillman. And all grist to my mill.”

“Your mill?”

“I'm a writer,” explained Rollins. “One day, everything I've seen and done will end up between the pages of a book. I've made copious notes at every stage of my journey.”

Rollins was an engaging companion, intelligent, well-informed, and full of amusing anecdotes. Once Dillman got used to the nervous twitch around the man's eyes, he was drawn to him. In turn, the New Yorker obviously felt as if he had made a real friend. While many of the passengers dispersed to their cabins, the two men remained talking on deck. They were over a mile out of the harbor when something caught their attention. Rollins was astonished.

“Look at that!” he exclaimed. “Do you see what I see?”

“Very well,” said Dillman.

“Why on earth are they doing that
there
?”

Dillman was as baffled as he was. What they were staring at was a large cargo ship that was anchored well away from the harbor while the coal in its holds was being discharged into lighters. In addition to the crew, hundreds of people were visible on the deck, coolies, women, and children. Coal was being unloaded by the most primitive and laborious method. Using shovels shaped like Dutch hoes, the coolies were filling small flat baskets then handing them along a human chain to be emptied down chutes into the lighters.

“How much coal would they have aboard?” wondered Rollins.

“Five thousand tons at least, I'd say.”

“It will take them an eternity to unload all that.”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “They're not even using the steam winches and derricks. Everything's being done manually by a shore gang, just as in the old days.”

“But
why?
That's what I want to know.”

“It saves docking charges, for a start. My guess is that the agent in charge of the stevedoring arrangements has worked out some kind of deal that gives him and the ship's owners a tidy profit. The only people who won't come out of this well are the coolies.”

“And their families,” said Rollins, taking a pad and pencil from his pocket. “Why bring all those women? They're not just wives. I can see a few grandmothers, as well.” He began to write something in his notepad. “It's almost as if they
live
on the ship.”

“That's effectively what they will do until the holds are emptied.”

“And then?”

“Well,” said Dillman, “presumably they'll want to take fresh cargo onboard. Bagged rice and baled cotton, most likely. I suspect that they'll move to the dock to pick that up. The crew will want to come ashore to see the sights of Bombay.”

“
This
is one of the most extraordinary sights I've seen here,”
said Rollins, scribbling rapidly, “and it will certainly be mentioned in the book I'm working on at the moment.”

“Why—what's it called?”

“
Women at Sea
.”

Popular with the passengers, Paulo Morelli only aroused envy among his colleagues. His good looks and his Latin charm won him compliments from the ladies and—they suspected—even more personal marks of favor at times. Stewards were forbidden to fraternize with the passengers and it was a rule that was rigidly enforced, yet Morelli somehow managed to get around it—or, at least, he gave the impression of doing so. Part of his success was due to the zest he brought to his job, performing even the most boring and repetitious tasks with smiling eagerness. A first meeting with new passengers, he believed, was crucial. If a relationship got off to a good start, he had something to build on.

Accordingly, he worked his way along the cabins that had been assigned to him for the voyage, tapping on each door, introducing himself to the occupants and asking if there was anything they required. When he came to the cabin belonging to Constance and Tabitha Simcoe, he recalled what the purser had told him. He was to take special care of the older woman. Morelli had no qualms about doing that. He had seen her come aboard in her Bath chair and knew that she was traveling with an attractive daughter. In devoting himself to the mother, he told himself, he could ingratiate himself with the younger woman.

Finding the nearest mirror, he checked his appearance and smoothed down his mustache with a forefinger. Then he crossed to the door and used his knuckles to rap on it.

“This is your steward!” he called.

There was no answer. After waiting for a few moments, he knocked harder, but still got no response and assumed that the
two ladies were still on deck. Instead of meeting them, he decided, he would take a quick look into their cabin. Morelli had a good eye and a quick brain. A glance into someone's wardrobe could tell him a great deal about them and he had made some intriguing discoveries that way. Making sure that nobody was about, he used his key to open the door and stepped swiftly inside.

Morelli gasped in surprise and came to a dead halt. The cabin was occupied, after all, but not by someone who was able to let him in. Sprawled on the floor, lying face down, was Constance Simcoe.

“
Dio mio!
” he exclaimed. “What happened?”

THREE

W
hen the ship was clear of the harbor, Genevieve Masefield decided to leave the main deck and call on the purser. She was forced to wait for a short time while Max Cannadine was trying, with great patience, to calm down an irate female passenger. Unable to get her own way, the woman, plump, middle-aged, and raven-haired, eventually stalked off and Genevieve was able to introduce herself. Cannadine shook her hand gratefully.

“It's such a relief to meet someone who hasn't come to complain,” he said. “That Portuguese lady was the third in a row who's not happy with her cabin. Because she spoke very little English and because I only know few words of Portuguese, it was a rather fraught conversation.”

“Well, I haven't come to demand a change of cabin, Mr. Cannadine.”

“That's music to my ear.”

“The facilities seem excellent to me.”

“The
Salsette
was built for speed and comfort.”

“I'm sure that it will be an enjoyable voyage,” said Genevieve. “You've met my partner, I understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillman and I had a brief chat. As I told him, we never have any serious problems onboard. You and he should have a quiet time of it.”

“That will make a pleasant change.”

“Each of you has a cabin in first class, but I assume that you'll divide your duties. Who will look after the second-class passengers?”

“Both of us,” she said. “Once we've found our way around, we'll take it in turns to drift into the public rooms in second class to see what's going on. George is an absolute master at blending in. Did you know that he used to work as an actor?”

“No,” replied Cannadine, “but the news doesn't surprise me. He has all the right attributes for the stage. But then,” he went on with a smile of frank admiration, “so do you, Miss Masefield.”

“I've never been attracted to work in the theater.”

“That's a pity. I'd certainly pay to watch you.”

“Then you're going to be disappointed, Mr. Cannadine. I don't court attention. I prefer to stay in the shadows and look on. That's why I enjoy my work so much. It's like being a spectator at a play—I sit there and watch a drama unfold.”

“Until something untoward happens.”

“That's always a possibility, I fear.”

“But then, if a crime is involved, you have the ability to interrupt proceedings. That must give you a lot of satisfaction.”

“Oh, it does, believe me.”

Like her partner, Genevieve found the purser to be affable and observant. Though he moaned about complaints from passengers, he did so without rancor and she was sure that he could handle any emergency with calm efficiency. Cannadine exuded the quiet confidence of a man who loved his job and endeavored to do it properly.

“I hear that Mr. Dillman used to be a Pinkerton agent,” he said.

“That's correct. They trained him well.”

“Has he been able to pass on some of the tricks of the trade?”

“Yes,” said Genevieve. “George has taught me everything. He also pointed out that my greatest asset is my appearance.”

Cannadine beamed. “I'd happily endorse that judgment.”

“What he meant was that I deflect suspicion. Nobody who meets me for the first time suspects for a moment that I might be employed as a ship's detective. People are off guard. They tend to confide in me.”

“They confide in me, as well,” said the purser, ruefully, “but all that I get to hear are their reproaches. The engines are too noisy, the ship rolls too much, the food is not to their taste, the service is tardy, and so on.” He gave a dry laugh. “I even had a Frenchman in here earlier who complained that he'd been caught on the pier by that storm.”

“P and O is not responsible for the weather.”

“He seemed to think it was.” There was a tap on his door. “One moment, please,” he called. “Another brickbat, no doubt,” he said to Genevieve. “It's always like this at the start of a voyage.”

“Then I won't get in your way any longer. I just wanted to make contact so that you knew who I was.”

“Thank you.” He opened the door for her. “It's a pleasure to have you aboard, Miss Masefield.”

“Good-bye.”

Paulo Morelli was waiting outside, his expression serious. When he saw Genevieve, however, he brightened at once and grinned broadly.

“Ah, you have met the lady,” he said. “Do you agree with what I told you, Mr. Cannadine?”

“What do you want, Paulo?” asked the purser.

“I came to report something, sir. You tell me to keep the eye on that lady in the chair with wheels.”

“So?”

“She is not well,” said Morelli. “When I go to her cabin, Mrs. Simcoe is lying on the floor.”

“Poor woman!” said Genevieve, alarmed. “I met her earlier. What's wrong with Mrs. Simcoe?”

Morelli shrugged. “I not know,” he said. “But I call the doctor. He is with her now—and so is her daughter, Tibby.”

“Tabby.”

“Yes, that was the name her mother call her—Tabby. I think you should know about this, sir.”

“Thank you, Paulo,” said Cannadine. “You did the right thing.”

“Maybe the heat, it was too much for her.”

“Let's hope that's all it was.”

“I'd better go and see how she is,” said Genevieve with concern. “Mrs. Simcoe doesn't enjoy good health, alas. Do excuse me.”

Morelli stood aside so that she could walk briskly down the corridor. With a sly smile, he nudged the purser.

“Do you see what I mean, Mr. Cannadine? She is gorgeous.”

“Keep your mind on your work, Paulo.”

“That is unusual for an English lady,” said Morelli. “They look nice but they are always so cold and—how do you say it—aloaf?”

“Aloof,” corrected Cannadine. “It means cool, distant, detached.”

“Miss Masefield is none of those things.”

“It's not your place to pass comments about the passengers.”

“With this lady,” said the Italian, eyes sparkling, “I cannot help it. I only wish that it was
her
that I find on the floor of her cabin. I would love to offer the first aid to Miss Genevieve Masefield.”

______

George Dillman was strolling around the main deck when he first noticed him. Tall, frail, elderly, and with a long white beard, the Sikh wore the traditional turban and attire of his religion. In one hand, he was holding a newspaper. A small crowd had gathered around him. Dillman saw how much respect the Indian passengers were showing the old man, but two members of the crew were more skeptical. One of them, an officer in his smart uniform, gave a laugh of disbelief.

“That's nonsense,” he said. “Nobody can foretell the future.”

“I can,” declared the old man. “I have strange powers.”

“Yes—to extract money out of the pockets of gullible fools. I've seen you mystics before, in the market. You're nothing but clever tricksters.”

“That is unkind of you, sir. I do have special gifts.”

“Prove it.”

“What is the point? You will only mock.”

“I won't mock,” said Dillman, struck by the old man's dignified bearing. “I'd never have believed that anyone could charm snakes with a pipe until I actually saw a man doing it in Bombay.”

The mystic smiled. “Thank you, my friend. But it may be easier to charm a snake than to convince these two gentlemen that I am what I claim to be. They are too suspicious of me.”

“Not at all,” said the officer, pleasantly. “We simply need proof.”

“Then I will give it to you—at a price.”

“You see? I knew that there'd be money involved.”

“One rupee, that is all.”

“I'd say you're getting a bargain,” said Dillman to the officer. “One rupee is not much to risk. I'll act as stakeholder, if you like.”

The man was dubious. “Let's hear more about this proof first.”

“As you wish,” said the mystic. “I will demonstrate my powers.” He held up his newspaper. “I will take one sheet of this and
place it on the deck. You and I will both stand on it, side by side.”

“And then you'll make us float into the air. Is that it?”

“No, sir. I will give you a chance to earn your rupee. You will have the rest of the newspaper, rolled up in your hand. All that you have to do is to hit me with it and the money is yours.”

“That's ridiculous. I'm bound to win.”

“Then you must accept my wager.”

“You really want me to clip you with the newspaper?”

“I want you to try, sir,” said the old man, “but I will use the power of my mind to stop you. I will give you the proof that you demand.”

Dillman sensed that the Sikh would somehow win the bet, though he had no idea how. There was a weird, mystical air about the old man and Dillman loved his clear, gentle, measured voice with its Welsh lilt.

“It sounds like an easy way to earn a rupee,” he opined. “It's a pity the stake is not higher.”

“Yes,” agreed the officer. “Is there any chance of increasing it?”

“Of course,” said the Sikh. “Name your price.”

“Ten rupees.”

“Give them to our American friend here.”

Both men handed the coins to Dillman. The old man then tore one sheet out of the newspaper and gave the rest of it to his challenger. Rolling it up, and egged on by his companion, the officer got ready to strike but it was not as simple as he had imagined. The Sikh led them all across to a steel bulkhead with a riveted door set into it. Bending down, he slid half of the sheet of newspaper under the door.

“Now, sir,” he said to the officer. “You stand on the piece on the other side of the door and try to hit me.”

The watching Indians clapped their hands in approval and, to his credit, the officer took his defeat with good grace. He burst out laughing.

“I deserved that,” he said. “I was beaten by the power of the mind.”

“Would you like another demonstration?” asked the mystic.

“No, no. I'd only lose again. Take the money. You earned it.”

Still laughing, he walked away with his friend. Dillman was highly amused. He handed over the twenty rupees to the old man.

“I was wondering how you were going to do it,” he admitted.

“Thank you for your help,” said the mystic. “My name is Guljar Singh, by the way. I live in Bombay.”

The detective shook his hand. “George Dillman,” he said.

“What you saw was only a trick, Mr. Dillman. I would not have you think that is all I have to offer. I really am a fortune-teller who can see into the future.”

“So am I, Mr. Singh. The moment that officer took your bait, I could foretell that he would lose his money.”

Singh chuckled. “You should have placed your own bet.”

“I prefer to be an independent witness.”

“Then you can witness something else, my friend. I tell you this in confidence,” he went on, taking a step closer and lowering his voice. “From the moment I stepped onto this ship, I was afraid.”

“Of what?” asked Dillman.

There was no immediate answer. Staring in front of him, Guljar Singh seemed go off into a kind of trance. His eyes grew wide and milky, his mouth opened, and he began to mumble softly. It was a full minute before he was able to focus on Dillman again.

“Something terrible will happen on the
Salsette
,” he predicted. “I do not know what it is or when it will come, but it is hanging over us. Beware, Mr. Dillman. We have trouble ahead.”

* * *

“No, Mother,” said Tabitha Simcoe. “You must not even think of it.”

“It's my decision and I stick by it,” affirmed Constance.

“Why not have dinner served in here?”

“I agree with your daughter, Mrs. Simcoe,” said Genevieve. “After your fall earlier, you need rest. I think it would be a mistake to put yourself under any strain.”

“What strain is there in sitting at a table in congenial company? If I stay here, Miss Masefield, I'll be bored to death.” Constance Simcoe used her walking stick to pull herself upright. “I'm fine now.”

“Dr. McNeil said that you should take it easy,” urged Tabitha.

“Ha! What do doctors know? If I'd listened to them, I'd have been bedridden for the last ten years. I'm fine now. Besides, I'm starting to feel hungry.”

Genevieve had called at their cabin to find the older woman in a combative mood. Constance Simcoe was making light of the incident. She conceded that she had occasional bouts of vertigo and sometimes passed out, but she was not going to let that interfere with the pleasures of the voyage. Genevieve was impressed by her powers of recovery. Propped up on her walking stick, Constance was still rather flushed but she had regained all of her old spirit.

“Do you remember what happened?” asked Genevieve.

“More or less,” replied Constance. “I was sitting in the chair and wanted to get something from the wardrobe. When I hauled myself up, I had a sudden dizzy spell and fell down. The next thing I knew, this young steward was bending over me and jabbering in Italian.”

“Just as well that he found you when he did.”

“I'm relieved that you didn't hurt yourself,” Tabitha said anxiously. “You might have hit your head on the table or even broken a bone.”

“Stop worrying, Tabitha,” scolded her mother. “I'm much tougher than I look. You should know that by now.”

“I blame myself for this. I shouldn't have left you alone for so long.”

“Fiddlesticks! You wanted to see the ship set sail.”

“I thought you were taking a nap,” said Genevieve.

“I was. I dozed off in the chair. When I woke up, I needed a clean handkerchief so I got up—then fell flat on my face.” She gave a throaty laugh. “After I've taken those pills the doctor gave me, I'll be prancing around the deck like a two-year-old.”