Murder on the Marmora

by Conrad Allen

  “Have you had the chance to question him, George?”

  “Yes, and he was very plausible. He claimed he’d never tell anyone about what he’d seen in that strongbox and I believed him at the time. Now,” said Dillman, “I’m not so sure. It was almost as if he knew that there’d been a robbery and was protesting his innocence. Also, shortly after the Braddock sisters had money taken from their cabin, Sir Alistair deposited a sizable amount in the purser’s safe.”

  “Would a professional criminal be so obvious?”

  “Who would suspect someone like Sir Alistair Longton? He’s a distinguished old gentleman who patently has enough money to travel in style. It’s impossible to imagine him stealing from someone else’s cabin or bludgeoning a man to death. You’d sooner accuse the captain of these crimes,” said Dillman. “If Sir Alistair is involved—and it’s by no means certain—then he must have an accomplice. A younger man.”

  “Roland Pountney.”

  “How did you know I was going to put him on the list?”

  “Because he’s definitely on mine, George.”

  She told him about her suspicions of Pountney and how he had been expelled from Harrow. His reaction to that expulsion surprised Dillman. It was a setback most people would try to conceal rather than celebrate with a laugh.

  “Did he just volunteer the information?” asked Dillman.

  “No,” she said. “Nigel Wilmshurst told me. He has no time for Mr. Pountney. Nigel looked down his nose at him. Mind you, he does that to most people.” She pulled a face. “And that brings me to another problem.”

  “Has he been bothering you?”

  “His wife came to see me.”

  Genevieve explained what had happened and how guilty she felt about have to disillusion Araminta Wilmshurst, but her hand had been forced. Genevieve had her own pride. She was not going to be branded by anyone as a woman whose promiscuity had led to the breaking of an engagement. Dillman sympathized with her.

  “It was the only thing you could do,” he said. “You had to set the record straight.”

  “The poor woman looked as if she’d been poleaxed.”

  “Do you think she believed you?”

  “Not entirely,” she said, “but I planted a seed of doubt in her mind. By the time she left my cabin, she was starting to disbelieve her husband. There could be ructions. I fear that Nigel will turn on me.”

  Dillman took her by the shoulders. “I’m always here, if that happens.”

  “Thank you, George, but this is a battle I have to fight on my own.”

  “Not as long as I’m on this ship.” He kissed her softly. “Remember that. At the slightest sign of trouble, just light a couple of distress flares.”

  Genevieve hugged him in gratitude.

  “What state was his wife in when she left your cabin?”

  “She was totally confused.”

  “Does she have enough strength to challenge her husband about this?”

  “I couldn’t say,” replied Genevieve. “What I do know is this: If she does confront Nigel, I’d hate to be there when it happens.”

  Claude Vivet outdid himself. Working alone in the corner of the kitchen, ostracized by the other chefs, he produced a meal that was truly worthy of the royal party and their guests. It began with a plate of miniature savories, attractively cut into various shapes, to whet the appetite. A delicious bouillon, made from his own recipe, followed. Then came a choice of fish, meat, or game, all of it exquisitely cooked, carefully garnished, and served with a selection of vegetables so tender that all of the diners called for more. Before an array of desserts was offered, a salad was served, to cleanse the palate.

  Wine had been selected by Vivet for each course of the meal and each bottle was the perfect complement to his delectable food. Araminta Wilmshurst drank more heavily than her husband had ever seen her do before. Worried at first, he came to see it as bonus because his wife began to relax at last. Once or twice, when Fife told an anecdote, she even exploded into the characteristic giggle that had attracted Wilmshurst to her in the first place. Fife was a charming host and his daughters were supremely well behaved. What surprised the visitors was how hesitant the Princess Royal was. At no point did she initiate a conversation, restricting herself to an occasional comment yet listening intently to the remarks of others. Talk turned to the inclination of certain Englishmen to marry foreign wives. Fife reeled off a whole catalogue of them.

  “Lord Esher married a Belgian lady,” he said. “Her father was at one time the Belgian minister to the Court of St. James. Though she’s spent her whole life in this country, the Marchioness of Tweeddale is of Italian extraction. Lady Sligo, widow of the third Marquis of Sligo, was a French lady. Countess Tolstoy, of course, is Russian,” he went on, “and still calls herself by the name of her first husband even though she’s been married to Philip Stanhope for well over twenty years.”

  “Then there’s Mrs. Edward Stonor,” said Wilmshurst, keen to include some names of his own. “We’ve seen her a great deal in London society. Mrs. Stonor is Greek. But, then, so is Sir Edward Law’s wife. I had the good fortune to meet her, as well, before she and her husband moved to India. A handsome lady—very musical and passionately interested in literature.”

  Fife smiled. “My wife is passionately interested in salmon fishing.”

  “Alex!” she said in rebuke.

  “It’s true, Louise. You have a rare talent with a rod.”

  “And a practical one,” Wilmshurst pointed out. “You can always eat what you catch. And if you can persuade Monsieur Vivet to cook it for you, then it will be irresistible.”

  “What are your interests, Mrs. Wilmshurst?” asked Fife. “Are you an angler?”

  “Oh, no,” said Araminta.

  “Neither was my wife until she moved to Scotland.”

  “I dance a little, that’s all.”

  “Nonsense!” Wilmshurst said proudly. “You dance superbly, Araminta. You’re so light on your feet.” He turned to the others. “At one time, she even considered training for the ballet.”

  “How wonderful!” exclaimed Lady Maud.

  “Araminta has many talents. That’s why I chose her as my wife.”

  Fife was quizzical. “Did your eye never stray to the Continent, then?”

  “Not for a second, my lord,” boasted Wilmshurst, resting an uxorious hand on Araminta’s arm. “Why look abroad when you have something far better at home in England? I envy none of the gentlemen who’ve been mentioned so far. They chose foreign wives and have been blessed in those choices. But I’m the happiest of them all,” he declared, raising a glass of the finest red wine. “To my wife!” he announced. “And to a long life of joy and togetherness!”

  The Duke and Duchess lifted their glasses to toast the young bride but Araminta could take no more. Jumping to her feet, she burst into tears and fled the room. A deeply embarrassed Wilmshurst summoned up an apologetic smile.

  “Araminta has not been feeling well today,” he said.

  Dillman shared a table with the Goss family that evening but he kept his eye on three of the men he had named as suspects. Each was at a different table. Karl-Jurgen Lenz was seated opposite Genevieve Masefield but his sole interest was in Myra Cathcart. Even from that distance, Dillman could see the intensity of his gaze and the single-mindedness that had made him so successful in his chosen field. Sir Alistair Longton was at the captain’s table, seated between a Russian countess with a diamond tiara and an Egyptian doctor who was sporting a thick black mustache. The Englishman was completely at ease, never short of a comment on any subject, but equally ready to listen to others. Longton was the sort of man whom Dillman had seen at a captain’s table on dozens of voyages. He fitted in perfectly.

  Roland Pountney was the interesting member of the trio. Deserting Genevieve’s table, he instead chose to sit with Vera and Elizabeth Braddock, treating them with an affection he might be expected to reserve for his own maiden aunts. There was no hint of
the loquacious businessman now. Pountney was taking care of two people he quite obviously liked, and they, in turn, were patently fond of him. Dillman had met some callous thieves before, but never one who would seek the friendship of the victims he had robbed. Of the three suspects, Pountney now seemed the least likely.

  Dillman was soon reminded of the fourth name on his list. Polly Goss turned to him so that she could speak in private. Her eyes sparkled with renewed admiration.

  “What do I tell Monsieur Vivet?” she whispered.

  “Tell him?”

  “We’re supposed to be practicing again tomorrow, Mr. Dillman. But I can’t do that without my flute. Yet you told us not to say anything about the theft.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed. “We have to keep this to ourselves.”

  “Monsieur Vivet will be expecting me.”

  “You’ll have to invent an excuse.”

  “But he’ll be so disappointed. He really enjoys working with me.”

  “And so he should,” said Dillman. “You’re a born musician.”

  “Not without an instrument.”

  Dillman could see the anxiety etched into her young face. Polly Goss was so perturbed by the loss of her flute that she would not be able to hide her feelings from the Frenchman. If pressed, Dillman feared, she would blurt out the truth.

  “Would you like me to speak to Monsieur Vivet?” he offered.

  “That would be such a relief!” she said. “What will you tell him?”

  “I’ll think of something. And I’ll make sure I warn you in advance what it is so that you’re not caught on the wrong foot.” He gave her a kind smile. “You like Monsieur Vivet, don’t you?”

  “Yes, though not as much as he likes himself.”

  Dillman laughed. “He loves to blow his own trumpet—or, in this instance, to play his own piano. And he clearly plays it very well.”

  “He’s a true musician. That’s why he’d understand.”

  “About what?”

  “How I feel now that someone’s taken my flute. I wish I could tell him, Mr. Dillman. If I asked him, I’m sure that he’d keep it to himself.”

  “With respect to Monsieur Vivet,” said Dillman, “I don’t think he could keep anything to himself. The whole ship would know within hours, and that must never happen. It would make my job much more difficult. I work best by stealth.”

  She nodded vigorously. “I knew that you were somebody special,” she said, “but I had no idea that it was this.”

  Dillman put a finger to his lips. “Let’s not talk about it now.”

  “But it means that I’ll get my flute back sooner or later.”

  “With luck.”

  “Oh, I trust you, Mr. Dillman,” she said, eyes glistening with a mixture of awe and deference. “You can do anything.”

  It was a touching vote of confidence but it showed that the problem of Polly Goss had not gone away. Circumstances were such that it had become more complex. Before, she had been an impressionable young woman who was attracted to a handsome man. Now she was in love with the notion that he was a brilliant detective engaged in solving crimes. Dillman was determined not to let her down but he did not relish her veneration of him. Yet she had made an apt comment on the situation. Claude Vivet loved music as much as she did. He would never steal an instrument from someone with whom he enjoyed playing so much. As a suspect, Claude Vivet began to fade into the background.

  Having given his services for free, Claude Vivet wanted only the reward of meeting the royal party. When the meal was over, he was escorted to their cabin by Martin Grandage so that he could receive their congratulations. Fife was full of praise for the exceptional quality of the dinner, and his daughters were equally complimentary. The Princess Royal confined herself to a nod of agreement at what was said by the others. Vivet bowed, grinned, and rubbed his hands gleefully together.

  “You like my Bavarois au chocolat?” he asked.

  “It was excellent, Monsieur Vivet,” said Fife.

  “We could eat it at every meal,” added Lady Maud.

  Vivet chuckled. “I think, maybe, it is too rich for that.” He looked at the two empty chairs. “But where are the other guests? Did they not enjoy my meal?”

  “Yes,” said Fife. “Very much.”

  “I hope to meet them to hear what they have to say.”

  “Mrs. Wilmshurst was feeling unwell so they left early.”

  Vivet was alarmed. “Unwell? The lady eat something that she not like?”

  “No, no,” said Fife. “Nothing like that. She enjoyed every mouthful. I think that she was feeling a trifle off-color. Mrs. Wilmshurst will be fine after an early night.”

  “Look, this is ridiculous,” Nigel Wilmshurst said angrily. “Open this door and let me in.”

  He was perplexed. When they had got back to their cabin, his wife had locked herself into the bedroom and refused to come out. She would not even speak to him. Wilmshurst had first reasoned with her, then pleaded, then offered all kinds of blandishments. Nothing would coax her out. Pushed to the limit, he fell back on a threat.

  “I could easily break this door down, you know,” he warned. “Is that what you want me to do, Araminta? Do I have to force my way in?”

  “Leave me alone,” she said, sobbing quietly on the other side of the door. “Just go away, Nigel.”

  “But I’m your husband.”

  “I don’t want to see you.”

  “Why?” he said, slapping the door. “At least give me an explanation.”

  “Stop hounding me,” she implored.

  “But I’ve a right to know what’s going on. You’ve been in a peculiar mood all evening. I go to all the trouble of arranging a dinner with the Duke and Duchess, and what happens? My wife behaves appallingly.” He pounded the door. “It’s not good enough, Araminta. I demand to know what’s going on. Are you ill or something?”

  “No, I’m not ill.”

  “Then there’s absolutely no excuse for what happened back there. We were their guests. What must they think of us? You put me in a most embarrassing situation.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “You’ll have to write a letter of apology to them.” He then heard what she had just said. “ ‘That makes two of us?’ ” he repeated. “What do you mean?”

  “You lied to me, Nigel.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You misled me completely.”

  “About what?” He gritted his teeth. “Oh, no! We’re not back to that, are we?”

  “I wanted to know the truth.”

  “I told you the truth, Araminta.”

  “You told me what you wanted me to hear.”

  He was indignant. “Are you saying you doubt my word?”

  There was a long pause. “I went to see her,” she confessed.

  “What?” he yelled.

  “I went to see Genevieve Masefield.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Because I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to know what sort of person she was.”

  “I explained that to you, Araminta.”

  “But you didn’t explain why you kept looking at her,” she argued. “I wondered if she still had some hold over you. Yes,” she went on as she heard him snort with disgust, “you may think it was stupid of me. But I needed to know that you were all mine.”

  “Of course I am,” he said. “Genevieve Masefield means nothing to me.”

  “I think it may be the other way around.”

  “Why? What did she tell you?”

  “That it was she who actually broke the engagement.”

  “That’s a damn lie, Araminta!”

  “But she had no reason to lie,” said his wife. “If things had happened the way you told me, she’d have been ashamed. Yet she wasn’t. Miss Masefield was dignified. She behaved as if she’d done nothing wrong.”

  “She’s certainly done something wrong now,” he asserted. “Can’t you see what she’s trying to do, Araminta? Thi
s is her revenge. She wants to drive a wedge between us. Because I threw her over, she wants to blight my happiness with another woman.” There was another long pause. “Araminta? Why don’t you say something?” More silence. “Listen, who are you going to believe? A scorned woman, or your husband?”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” she admitted.

  “Then open this door and let me tell you the full story.”

  “No, Nigel.”

  “You must. I can’t stay out here all night.”

  “Genevieve Masefield was not ‘a scorned woman,’ ” she said. “And she wasn’t trying ‘to drive a wedge between us.’ She advised me time and again to leave before I heard something that I shouldn’t. But I didn’t, Nigel. I goaded her until she eventually told me the truth. It was Miss Masefield who broke off the engagement, wasn’t it?”

  “Don’t be absurd!” he retorted. “Why on earth should she do that?”

  “That’s what I want you to tell me.”

  It was Wilmshurst who fell silent now. He was simmering with impotent rage.

  Dillman elected to take a closer look at Roland Pountney, and there was no better way to do that than to express interest in the scheme he was trying to promote. When dinner was over, the two men sat together in the first-class lounge.

  “It was Mr. Goss who aroused my curiosity,” explained Dillman. “I don’t think that he’s ready to invest any money of his own in the venture, but I’d certainly like to hear more about it.”

  “Then you shall, Mr. Dillman,” Pountney said with a warm smile. “You shall. How much do you know already?”

  “Very little beyond the fact that it concerns a hotel in Cairo.”

  “The New Imperial Hotel. It’s set to become the biggest and—though I do say it myself—the best of its kind in Egypt. Given the way the tourist trade has increased in recent years, it could turn out to be a gold mine.”

  “Then why don’t you keep details of it to yourself?”

  “Two reasons, old chap. First, I’m a generous fellow who likes to spread good news among selected friends. Second—and this is more important—I don’t have sufficient capital to buy the stake that I’d really like. In short, I have to get funds from elsewhere. So I’m taking the hat around a series of small investors in order to increase the size of my stake. What the investors get is a guaranteed return on their money. All that I take from their dividend is a five-percent commission, which, in the circumstances, I feel is owed to me.”