Murder on the Salsette (24 page)

“You look, you listen, you get vibrations from them. It was easy with Suki,” he told them. “I watched her walking around the deck many times with the major. Her face was like an open book. That's my real secret, Miss Masefield,” he revealed. “To understand someone's true character, you must study them when they do not know you are watching. People behave very differently when they are on view.”

“We all wear masks, Mr. Singh.”

“You did, and it was a very good one. I would never have guessed you were a detective. And those other English ladies—they wore masks, as well.”

“Who do you mean?” asked Genevieve.

“The lady who is pushed around the deck by her daughter.”

“That's Mrs. Simcoe. She's disabled.”

“Then she has made a remarkable recovery on this ship.”

“Why do you say that?”

Guljar Singh cackled. “If it is a clear night,” he said, “I prefer to sleep on deck. Nobody ever notices me, curled up in a corner. That way, I am able to hear and see many peculiar things.”

“Such as?” asked Cannadine.

“A young lady going around the deck on roller skates. A husband and wife exchanging blows. A man climbing into one of the lifeboats with a woman. And this person you know,” he added, turning to Genevieve.

“Constance Simcoe?”

“By day, she is an invalid in her chair,” said Singh. “At night, when she thinks nobody can see her, she walks around the deck without even needing a stick. That tells me a lot about
her
character.”

* * *

Reclining in a chair, Constance Simcoe sipped a liqueur and gazed around the first-class lounge with interest. The first stage of their return home was nearing its end, but several of the people there would transfer to another P & O ship for the longer voyage to England. Among them, she hoped to find others who could be drawn to play bridge against Tabitha and her. She turned to her daughter.

“Do you think that the Ackroyds could be tempted again?”

“Not after this morning,” said Tabitha.

“She got so cross with that long-suffering husband of hers.”

“Recriminations are still going on.”

Tabitha glanced in the direction of the Ackroyds, who were seated not far away. Phoebe Ackroyd was stern and implacable. Judging by his apologetic gestures, her husband was still seeking her forgiveness for his lapses at the card table, but she ignored him. At length, Gerald Ackroyd gave a weary smile and sought solace in his glass of brandy.

“We seem to have caused a rift between them,” said Constance.

“Does that worry you?”

“No, Tabby. It delights me.”

“Mrs. Ackroyd was overconfident, that was her trouble.”

“One needs a cool head for bridge. As soon as she began to lose her temper with him, I felt that we were bound to win.”

“They trounced us the day before,” Tabitha reminded her.

Constance smirked. “There's nothing quite so sweet as revenge, is there?” she said.

“No, Mother.”

“I'll be sorry to leave the
Salsette
.”

“I won't,” said Tabitha.

“But it's been such a lucky ship for us.” She saw Phoebe Ackroyd getting up from her chair. “Watch out—I think she's coming over to us.”

“That must be a relief for her husband.”

Summoning up a cold smile, Mrs. Ackroyd walked toward them. She was wearing a frock of black taffeta that set off the pallor of her face and gave her an almost funereal air. When she stopped beside them, she tapped her thigh repeatedly with her fan.

“Good night, ladies,” she said.

“Must you leave?” asked Constance. “Can't we persuade you to join us for one last drink?”

“No, thank you. My digestion is not what it should be this evening.”

“Did your husband find his ear trumpet?” said Tabitha.

“Not yet.”

“Where did he lose it, Mrs. Ackroyd?”

“He thinks that it may have been in here, or perhaps in the smoking room. Gerald's mind gets rather hazy after a few brandies.”

“Somebody will find it, I'm sure.”

“Yes,” said Constance, “we hadn't realized how much he depends
on it. That's why we've been feeling so guilty about what happened this morning.”

“Guilty?” said Mrs. Ackroyd.

“For having an unfair advantage over you. I've talked it over with Tabby, and she agrees with me. In the circumstances,” she offered, “we feel that we should reimburse you.”

“I wouldn't hear of it, Mrs. Simcoe.”

“But you lost because your husband was distracted.”

“We lost because we played badly,” the other woman said sharply. “We have no quibble about that. Money lost at the card table is money better forgotten. We wouldn't take a penny of it back.”

“You could always try to win it back,” suggested Constance. “We'll be sailing to England from Aden together.”

“I think that we need a rest from bridge, Mrs. Simcoe.”

“We'll play with your cards, if you prefer—and in your cabin.”

“No,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “Thank you for the invitation, but my husband and I will be far too busy with other commitments to indulge you. Once again, good night.”

“Good night,” said the others in unison.

Beating her thigh with the fan, Mrs. Ackroyd moved quickly away.

“I told you that she'd refuse the money,” said Constance. “But it was a good idea of yours to offer it to her, Tabby. It helped to rub salt into the wound.”

Warming to his role as an auxiliary detective, Paulo Morelli waited, concealed in a recess, until Madame Roussel finally came out of the door. He watched her blow a kiss to the occupant of the cabin, then set off down the corridor. Keeping well back, he followed her all the way to her own cabin. Morelli then went off in search of the detectives, hoping that his discovery would improve
his chances of a return to first class. He found Dillman on his way to the purser's office, and gave his report.

“The second officer?” said the American.

“I see his name on the cabin door,” explained Morelli. “That is why the lady go to and fro across the sea. Madame Roussel is in love.”

“She must be, Paulo.”

“Is wrong, mind you. The crew should not get involved with any of the passengers. Is the rule for me—and for the second officer.”

“That's probably why he arranged to meet her in another cabin—the one that you saw her go into earlier. It would have been dangerous for Madame Roussel to go to him all the time.”

“Why did he not visit
her
? That's what I would have done.”

“You're a steward,” said Dillman. “You have license to enter a passenger's cabin. The second officer does not and his uniform would make him very conspicuous.”

Morelli laughed. “But when he is with the lady, he will not wear the uniform.” He beamed at the detective. “Did I do well?”

“Extremely well, Paulo.”

“You will speak to the chief steward for me?”

“That's a job for Mr. Cannadine, but I'll put in a good word for you with the purser. So will Miss Masefield.”

“
Grazie
.”

“We thought we'd finished with you,” said Dillman, “but you stuck to your task, and solved another mystery for us.”

“Next time you sail on the
Salsette
, please use me again.”

“We will, Paulo.”

“Because I go into cabins, I see things that most people do not see. I know what people have in their wardrobes. I know how they behave when they are not in the public. On every voyage, I find strange things.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” said Morelli, tapping the side of his nose, “take the two ladies who get me put in second class.”

“Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter?”

“They are not what they seem, Mr. Dillman. That is why they get rid me, I think—because I see too much. I begin to wonder.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said. “Mrs. Simcoe, she is supposed to be unwell, so she has to be pushed around in the chair with wheels. On the first day I meet her, I find her lying on the floor of her cabin.”

“Go on.”

“She want to convince me that she is a weak old lady. Then I look in the wardrobe and what do I see in there? Mrs. Simcoe is traveling with ten pairs of shoes. Why does she need so many when she is not able to walk?”

Dillman was interested. “Are you certain of this, Paulo?”

“Why should I tell the lie?”

“How do you know that the shoes were not her daughter's?”

“The
signorina
has almost as many pairs herself. And that is not all,” he added, putting a hand to the side of his mouth as if about to impart a secret. “She has the beautiful dress that she cannot wear.”

“Why not?”

“It is covered with blood, and will have to be cleaned first.”

“
Blood?
”

“I see it with my own eyes. Now,” Morelli said darkly, “how did it get there? That is what I ask myself. Why all those shoes, and why all that blood?”

They were questions with which Dillman was still grappling.

Having first checked that Constance and Tabitha Simcoe were still in the first-class lounge, Genevieve went swiftly to their cabin and let herself in with a master key borrowed from the purser. There
was a faint smell of lavender in the air. She began first with the cupboard, opening each of its drawers in turn to inspect the contents. Evidently, the Simcoes had money to spend on themselves. Everything she found—costume jewelry, undergarments, even the souvenirs—was quite expensive.

Several packs of cards were stacked in the bottom drawer, along with a small account book that showed how much they had earned from their games of bridge. Genevieve was amazed to see the amount of winnings they had accumulated on their voyage to India. All the names of the losers were carefully listed. Some had lost up to a hundred pounds. The Ackroyds, she saw, had parted with over fifty pounds in that cabin. With their success at the card table, the Simcoes could have funded their trip many times over.

There was also a cream-colored purse in the bottom drawer, and Genevieve recalled having seen it in Constance's possession on the night when the latter wore a dress of the same hue. Opening the purse, she took out a comb, a small mirror, a few coins and—the object that really interested her—a photograph of Constance with an elderly man, who, from the way they had posed, looked as if he might have been her husband. What startled Genevieve was that the man was sitting in the Bath chair while Constance, standing beside it, seemed in good health.

Genevieve put everything carefully away. Covered with shame when she realized that she had wrongly accused a man of theft for the second time, she was now reaping the benefit of that mistake. Guljar Singh's comment about Constance had been a revelation. The woman was a fraud. Why did she use the Bath chair when it appeared she could walk perfectly well? And why were she and her daughter so punctilious about listing their winnings from various passengers?

Turning her attention to the wardrobe, Genevieve first noted the number of pairs of shoes that each woman had. They were of
the highest quality. Constance Simcoe's mask had been torn away. Genevieve went through the clothing, moving the hangers one by one so that she could give each dress a cursory glance. Some of them she had seen before, worn by either of the two women, but there were several that were new to her.

Once again, expense was the watchword. Every frock there was extremely costly, so much so that Tabitha was not prepared to throw one away even though it was badly sullied. At first, Genevieve could not make out what the dark stains were, until she recalled that the dress in her hands was the one that Tabitha had been wearing on the day that she met and befriended Dudley Nevin. Genevieve shuddered when she realized that the marks over the front and arms were dried blood. Wanting to throw the dress aside immediately, she somehow could not let go of it.

She was still holding it when Tabitha let herself into the cabin.

“Genevieve!” she exclaimed. “What are
you
doing here?”

“More to the point,” said Genevieve, holding up the dress, “what is
this
doing in here? It's covered in blood.”

“That's sauce. I spilled it over myself by mistake days ago.”

“Why—was there a sauce bottle in Mr. Nevin's cabin?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Don't try to bluff your way out of this, Tabby,” warned Genevieve. “I've seen far too much—all those packs of cards, all those shoes of your mother's. The charade is over.”

“Who
are
you?” challenged the other.

“I work for P and O as a detective. You know my partner, Mr. Dillman, I believe. It's was no accident that you met him as he was coming out of Mr. Nevin's cabin, was it?” she went on. “Ever since the murder, you must have been keeping an eye on it.” She pointed to the bottom drawer. “When you weren't cheating passengers at cards, that is.”

Genevieve was too clever. Realizing that she had been caught,
Tabitha sought ways to limit the damage. Genevieve's face was hard and her manner determined, but she was still a woman and Tabitha knew that she had a softer side to her. She tried an appeal for sympathy. Taking the bloodstained dress from Genevieve, she fingered it ruefully.

“It was an accident,” she said. “A terrible accident.”

“So you admit that you killed Mr. Nevin?”

“I had no choice, Genevieve. As you know, I met him over breakfast that day, and he seemed amenable to a game of bridge. Mrs. Ackroyd agreed to be his partner, but he was hopelessly distracted and played without any conviction.”

“How did you come to be in his cabin?”

“He left his cigarette case behind,” said Tabitha, “so I went to return it to him. I suppose that it was naive of me to go into his cabin, but he said that he had a souvenir he wanted to show me. It was a
kukri
, a curved knife with a blade that widened towards the end.”