Murder on the Marmora

by Conrad Allen

  “It sounds as if I’m in illustrious company,” said Goss.

  “It’s where you belong.”

  “My wife thinks I belong at home and my daughter believes I ought to spend at least two hours a day listening to her as she practices on the flute.”

  “Women—God bless them! They never understand, do they?”

  “No, Sir Alistair.”

  “What woman would keep relics of ancient Egypt beside her bed?”

  “You won’t mention this to anyone, will you?” asked Goss.

  “No, old chap! Lips sealed and all that.”

  “There’s only one other person who even knows that they’re in here.”

  “The ghost of Rameses?”

  Goss laughed. “Apart from him. No, I showed them to Mr. Dillman as well.”

  “Ah, that countryman of yours I met at dinner. Capital fellow. Struck me as a man who understood the meaning of discretion. We invented it, of course,” said Sir Alistair. “Discretion is our watchword. Been the basis of British diplomacy for donkey’s years.”

  “Gerorge Dillman would have made a good diplomat. He’s very tactful.”

  “But far too handsome. Can’t have that in an embassy. Not a British one, anyway. Too distracting. Well,” he said, “you have a perfect illustration of that in your family.”

  “Do I, Sir Alistair?”

  “Don’t say you haven’t noticed the way that your daughter looks at Mr. Dillman. It’s the same way you look at those relics of yours—covetously.”

  “Polly is still very young.”

  “Old enough to entertain a passion or two, Mr. Goss.”

  “Well, yes,” the other said thoughtfully. “I suppose that she is.”

  “How old was your wife when you first met her?”

  “Now that you come to mention it, not much above Polly’s age.”

  “There you are, then,” said Sir Alistair. “No need to worry about it. Calf-love, that’s all. Mr. Dillman is a kind chap. Nothing untoward will happen. When you have features like that, you must be accustomed to that sort of unsolicited admiration. Never happened to me, alas,” he went on with a ripe chuckle. “I had to work hard to get women to take notice of me.”

  “Perhaps I should have a word with my daughter.”

  “Fatal. Never forgive you, old chap. Least said, soonest mended.”

  “I knew that Polly had taken a liking to Mr. Dillman but I didn’t realize it went deeper than that. The truth is, I don’t pay enough attention to her.”

  “How many times have I heard a woman say that? Their national anthem.”

  “Yes,” sighed Goss. “And my wife has written most of the verses.”

  “Thank you again, my friend,” said Sir Alistair, shaking his hand. “Can’t tell you what a thrill it’s been, getting a glimpse inside the mind of an expert. Never an expert at anything myself, except looking smart in a military uniform. Time for a smoke?”

  “I think that I do have. I like a pipe of tobacco at this hour.”

  “Then let’s go and join the others, shall we? Promised to meet Roland Pountney there. Cigarette man, but I’m trying to convert him to cigars. By the way,” he said, opening the door to lead the way out, “you really ought to think again about what Pountney told you. Even a small investment could bring you rich dividends.”

  “I won’t say that I’m not tempted.”

  “Word to the wise: Think about it, Mr. Goss. Get a stake in this hotel while you can and you may end up being able to afford your own pyramid. Like that, eh?” he asked with a laugh. “I know that I would.”

  Dillman had to wait until late afternoon before he found the man on his own. Karl-Jurgen Lenz was standing at the rail on the promenade deck, gazing out to sea. A stiff breeze was plucking at the German’s hat and coat. Dillman strolled across to him.

  “I did warn you, my friend,” he said pleasantly.

  “Warn me?” asked Lenz, turning a hostile glare on him. “Who are you?”

  “My name is George Dillman and I tried to tell you that taking photographs of the Duke and Duchess of Fife was not allowed. Someone came and stopped you.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember you now.” He stood bolt upright to introduce himself. “Karl-Jurgen Lenz.” There was no handshake. “I am a photographer. And you?”

  “I’m just a passenger who’s enjoying a round-trip to Australia.”

  “Oh, I see. Another rich American?”

  “Far from it, Herr Lenz. We’re not all millionaires, believe me.”

  “I speak to other Americans on the ship. They all have money, they all have time to go round the world. Me, I have to work for a living. It’s a matter of honor.”

  “It’s a matter of necessity with me,” said Dillman, seeing an opportunity to introduce Dugdale’s name. “I had to slave away for a long time to pay for this trip, so I’m determined to get my money’s worth. But if you’ve met plenty of Americans, you may have come across a man called Walter Dugdale.”

  Lenz scowled. “Yes, I meet him.”

  “You don’t sound as if you liked him very much.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “No, Mr. Dillman. I just could not give him respect.”

  “I found him a delightful fellow,” said Dillman. “Hoped I’d get to know him a little better but he seems to have disappeared. Haven’t seen him for days.”

  “He left the ship at Marseilles.”

  “Oh? I thought he was going all the way to Perth.”

  “Someone say he was taken ill,” explained Lenz. “The details I do not know, but he is no longer on the Marmora. That is good. I do not miss him.”

  “Well, I do. And I’m sorry to hear that he was too ill to stay with us. Mr. Dugdale was such a friendly character.”

  “He was not friendly to me. Let us forget him. He has gone for good.”

  There was a deep satisfaction in his voice. Dillman could see how much the German disliked Dugdale, but he did not press him on the subject. He remembered the money that Lenz had deposited with the deputy purser.

  “That camera of yours looks like a very expensive one, Herr Lenz,” he said.

  “I only work with the best equipment.”

  “Does that include all the stuff you need to develop photographs?”

  “Of course. When I travel, I take everything. Is in my cabin now.”

  “Isn’t that rather dangerous?” suggested Dillman. “That equipment must have cost you a lot. Wouldn’t it be safer to let the purser keep it locked up for you?”

  “I need to use it every day.”

  “But there’s always the risk that it could be stolen. I know it’s unlikely but it’s not a chance I’d like to take. What would happen if your camera disappeared?”

  “It will not, Mr. Dillman. I have been on cruises before.”

  “Nevertheless, that equipment of yours is still a temptation.”

  “Only another photographer would want to steal it.”

  “Or destroy it,” said Dillman. “Have you thought of that? If you had a rival on board—or someone you fell out with—he might take the camera out of spite so that he could toss it over the side of the ship. I think you should be more careful.”

  Lenz was angry. “Why you tell me this?” he demanded.

  “I’m only offering you friendly advice.”

  “No, you have a reason. You wish to annoy me.”

  “Not at all,” said Dillman, raising both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Forgive me, Herr Lenz. I spoke out of turn. It’s none of my business.”

  “I think you talk to Walter Dugdale about me. Is that it?”

  “No, I assure you. Your name never even came into the conversation.”

  “Then why you say what he say?” pressed Lenz, jabbing him with a finger. “Why you talk about my equipment? Mr. Dugdale, he have an argument with me one day. He try to threaten me. He say what a shame it would be if my camera was dropped in the sea one day. I tell you wha
t I tell him.”

  “And what was that, Herr Lenz.”

  “My camera is my livelihood,” he declared, jabbing Dillman in the chest again. “It mean everything to me. I warn Mr. Dugdale that, if I catch anyone trying to steal it, I would kill him. You remember that.”

  THIRTEEN

  Genevieve Masefield had an uncomfortable morning. It began, shortly after breakfast, with a bruising confrontation with Frau Zumpe, who was furious that her stolen money had not yet been recovered. When she heard there had been a third theft aboard, she was even more enraged, and accused Genevieve of being incompetent. It took almost half an hour to calm her down and persuade her to tell nobody else about the crimes that had been committed so that alarm would not spread. The woman was so tense and irascible, Genevieve had the feeling that something apart from the loss of her money was upsetting her, but she had no idea what it was.

  After leaving her, Genevieve paid courtesy visits to Mabel Prendergast and to Vera and Elizabeth Braddock, assuring them she was still investigating their cases but unable to give them any hope of an early resolution. In its own way, the quiet despair of Mrs. Prendergast was as painful to Genevieve as the verbal assault by Frau Zumpe. The Englishwoman had less money and far less resilience than her German counterpart. She was suffering badly. The extraordinary patience of the Braddock sisters came as a relief but Genevieve wished she could have brought more cheering news.

  Late morning found her in the first-class lounge with a restorative cup of coffee. Though she had chosen a quiet corner where she could review the evidence she had gathered, she was soon spotted. Nigel Wilmshurst sauntered over to her with a grin.

  “All alone and nowhere to go, Jenny?” he taunted.

  She looked up with dismay. “What do you want?”

  “The pleasure of seeing you again, of course. I told you I’d be back.”

  “Well, I don’t have time to chat just now,” she said briskly, about to rise from her chair. “You’ll have to excuse me, Nigel.”

  “But you haven’t even touched your coffee yet,” he argued, pointing to her full cup. “Don’t let me frighten you away. I won’t stop.” She settled slowly back in her chair. “How are you, anyway?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. At least, I was until you arrived.”

  He smirked. “Am I such a bogeyman?”

  “Of course not. I just feel that we don’t need to pretend we’re friends. It will be much easier for both of us if we simply keep out of each other’s way.”

  “But I don’t want to keep out of your way. I’m curious.”

  “Nigel—”

  “Yes,” he said, “I know that we parted on fairly hostile terms and I’ll admit that I was hurt at the time, but that pain has faded away now. I found someone else and I couldn’t be happier. I’m just rather sad that you haven’t met someone who’s willing to take you on.”

  Genevieve bristled. “I don’t want to be ‘taken on,’ ” she told him.

  “Does that mean you’re thinking of entering a convent?” he teased. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d feel at home in that kind of environment, Jenny. Or are you simply trying to assert your independence? Good Lord!” he exclaimed with mock horror. “Don’t tell me you’ve become a suffragette?”

  “No,” she replied, “though I sympathize with their aims.”

  “So what’s been happening to you since we last met?”

  “I’ve tried to choose my friends with far more care.”

  “Where have you been? What have you done?”

  “That’s my affair, Nigel.”

  “I’m genuinely interested,” he claimed. “We were so close at one time, then you vanished into thin air. Did you go abroad or something?” He sat down opposite her and lowered his voice. “I was sorry to lose you, Jenny. You must know that. In your heart, I’m sure that you must have a few regrets.”

  “Yes, I do. I regret that I didn’t find you out earlier.”

  “Now, that’s a cruel thing to say.”

  “I’m only being honest.”

  “Don’t you regret all those things that you lost?” he said. “An introduction to a world of glamour and privilege. Dinners at the Ritz. Parties, balls, opera, theater. Playing tennis on our private court. Swimming in our pool. I bet you do miss some of that, Jenny,” he added, leaning toward her. “You turned your back on the chance to be the future Lady Wilmshurst. You must be green with envy at Araminta.”

  “No,” said Genevieve, biting back a tart rejoinder. “I don’t envy your wife in the least. I’ve told you, Nigel: I wish you both well. But I’d prefer to stay out of your life.”

  “Once we get to Egypt, you will be. We’ll go off for a magical holiday in the sun while you sail on to that penal colony known as Australia. We’ll probably never meet again,” he said. “But since we have bumped into each other, can’t we at least be civil toward one another?”

  “I don’t recall civility as being one of your major attributes.”

  He laughed. “You see. You haven’t forgotten me at all!”

  “Good-bye, Nigel.”

  “All right, all right,” he said, getting up and raising both palms. “I’m going. But I daresay we’ll meet up again before too long. You can’t get off the ship, Jenny. There’s no way to escape me.”

  “There’s a very simple way.”

  “Is there?”

  “Yes,” replied Genevieve. “I introduce myself to your wife and ask her to keep a closer eye on you. I’m certain she’d oblige me.”

  “But you wouldn’t do that. Your sense of decency would hold you back. You’d never try to inflict pain on another woman through me.” He smiled confidently. “I know you better than you know yourself, Jenny. You have scruples. That’s your weakness. I have very few. That’s my strength.”

  Genevieve remained silent. There was an element of truth in what he said. She could never bring herself to use his wife as a means of getting rid of him. Araminta Wilmshurst was on her honeymoon with a man she adored. It would be vindictive to take away her happiness at such a moment. Genevieve had no defense. He was about to leave when a young man came into the lounge and waved cheerfully in their direction. Wilmshurst replied with a curt nod.

  “Do you know Roland Pountney?” she asked.

  “We were at Harrow together.”

  “Were you friends at school?”

  “Certainly not!” Wilmshurst said with disdain. “Pountney was not in my year.”

  “You must have seen something of him.”

  “Only for the short time the little blighter was there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Roland Pountney brought disgrace on himself. He was expelled.”

  Dillman was on his way to see the deputy purser when they came out of the music room together. Polly Goss had had a much more successful practice with Claude Vivet and she was in good spirits. When she spotted Dillman, her face glowed.

  “You’re too late,” she said. “We’ve just finished.”

  “How did it go?” asked Dillman.

  “Very well,” replied Vivet. “Polly is a good musician. She learn very fast.”

  “Monsieur Vivet is teaching me how to play Debussy,” she said excitedly. “We’ve been here for hours. You must come and listen to us sometime, Mr. Dillman.”

  “I will,” said Dillman. “When you give another public performance.”

  He was pleased to see her looking so happy. The absence of her mother suggested that she had no qualms about being left alone with her accompanist, and she clearly liked the Frenchman now. Vivet had managed to win her over completely.

  “The piano, I play only for pleasure,” said Vivet. “It is in the kitchen that I perform best. The piano is only—how do you say it?—a second string to my bow.”

  “It’s a pity you don’t play the violin,” remarked Dillman, “then you’d have even more strings to your bow.”

  Polly giggled but Vivet looked mystified.

  “I’m sorry,” Dil
lman said. “That was a rather silly joke. Tell me, Monsieur Vivet,” he added, “why are all the best chefs male?”

  “That is the wrong question, mon ami,” said Vivet. “You should ask why the best chefs in the world are all Frenchmen. The answer, it is that we have a great tradition. We care about our food in France. In other countries, they simply eat it.”

  “Monsieur Vivet is going to cook for the Duke and Duchess of Fife,” said Polly.

  Vivet gave a little bow. “Is a real honor for me.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that,” Dillman observed humorously. “France is a republican country, like ours. You don’t believe in royal families anymore.”

  “Even a Duke and Duchess have to eat.”

  “I think it’s very noble of Monsieur Vivet,” said Polly. “He’s supposed to be on vacation like the rest of us yet he’s giving up his free time to work in a kitchen. That’s so kind of him. Don’t you think so, Mr. Dillman?”

  “I do,” he said. “And I’m sure that the Duke and Duchess are in for a banquet. But you must excuse me,” he went on, moving away. “I have an appointment to keep.”

  Vivet gave another bow and Polly raised a hand in farewell. Dillman strode off and went down the steps to the next deck. When he reached the office, he was glad to find Martin Grandage on his own. The deputy purser was going through some papers. He glanced up with a bright smile.

  “Come on in, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “Take a pew.”

  Dillman lowered himself onto the chair. “You look less harassed this morning.”

  “That’s an optical illusion. I feel as if I’m beleaguered.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “A passenger named Claude Vivet.”

  “I’ve just been speaking to him,” said Dillman. “He’s a master chef.”

  “He’s a master pain in the neck as well,” said Grandage. “Because he has such a reputation, the royal party agreed to let him cook dinner one evening. That means he has to use our kitchen. It’s caused an international incident, Mr. Dillman. Our chefs are Italian and they don’t like the idea of someone trespassing on their territory.”