Murder on the Salsette (20 page)

“You must, if you're making the supreme sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice?”

“Missing a delicious meal in the first-class dining saloon.”

“Oh, that doesn't bother me at all,” confessed Genevieve. “The truth is that I'm not hungry. When I spoke to Guljar Singh earlier, I had to eat rather a large helping of humble pie.”

It was early evening when Dillman was able to seize his opportunity. Seated in the second-class lounge, pretending to read a magazine, he had watched Sylvester Greenwood talking at length with two of the Gurhkas aboard. All three men were so engrossed in their discussion that they did not even realize that Dillman was there. Eventually the meeting came to an end and both of the Gurkhas shook the Englishman's hand before leaving. When the M.P. tried to follow them, Dillman intercepted him.

“Good evening, Mr. Greenwood,” he said.

The other man stiffened. “What do
you
want?”

“A little of your time, please.”

“I've none to spare, Mr. Dillman. I need to dress for dinner.” He
tried to walk past but Dillman took a step sideways to block his path. “Will you please get out of my way, sir?”

“Not until we've had a talk about Dudley Nevin,” said Dillman with firmness. “I've just come from speaking to him.”

Greenwood glared at him. If he were the killer, then he would know that Dillman could not possibly have spoken to Nevin. The detective searched his eyes for signs of guilt but the other man's self-control did not waiver. Greenwood shrugged.

“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “If you insist.”

“I do. Shall we sit down for a moment?”

Dillman indicated two chairs in the corner of the lounge. Most of the passengers had gone off to prepare for dinner so the place was fairly deserted. They could converse in privacy.

“Before we start,” said Greenwood, “perhaps you'll be kind enough to tell me why you have such an interest in Mr. Nevin.”

“He's an acquaintance of mine.”

“Is that enough to justify your obsession with him?”

“Mr. Nevin is unwell,” said Dillman smoothly. “I feel sorry for him. He gave me the impression that you are partly to blame for his condition. I wanted to find out why you'd upset him so much.”

“That's a personal matter.”

“He tells me that you went to his cabin.”

Greenwood needed a moment to compose his features. He ran his tongue over his lips before speaking. Dillman noted the way that the man's hands tightened on the arms of the chair.

“Do you deny it?” pressed Dillman.

“No,” admitted the other. “We had a brief conversation.”

“About what?”

“A matter of mutual interest.”

“May I know what it was?”

“No, Mr. Dillman.”

“When I first asked you about Mr. Nevin, you claimed that you
hardly knew him. Now you confess that you actually went to his cabin for a private chat.”

“So?”

“What else have you been holding back from me, Mr. Greenwood?”

“That's no concern of yours.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn't,” retorted Greenwood, standing up. “I don't know who you are, Mr. Dillman, or why you're poking your nose into my affairs, but I'm not staying here to answer any more of your infernal questions.”

“Perhaps you'd prefer to do so in the purser's office,” suggested Dillman, remaining in his chair. “This may be the moment to tell you that I work for P and O as a detective, and that gives me the right to question any passengers I choose.” Greenwood hesitated. “If you don't believe me, you can ask Mr. Cannadine. He'll vouch for me.” Dillman pointed to chair opposite. “Why don't you sit down again?”

“What's going on?” asked Greenwood, resuming his seat.

“You tell me, sir.”

“Why have you been checking up on me?”

“Let's just say that some of your behavior has been questionable.”

“I resent that accusation.”

“Then you have the opportunity to refute it. Let's go back to Dudley Nevin, shall we?” Dillman said calmly. “You went out of your way to arrange a confrontation with him.”

“That's not true.”

“So it was pure coincidence that you're both on this vessel?”

“Of course.”

“I think that you're misleading me again, sir,” said Dillman, trying to bluff him. “The purser keeps passenger records of every sailing between Bombay and Aden. When I studied those earlier,
I couldn't help noticing that you and your family had booked passage on the
Salsette
, then changed the date at the last moment. Was that not so?”

“We decided to stay in Bombay a little longer.”

“Why was that?”

“My wife wanted to spend more time with her brother.”

“So it was nothing to do with the fact that Mr. Nevin would be sailing on this ship at the later date?”

“How could I possibly know that?”

“There are ways of finding out these things,” Dillman said levelly, “and you strike me as the sort of person who would know exactly where to look. You were a foreign correspondent for a newspaper, I hear. That means you'll have built up a network of contacts.”

“What are all these questions in aid of, Mr. Dillman?”

“I told you. Mr. Nevin is unwell—extremely unwell.”

“Don't ask me for sympathy.”

“Are you still so incensed with him over what happened during that by-election?” said Dillman. “I would have thought that even your anger had cooled by now.”

“Mr. Nevin did his utmost to rig that election,” asserted Greenwood, smacking his knee with a palm. “When they learned what he'd done, his party had the grace to disown him. Left to me, he'd still be rotting in a British prison.”

“You're a vengeful man, Mr. Greenwood.”

“He tried to cheat me out of that seat in Parliament.”

“Is that why you were so anxious to meet up with him again?”

“No—it was over something else.” Realizing that he had given himself away, Greenwood winced.

“Ah,” said Dillman with a smile. “So you
did
postpone your return in order to contrive a meeting with Mr. Nevin? We're getting somewhere at last. Have you been conducting a vendetta against him?”

“No, Mr. Dillman.”

“But you have kept track of his movements in India.”

“To some extent.”

“Why—he's only a minor civil servant.”

“Dudley Nevin is much more than that to me.”

“In what way, Mr. Greenwood?”

“That's not something I'm prepared to discuss.”

“You may be compelled to do so in time.”

“By whom?” demanded the other. “I refuse to be treated as if I've done something wrong. As far as I'm concerned, my relationship with Dudley Nevin is finally over. I simply refuse to answer any more questions about him.”

“Then answer a question about someone else,” said Dillman, taking something from his pocket. “Do you recognize this young lady, sir?”

It was the photograph taken outside the large house. Dressed in a ball gown, the young woman was smiling joyously at the camera, as if she were on her way to a very special event. Greenwood's reaction was dramatic. Bringing a hand to his mouth, he let out a gasp of pain before thrusting the photograph back at Dillman. The detective was about to ask him to identify the person in the photograph when a worried Daphne Greenwood came into the lounge, searching for her husband.

“There you are, Sylvester,” she said.

Greenwood got up. “I'm just coming, my dear.”

“We don't want to be late for dinner.”

“No, no, of course not.”

Dillman rose to be introduced to his wife. They shook hands.

“I'm sorry to delay him, Mrs. Greenwood,” he said before switching his gaze to her husband. “Perhaps we could continue this discussion after dinner, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Greenwood apprehensively. “I suppose so.”

“Thank you. I look forward to seeing you later on.”

“As you wish.”

“What's happened?” asked his wife, seeing his discomfort.

“Nothing, Daphne,” Greenwood said briskly. “Nothing at all.”

When she opened her wardrobe, Genevieve Masefield chose an evening gown of white silk with virtually no trimmings on it. She also wore very little jewelry. Since she would be engaged in searching cabins while their occupants were at dinner, she wanted nothing that would impede her or that might catch on a sharp edge. The gown was plain but it allowed her more freedom of movement than her other dresses. Satisfied with her appearance, she stepped out into the corridor as Tabitha Simcoe was locking her cabin door. The other woman sailed toward her, wearing a dress of cream taffeta and satin that made her look very stately.

“Hello, Genevieve,” she said. “Are you dining with us this evening?”

“I can't, unfortunately,” replied the other, forced to manufacture an excuse. “I have a friend in second class. Because she's unable to join me in first, I promised to go to her instead.”

“That's very noble of you.”

“The cuisine in second class is very palatable, I'm told.”

“But inferior to what we'll be eating,” said Tabitha. “Well, it's one of the things that we pay extra for, isn't it? Better food, better facilities, and a better class of person. Let's be honest, I'd never have met someone like you in second class, would I?”

“Perhaps not.”

“I've learned so much from you just by watching.”

“Have you?”

“It's been an education.”

Tabitha was in a buoyant mood, not at all dismayed by the
fact that Genevieve would not be sitting beside her at dinner that evening. During her time at sea, she had obviously grown in confidence. Success at the card table had also contributed toward her self-possession.

“How did you get on this afternoon?” asked Genevieve.

“The Kingtons played well, but Mother and I came out on top. Two victories in one day,” she noted. “Mother was thrilled.”

“Where is she, by the way?”

“Our new steward wheeled her into the dining saloon some time ago so that she could settle in before everyone else arrived. She'll be disappointed that you've abandoned us, Genevieve.”

“Not deliberately.”

“Perhaps we'll see you in the lounge later on.”

Genevieve was noncommittal. “Perhaps,” she said.

“You must be there. Mother will expect it of you.”

“I'll do my best, Tabby.”

“I'm so sorry we haven't been able to lure you to the card table,” said Tabitha. “I met the most interesting man today—tall, debonair, and very good-looking. He'd have been the ideal partner for you, Genevieve.”

“Oh?”

“He's an American—a Mr. George Dillman. You must have seen him around in the last few days.”

“No,” said Genevieve, taking care to show no reaction to the name. “I don't believe that I have. And you say that he plays bridge?”

“Not at the moment,” Tabitha said skittishly, “but it would be a pleasure to teach him the game. He really is so handsome.”

“You've spoken to him, then?”

“Only briefly. I just wish that I'd discovered him sooner.”

“Why?”

“Well, I've started to take your advice, Genevieve. There's no need
for me to be tied to Mother all the time. In fact, she's encouraged me to make friends of my own.” She gave a quiet smile. “Mr. Dillman is my notion of the perfect friend.”

“I thought that you were interested in Herr Voigt,” said Genevieve. “You seemed to be rather taken with him last night.”

“I was—for a time.”

“Did he bore you so quickly?”

“No. Siegfried was diverting company until I found out his secret.”

“And what was that?”

“He's married, Genevieve.”

“But traveling without his wife.”

“Oh, she was there, in the metaphorical sense.”

“How do you know that Mr. Dillman isn't married?”

“Instinct.”

“You could be mistaken, Tabby.”

“I'm never mistaken about things like that,” said Tabitha proudly. “It's true that I only met him for a few moments, but they were enough for me. I could see at a glance that Mr. Dillman was one of them.”

“Them?”

“A permanent bachelor. One of those dashing men who go through life breaking women's hearts without even knowing it. Take my word for it,” she insisted, “George Dillman will never marry.”

Genevieve had some difficulty retaining her composure.

Sukinder stood patiently beside the door as Matilda Kinnersley, in a dress of black taffeta and muslin, made the final adjustments to her hair in the mirror. The major handed the girl a clothes brush so that she could dust off the back, shoulders, and sleeves of his tailcoat. Sukinder brushed away assiduously.

“Thank you,” he said when she finished.

His wife snapped her fingers and held out her hand. Putting the clothes brush aside, Sukinder collected the fan from the table and gave it to Mrs. Kinnersley, receiving no thanks.

“That will be all,” decided Kinnersley.

“Yes,
sahib
.”

“Get off and have your own meal now.”

“Thank you.”

“And be sure to read the next chapter of that book before you go to bed,” said Mrs. Kinnersley. “I'll expect to hear it tomorrow.”

“Yes,
memsahib
.”

“Run along, then.”

“Good night, Sukinder,” said Kinnersley.

She gave him a smile of farewell and let herself out of the cabin.

“What's got into her, Romford?” asked his wife.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Sukinder seemed happy for once. Why was that?”