‘I’m afraid not, sir. The bar stewards were on duty last night and seem very sure our man wasn’t drinking there after dinner. In fact, they showed me the account ledger to prove it. I was just going to the bar in Tourist Class to check if he went there.’
‘I’ll join you.’
The bar in Tourist Class was a considerably more modest affair than the splendid one in Cabin Class. It yielded more satisfactory information, however. One of the younger bar stewards remembered serving Charles Pashley.
‘Was he drinking with any of the other passengers?’
‘It’s very busy here in the evenings, sir. I can’t be sure.’
‘I saw him talking to one of the crew,’ another steward chimed in.
Picking up gossip, no doubt, thought de Silva.
‘Had he come here before?’
‘Quite a few times, sir.’
‘Where’s the ledger for drinks purchased? I’d like to see it.’
The young man looked uncertainly at one of his more senior colleagues, who nodded.
Petrie and de Silva studied the entries. It was clear that Pashley had drunk at this bar several times, including on the eve of his last night on earth. But who had he been with? He had only ordered one double whisky. Surely that wouldn’t be enough to tip him over into the inebriated state in which the steward claimed he arrived back to his cabin? Was someone else buying? Or was Doctor Brady right, and there was more in Pashley’s whisky glass than alcohol?
Looking round the bar, de Silva tried to imagine the room when it was full. There were plenty of booths and dark corners. Easy for two people to get lost in the crowd.
‘That leaves us no further forward,’ remarked William Petrie as they returned to the lobby outside the bar. ‘Still, early days. Why don’t you go and have a word with your wife, de Silva? Let her know you’re alright. Then we can convene in my cabin and decide where to go next with our inquiries.’
**
‘Poor Mr Pashley. It sounds as if he suffered a particularly unpleasant death,’ said Jane when de Silva had filled her in on the details. Lady Caroline had told her no more than Charles Pashley had been found murdered in his cabin.
‘William Petrie’s going to speak to the captain. He thinks there’ll be some resistance to our questioning the other passengers whose cabins are on the same corridor.’
‘Why does he think that?’
‘The captain’s very anxious not to spread rumours and panic on the ship.’
‘It would be unfortunate, I agree, but what’s the alternative?’
‘Sweeping the whole thing under the carpet, and that may result in the murderer getting away with his crime.’
‘Even the captain can’t believe that would be justified,’ said Jane frowning.
‘I hope not. Anyway, I’m sure William Petrie can be persuasive when he wants to be.’
‘You said everything was left tidy in Pashley’s cabin, so it seems unlikely the motive was theft, although I suppose there could be something small, like a piece of jewellery the thief was after. But then why the elaborate business with the newspaper? Wouldn’t a burglar simply knock Pashley out and get away with whatever he wanted as quickly as possible?’
‘One would think so.’
‘What about revenge? I gather from Lady Caroline that he upset a lot of people over the course of his career. Perhaps that’s the significance of the newspaper.’
‘Or the murderer wants us to think that.’
They both pondered the problem.
‘Who hated Charles Pashley enough to murder him?’ mused Jane. ‘Might the editor of the paper he wrote for be able to help us? Aggrieved people often write letters to editors complaining about derogatory articles.’
De Silva smiled ruefully. ‘It’s not a bad idea, my love, but I’m sure it would be the last thing the captain would agree to. If he doesn’t want it known on the ship that there’s been a murder, he certainly won’t want it broadcast all over London. He’s bound to refuse to send a message to the editor unless he’s absolutely sure he can trust him, and a story like this might be too tempting not to print.’
‘I suppose you’re right. So, what are you going to do next?’
‘Find William Petrie and decide how to go about interviewing the other passengers whose accommodation is on the same corridor as Pashley’s. Of course, we can’t be sure yet that the steward’s telling the truth that no one apart from the six of them and Pashley went past him after dinner, but even if he’s not, they’re all still under suspicion. I must admit, I’m not looking forward to the task. I’ll be glad to have William Petrie along to back me up.’
Chapter 9
Before de Silva had the chance to go up to the Petries’ stateroom, a message came from William that he would meet him on the Promenade Deck. Looking for him, de Silva passed a few uniformed maids out exercising their Cabin Class employers’ lap dogs, and other passengers reclining on sun loungers in the shade, dozing or reading. Stewards hovered in case their services were required.
Otherwise, the deck was deserted. Its polished teak boards gleamed. Every painted surface was a brilliant white; brass fittings winked in the sunshine. The strong smell of salt on the breeze made de Silva think of the fish market in Colombo. When he was a boy and left occasionally in the care of the family’s cook, he had been taken there sometimes. He remembered the mass of stalls piled with glistening, scaly produce: parrotfish, grouper, barracuda, and giant prawns. There had also been lobsters – fascinatingly sinister to a small boy – and great hunks of shark, tuna and swordfish.
‘Ah, there you are, de Silva. Sorry to change the plan. Lady Caroline’s resting, and I don’t want to disturb her.’ William Petrie strode towards him, smiling. ‘I thought it would be quiet here, and a turn around the deck might help to clear our heads, eh? Shall we walk?’
‘Certainly.’
‘I’ve squared things with Captain McDowell. He was reluctant, but he accepts we need to question the other passengers on Pashley’s corridor. He was less willing where maids and valets are concerned, and I can’t budge him. He’s convinced that will lead to rumours going around the ship.’
It seemed unfair to de Silva that Captain McDowell assumed maids and valets would be looser tongued than their employers. Clearly, he didn’t believe in democracy on his ship.
‘I’ll leave it for now,’ Petrie went on, ‘but I’ve already sent a message to Clara Pilkington asking if we may visit her. We’re invited for tea. Now, I’ll tell you what I already know about her.’
De Silva waited expectantly.
‘Her husband made a fortune in coal mining in the north of England,’ Petrie continued. ‘Neither of them was born into high society. He was none the worse for that, but as you may have noticed, her lack of good breeding can have unfortunate results. Pilkington’s been dead for years – it must be at least ten now. Since then, she’s thrown her considerable energies and funds into the social whirl. She entertains the great and the good when they’ll accept her invitations and denigrates them when they won’t.’
De Silva nodded. ‘What do you think is the best way to approach her, sir?’
‘If possible, I’d still rather we kept it quiet that we have a case of murder on our hands. We stick to the story that Pashley died of natural causes, and we’re merely following the usual procedure where there are no witnesses to a sudden death. Someone will have to report to the coroner at Port Said, and so on. I’ll say I’ve offered to relieve the captain of the job of collecting statements for that purpose, and in view of your professional experience, I’ve asked you to assist me. After that, I’ll ask a few questions about what she was doing that night and how well she knew Pashley. If you agree, I’ll do the talking and leave you to observe her reactions.’
‘Very well.’
De Silva didn’t like to criticise Petrie’s plan, but he was doubtful that the matter was going to be quite so straightforward. He had the impression that Mrs Pilkington was too wily to swallow
the story of a natural death. She also seemed to be one of those ladies, fired in the kilns of England’s green and pleasant land, who had then been thickly glazed with an unshakeable sense of their own rightness and superiority. She was unlikely to be over-encumbered with patience or the inclination to be cooperative if she wasn’t let in on the truth. Their only hope was that her desire to ingratiate herself with Petrie, as an entrée into Lady Caroline’s society, was sufficiently strong for him to be able to conduct the conversation on his own terms.
Petrie looked at his watch. ‘She’s expecting us in her stateroom at four o’clock. It’s after three now.’ He gestured to a pair of steamer chairs in the shade. ‘Shall we sit down? I’m in need of a smoke.’
Long legs stretched out in the steamer chair, he pulled a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his linen jacket and offered one to de Silva. ‘Change your mind?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
Petrie lit up and inhaled deeply, then blew out a ring of smoke. ‘Does your wife have an opinion on this business? I understand from Archie Clutterbuck that she has a good instinct for this kind of thing, and we’re going to need all the help we can get with this one.’
‘We agreed it’s far too early to come to any conclusions, but she thought it was unlikely that the motive was theft.’
‘I agree with her.’ He signalled to a steward who brought an ashtray. ‘So, what else? Blackmail? Revenge? A spurned lover? Whatever it was, we need to work quickly. Once we reach Port Said, it will be difficult to prevent people leaving the ship.’
They sat in silence, contemplating the sea. With a flutter of feathers, a seagull landed on the rail nearby. It folded its black-tipped wings and tilted its head, regarding them with a malevolent eye.
‘Never liked those birds,’ observed Petrie. ‘Scavengers. And I never thought I’d want to go near the sea again. The ship McDowell and I served on went down at Jutland. We were lucky to survive. Many good men didn’t.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said de Silva, not knowing what else to say.
Petrie sighed. ‘Life goes on.’
He glanced again at his watch. ‘Speaking of which, I think it’s time we were off to see Mrs Pilkington.’
**
The drawing room of Clara Pilkington’s stateroom in the bow was extremely elegant with a magnificent, uninterrupted view of the sea. Primrose-yellow walls set off ebony-inlaid, rosewood furniture in the French style, and there were antique armchairs and a chaise longue in a deeper shade of yellow. A large mirror, shaped like a sunburst, reflected a tall bronze vase filled with lilies. Their heavy fragrance competed for supremacy with the scent drifting from another arrangement of flowers in the Chinese bowl on the low coffee table. Beside it was a crisply folded copy of The Times of India. Presumably it had been brought on board at Bombay.
Mrs Pilkington wore a pale-blue, flowery tea gown in which no opportunity for ruffles had been overlooked. Her jewellery was more restrained than it had been the previous evening, but her fingers were still loaded with rings. She merely gave de Silva a peremptory nod but extended a hand for William Petrie to kiss.
‘Do sit down.’
‘Thank you, it’s very good of you to see us at such short notice.’
Clara Pilkington shot an impatient glance towards a corner of the room. For the first time, de Silva noticed that a severe-looking woman stood there. She was plainly dressed, with iron-grey hair. He guessed she was in her mid to late forties.
‘Have you ordered the tea?’ Clara Pilkington asked her snappishly.
‘Yes, I’m sure they won’t be much longer.’
With a grudging nod, Clara Pilkington turned back to William Petrie. ‘My companion and secretary, Mrs Angela Meadows.’
There was a knock at the door, and Mrs Meadows hurried to open it. A steward pushed in a trolley laden with all the accoutrements of an English afternoon tea. De Silva felt a little more cheerful.
The business of filling cups and arranging plates of sandwiches, scones and cakes took a few minutes then the steward withdrew.
‘Do help yourself, Mr Petrie,’ said Clara Pilkington. ‘Oh, and you too, Inspector de Silva.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
It was the first time she had acknowledged his presence, but de Silva consoled himself with the thought that the scones and cream cakes looked excellent. He did as he had been invited.
‘Now, my dear Mr Petrie,’ she went on. ‘I’m quite sure that as you’ve taken the trouble to come to see me, there’s more to that man Pashley’s demise than natural causes.’
Ah, Clara Pilkington might be disagreeable, but as he had suspected, she was no fool. So much for the story of a heart attack.
‘You are a step ahead of me already, Mrs Pilkington,’ said Petrie. If he was disconcerted, he had too much self-control to show it.
Clara gave him a satisfied smile. ‘My husband used to say that most people would need to get up extremely early in the morning if they wished to be ahead of me.’
‘I hope you won’t be offended if I stress that it’s of the utmost importance that no talk of murder gets around the ship.’
‘Not at all, my dear sir.’ She waved a dismissive hand at her companion. ‘And you needn’t trouble yourself about Meadows. But I’m afraid I can’t be of any help to you. Of course, I knew Charley Pashley slightly. Most people in London society did, but I had very little to do with him. A tiresome man with those waspish articles of his. I presume he thought they passed for wit.’
‘Just for the record, may I ask what your movements were last night?’
‘Certainly. As you may recall, I dined at the captain’s table. Afterwards, we listened to the orchestra for a while. They played Strauss – delightful. My maid and Meadows helped me get ready for bed just before midnight. I don’t sleep well, so Meadows prepared my usual powder. After that, I was dead to the world until morning.’
An unfortunate choice of phrase thought de Silva.
‘What about you, Mrs Meadows?’
‘My meal was brought to me in my cabin. It’s one of the ones along this corridor on the opposite side, next to Canon Ryder’s.’
‘Meadows prefers to dine quietly,’ Clara Pilkington interposed.
De Silva wondered if Mrs Meadows was ever given the option of expressing her own wishes, although from her demeanour, she looked as if she would not be too easily put upon.
A fleshy petal slipped from one of the lilies in the bronze vase and fell onto the onyx top of the pedestal on which the vase stood, taking with it a light dusting of orange pollen from the flower’s stamens. Mrs Pilkington tutted. ‘I hate it when flowers are not fresh. Why haven’t you seen to these already, Meadows? Get them changed.’
‘Yes, Mrs Pilkington.’
‘Did you hear any unusual noises once you were back in your cabin?’ William Petrie asked quickly, covering the awkward moment.
‘No. As I said, I prepared for bed, then took the sleeping draught.’
‘What about you, Mrs Meadows?’
‘None.’
‘Can either of you ladies tell me anything about the occupants of the other cabins?’
Clara Pilkington dabbed a trace of thick cream from her upper lip with a lace-edged handkerchief. ‘Mrs March and her innamorato, Arthur Chiltern, are very slight acquaintances.’ Her expression suggested that she didn’t wish them to become anything more. ‘Naturally, I know the Chilterns in London. Meadows can tell you more about than I can. You’re fond of her sentimental outpourings, aren’t you, Meadows?’
‘I admit I do have a weakness for romantic fiction, but I wouldn’t describe myself as a confidante of Mrs de Vere.’
With amusement, de Silva noticed a spark of mutiny in the companion’s eyes.
‘Pour me another cup of tea,’ Clara Pilkington said tetchily. ‘And don’t neglect our guests. Sometimes I wonder what I pay you for.’
‘The other resident on this corridor is Canon George Ryder. Are you acquainted with him?’
asked Petrie.
Clara Pilkington waved a hand at her secretary. ‘Merely a nodding acquaintance. Meadows can tell you about him. She attends chapel regularly.’
‘I believe Canon Ryder retired recently from his post at the Anglican cathedral of St John in Hong Kong,’ said Mrs Meadows. ‘He does attend chapel – not in an official capacity you understand, as the ship has a chaplain. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you more. Canon Ryder seems a very private man.’
**
‘I’m afraid that wasn’t very illuminating,’ said Petrie when they had thanked their hostess and left her. He set a brisk pace along the deck. The sky was still the intense blue of the cornflowers de Silva grew in the garden at Sunnybank for Jane. He felt a trickle of sweat on his cheek.
Petrie lit another cigarette and smoked for a while in silence. ‘Tell me what you thought, de Silva,’ he said at last.
‘I’m inclined to believe Mrs Pilkington, sir. If I’m wrong, she’s an accomplished liar.’
Petrie chuckled. ‘To add to all her other good qualities, eh?’
De Silva smiled.
‘What about the Meadows woman? She must have the patience of Job. Imagine a life spent in the service of Mrs Pilkington. No, I’m sure you’d rather not.’
There was another pause.
‘Somehow, I doubt she’s implicated, but I’ll make discreet enquiries about her as well as Clara Pilkington,’ Petrie continued. ‘I have a few contacts in London, including one in Scotland Yard. But I’ll be surprised if there’s anything to discover about that lady except that she’s what we already know her to be: rich, with a strong sense of entitlement, and a very thick skin. It’s hard to see what her motive would be. I very much doubt she needs more money than she already has.’
He laughed. ‘And I can’t imagine there’s a clandestine romance involved. I suspect we’ve drawn a blank this time, de Silva. Never mind, the game’s not over yet. We have other people to see. For the present, I’d better not neglect my social engagements in case it arouses comment. But I suggest you speak to Canon Ryder next.
[Inspector de Silva 06] - Passage From Nuala Page 6