Murder on the Salsette (4 page)

Tabitha turned to Genevieve. “Whatever am I to do with her?”

“Perhaps your mother
should
join us in the dining saloon,” said Genevieve, revising her opinion. “If she feels well enough, that is.”

“I'm as fit as a fiddle,” announced Constance, hobbling a few steps with the aid of her stick to prove it. “I didn't come on this trip to stay cooped up in a cabin. I want to
meet
people.”

“If you insist, Mother,” sighed Tabitha.

“I do—on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“We don't sit next to that abominable Mrs. Kinnersley. A frightful woman.” She turned to Genevieve. “Did Tabby mention her to you?”

“Yes,” said Genevieve. “I heard about Major and Mrs. Kinnersley.”

“The sort of people who give the English a bad name.”

“I'll make sure I steer clear of them.”

“Do that, Miss Masefield. The major was bad enough, boasting about his regiment and the number of servants he had to fetch and carry, but his wife was even worse. When I told her that we lived in Cheltenham, do you know what she said?”

“No, Mrs. Simcoe.”

“Cheltenham was dull and old-fashioned. She said that it lacked any real style. To live in Cheltenham, she claimed, was to be buried up to the neck in all that was second-rate.”

“I can see that she was not trying to endear herself to you.”

“Endear herself?” snapped Constance. “That old bat? The only
way that Mrs. Kinnersley could endear herself to me is by jumping overboard with a ton weight in her arms.”

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Dillman,” said Dudley Nevin, waving cheerily to him. “Have you met Major and Mrs. Kinnersley yet?”

“I've not had that pleasure,” said Dillman, politely.

Formal introductions were made and handshakes exchanged. Major Romford Kinnersley was a tall, thin, straight-backed man in his fifties with a stern face and a protruding Adam's apple. His wife, by contrast, was a short, fleshy woman whose glinting green eyes failed to offset the plainness of her features. From the way that they had reacted to the sound of his accent, Dillman could see that they had no fondness for the American nation.

“Where do you hail from, Mr. Dillman?” asked the major.

“Boston, Massachusetts,” said Dillman.

“Oh, yes. The notorious Tea Party.”

“The city does have other claims to fame.”

“To fame or to infamy?”

“Treat this fellow with care,” warned Nevin in jest. “Mr. Dillman is a demagogue. A born rabble-rouser.”

“Really?” said the major. “In first class?”

“Whom
will
they let in next?” added his wife, haughtily.

“Mr. Nevin is having a joke at my expense,” said Dillman. “I'm quite harmless, I assure you. I haven't led a rebellion for years now.”

The four of them were standing outside the dining saloon. On the first evening afloat, dress was optional but both Nevin and Major Kinnersley had opted for white tie and tails. Matilda Kinnersley was wearing a black evening gown with a large golden brooch pinned to one shoulder. An ivory fan hung from her wrist. Even though he was immaculate, she looked askance at the lounge suit that Dillman had chosen, making him feel as if he had committed a major social solecism.

“Shall we find a seat?” suggested Nevin.

“Yes,” muttered the major. “Why not, old chap?”

They were not the ideal dinner companions but Dillman could not escape them now. Within a minute, he found himself sitting next to Dudley Nevin and opposite the Kinnersleys. By comparison with its counterparts on the
Lusitania
and the
Mauretania
—the premier Cunard vessels on which Dillman had sailed—the first-class dining saloon was small and rather subdued, but its design was attractive and its decoration exquisite. It also had an intimacy that the larger ships lacked. The detective was not permitted to take in his surroundings for long. Matilda Kinnersley began her interrogation immediately.

“What are you doing in this part of the world, Mrs. Dillman?”

“Broadening my mind,” he replied.

“Do you have any family?”

“I come from a long line of marine architects, Mrs. Kinnersley. We design and construct large yachts. I'm an apostle of sailing ships.”

“How quaint!”

“There's nothing to beat the experience of crossing the Atlantic under sail,” said Dillman. “I did it for the first time when I was only ten.”

“Things have moved on, fortunately,” noted the major, clearing his throat. “Steamships have transformed our life for the better. Steam trains as well, mark you.” He allowed himself a proud smile. “British inventions, of course.”

“Nobody denies that, Major.”

“I wish that someone would invent a way to keep the railway carriages cool in hot weather,” said Nevin, testily. “I was roasted alive on the trip from Delhi.”

“One gets used to the heat in time,” said Kinnersley.

“It's a matter of self-control,” added his wife. “Isn't it, my dear?”

“Yes, Matilda. Self-control and adaptability—two sterling English virtues. We can't have these people thinking we're upset by their climate. Dash it all,” he continued, smacking the table for emphasis, “if
they
can cope with it, then so can we.”

“Where are you stationed?” said Dillman.

“Simla.”

“Isn't it cooler there, Major?”

“Temperatures can still soar.”

“Wearing those thick uniforms must make the problem far worse.”

“Can't dispense with those,” the other man said gruffly. “We have to remind the local population who we are.”

“I thought that a lot of your troops were Indian sepoys.”

“Too many of them, Mr. Dillman. That's how the mutiny started. Because we recruited them, we trusted the fellows. And what did they do in return? They turned on us.”

“My father was killed at Cawnpore,” announced Mrs. Kinnersley.

“Along with so many other British heroes, I fear.”

“How does that make you feel about India?” asked Dillman.

“I have no feelings, sir. I merely do my duty.”

“So do I,” said Nevin, “but it doesn't stop me from cursing this country every day. I've grown to detest everything about it. But I know that our American friend takes a different view.”

“I found Bombay such an exciting city,” said Dillman.

“Exciting to leave behind.”

“No, Mr. Nevin. Exciting to visit again, as I'll surely do one day.”

Mrs. Kinnersley was crisp. “In one of your sailing ships?”

“Ideally.”

“What a bizarre notion!”

“I felt an affinity for the country, Mrs. Kinnersley,” said Dillman. “Even though my stay was only brief, I was at home in India.”

“Watch out, everyone!” cautioned Nevin with a grin. “Give him the chance and he'll turn native on us.”

Mrs. Kinnersley shot Dillman a well-bred look of scorn while her husband reached for the menu. The major was deep in contemplation of the fare on offer before he spoke.

“Let's change the subject, shall we?” he ordered.

Genevieve was full of admiration for the way that it was done. Because P & O knew in advance that they had a disabled passenger, they made sure that Constance Simcoe's cabin was on the same deck as the dining saloon. It meant that she could be wheeled there in her Bath chair by the willing Paulo Morelli, and was able, with her daughter, to take her seat before any of the other passengers arrived. The Bath chair was removed. By the time Genevieve joined them at their table, the two women were happily ensconced opposite Wilbur Rollins. After being introduced to the American, Genevieve sat beside him.

Rollins was wearing a smart navy blue suit and the ladies had chosen evening gowns. In her emerald green silk dress, and with some carefully selected jewelry, Genevieve was easily the most attractive of the women. Constance Simcoe wore a ruby-colored gown with puffed sleeves, and with taffeta flowers sewn across the neckline. Tabitha's wardrobe had yielded a pale blue dress that showed off her figure to advantage, and, like her mother, she had a pearl necklace. Genevieve noticed how she had gone back into her shell again. On deck, Tabitha had been much more relaxed. With her mother—on duty, so to speak—she was stiff and watchful.

It was not long before they discovered the purpose of Wilbur Rollins's visit to India. Genevieve was intrigued to hear that he was a writer but Constance Simcoe raised her eyebrows in astonishment.

“Women at Sea
?” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Simcoe,” he replied. “It's a fascinating subject.”

“I didn't know there were such things as female sailors.”

“Oh, yes. There were many of them in olden days. The person who lured me here—if I may put it that way—was Hannah Snell.”

“Who was she?” wondered Tabitha.

“A formidable woman in eighteenth-century London,” he explained. “Dressed as a man, she spent four and half years as a marine. Amongst other things, she sailed to India and fought in the Siege of Pondicherry. I went there earlier this month as part of my research.”

“Did nobody suspect that she was a woman?” asked Genevieve.

“Apparently not, Miss Masefield. Hannah became quite famous in the 1750s. When she told her story to the newspapers, they gave her a lot of publicity, so she began to appear on stage at the New Wells, a theater close to the Tower of London.”

“How extraordinary!”

“Is that all that she was?” said Constance. “A kind of freak?”

“Far from it,” replied Rollins, warming to his subject. “She was a very brave woman. Think of the hardships she must have endured aboard. There was no Suez Canal in those days. They would have had to sail around the Cape of Good Hope and that was a fearsome ordeal.”

“Why on earth did she do it?”

“Out of a spirit of adventure, Mrs. Simcoe. It was the same with Mary Anne Talbot, another eighteenth-century lady.”

“There's nothing ladylike about being a sailor.”

“That's why she had to disguise herself as a man,” said Rollins. “She started very young as a drummer boy in the army under Captain Bowen. When the regiment was shipped to St. Domingo, Mary Anne Talbot deserted and joined a French privateer.”

“Think of the risks she must have run,” said Tabitha.

“She must have had nerves of steel. Her ship was captured by Admiral Howe's fleet and she became a cabin boy on the
Brunswick
, a British vessel, that soon saw action against the French. Mary Anne was wounded by musket balls.”

“Was that the end of her naval career?” asked Genevieve.

“Oh, no. She joined the Vesuvius, a bomb ketch that patrolled the French coast. Along with the rest of the crew, the poor woman was taken prisoner by the French and held for eighteen months in Dunkirk. On her release, Mary Anne signed on as a steward on a merchant ship.”

“You're making all this up,” accused Constance.

“Mother!” reprimanded Tabitha.

“Well, it all sounds so fanciful.”

“Mr. Rollins has obviously researched his subject carefully.”

“I have,” he confirmed, hurt by the suggestion that he was inventing the stories. “I was a college professor for twenty years before I became a full-time writer. I follow strict academic principles.”

“I'm sure that you do,” said Tabitha, trying to mollify him.

“What happened to Mary Anne Talbot in the end?” said Genevieve.

“She came back to England on the
Ariel
, the merchant ship, and signed off. Then the strangest thing happened,” he went on with a chuckle. “Mary Anne was drinking in a London tavern near the river when a press gang suddenly burst in. The only way that she could escape being forced to join the navy was to reveal that she was a woman. And that brought her career afloat to an end—at the age of nineteen!”

Constance snorted. “Thank heaven she was no daughter of mine!”

“I rather admire her,” confessed Tabitha.

“Don't be silly, Tabby. What
is
there to admire?”

“Her courage, for a start.”

“And her resilience,” noted Genevieve. “Mary Anne had one setback after another yet she somehow kept going. Thank you, Mr. Rollins. This has been a revelation to me. The only women at sea I've heard of before were the ones who became pirates.”

“Women pirates!” said Constance with polite derision. “Now, that is something I simply refuse to believe.”

“Then you've never come across Mary Read and Anne Bonney,” said Rollins, wagging a finger. “They were true buccaneers, Mrs. Simcoe—every bit as ruthless and bloodthirsty as the men. Yes,” he added, glancing around the room. “I know that it's hard to credit when you look at all the charming ladies here this evening, but women are capable of committing the most appalling crimes.”

While the rest of the passengers were enjoying a delicious meal and making new acquaintances, the thief slipped into the cabin and subjected it to a swift search. The visit was productive. When the lid of a hatbox was removed, something glinted at the bottom of it. Pocketing the haul, the thief opened the door, checked that nobody was in the corridor, then left. The whole thing had taken less than two minutes.

FOUR

A
s the meal progressed and the wine flowed, Major Romford Kinnersley became steadily more expansive and even offered a few anecdotes from his military career, but his wife remained cold and humorless. Dillman sensed a deep bitterness in the woman, concealed for the most part behind her supercilious manner, but showing itself from time to time in her gratuitous barbed remarks. Food and drink were of such high quality that Dudley Nevin had liberal quantities of both. Mellowing as dinner wore on, he forgot all about his hatred of India and started to quote Kipling's poems. When the meal was over, Matilda Kinnersley pleaded tiredness and excused herself from the table, leaving the three men to adjourn to the lounge for a brandy. The major was apologetic.

“You must forgive Matilda,” he said. “We've been in India for so long now that she has grave misgivings about going back to England. It makes her tense and waspish.”

“Do
you
have any reservations about going home?” said Dillman.

“Dozens, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because the country is going to the dogs.”

“I wouldn't entirely agree with that, Major,” said Nevin.

“Then you obviously haven't kept track of what's going on. These past few years have been nothing short of disastrous. England now has a Liberal government with a huge majority to create what mischief they will, a confounded Labor Party pouring its poison into the ears of the lower orders, and strident women demanding the vote. Then there's all this dangerous talk of an eight-hour day, old age pensions, health insurance, free school meals, and—God forbid—a measure of independence for Ireland. Yes,” concluded Kinnersley, after sipping his brandy, “and there's even a move to stop religion being taught to the children. It's scandalous.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” Nevin said easily. “I had far too much Christianity rammed down my throat at Winchester. And we all got chilblains from sitting in that icy cathedral during winter months.”

“That's neither here nor there, Mr. Nevin.”

“Yes, it is. Those chilblains were painful.”

“If you ask me,” continued the major, darkly, “the rot set in when some fools elected an Indian to the House of Commons. A foreigner, for heaven's sake! An alien in the seat of government.”

“India has aliens in
its
seat of government,” argued Dillman.

“That's a false comparison.”

“I don't think so. It has a viceroy imposed upon it.”

“For its own good, man. Can't you understand that?”

“Frankly, no.”

“I told you that he was a political agitator,” said Nevin, amused.

“As a matter of fact,” returned Dillman, “I admire some aspects of your parliamentary system—now that we're free from its dictates. But I think that it's only right that India should be represented in the
House of Commons. That's where decisions are made about their country. Indians should be able to take part in those decisions.”

“Poppycock, sir!” snapped Kinnersley.

“Yes,” said Nevin. “Follow that specious line of argument and you'd have members of Parliament from every corner of the Empire. Black faces would outnumber the white. That would be intolerable.”

“Indecent!”

“You'll be suggesting that we become a republic next.”

“No, Mr. Nevin,” said Dillman. “I'd never advocate that. You have a system that's evolved over the years and that suits you perfectly. In America, we prefer to do things differently, that's all.”

“Differently and ruinously,” asserted the major.

“That's a matter of opinion.”

“You've heard mine.”

“We're a young country, Major. We're still finding our feet.”

“America is also a backward country,” said Nevins, rolling his glass between his palms. “Let's face it. Fifty years ago, you still had slavery.”

“Granted,” said Dillman sadly, “and it was a mark of disgrace upon us. But, unlike you, we had the sense to put an end to it. You still have slavery in India.”

“That's a monstrous suggestion!” protested the major.

“What else would you call it?”

“A civilizing process.”

“There's nothing very civilized about a turning a vast population into nothing more than servants. You may not keep them in chains,” said Dillman, reasonably, “but you keep them in subjection. If that's not a form of slavery, what is it?”

The major rose to his feet. “I'll hear no more of this nonsense.”

“Don't go,” urged Nevin, enjoying the argument. “Stay and fight your corner, Major. We can't give in to all this American twaddle.”

“It's too late,” the other man said curtly. “Good night, gentlemen.”

With a nod of his head, he turned on his heel and walked off.

“I think that you upset him, Mr. Dillman,” said Nevin.

“It was quite unintentional.”

“Such a pity. I was really starting to enjoy his company now that his wife was no longer with us. What did you make of her?”

“She seemed a rather unhappy woman.”

“Unhappy? That's putting it mildly. I thought that Mrs. Kinnersley was sour to the core. No wonder her husband has doubts about going back home. With a wife like that in tow, I'd be terrified.”

“I'm sure that the lady has her virtues.”

“I dread to think what they might be!” Nevin drained his glass with satisfaction. “Another brandy?”

“Not for me, thank you,” said Dillman. “I think I'll turn in.” He was about to get up when he remembered something. “Unless, of course, this is the right moment.”

“For what?”

“For you to tell me the reason you left England under a cloud.”

Nevin laughed. “Oh, that!” he said. “No, not this evening. If you want to hear about that little peccadillo, you'll have to share a lot more than one brandy with me.”

First to arrive, they were the last to leave the dining saloon. Constance Simcoe preferred to be helped into the Bath chair with a degree of privacy so that she did not have an audience. Genevieve Masefield waited with her friends until Morelli was summoned to wheel the older woman back to her cabin. It had been a pleasant evening. Both Tabitha and Genevieve had been enthralled by what they had been told by Wilbur Rollins, and they hoped to hear more about women at sea. Constance, on the other hand, still found it too incredible to take seriously.

After an exchange of farewells, Genevieve went off to her own cabin. When she found a letter awaiting her, she hoped that it was from Dillman but it turned out to be a summons from Max Cannadine. She went straight off to the purser's office. He was glad to see her.

“I'm sorry to call you so late,” he said, indicating a seat, “but we have a slight problem on our hands.”

Genevieve sat down. “That's what we're here for, Mr. Cannadine,” she said. “Night and day, George and I are always on duty.”

“ ‘We Never Sleep.' Isn't that the Pinkerton motto?”

“It applies to us as well. Have you sent for George?”

“No, Miss Masefield,” he told her. “I thought that you were the person to handle this assignment. How good is your French?”

“It's passable.”

“Excellent. I'll need you to interview a lady called Madame Roussel in second class. She had some valuables stolen from her cabin.”

“Why didn't she ask you to lock them away in your safe?”

“She didn't think that it was necessary,” he explained. “Ordinarily, she would have been right. The
Salsette
has a reputation for its security. As a rule, you could leave the Crown Jewels in your cabin with impunity. But not tonight, it seems.”

“What was taken?”

“Some money and several items of jewelry.”

“I'll need a full list,” said Genevieve.

“Yes, I told Madame Roussel that you'd call on her first thing in the morning. She was too distressed to talk any more about it this evening.”

“What sort of woman is she?”

“Rather theatrical, Miss Masefield. She came storming in here and gabbled at me in French. It took me some time to calm her down. With luck, she may be less hysterical tomorrow.”

“When did she discover the theft?”

“When she got back from dinner,” said Cannadine. “She took off her necklace to put it with the rest of her jewelry and found that it wasn't in its hiding place.”

“Hiding place?”

“Tucked away at the bottom of a hatbox.”

“That narrows down the time when it must have been stolen,” said Genevieve. “We'll have to start looking at any passengers who were not in either of the dining saloons.”

“It's not as easy as that, I'm afraid. Madame Roussel was out of her cabin for a couple of hours
before
dinner. I'm not sure of the details, because she was in a highly emotional state, but what it amounts to is this. She has an admirer aboard. Madame Roussel was with him for some time. In fact,” he went on, “my guess is that she may have gone back to his cabin after dinner.”

“What makes you think that?”

“She's a very desirable lady, and she did drop more than a few hints. Anyway, Miss Masefield,” he said, “you can see why I want you to handle this case. It requires tact, diplomacy, and the feminine touch.”

“I'll speak to her tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“And I'll talk to this admirer of hers, as well.”

“Why?”

“Because he may be implicated,” said Genevieve. “If he lured her away for a couple of hours before dinner, he may have been distracting her so that a confederate could search her cabin.”

“But she spoke so fondly of the man.”

“We have to consider all the options, Mr. Cannadine. He may turn out to be completely innocent—I hope that he is—but he still has to go on my list.” She got up from the chair with a sigh. “Oh, dear! And there you were, saying that we'd have a quiet time of it on the
Salsette
.”

“I prefer to take a more positive attitude.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I'm very upset that this has happened, naturally. It reflects badly on us. However,” he said with a grin, “it will give me the chance to see you in action, so I regard that as a bonus.”

It was quite late when Dillman left the lounge but he had no intention of going to bed yet. That was just an excuse to detach himself from Dudley Nevin's company. What the detective really wanted to do was to explore the ship when almost nobody was about, so that he could familiarize himself with its layout. To that end, he began with the orlop deck and worked his way slowly upward, checking the accommodations, looking into all the public rooms, establishing where the kitchens were, and generally getting his bearings.

Dillman was on the promenade deck when the accident happened. It was a fine night but the place seemed deserted. There were no couples enjoying a romantic moment under the moon, and no members of the crew visible. Standing at the rail, Dillman gazed out across the water, picking out the lights of another vessel in the distance. A rumbling sound then came into his ears, getting closer and louder all the time. Before he could work out what had produced the noise, he was too late. Someone came hurtling around the angle of a bulkhead on roller skates and collided with him.

Thrown backward against the rail, Dillman put out both arms instinctively and found that he was holding a vivacious young woman. Torn between amusement and dismay, Lois Greenwood gave an apology that was punctuated with loud giggles.

“Look,” she said, disentangling herself from Dillman, “I'm awfully sorry to run into you like that. I didn't expect anyone to be here at this time of night. I thought the coast was clear.”

“It was my fault,” said Dillman. “I should have got out of the way.”

“I didn't give you much chance.”

“No, I suppose that you didn't.”

“Are you all right?” she asked. “I hope I didn't hurt you.”

“I think I'll survive.”

They introduced themselves. Lois was tickled by the fact that the person she had inadvertently hit was a courteous American, and for his part, Dillman was pleased to meet such a friendly and open young woman. After spending dinner sitting opposite the Kinnersleys, he found Lois an absolute delight. She was so exuberant. Sixteen years old, she came from London and was traveling with her parents.

“What were you doing, Miss Greenwood?” he asked.

“Practicing.”

“I wouldn't have thought that roller-skating was quite the thing for a young lady to take up. Isn't it rather hazardous?”

“Only when someone gets in the way,” she said, bringing a hand up to stifle a giggle. “I don't simply skate, Mr. Dillman. I play for a team.”

“What sort of team?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Yes, I would. You have an honest face.”

“Are you teasing me?”

“Of course not,” he assured her. “I'm genuinely interested. Now tell me what sort of team it is.”

“We play football on roller skates.”

Dillman was taken aback. “Are you serious, Miss Greenwood?”

“Never more so. We have a league. You'd be surprised how many teams there are. The standard is really quite high.”

“Where on earth do you play?”

“On a roller-skating rink,” she explained. “Having to kick a football makes it much more difficult. It's a wonderful sport. The only trouble is that we have a few cheats in it.”

“Cheats?”

“Girls who skate into you on purpose, or trip you up when you go for the ball. If you take a tumble, it can be very painful.”

Dillman rubbed his back. “You don't need to tell me that.”

“Of course, Mummy and Daddy think that I'm mad even wanting to play. They've done everything they can to stop me but it's what I want to do. It's so much more fun than just skating around.”