Murder on the Salsette (7 page)

“We must get a copy, Gerald.”

“A copy of what?”

“
Women at Sea
.”

“Yes,” he said, looking around. “There are lots of them here and what a charming picture they make.” He raised his wineglass. “To the ladies—God bless them!”

“I'll drink to that,” said Rollins, reaching for his own glass.

It was an excellent meal and the Ackroyds were pleasant company. Gerald Ackroyd was a retired diplomat who had worked in India and he had come on a valedictory visit with his wife. Rollins was as engaging as ever on his favorite subject, but Genevieve was somehow unable to enjoy the evening. Apart from her discomfort over Tabitha Simcoe, she was concerned by the second theft that had been reported, and disturbed to learn that her partner had assured Madame Roussel that her jewelry would soon be returned. Genevieve did not share his confidence.

George Dillman was not dining in the first-class saloon that evening, wanting to be in the part of the ship where the two thefts had occurred and patrolling the second-class corridors in the guise of a steward. His absence was another reason for Genevieve's relative
unease. When he was near, she always felt reassured even if she could not actually speak to him. She brought a hand up to caress the opal at her neck. Now that he was her husband, every moment away from Dillman was painful, but she knew that their work took precedence. She was also grateful that he was the one who was keeping Madame Roussel under surveillance and not her. Dining in first class was infinitely preferable.

“Will we be in your book, Mr. Rollins?” pressed Mrs. Ackroyd.

“I'm afraid not,” he replied.

“But Miss Masefield and I are women at sea.”

“You are ladies at leisure,” he corrected with a gracious smile. “My interest is in women who actually become sailors. It happened more often than you can imagine. There were sailors who smuggled their wives aboard, and captains who turned a blind eye to the occasional woman who lacked a wedding ring. No,” he went on, “the only modern instance I may include is what we saw outside Bombay harbor. Dozens of women who accompanied the coolies out to a cargo ship. I'll probably mention them in an appendix.”

“What's he saying, my dear?” asked Gerald Ackroyd.

“Appendix,” said his wife.

“Ah, yes. Nasty operation. You have my sympathies, old chap.”

“I'm not having my appendix removed, Mr. Ackroyd,” said Rollins.

“Oh, but you should. Otherwise, there are complications.”

“Forgive him,” said his wife. “I think my husband heard most of it. And that's more than can be said for Mr. Nevin this morning,” she went on, clicking her tongue. “I don't believe he listened to a word that I said to him. Bridge is a game that you must play properly or not at all. I meant to say as much to Mr. Nevin this evening.”

“Where is he sitting?” asked Genevieve.

“He doesn't appear to be here, Miss Masefield.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. I've watched everyone who came through that door and he was not among them. After what happened this morning, Mr. Nevin is too ashamed to face me. He's keeping out of my way.”

Dudley Nevin lay on his back in the darkness of his cabin. A pool of blood had congealed on his white shirt. There was an expression of complete surprise on his face, as if he were still trying to work out why he had been stabbed to death.

SIX

G
enevieve Masefield was so relieved to see him when he called at her cabin that night, she flung herself into his arms. Dillman, now in formal wear, was pleased with the warmth of his reception. Pulling her close, he grinned appreciatively.

“I take it that you missed me.”

“Very much,” she said, nestling into his shoulder.

“What I missed was having dinner in first class.”

“Is that all?” she protested. “What about me?”

“Oh, I missed you, as well, darling. That goes without saying.”

“I like you to say it anyway.”

“I just did,” he pointed out. “What was on the menu this evening?”

“Everything you could possibly want. It was a wonderful feast. The best meal we've had on a P and O vessel. The dessert was mouthwatering.”

“Don't rub it in,” he said, wincing slightly. “I had to make do with a cup of tea and a sandwich. The life of a steward in second class leaves a lot to be desired, I can tell you.”

“What did you find?”

“That the irascible Madame Roussel had the sense to lock her door this evening. I checked every cabin in second class while I was at it. All securely locked. No thief waiting to pounce.”

“A wasted exercise, then,” she said, stepping back.

“Not at all, Genevieve. My simply being there acted as a deterrent. I fancy that we're dealing with an opportunist. If a door is unlocked, he goes through it. If a purse is left unguarded on deck, he steals it. Do you see what I mean?” he said, easing her gently away from him. “A professional would target a victim more carefully, only going for someone who would give them rich pickings.”

“Madame Roussel would fit that description.”

“I think that the thief was lucky there. When he let himself into her cabin, he couldn't have known what he'd find. Madame Roussel had only been on the ship for a couple of hours.”

“That's true.”

“How could anyone have learned that she kept valuables in her cabin? No,” he decided. “Everything points to an opportunist's crime. The thief didn't realize that he'd strike oil on his first attempt.”

“That rules out our theory about her mysterious friend,” she said. “He wasn't distracting her so that a confederate could search her cabin.”

“I think not, Genevieve. How could he possibly know that she'd be foolish enough to leave her door unlocked? Mind you, I'd still like to find out who he is,” he went on, scratching his head. “Why does a woman need to keep the name of her admirer secret? I find that odd.”

“I have to do it all the time, George.”

“That's different.”

“Is it? I wonder.”

“We have good reason to conceal our relationship.”

“Madame Roussel may have an equally good reason.”

“I doubt that. She actually volunteered the information that she'd been drinking with a friend, remember, so we know the man exists. The problem is that she won't divulge his name.”

“There's one obvious explanation, George.”

“I agree,” he said. “And to some extent, she looks the part. Madame Roussel wouldn't be the first courtesan we've met in the course of our work. Yet somehow I don't feel that's the answer. If it had been, she'd never have mentioned this admirer of hers in the first place.”

“No, discretion would be part of her trade.”

“I daresay we'll unmask the fellow in the end.”

“Until then, they keep their secret. Just like us.”

“Nobody must know that we're man and wife, Genevieve.”

“As long as
you
don't forget.”

“How could I?” He kissed her on the lips. “Happy?”

“Very happy, George. When we're together.”

“I only wish that I could stay.”

“Why don't you?”

“Because it would be too big a risk. If a problem occurs in the middle of the night, Mr. Cannadine would send someone to my cabin. How do I explain that I didn't sleep there?”

“In that case,” she suggested, “I'll come to you.”

“No, darling,” he said with regret. “We agreed on a plan and we must stick to it. Aden is only a few days away. We'll have a whole week there before we pick up another ship. We can be together properly then.”

“I can't wait.”

“All we have to do is to catch this thief in the meantime.”

“And hope that no more crimes are committed aboard.”

Dillman was confident. “I have a feeling that the worst is over,” he said airily. “If we can reclaim the stolen goods, and get Madame Roussel off our backs, I fancy that we're going to have a restful voyage.”

As instructed, the steward arrived early at the cabin with the breakfast. Balancing the tray on one hand, he knocked on the door with the other.

“Breakfast, Mr. Nevin,” he called.

He used his key to unlock the door and went in, expecting to find the passenger still in his bunk. Instead, Dudley Nevin was sprawled out on the floor. The steward gaped in horror and almost dropped the tray. He backed out of the cabin as fast as he could.

It was shortly after seven in the morning. George Dillman had just finished dressing when the purser called at his cabin. He could see from Max Cannadine's face that something very serious had happened.

“Trouble?” asked Dillman.

“The worst kind,” said the purser. “A murder.”

“Oh, dear! Who was the victim?”

“A first-class passenger—Mr. Dudley Nevin.”

Dillman was shocked. “Mr. Nevin? But I know him.”

“Not anymore, I fear.”

“Where did it happen?”

“In his cabin.”

“How was he killed?”

“Stabbed through the heart.”

“Who discovered the body?”

“The steward,” said Cannadine. “He was badly shaken by what
he saw. If I'm honest, so was I. This is a bad business, Mr. Dillman.”

“I'd like to take a look for myself. Have you called the doctor?”

“He's examining the body right now.”

They hurried along to the cabin and the purser let them in with his master key. Down on one knee, Dr. Rory McNeil was still looking at the wound that had killed Dudley Nevin. When he was introduced to Dillman, he gave him a nod. McNeil was a slight, stringy man in his fifties with close-cropped ginger hair and a freckled face. The detective came over to kneel beside him.

“What was the murder weapon?” he said.

“That,” replied the doctor, pointing to a blood-covered knife on the other side of the cabin. “It's a
kukri
—a weapon used by Gurkhas.”

“Why is it lying over there and not beside the body?”

“You're the detective, Mr. Dillman. I'm just a ship's doctor.”

“How long has he been dead?”

“Difficult to be exact,” said McNeil. “Twelve hours at least.”

Dillman took a closer look at the corpse. Dudley Nevin was wearing only a shirt, trousers, and shoes. One of his suspenders had broken and his collar had been torn. Dr. McNeil had opened the shirt to expose the ugly wound in the man's chest. There were also lacerations on the hands of the corpse. Dillman stood up.

“It looks as if he put up something of a struggle,” he concluded.

“Then it's possible that the people in the adjoining cabins may have heard something,” said Cannadine.

“Not if they'd gone off to dinner. Besides, if a violent disturbance had been overheard, someone would have reported it.” Taking out a handkerchief, he crossed to the knife and picked it up by the handle. “Curved blade, thickening towards the end, and as sharp as a razor. This is designed to kill. It's not the kind of thing you'd buy to peel an orange.”

“Does that mean we're looking for an Indian?”

“I'm not so sure, Mr. Cannadine.”

“Who else would use a
kukri
but a Gurkha?” asked McNeil.

“It's their preferred weapon,” conceded Dillman.

“That narrows the field immediately.”

“No, Doctor. I don't think it does. A man who owned this knife wouldn't discard it easily. He certainly wouldn't leave it close to a murder victim so that we could find it.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked the purser.

“That somebody fled in a hurry. Look where the knife was lying. It's almost as if the killer stabbed his victim, backed away from him, dropped the knife here, then beat a hasty retreat.”

“I still think we might be looking for an Indian attacker—someone with a grudge against Mr. Nevin. Do you know what he did for a living?”

“He was a civil servant in Delhi.”

“There's a possible motive, then,” said Cannadine. “We can run their country for them but we can't stop them feeling resentful about it. Perhaps someone saw Mr. Nevin as a symbol of British imperialism.”

“There are plenty of those aboard,” noted Dillman. “Why choose him when there are far more senior figures in the British administration? I don't see this as a political assassination.”

“I hope you're right or we're sitting on a powder keg.”

McNeil rose to his feet. “There's nothing more I can do here,” he said. “I'd like to move him to a place where I can clean him up properly. Also, he needs to be kept on ice.”

“My advice would be to shift him very soon,” said Dillman, “while most passengers are still in their cabins. We need to keep this as quiet as possible. If word gets out that a murder has been committed, the whole ship will be in a state of agitation.”

“That's the last thing we want,” agreed Cannadine.

“Where's the steward who discovered the body?”

“Still in my office. He's been sworn to secrecy.”

“What about his duties?”

“I'll have a word with the chief steward, Mr. Dillman. He'll have to be told, and so will the captain. Including us, that makes six people.”

“Seven.”

“Who else?”

“The killer, Mr. Cannadine. Add my partner and that gives us a total of eight people. Let's keep it to that, shall we?”

“Yes, please.”

Dillman turned to McNeil. “Do you have a stretcher, Doctor?”

“In the medical room,” said the other.

“If you could fetch it now, we'll carry him out of here under a blanket. Where shall we take him, Mr. Cannadine?”

“I know just the place. It's an empty storage room.”

“Then let's get him there as soon as we can,” said Dillman. “And we must make sure that nobody comes into this cabin. If they see that blood on the carpet, they may get curious.”

“This cabin will be out of bounds till we reach Aden.”

“Then what?” asked McNeil.

“We unload Mr. Nevin with the mailbags,” said Cannadine, looking down at the corpse. “He must have nearest and dearest in England. The body will need to be shipped back there.” He glanced at Dillman. “Did you say that you knew the chap?”

“Yes, we met in Bombay as we were about to embark.”

“What sort of character was he?”

Dillman recalled the last time he had met Dudley Nevin. They were in the second-class lounge together and the Englishman had reacted to the appearance at the door of a thickset man with a beard.

“He was a frightened man,” said Dillman, gazing down sadly at the body. “With good cause, it seems.”

______

Quickening her pace, Genevieve Masefield caught up with the other woman outside the first-class dining saloon. Tabitha Simcoe did not look overjoyed to see her.

“Good morning,” said Genevieve. “How are you this morning?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Your mother is having breakfast in her cabin, I assume.”

“Yes, Genevieve. Mother is not at her best first thing.”

“Which of us is? But I'm glad that I've caught you alone at last, Tabby. I wanted to apologize properly.”

“There's no need,” Tabitha said petulantly.

“I think that there is. I gave you completely the wrong impression.”

“Yes, you led me to believe that we were friends.”

“We are,” insisted Genevieve, “I promise you.”

“Then what was all that about not getting in my way?”

“I was only trying to help, Tabby. I know that looking after your mother takes priority, but you are entitled to
some
time on your own. You've got Paulo to help now,” she pointed out. “He can't do enough for Mrs. Simcoe. Ever since he found her collapsed on the floor, he somehow feels responsible for her.”

“Paulo does take the load off me,” admitted Tabitha.

“Then make use of your free time. Spread your wings.”

“It's easy for you to say that, Genevieve.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you're so beautiful and sophisticated. Wherever you go, you win compliments. I don't have your confidence. When people look at me, all they see is this pathetic creature who pushes a Bath chair around.”

“No, they don't,” said Genevieve, touching her arm. “They see an intelligent and attractive young woman.”

“They might—if they had the chance.”

“The chance?”

“Yes,” said Tabitha seriously. “I don't believe that most people give me a second look. Not when I'm alone, that is. But when I'm with you, it's very different.”

“In what way?”

“Well, to start with, I
feel
different. I know that I can never compete with you but that doesn't matter. In your company, I have more self-assurance. That means I start to get some attention.”

“It's no more than you deserve, Tabby.”

“But it doesn't happen when you're not around.”

“I'm sure that it does.”

“No, Genevieve. I know my limitations. It's all very well for you to tell me to spread my wings. Don't you understand?” said Tabitha, taking her by both hands. “I can only do that when I'm with you. I enjoy a sort of reflected glory, if you like, and it gives me such pleasure.”