‘Lock & Co,’ said Petrie, picking up a Homburg hat and turning it round to read the label. ‘And all the other items are good makes. Writing treated Mr Pashley kindly. Unless he had family money to call on as well.’
In the small bathroom, a shaving kit from Trumpers of Curzon Street, a bottle of cologne, and a few other expensive-looking toiletries yielded no clues. De Silva returned to the bedroom to find Petrie looking at the books on the bedside table. ‘Hardly what one would call a literary selection – a few lurid thrillers. From the way Pashley dressed, I’m surprised his taste in books wasn’t more highbrow. His writing materials are in the drawers below, along with his passport, his ticket, and various notes and other papers, but no sign of an article for the radio office to send out this morning. He must have been too incapacitated to work.’
De Silva frowned. ‘But didn’t the steward say he usually started to write his articles during the day?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It seems odd we’ve found nothing for a current one, even if only a rough draft.’
Petrie shrugged. ‘Presumably he didn’t write anything during the day this time. He probably would have last night if he hadn’t been knocked out by whatever he drank. Anything else you want to look at?’
‘I’d like to stay for a while, sir. Sometimes it helps to get a feel for a place.’
‘Very well. I’ll call in on my wife and reassure her. She’ll be anxious to know why I was summoned so early this morning.’
‘What will you tell her?’
‘I believe I can trust her with the truth. Lady Caroline is very discreet when she needs to be.’ He smiled. ‘I imagine it will be hard to keep it from Mrs de Silva.’
‘It will.’
‘Then we may have two lady sleuths to assist us in our endeavours.’ He handed de Silva the second key. ‘I doubt I need remind you to lock up when you go. I suggest you return it to the duty steward when you’ve finished. Pashley’s key is still missing.’
He threw a glance of distaste at the wedge of newspaper Doctor Brady had removed from the dead man’s mouth. ‘I suppose that needs investigation,’ he added.
The unpleasant thought had occurred to de Silva too that someone ought to do their best to examine as much as possible of the newspaper; it might contain an article or articles that would provide a clue to the identity of the murderer. His nose wrinkled at the prospect, but he nodded. ‘I’ll see to it, sir.’
The door closed behind Petrie; de Silva looked about him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but he always liked to have a few quiet moments at the scene of a crime. There had been occasions when it had proved useful.
He’d start with the furnishings. The cabin was supplied with similar items to those in Tourist Class, but they were more luxurious. The bed where Pashley lay was covered by a satin eiderdown.
The possibilities there exhausted, de Silva turned with reluctance to the newspaper, teasing apart the wedge Doctor Brady had removed from Pashley’s mouth. He wasn’t worried about destroying evidence. Even if he’d had his fingerprinting equipment with him, he very much doubted there would be any to find on the soggy paper. The sheets of paper were from The Colombo Times. He noted the date. It was the day they had left Colombo. Unfortunately, that didn’t narrow the field much. It merely showed Pashley’s killer had joined the ship in Colombo, or already been on it, that’s if indeed the paper belonged to the killer. The articles that remained legible gave no indication they were relevant. In any case, none of them had been written by Pashley.
He went to the small bathroom and washed and dried his hands. When he returned, he once more checked over the carpet and behind the curtains as well as closely inspecting the dark-blue velvet that covered the armchairs. No tears or holes where anything might be concealed. It occurred to him that they had forgotten to check the top of the wardrobe. As he reached up, his eye fell on a strand of grey wool that had adhered to the sleeve of his jacket. He picked it off and studied it. It didn’t look to be from any of the grey suits or jumpers in the wardrobe. The strand was thicker and of rougher texture. He looked around for more but found none. Possibly the strand had caught on his sleeve when he checked the curtains or the floor. It was probably unimportant, but out of force of habit, he put it in his pocket.
All he found on the top of the wardrobe was a thin layer of dust. He brushed it off his hands and sat down in one of the armchairs for a while, his eyes drawn to the body on the bed.
Petrie was right. Pashley’s taste in reading was odd for a man whose taste in other possessions seemed so refined. He needed to find out more about this man, and time was limited. When the ship reached Port Said, unless all the passengers were put under arrest, it would be impossible to prevent any of them leaving the ship.
He was also supposed to be on holiday. Just as well, he thought ruefully, that the pyramids weren’t going anywhere in a hurry.
Chapter 7
De Silva interviewed the steward in a cramped room on one of the lower decks. Part of the crew’s quarters, it was stuffy, and the air reverberated constantly with the thrum of the ship’s propellers.
The steward, a Hong Kong Chinese called Chung, regarded de Silva with frightened eyes. Sweat marked the underarms of his tunic and his forehead glistened. Even allowing for the heat in the small room, de Silva believed it evidenced genuine terror. He was inclined to accept the man’s protestations that he was innocent. In de Silva’s experience, villains were usually more composed at the initial stage of questioning. They had honed their responses and were careful not to show alarm. It was only if one was able to catch them out later that the protective shell crumbled.
‘What time do you come on duty?’ asked de Silva.
‘At seven o’clock in the evening, sir. I work through the night and go to my bunk at seven the next morning. I sleep for a few hours then have duties as a kitchen porter in the middle of the day.’ Chung licked his dry lips. He pushed a lock of black hair out of his eyes. De Silva saw that his hand trembled.
‘Do you need some water?’
A look of gratitude came over the steward’s face. ‘Thank you, sir.’
There was a small metal basin in one corner of the room. De Silva went to it and filled the tumbler on the back of the surround. He gave it to Chung. The steward gulped down the contents then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘So,’ de Silva continued, ‘I presume you see the passengers in your section when they go to dinner?’
‘Yes, sir, and when they come back later when they are ready to sleep.’
‘At what time did Mr Pashley return to his cabin?’
‘It was just after one o’clock.’
‘And how did he seem to you?’
‘I think he’d had plenty to drink,’ said Chung cautiously. ‘He said he had lost his key and needed me to let him into his cabin.’
So far so good, thought de Silva. The man wasn’t diverging from the story he had told Petrie and Captain McDowell. It was always worthwhile checking the facts in case there was some interesting inconsistency. He had seen the place where the steward sat in this section of the ship, on duty in case any of the Cabin Class passengers required something at any time of the day or night. It was no bigger than a cupboard in the corridor lobby. From it, he had a view down the corridor, and would see anyone leaving or entering the corridor, or their cabin.
‘Was Mr Pashley the last to retire for the night?’
‘No, sir. Mrs March and Mr Chiltern came back at about two o’clock, but the rest were all in their cabins before midnight and didn’t leave them again until the morning.’
‘Did Mrs March or Mr Chiltern leave their cabins again? Or did anyone else come or go? A maid or a valet, perhaps?’
For a beat, de Silva sensed that Chung hesitated, but the moment soon passed. ‘Mrs March has a maid who stays to help her get ready for bed, and Mr Chiltern has a valet. They both passed me going back to their quarters in Third Class at a
bout half past two, otherwise no one; the maids for Mrs Pilkington and Mrs de Vere were gone long before.’
‘What about the other passengers’ staff?’
‘They have none, sir. They use the crew’s service for anything they need.’
‘Did you hear any noises later? People walking about? Doors opening or closing?’
‘Nothing like that. Everything was quiet.’
‘And you didn’t leave your post until you went to call Mr Pashley?’
Chung cast a hopeful glance at the empty tumbler on the table, but de Silva decided he could wait this time.
‘I repeat: did you leave your post?’
‘No, sir,’ said Chung unhappily.
‘You’re certain?’
‘Yes.’
**
It was a relief to escape the stuffy crew quarters and sit in the Petries’ spacious stateroom. The blades of a large brass and mahogany ceiling fan swished, cooling the air. Framed by a wide window, the Arabian Sea glittered in the sunshine.
‘Anything to report from your interview with the steward?’ asked William Petrie. They were alone. Once Lady Caroline had learnt what had happened, she’d offered to visit Jane and enlighten her.
De Silva went briefly through the gist of the interview.
‘Hmm, nothing new there then. What impression did you have of the fellow?’
‘I thought he was probably trustworthy; although he did hesitate when I asked if anyone had come past him after the passengers on that corridor had retired for the night.’
‘Do you think he was lying about that?’
‘Hard to say.’ De Silva shrugged. ‘I suppose he might have nodded off. It’s a long night, and he works a shift as a kitchen porter in the day too.’
Petrie nodded. ‘The heat in those kitchens must be intense. Exhausting for any man, even if he’s used to it.’
‘All the same, his post isn’t exactly luxurious. I imagine it would be difficult to do more than doze fitfully on the hard chair he’s provided with.’
A pack of playing cards lay on the table between them, alongside a hefty tome entitled The Life of Gladstone, a few fashion magazines, and a sunhat made of superfine straw. William Petrie picked up the cards and shuffled them. De Silva wondered whether it was his way of helping himself to concentrate on a problem.
Petrie spoke: ‘Three staterooms and four inside cabins lead off the corridor where Pashley was lodged. We’re only concerned with the corridor on the port side of the ship. Access to the corridor on the starboard side, which has the same number and layout of staterooms and cabins, is through a separate door. In both cases, there are always stewards on duty just inside the doors.’
He dealt the king and queen of diamonds. ‘I have the names of the other passengers on the corridor now. Arthur Chiltern and his fiancée Diana March occupy the first and second staterooms, followed by Mrs Pilkington. She has the largest one, in the bow.’ He placed the queen of spades next to the other two cards. ‘The black widow, as she’s known in a card game my wife is fond of.’
De Silva remembered the three people from dinner the previous evening.
Next, Petrie put down the queen of hearts. ‘A Mrs de Vere occupies the largest of the inside cabins across the corridor. Lady Caroline informs me that the lady writes very popular romantic novels in a sentimental vein. In the remaining inside cabins, we have a clergyman, Canon George Ryder.’ He put down the jack of spades. ‘I don’t know much about him. I’ll ask Captain McDowell if he can give me some information. I must say, it rather surprises me that he travels Cabin Class. A canon ranks above a parish priest, but I doubt he’d be able to afford the fare on a stipend alone.’
He scratched his chin. ‘Inherited money’s a possibility, I suppose. Then there’s a woman called Meadows, who has the unenviable job of being companion and general factotum to Mrs Pilkington.’ He added the ace of clubs. ‘I assume Mrs Pilkington pays Cabin Class for her so that the unfortunate woman can be at her beck and call at a moment’s notice. And lastly, Charles Pashley, the joker in the pack.’ He placed the joker card next to the others.
De Silva studied the cards with their stylised pictures and sharply contrasting reds, blacks and golds. All these passengers would need to be interviewed. Hoping Petrie agreed, he waited to hear what he was going to say about that.
Petrie scooped up the cards. ‘I’m afraid the Pilkington woman is liable to be difficult, but Ryder seems a mild kind of chap from what little I’ve seen of him. If Mrs Meadows is as much under Clara Pilkington’s thumb as I believe her to be, we might not get much out of her, but that may well be unimportant. Diana March is a charming woman from what I’ve seen. I expect she’ll be cooperative, and unless Archie Chiltern’s time in Hong Kong has radically changed him, he’s likely to be obliging too. As for Mrs de Vere, I hope it won’t be hard to win her cooperation, although I’ll be surprised if she has anything useful to impart.’
De Silva wondered why Petrie made that assumption. Was it simply because he had no time for romantic novelists?
‘Well, de Silva,’ William Petrie went on. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. I think we should allow ourselves a late breakfast before we begin. I’m afraid it may cause comment if you join me. Shall we meet back here in two hours? After I’ve eaten, I’ll speak with Captain McDowell. He won’t be happy about our questioning passengers, and I see his point of view, but it must be done. I’m confident I’ll persuade him in the end, even if his word is law on this ship.’
‘What about their staff, sir? Maids, valets – I understand that some of the Cabin Class passengers have them.’
‘A good thought. I’ll deal with that when I speak to him. Oh, and you’d better find out who was on duty at the bar that evening. It will be hard to keep it under your hat why you’re asking about Pashley, so don’t forget the heart attack story.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘Good man. I’ll see you in two hours. I’ll give instructions to the staff at the entrance to Cabin Class that you’re to come and go as you please.’
Chapter 8
De Silva ate a speedy meal of eggs and fruit in the restaurant. The place was almost deserted. By now, most people would have eaten breakfast and gone off to stroll on deck or relax in the sunshine. Torn between missing Jane and an undeniable feeling of excitement, he considered the challenge facing him. He was sorry it had arisen because of another’s misfortune, but the prospect of pitting his wits against criminal minds always set his blood racing.
He popped a sugar lump into his second cup of tea, staring down into the fragrant amber brew as the granules dissolved. It was mid-morning, so the bar staff in Cabin Class should be on duty ready to serve pre-lunch customers. One thing he had noticed about being on a cruise ship was that there were very few times when passengers were not eating or drinking.
At the entrance to Cabin Class, he gave his name and was waved through. He soon found the bar, a magnificent room where tables and chairs were disposed around the central, circular counter like moons orbiting a planet. The front of the counter was upholstered in cream and black leather and its top was of black marble. Tall, crystal-glass sculptures in the shape of fountains displayed champagne glasses. On the wall behind the counter, shelves were stocked with a huge variety of spirits, aperitifs and liqueurs. De Silva’s sensitive nose picked out the aromas of whisky, rum, and gin mingled with the scents of mint, orange, cherry, and herbs.
A lone bar steward was polishing a cocktail glass with a soft cloth. He quickly put it down when he saw de Silva.
‘Good morning, sir. What can I get you?’
‘Thank you, but it’s a little early for me. I’ve come for some information. Sadly, one of the passengers was taken seriously ill last night. I’m trying to piece together what he was doing in the hours before he collapsed.’
A look of alarm entered the bar steward’s eyes.
‘Don’t worry,’ de Silva added hastily. ‘No one is accusing you or your colle
agues of wrongdoing. We simply want to find out as much as possible about the passenger’s movements. Were you on duty yesterday evening?’
The man nodded. ‘Myself and two others, sir.’
‘Are they here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then fetch them, please.’
The man disappeared for a few moments then came back with his colleagues. They shook their heads when de Silva described Pashley. ‘I don’t think the gentleman drank here last night, sir,’ said the first steward. ‘But I can tell you for sure if you’ll wait a moment.’
He went to a drawer and, producing a large book, opened it and ran his finger down the columns ruled on the page. ‘There’s no entry for Mr Pashley, sir. We have to keep a daily record of all drinks purchased so that the accounts for the passengers’ bar bills can be made up at the end of the voyage.’
De Silva peered at the page upside down. ‘Let me see.’
The steward swivelled the book and de Silva inspected the names. The fellow was right. Pashley’s name wasn’t there. He supposed it was possible that someone else had bought his drinks, but the bar staff seemed very sure they hadn’t seen him that evening.
‘Alright, thank you.’
So, wondered de Silva as he left the bar, where had Pashley been between finishing dinner and returning to his cabin at one o’clock? From what de Silva had observed, Pashley hadn’t been drinking excessively at dinner, even if the rest of his party had. Had he spent the time after dinner drinking more? If not at the Cabin Class bar, then he might have been in someone’s cabin, and it would be very interesting to know whose. The other possibility was that he had gone to the bar in Tourist Class. A pity it was the night he and Jane had been invited by the Petries, or they might have spotted him there.
On his way out of the bar, de Silva met William Petrie coming the other way.
‘Any luck?’ asked Petrie.
[Inspector de Silva 06] - Passage From Nuala Page 5