by Conrad Allen
“You’re entitled to a life of your own, Mrs. Cathcart.”
“How can I do that when I have Lilian at my elbow all the time?”
“Tell her that you need a little more freedom.”
“I’ve tried,” Myra said sadly, “but she only accuses me of deserting her. Lilian has so little self-confidence. That’s why she rarely strays away from me. Look,” she continued, putting a gentle hand on Genevieve’s arm, “I don’t suppose that I could ask a favor of you, could I?”
“What sort of favor, Mrs. Cathcart?”
“Oh, do please call me Myra. We’ve surely got to that point now.”
“Very well,” said Genevieve. “How can I help you, Myra?”
“I feel so dreadful even asking you this,” said the older woman, turning away. “It’s almost as if I want you to conspire with me against my own daughter. But it’s for Lilian’s good as much as my own.” She faced Genevieve again. “She’ll be spared so much embarrassment. I hate to see her writhing with discomfort like that.”
“Where do I come in?” asked Genevieve.
“As a distraction. I need someone to occupy Lilian for a while.”
“Won’t she realize she’s being kept deliberately out of the way?”
“Not if it’s you, Genevieve,” said Myra. “I may call you that, mayn’t I?”
Genevieve nodded.
“She thinks the world of you. I know how desperate she is to show you her scrapbook devoted to the royal family. And there are lots of other ways you could divert her without arousing her suspicions.” She pursed her lips in dismay. “Heavens! This must sound so awful. Do you think I’m being a dreadful mother?”
“No, Myra. I think that you’re taking practical steps to enjoy this voyage.”
“Does that mean you’ll help me?”
“Well,” said Genevieve, “I hate the idea of deceiving your daughter like this. At her age, she ought to be able to cope with the fact that it’s only natural for her mother to attract admirers. With your permission, I’d like to put that to her.”
“Of course.”
“If I can persuade her to give you more elbow room, there won’t be any need to lure her away under false pretenses. All of us would benefit, then. I’d prefer it that way.”
“So would I, Genevieve,” said Myra, nodding with enthusiasm. “Knowing my daughter, it will be an uphill task. But if anyone can bring Lilian round, it’s you.”
Dillman had underestimated Morton Goss. When he called on the latter that evening, he discovered the academic did not, after all, take a cavalier attitude toward the safety of his property. The relics from ancient Egypt that had been entrusted to him were kept in a strongbox that had no less than three heavy padlocks on it. Dillman was impressed. He was also touched by the care with which Goss handled the exhibits. After unlocking the box, the Egyptologist extracted each item as if it were very delicate, peeling off the cotton wool in which it nestled before placing it gently on the table.
“I’d be grateful if you didn’t actually touch anything, Mr. Dillman.”
“I don’t think I’d dare to. How old are these things?”
“Some go back almost four thousand years,” said Goss, putting more stone fragments on display. “Each one has its own special story to tell.”
Dillman bent over to peer at the largest of the fragments. A series of symbols had been chiseled neatly into the stone. He tried to make out what they represented.
“Are these hieroglyphics, Mr. Goss?”
“That’s right. Aren’t they beautiful?”
“Beautiful but quite mystifying.”
“It’s a pity we have only this fragment left,” said Goss. “It’s from an Egyptian obelisk. The inscription is easy to read,” he went on, pointing to the symbols he identified. “This squiggly line stands for ‘water.’ This bird is an owl. This item here is a tethering rope, and I think that’s probably a pool, even though only half of the symbol is left. Don’t you think it’s fascinating?”
“What fascinates me is how you can tell so much from so little.”
“It’s a trick that takes years to master.”
“How can you be so accurate in dating these remains?”
“We can’t,” admitted Goss. “We have to rely on educated guesswork.”
Dillman was puzzled. “But didn’t you tell me earlier that some of these things came from the reign of Rameses I?” he said. “If he was on the throne for only two years, how on earth can you be certain the relics come from so precise a date?”
“Because he was kind enough to leave me a clue, Mr. Dillman.”
“A clue?”
“Rameses I had his name put on these,” Goss said with a grin, indicating two of the fragments. “You’d have to be an expert in transliteration to know that, of course, so you’ll have to take my word for it.”
“Where are they from?”
“One is part of an inscription from a statue of Rameses I. There’s a much larger section of the statue locked away on board. And the other,” he said, nodding at the second fragment of stone, “is probably from a sarcophagus that was built by a talented mason. Time and effort went into this.”
“You should have been a detective, Mr. Goss.”
The other man smiled. “That’s exactly what I am, I suppose.”
He showed off every item, saying a few words about each before wrapping it carefully in cotton wool and putting it back in the strongbox. Dillman was intrigued. He had only ever seen such relics in a glass cabinet in a museum. To get so close to them in the company of an acknowledged expert was quite thrilling. He was sorry when the three padlocks were clicked back into place. Goss put the strongbox into the wardrobe and locked the door before removing the key.
“As you see, Mr. Dillman, I do take certain precautions.”
“Very sensible of you, Mr. Goss.”
The door to the adjoining cabin opened and Rebecca Goss came in with her daughter. Both women were dressed in their finery for dinner but it was Polly who was the more striking. She wore a full-length evening dress of black velvet with hoops of red velvet from the hem to the shin. Its plunging neckline was softened by lace. Around her neck was a gold chain with an opal pendant. What made her look so arresting was the fact that she had used cosmetics for the first time. They had been so artfully applied that Dillman suspected some help from the mother. Polly Goss seemed years older. She reveled in Dillman’s scrutiny of her.
Formal wear was not compulsory, but both men wore white tie and tails though with differing success. Dillman looked even more elegant but Goss was faintly incongruous. His sleeves were too long for him and his trousers too short, but it did not trouble him. When he had his beloved relics beside him, nothing else mattered.
“We waited until we heard you finish in here,” explained Rebecca Goss.
Her husband blinked. “You were eavesdropping?”
“Not exactly, Morton.”
“Mr. Dillman and I were having a private conversation.”
“We had to know when we could come in.”
“Yes,” said Polly. “We were afraid to interrupt you but we didn’t wish to be late for dinner.” She smiled at their guest. “You look very smart, Mr. Dillman.”
“And you look very fetching,” he replied. “So does your mother.”
“Thank you,” said Rebecca, pleased with the compliment. “I wish that my husband had your build. He’s the bane of every tailor in Boston. Though it’s not really the way his clothes are made. It’s the way that Morton wears them.”
Goss shrugged. “I prefer comfort over everything else, Rebecca.”
“A little concern for your appearance would not come amiss. Talking of which,” she went on, “has anyone else seen that strange gentleman from Chicago? The one who was wearing a Norfolk jacket?”
“His name is Mr. Dugdale,” said Polly. “We met him in the lounge earlier.”
“He has this pointed beard and bushy eyebrows. They make him look almost
satanic,” said Rebecca, “but he seems the nicest man. He kept us amused for hours.”
“That’s an achievement!” Goss said under his breath,
“Mr. Dugdale speaks fluent French.”
“How do you know that, Mrs. Goss?” asked Dillman.
“Because we heard him, didn’t we, Polly?”
“Yes, Mother,” replied her daughter. “He put that odious Frenchman in his place.”
Goss was baffled. “ ‘Odious Frenchman’?”
“His name was Monsieur Vivet. He kissed my hand and kept leering at me.”
“He’s the sort of person who kisses every woman’s hand,” Rebecca added with disapproval. “I admire Gallic charm in small doses but Monsieur Vivet tried to drown us in it. He came very close to being offensive.”
“Who is this fellow?” wondered Dillman.
“A famous chef, apparently.”
Polly scowled. “Famous for kissing your hand when you don’t want it kissed.”
“Be fair to him,” said her mother. “Monsieur Vivet is a man of international repute. I just wish that he didn’t keep boasting about it. If Mr. Dugdale hadn’t been there, the little Frenchman would have talked our ears off.”
“Do you see what happens when I let my wife off the leash, Mr. Dillman?” said Goss with a chuckle. “She rounds up some of the oddest characters on the ship.”
“Walter Dugdale may have been odd; Claude Vivet was simply intolerable.”
“Why was that, Rebecca?”
“Because he kept talking about himself.”
“According to him,” said Polly, “he’s going to prepare a meal for the royal party. Not that he’s been invited to do so yet but he was certain they’d jump at the offer once they realized they had him aboard.”
“Did he say anything about the food on the Marmora?” asked Dillman.
“He thought it was abominable.”
“I can see that he’s determined to win friends in the kitchens.”
“He was revolting, Mr. Dillman,” declared Rebecca. “Luckily, Mr. Dugdale was there to help us out. I don’t know what he said, because I don’t speak French, but it finally got rid of Monsieur Vivet. We owe him our thanks.”
“Well,” said Dillman, glancing at his watch, “time to go and force ourselves to eat what he considers to be abominable food. Personally, I think it’s delicious.” He opened the door. “You’ve given me a timely warning, Mrs. Goss. I’ll steer clear of this fellow. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s having my hand kissed by a stranger.”
The women laughed, then Rebecca glanced in the mirror to make a few final adjustments to her appearance. When she had finished, she went out on her husband’s arm. Polly smiled meaningfully at Dillman. He offered his arm and she clutched it as if she had spent the whole day waiting for that particular moment. Dillman could smell her perfume. It had been liberally applied. He led her politely out of the cabin.
Dinner was a sustained ordeal for Genevieve Masefield. No sooner had she taken her seat between Myra and Lilian Cathcart than she saw a familiar figure coming into the dining room. Attired in white tie and tails, Nigel Wilmshurst was escorting a slim and attractive young woman in a white satin dress. Even from that distance, Genevieve could see that his wife was wearing the most gorgeous jewelry. To her relief, the couple sat on the other side of the room with their backs to Genevieve, but she remained on edge in case Wilmshurst happened to glance over his shoulder. It made her a nervous conversationalist. Even the phlegmatic German noticed she was ill at ease.
“You feel unwell, Miss Masefield?” he asked.
“Not at all, Herr Lenz,” she replied. “I’m a little tired, that’s all.”
“Then you need—how do you say it?—the early night.”
“I’ll rally in due course.”
“Good. I like that.”
“Are you enjoying the voyage, Herr Lenz?”
“Ja. I am.” He shot a glance at Myra Cathcart. “Very much.”
Genevieve felt Lilian Cathcart stiffen beside her. She was enjoying the meal even less than Genevieve. Her mother was once again basking in the attention of two men and the rivalry between them was more open. Walter Dugdale had seized the initiative by telling Myra about his house in Chicago. He was evidently a man of means. Karl-Jurgen Lenz, not to be outdone, talked about his recent photographic exhibition in Berlin and asked Myra if she would like to visit Germany one day. Genevieve felt very sorry for Lilian. Unable to develop a friendship herself, she was horrified at the ease with which her own mother was handling two potential suitors. It left her feeling tetchy.
“I knew I shouldn’t have come on this cruise,” she said.
“It’s too soon to decide that yet,” remarked Genevieve. “Besides, your mother hardly could have gone on her own, could she?”
“To all intents and purposes, that’s what she has done.”
“I think you’re exaggerating a little, Miss Cathcart.”
“Am I?” said Lilian, as the two men tried to talk to Myra at the same time. “I might as well not be here, Miss Masefield.”
“Well, I’m very glad that you are. You’re my guide to the royal family. I knew next to nothing about the Princess Royal and her husband until you filled in the details. You made me see them as real people. I’m grateful to you for that.”
“Oh. I was only saying what everyone knows.”
“But we don’t know, Miss Cathcart. Because we don’t care as much as you do.”
Lilian’s face shone. “I love the royal family and every aspect of it. I can’t think of anything nicer than working at Buckingham Palace or Windsor or Sandringham.”
“Have you ever tried to pursue that ambition?”
“My parents put a stop to that. Father wouldn’t even entertain the idea that a daughter of his would be in service, even if I were employed by the royal family. He said I should aim higher than that.” She grimaced. “Left to him, I’d have married the general manager at one of his factories.”
“Is that what your mother wanted as well?”
“It’s not what I wanted, Miss Masefield.” Lilian retreated into a hurt silence and watched the two men vying for her mother’s attention.
Still in his Norfolk jacket, Walter Dugdale paid Myra gracious compliments and continued to find out more about her background and interests. Lenz, by contrast, wore white tie and tails with some style. He was more talkative than hitherto but he was not holding his own against the American. Genevieve noticed a hint of frustration in the German’s eye. It eventually gave way to a quiet malevolence as he tried to score points off his rival. The more they were drawn to Myra Cathcart, the less the two men liked each other. Dugdale managed to conceal his enmity beneath a bland smile but Lenz did not have the same social skills. His hostility became more open.
When the meal came to an end, the rivals were still engaged in a verbal joust so they could impress Myra. Her daughter was disgusted by it all and turned away. Genevieve, however, was mesmerized by the way Myra coped with the battle for her affections. The older woman laughed merrily as if it were a situation to which she was accustomed. Yet she had been married to the same man for many years and never had been on a cruise before. Unlike her daughter, she had a natural aptitude for the pleasures of shipboard life.
Genevieve was so enthralled by the little triangular drama being played out in front of her that she forgot all about Nigel Wilmshurst. When she happened to glance across the room, she was given a severe jolt. Rising from his chair, Wilmshurst turned around and saw her for the first time. Genevieve contrived a pale smile of recognition but it was not acknowledged. Wilmshurst turned his back on her with contempt and quickly took his wife out of the room. Genevieve did not know whether to be insulted or relieved. He had cut her dead.
SEVEN
George Porter Dillman recognized him immediately. The description he had been given of Walter Dugdale was so accurate that he had no difficulty in identifying him. Seated alone at a table, Dugdale wore his d
istinctive Norfolk jacket and stroked his beard as he contemplated the boiled egg on the plate in front of him. A mere handful of people had made their way to the dining room for an early breakfast. Dillman had planned to eat alone but curiosity took him across to his fellow American.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“Please do, my friend,” said Dugdale, indicating the seat opposite. “There’s nothing quite so joyless as eating alone—unless, of course, it’s solitary drinking.” He extended a bony hand. “Walter Dugdale.”
Dillman shook his hand before sitting down. “George Dillman,” he said. “But I already knew who you were, Mr. Dugdale. Your name was mentioned in dispatches.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently, you went to the aid of two ladies in distress.”
“That sounds like me,” Dugdale said with a grin. “Who were they?”
“Mrs. Goss and her daughter.”
“Ah, yes. The ladies from Boston, They were set upon by this overeager little Frenchman: Claude Vivet, master chef. At least, that’s what he would have us believe. I could see that he was bothering them so I suggested he take his culinary skills elsewhere.”
“Were those your exact words?”
“No,” admitted Dugdale. “I favored a more direct approach. French is a language that lends itself to confrontation. I suppose that’s not surprising in a country that’s been seasoned by revolution.”
Dillman took an instant liking to the man. He found him wry, quirky, and genial. Dugdale talked freely about his career in business and, in return, Dillman explained how he came from a family that designed and made oceangoing craft. His companion studied him shrewdly.
“I thought there was a hint of the sailor about you, Mr. Dillman.”
“I was born less than a mile from the sea.”
“I was born close to Lake Michigan but that didn’t make me want to become a yachtsman. On the contrary, I came to hate water. Never even learned to swim.”
“Neither did a lot of sailors,” said Dillman. “Curious, isn’t it?”
“I’d say that was a case of tempting Providence. Do you swim?”
“Oh, yes. My father taught me at a very early age.”