‘How many years would that be?’
‘Eighteen. Ever since the end of the war, and always on the Jewel.’
‘I suppose you’ve sailed the route from Hong Kong to England many times.’
‘Dozens.’
A thought occurred to de Silva. It might not be important, but he liked to be clear on the facts.
‘Apart from the passengers who joined the ship at Colombo, did the rest come on board at Hong Kong?’
‘Most of them, but there were a few who joined us later.’
‘Can you give me the names?’
‘They’ll be on the passenger list.’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d check it and let me know.’
‘Very well, Inspector.’
Chapter 18
The following morning, a message arrived from Scotland Yard in London.
‘It doesn’t tell us much,’ said Petrie as they were on their way to see Venetia de Vere. ‘As I expected, there’s nothing untoward about Clara Pilkington or Venetia de Vere and no information about Mrs Meadows that might throw suspicion on her. Official records also confirm that Arthur Chiltern left England for Hong Kong five years ago, and George Ryder was sent out as a missionary to China in 1926. Nothing on Diana March, which accords with her story that this will be her first visit to England.’
At the door to Venetia de Vere’s cabin, they exchanged glances. They had agreed that Petrie would be the one to break the news, and de Silva would observe the novelist’s reactions. ‘Ready?’ asked Petrie in a low tone. His expression was grim.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then let’s get on with it.’ He raised his hand and knocked. A woman’s voice called out for them to come in.
The effect the stateroom had on de Silva was less powerful the second time around. Its occupant was also looking less glamorous than she had on their previous visit: her hair not as immaculate and her eyes sad in her heavily made-up face. The practised smile came wanly to her lips.
‘Won’t you sit down, gentlemen? I can’t imagine what use I can be to you, but I assume you have more questions for me about Charles Pashley’s death.’
‘Not about Mr Pashley’s death, Mrs de Vere.’ Petrie took the chair she indicated. ‘I’m afraid there has been another unpleasant occurrence on board.’
De Silva watched her face intently. Did it show any alarm? He thought not. The impression he still had was that something had made her deeply despondent.
‘I’ve been unwell since yesterday, Mr Petrie and not left my cabin. As I said, I can’t imagine how I can be of any use to you, but please continue.’
She gave a brittle laugh. ‘My critics, the late Charles Pashley among them, have sometimes accused me of having an over-active imagination. I’ll do my best to put it at your service.’
‘Thank you,’ said Petrie gravely. ‘I fear, however, that this is no laughing matter. I’m sorry to say there’s been another murder.’
De Silva saw Venetia de Vere’s hand tighten on the arm of her chair. There was a perceptible tremor in her voice.
‘Who?’
‘A man called Harry Delaney. One of the ship’s—’
Venetia de Vere’s stifled scream stopped Petrie going any further. Her face crumpled, and she seemed to struggle to breathe. Petrie shot de Silva a meaningful look.
‘Are you unwell, Mrs de Vere? Shall we call your maid?’
She shook her head; tears welled and spilled down her powdered cheeks, leaving dark runnels. A bout of shivering seized her. She certainly gave the impression that this was the first time she’d heard of Delaney’s death. Either she was an accomplished actress, or she was innocent, thought de Silva.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like us to call your maid?’ asked Petrie again. ‘Or Doctor Brady?’
She drew a deep breath and the shivering subsided. ‘No, that won’t be necessary.’
‘Forgive me,’ resumed Petrie. ‘I hadn’t expected the news to cause you such distress, but I must ask you some questions.’
She produced a lace handkerchief and dried her eyes. ‘Very well.’
‘What was your connection to Harry Delaney?’
‘I had none.’
Petrie reached into his pocket and brought out the ring with the initials VV. ‘I believe this is your ring. Can you explain why we found it in his possession?’
She stared at the ring with dismay. Bowing her head, it was a long time before she spoke, then she looked up. ‘I suppose it’s useless to try to hide it anymore. There was something between us. I was in love with him, and I thought he loved me. But it turned out that I was wrong. As for the ring, I’m sorry, but after he broke with me, I said it was stolen because I wanted him accused of theft if he was found with it.’
She started to cry again. From the expression on William Petrie’s face, de Silva guessed that an emotional situation such as this was one that put the Englishman at a disadvantage. He was probably wishing he was anywhere but in this cabin. A feeling, de Silva had to admit, that to some extent he shared.
The lace handkerchief lay in Mrs de Vere’s lap, a soggy mess. He pulled his own from his pocket, relived to see it was a clean one, and handed it to her.
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said shakily. She gave him a wan smile. ‘They say there’s no fool like an old fool.’ She was silent for a moment then asked how Delaney had died.
‘He was stabbed, ma’am. But we think his death would have been quick. He wouldn’t have suffered,’ he added.
‘It’s kind of you to try to comfort me, Inspector. Have you found out who’s responsible?’
‘Not yet, but if you know anything that might help us to find them, please tell us.’
She spread her hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I realise now how little I knew him.’
**
‘Poor lady,’ said Jane. ‘What a dreadful shock she must have had.’
After their interview with Venetia de Vere, Petrie and de Silva had parted company to return to their wives.
He swallowed some of the tea a steward had brought to their cabin at Jane’s request. It was hot and fragrant: a reminder of home. As this case became ever more puzzling, it was tempting to wish they had stayed in Nuala. So far, the cruise hadn’t borne much resemblance to a holiday.
‘Shanti?’
He brought his attention back to what Jane was saying.
‘I said, did you believe Mrs de Vere?’
‘Her distress seemed genuine, and to add to it, the old fellow who’s taken Chung’s place at the end of that corridor confirms that she didn’t leave her cabin around the time of Delaney’s death. Also, she has a horror of blood.’ He explained abut Venetia de Vere’s fuss over the steward’s cut hand.
‘I can see that would make it unlikely she could stab Delaney,’ said Jane. ‘Even without the fact she didn’t leave her cabin.’
He drained his tea and put down the cup. ‘That was very good.’
‘Have another. It will help you to think.’
She touched her fingertips to the outside of the silver teapot. ‘It’s still nice and hot. Are you feeling hungry?’
‘I will be soon, but I’d rather order lunch here if you don’t mind. I need time to think.’
Jane lifted the pot and poured more tea into his cup. Aromatic steam drifted towards his nostrils. He smiled. ‘Tea: the British panacea for all problems. Perhaps we’ll find the answer in the leaves, like a teller of fortunes. That would make my life very much easier.’
‘What are you going to do if the crimes haven’t been solved before we arrive in Port Said?’
‘Goodness knows. I hope it won’t come to that.’
‘By the way.’ She stood up, went to the little bureau in one corner of the cabin and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘The chief purser sent the information you asked for about passengers who joined the ship after it left Hong Kong.’
De Silva took the sheet and ran his eye down the list. A few passenger
s had joined the ship at Singapore and more at Calcutta. One of those was Charles Pashley.
Chapter 19
‘So,’ said William Petrie gravely, putting down the list. ‘We have three possibilities: firstly, whoever killed Pashley joined the ship at Calcutta when he did; secondly, they came on board earlier, knowing that he would be travelling from Calcutta, or thirdly, his presence came as a nasty surprise to them.’
He sighed. ‘It’s useful to establish facts, de Silva, but with that number of possibilities, I’m damned if I see how it advances the case. All the occupants of the other cabins on the corridor have been on board since Hong Kong. The only thing this piece of information proves is that it could have been any one of them.’
They were in the smoking room. Once again, it was quiet. Glumly, de Silva took back the list. Petrie was right. Still, the information might turn out to be relevant in some way.
Petrie ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that made him look almost boyish, except de Silva noticed that the lines around his eyes had deepened during the voyage. He was reminded that he wasn’t the only person whose holiday had been disrupted. Petrie had probably been looking forward to a respite from duty too.
‘What have we got then, de Silva? Now the steward, Chung, has changed his story about Mrs de Vere, we know we can’t necessarily trust his word, and we may not be able to rely on his vigilance either. I appreciate that what he told you about the times the passengers retired for the night accords with what they’ve said, but have you checked their accounts independently?’
‘I was concerned that questioning more people would cause suspicion, sir, but as the passengers claimed they were in public places, the stewards should be able to confirm their stories for us. Cabin Class is far less busy than Tourist Class. The only exception is Canon Ryder who said he was alone in the chapel for a while before retiring to bed.’
Petrie shrugged. ‘He seems an unlikely suspect in any case.’ He paused to light a cigarette then held out the gold case to de Silva. ‘Change your mind? I find tobacco helps the thought processes.’
Tempted, de Silva took one. His thought processes could certainly do with some help just now.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘My tobacconist in London blends these for me. He ships all over the world.’
De Silva took a puff; the tobacco was rich and soothing. ‘It’s excellent, thank you.’
‘By the way, has Pashley’s key turned up yet?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
Scratching his head, Petrie frowned. ‘We only have Chung’s word that Pashley lost it and needed to be let into his cabin. No one else was present at the time. What if Chung’s lying about it? If Pashley was incapacitated, Chung might have relieved him of the key unnoticed, then given it to the murderer so they could enter Pashley’s cabin later. In any case, making out that Pashley’s key had been stolen would deflect awkward questions about how unauthorised entry to the cabin was gained, the obvious alternative being with Chung’s pass key. If he’s right up to his neck in this sordid business, it’s also plausible he carried out the crime on someone else’s orders. As nothing was stolen, I doubt it was on his own behalf.’
But if Chung hadn’t stolen the key, thought de Silva, it was still possible there was a different third party involved. One who could have obtained the key from Pashley, probably after spiking his drink. If this third party was the killer, or gave the key to a guilty passenger, Chung would have had to turn a blind eye to their going to Pashley’s cabin. That was entirely plausible – they were already aware that Chung couldn’t be trusted.
If only they knew who Pashley had been drinking with that evening. Suddenly, he remembered the remark of the bar steward in the Tourist Class bar. He’d said Pashley had been talking with one of the crew on the eve of the night he was killed. De Silva had let the information pass, assuming Pashley had been after gossip for one of his newspaper columns. But what if he’d been wrong and missed a crucial clue? It occurred to him that if there was a connection between Pashley’s and Delaney’s murder, they might find answers there.
William Petrie nodded when he voiced the idea. ‘I agree. I believe Captain McDowell’s already given orders that Delaney’s cabin is to be left untouched and locked until he says otherwise. That should give us time to look through Delaney’s effects.’
Petrie stretched out his long legs and eased his shoulders. Once more, de Silva noticed signs of fatigue on his face.
‘We still have unanswered questions about who had the opportunity to kill our two victims,’ went on Petrie. ‘Let’s turn to the motive, starting with Mrs Pilkington. By her own account, Pashley was a casual acquaintance. She’s wealthy, and according to the information we have, not a whiff of scandal has ever been attached to her. Unless there’s some skeleton buried deep in her closet that Pashley threatened to expose, where’s her motive?’
‘No obvious one, sir, I agree.’
‘As for Delaney’s murder, we have no reason to believe she was even aware of his presence. The same goes for Mrs March and her fiancé. Chung hasn’t changed his story that they returned to their staterooms at two o’clock on the night of Pashley’s murder and didn’t leave them again. I’m reasonably confident he’s telling the truth there.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’ ventured de Silva.
‘Can you really imagine a woman like Diana March committing such violent crimes? And Chiltern is wealthy and privileged. What would be in it for him?’
De Silva wasn’t convinced that a woman wouldn’t commit a violent crime but decided to hold his peace for the moment.
‘We know Venetia de Vere’s dislike of Charles Pashley was vehement. We also know about her unfortunate affair with Delaney.’
‘But don’t you remember, sir? She told us she didn’t leave her cabin because she was unwell. The new steward on duty, Ahmad, confirmed it, so she had no opportunity to meet Delaney and stab him.’
‘You’re right. But it’s not entirely conclusive. She could have killed Charles Pashley or paid someone to kill either man for her. That leaves Canon Ryder. I suppose we can’t discount him yet, but I’d be very surprised if he had anything to do with either death. Oh, and Mrs Meadows, Clara Pilkington’s unfortunate companion. As I mentioned once before, I think she should be questioned without her employer present. This fellow Ahmad seems observant. Find out from him if there’s a regular time when Meadows is off-duty in her cabin. You can approach her then.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘I promised to meet a friend who’s on board. Keep up some semblance of normality. But for how much longer we’ll be able to, I wouldn’t like to say. We’ll speak later, de Silva. Put your thinking cap on. I’m relying on you.’
**
‘You may be right that he means it as a compliment,’ said de Silva to Jane ‘But it’s one I don’t deserve.’
‘Of course, you do. Your record of solving cases is excellent.’
‘This might be the one that shatters it.’ He groaned. ‘I suppose I should go and speak to old Ahmad about Mrs Meadows. With a bit of luck, there’ll be a time when she’s alone today. What are you planning to do?’
‘Lady Caroline’s asked me to join her for a stroll on the Promenade Deck and tea in the Cabin Class lounge.’
He smiled. ‘Very nice. I’m glad the two of you get on well.’
‘We do seem to. We share the same taste in reading, and I think she enjoys having someone to talk to about England, as I do.’
‘I wouldn’t have put Lady Caroline down as a reader of detective novels.’
‘What would you expect her to read?’
‘Something more ladylike.’
‘Such as?’
‘Elegantly written literary novels perhaps. Ouch!’ He doubled up as the cushion landed squarely in his stomach. ‘What was that for?’
‘Making such a condescending assumption. She’s a very modern woman.’
He chuckled. ‘Sorry.’ He hauled himself out of his chair
and dropped the cushion onto the seat behind him. ‘I must be off. Enjoy your tea.’
In the little room at the mouth of the corridor that de Silva was beginning to know far too well, Ahmad sat in quiet contemplation. De Silva felt rather envious. He soon elicited the information that Mrs Meadows usually spent about two hours before dinner in her own cabin. Presumably Mrs Pilkington liked to rest, and the services of her maid were enough when she was ready to dress.
De Silva looked at his watch. He had plenty of time. After a short debate with himself as to whether he should send a message in advance, he decided against it. It would backfire if Mrs Meadows mentioned the request to Mrs Pilkington, who was almost certain to interfere. He felt the need for some distraction. Maybe he would fetch his camera and see if there were any interesting shots to take on deck.
When he returned to their cabin, Jane wasn’t there; she must have already left to meet Lady Caroline.
He blinked as he emerged onto the Sun Deck. It brought it home to him that, for the last few days, he had been spending too much time indoors. Leaning over the starboard rail, he let the salty air fill his lungs. A sea breeze blew the smoke from the funnels to the port side of the ship, and the engines were too deep in its bowels for their oily smell to reach him. There was still no sign of land on the horizon, but there must be soon. They had reached the Gulf of Aden and would soon be in the Red Sea.
None of his attempts at framing interesting pictures of the view satisfied him. After a few minutes, he put his camera away. Perhaps Port Said would offer better pickings. He wondered if the city would be much different from Colombo. Would there be the same cacophony of hawkers shouting out the wares they had for sale; the same hooting of cars and trucks, nosing their way through crowds of people; the same jingle of rickshaw bells, and the same braying of pack donkeys? Would the smells be the same? Spices, incense, unwashed humanity, fish, and drains?
[Inspector de Silva 06] - Passage From Nuala Page 12