Everything had been turned over and
scattered. I looked in the other drawers and
the small hanging cupboard. They told the
same tale. It was as though someone had been
making a hurried and ineffectual search for
something.
I sat down on the edge of the bunk with a
grave face. Who had been searching my cabin
and what had they been looking for? Was it
the half-sheet of paper with scribbled figures
and words? I shook my head, dissatisfied.
Surely that was past history now. But what
else could there be?
I wanted to think. The events of last night, though exciting, had not really done anything
109
to elucidate matters. Who was the young man
who had burst into my cabin so abruptly? I
had not seen him on board previously, either
on deck or in the saloon. Was he one of the
ship's company or was he a passenger? Who
had stabbed him? Why had they stabbed
him? And why, in the name of goodness, should Cabin No. 17 figure so prominently?
It was all a mystery, but there was no doubt
that some very peculiar occurrences were
taking place on the Kilmorden Castle.
I counted off on my fingers the people on
whom it behoved me to keep a watch.
Setting aside my visitor of the night before, but promising myself that I would discover
him on board before another day had passed,
I selected the following persons as worthy of
my notice:
(1) Sir Eustace Pedler. He was the owner of
the Mill House, and his presence on the Kilmorden Castle seemed something of a coincidence.
(2) Mr. Pagett, the sinister-looking
secretary, whose eagerness to obtain Cabin 17
had been so very marked. N.B.--Find out
whether he had accompanied Sir Eustace to
Cannes.
(3) The Rev. Edward Chichester. All I had
110
against him was his obstinacy over Cabin 17, and that might be entirely due to his own
peculiar temperament. Obstinacy can be an
amazing thing.
But a little conversation with Mr.
Chichester would not come amiss, I decided.
Hastily tying a handkerchief round my hair, I
went up on deck again, full of purpose. I was
in luck. My quarry was leaning against the
rail, drinking beef-tea. I went up to him.
"I hope you've forgiven me over Cabin
17," I said, with my best smile.
<
grudge," said Mr. Chichester coldly. "But
the purser had distinctly promised me that
cabin."
"Pursers are such busy men, aren't they?"
I said vaguely. "I suppose they're bound to
forget sometimes."
Mr. Chichester did not reply.
"Is this your first visit to Africa?" I
inquired conversationally.
"To South Africa, yes. But I have worked
for the last two years among the cannibal
tribes in the interior of East Africa."
"How thrilling! Have you had many
narrow escapes?"
"Escapes?"
Ill
"Of being eaten, I mean?"
"You should not treat sacred subjects with
levity. Miss Beddingfield."
"I didn't know that cannibalism was a
sacred subject," I retorted, stung.
As the words left my lips, another idea
struck me. If Mr. Chichester had indeed
spent the last two years in the interior of
Africa, how was it that he was not more sunburnt?
His skin was as pink and white as a
baby's. Surely there was something fishy
there? Yet his manner and voice were so
absolutely it. Too much so, perhaps. Was
he--or was he not--just a little like a stage clergyman?
I cast my mind back to the curates I had
known at Little Hampsley. Some of them I
had liked, some of them I had not, but
certainly none of them had been quite like
Mr. Chichester. They had been human--he
was a glorified type.
I was debating all this when Sir Eustace
Pedler passed down the deck. Just as he was
abreast of Mr. Chichester, he stooped and
picked up a piece of paper which he handed
to him, remarking, "You've dropped
something."
He passed on without stopping, and so
112
probably did not notice Mr. Chichester's
agitation. I did. Whatever it was he had
dropped, its recovery agitated him considerably.
He turned a sickly green, and crumpled
up the sheet of paper into a ball. My
suspicions were accentuated a hundredfold.
He caught my eye, and hurried into
explanations.
"A--a--fragment of a sermon I was
composing," he said with a sickly smile.
"Indeed?" I rejoined politely.
A fragment of a sermon, indeed! No, Mr.
Chichester--too weak for words!
He soon left me with a muttered excuse. I
wished, oh, how I wished, that I had been the
one to pick up that paper and not Sir Eustace
Pedler! One thing was clear, Mr. Chichester
could not be exempted from my list of
suspects. I was inclined to put him top of the
three.
After lunch, when I came up to the lounge
for coffee, I noticed Sir Eustace and Pagett
sitting with Mrs. Blair and Colonel Race.
Mrs. Blair welcomed me with a smile, so I
went over and joined them. They were
talking about Italy.
"But it is misleading," Mrs. Blair insisted.
113
"Aqua calda certainly ought to be cold
water--not hot."
"You're not a Latin scholar," said Sir
Eustace, smiling.
"Men are so superior about their Latin,"
said Mrs. Blair. "But all the same I notice
that when you ask them to translate
inscriptions in old churches they never can do
it! They hem and haw, and get out of it somehow."
"Quite right," said Colonel Race. "I
always do."
"But I love the Italians," continued Mrs.
Blair. "They're so obliging--though even
that has its embarrassing side. You ask them
the way somewhere, and instead of saying 'first to the right, second to the left' or
something that one could follow, they pour
out a flood of well-meaning directions, and
when you look bewildered they take you
kindly by the arm and walk all the way there
with you."
"Is that your experience in Florence, Pagett?" asked Sir Eustace, turning with a
smile to his secretary.
For some reason the question seemed to
disconcert Mr. Pagett. He stammered and
flushed.
114
"Oh, quite so, yes—er quite so.
Then with a murmured excuse, he rose and
left the table.
"I am beginning to suspect Guy Pagett
of having committed some dark deed in
Florence," remarked Sir Eustace, gazing after
his secretary's retreating figure. "Whenever
Florence or Italy
is mentioned, he changes
the subject, or bolts precipitately."
"Perhaps he murdered someone there,"
said Mrs. Blair hopefully. "He looks—1 hope
I'm not hurting your feelings. Sir
Eustace—but he does look as though he
might murder someone."
"Yes, pure Cinquecento! It amuses me
sometimes—especially when one knows as
well as I do how essentially law-abiding and
respectable the poor fellow really is."
"He's been with you some time, hasn't he,
Sir Eustace?" asked Colonel Race.
"Six years," said Sir Eustace, with a deep
sigh.
"He must be quite invaluable to you," said
Mrs. Blair.
"Oh, invaluable! Yes, quite invaluable."
The poor man sounded even more depressed,
as though the invaluableness of Mr. Pagett
was a secret grief to him. Then he added
115
more briskly: "But his face should really
inspire you with confidence, my dear lady.
No self-respecting murderer would ever
consent to look like one. Crippen, now, I
believe, was one of the pleasantest fellows
imaginable."
"He was caught on a liner, wasn't he?"
murmured Mrs. Blair.
There was a slight rattle behind us. I
turned quickly. Mr. Chichester had dropped
his coffee-cup.
Our party soon broke up, Mrs. Blair went
below to sleep and I went out on deck.
Colonel Race followed me.
"You're very elusive. Miss Beddingfield. I
looked for you everywhere last night at the
dance."
"I went to bed early," I explained.
"Are you going to run away to-night too?
Or are you going to dance with me?"
"I shall be very pleased to dance with you,"
I murmured shyly. "But Mrs. Blair——"
"Our friend, Mrs. Blair, doesn't care for
dancing."
"And you do?"
"I care for dancing with you."
"Oh!" I said nervously.
I was a little afraid of Colonel Race.
116
Nevertheless I was enjoying myself. This was
better than discussing fossilized skulls with
stuffy old professors! Colonel Race was really
just my ideal of a stern silent Rhodesian.
Possibly I might marry him! I hadn't been
asked, it is true, but, as the Boy Scouts say,
Be Prepared! And all women, without in the
least meaning it, consider every man they
meet as a possible husband for themselves or
for their best friend.
I danced several times with him that
evening. He danced well. When the dancing
was over, and I was thinking of going to bed,
he suggested a turn round the deck. We
walked round three times and finally
subsided into two deck-chairs. There was
nobody else in sight. We made desultory
conversation for some time.
"Do you know. Miss Beddingfield, I think
that I once met your father? A very
interesting man—on his own subject, and it's
a subject that has a special fascination for me.
In my humble way, I've done a bit in that line
myself. Why, when I was in the Dordogne
region——"
Our talk became technical. Colonel Race's
boast was not an idle one. He knew a great
deal. At the same time, he made one or two
117
curious mistakes—slips of the tongue, I might
almost have thought them. But he was quick
to take his cue from me and to cover them up.
Once he spoke of the Mousterian period as
succeeding the Aurignacian—an absurd
mistake for one who knew anything of the
subject.
It was twelve o'clock when I went to my
cabin. I was still puzzling over those queer
discrepancies. Was it possible that he had
"got the whole subject up" for the occasion—
that really he knew nothing of archaeology? I
shook my head, vaguely dissatisfied with that
solution.
Just as I was dropping off to sleep, I sat up
with a sudden start as another idea flashed
into my head. Had he been pumping me?
Were those slight inaccuracies just tests—to
see whether I really knew what I was talking
about? In other words, he suspected me of
not being genuinely Anne Beddingfield.
Why?
118
12
(Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)
THERE is something to be said for life
on board ship. It is peaceful. My grey
hairs fortunately exempt me from the
indignities of bobbing for apples, running up
and down the deck with potatoes and eggs,
and the more painful sports of "Brother
Bill" and Bolster Bar. What amusement
people can find in these painful proceedings
has always been a mystery to me. But there
are many fools in the world. One praises God
for their existence and keeps out of their way.
Fortunately I am an excellent sailor. Pagett, poor fellow, is not. He began turning green as
soon as we were out of the Solent. I presume
my other so-called secretary is also seasick.
At any rate he has not yet made his
appearance. But perhaps it is not seasickness,
but high diplomacy. The great
thing is that / have not been worried by him.
On the whole, the people on board are a mangy lot. Only two decent Bridge players
and one decent-looking woman--Mrs.
119
Clarence Blair. I've met her in town, of
course. She is one of the only women I know
who can lay claim to a sense of humour. I
enjoy talking to her, and should enjoy it more
if it were not for a long-legged taciturn ass
who attached himself to her like a limpet. I
cannot think that this Colonel Race really
amuses her. He's good-looking in his way, but dull as ditch water. One of these strong
silent men that lady novelists and young girls
always rave over.
Guy Pagett struggled up on deck after we
left Madeira and began babbling in a hollow
voice about work. What the devil does anyone
want to work for on board ship? It is true that
I promised my publishers my "Reminiscences"
early in the summer, but what of it?
Who really reads reminiscences? Old ladies in
the suburbs. And what do my reminiscences
amount to? I've knocked against a certain
number of so-called famous people in my
lifetime. With the assistance of Pagett, I
invent insipid anecdotes about them. And, the truth of the matter is, Pagett is too honest
for the job. He won't let me invent anecdotes
about the people I might have met but
haven't.
I tried kindness with him.
120
"You look a perfect wreck still, my dear
chap," I said easily. "What you need is a
deck-chair in the sun. No—not another word.
The work must wait."
The next thing I knew he was worrying
work in your cabin. Sir Eustace. It's full of
trunks."
From his tone, you might have thought
that trunks were black beetles, something that
had no business to be there.
I explained to him that, though he might
not be aware of the fact, it was usual to take a
change of clothing with one when travelling.
He gave the wan smile with which he always
greets my attempts at humour, and then
reverted to the business in hand.
"And we could hardly work in my little
hole."
I know Pagett's "little holes"—he usually
has the best cabin on the ship.
"I'm sorry the Captain didn't turn out for
you this time," I said sarcastically. "Perhaps
you'd like to dump some of your extra
^ggage in my cabin?"
Sarcasm is dangerous with a man like
Pagett. He brightened up at once.
121
"Well, if I could get rid of the typewriter
and the stationery trunk——"
The stationery trunk weighs several solid
tons. It causes endless unpleasantness with
the porters, and it is the aim ofPagett's life to
foist it on me. It is a perpetual struggle
between us. He seems to regard it as my
special personal property. I, on the other
hand, regard the charge of it as the only thing
where a secretary is really useful.
"We'll get an extra cabin," I said hastily.
The thing seemed simple enough, but
Pagett is a person who loves to make
mysteries. He came to me the next day with a
face like a Renaissance conspirator.
"You know you told me to get Cabin 17 for
an office?"
"Well, what of it? Has the stationery trunk
jammed in the doorway?"
"The doorways are the same size in all the
cabins," replied Pagett seriously. "But I tell
you. Sir Eustace, there's something very
queer about that cabin."
Memories of reading The Upper Berth
floated through my mind.
"If you mean that it's haunted," I said,
"we're not going to sleep there, so I don't see
122
that it matters. Ghosts don't affect
typewriters."
Pagett said that it wasn't a ghost and that,
after all, he hadn't got Cabin 17. He told me a
long, garbled story. Apparently, he and a Mr.
Chichester, and a girl called Beddingfield,
had almost come to blows over the cabin.
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