Murder on the Marmora

by Conrad Allen

  “But for you, they’d probably have got away with it. This is a real feather in your cap, Mr. Dillman. When he hears about this, the purser will be mightily impressed.”

  “He wasn’t too impressed by my last arrest.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the other. “Mr. Wilmshurst. I’m bound to say that I think Brian took the wrong action there.”

  “Does he often do that?”

  “No, he doesn’t. In fact, the two of us rarely disagree on things like that. Because I’m his deputy,” said Grandage, “I have to back him to the hilt. Most of the time, I’m happy to do that. Brian Kilhendry rarely makes a mistake.”

  “He certainly made one where Nigel Wilmshurst was concerned.”

  “Miss Masefield can still press charges against him. What has she decided?”

  “Genevieve is still mulling it over,” said Dillman. “She knows where I stand on the issue but it’s not up to me. What’s holding her back from taking the matter any further is concern for Mrs. Wilmshurst.”

  “Yes, I feel sorry for her as well,” said Grandage. “She’s a young bride on her first trip abroad. How is she going to cope with all this?”

  “That depends on what her husband tells her. I doubt if it will be the truth.”

  The Duke and Duchess of Fife examined the photograph in their cabin. It was a striking group portrait. Karl-Jurgen Lenz had delivered it but he was peeved when he was not allowed to hand it over in person. Instead, Mr. Jellings had thanked him, taken it from him, then given it to his employers. Even the Princess Royal was pleased.

  “It’s a lovely photograph of the girls,” she observed.

  “And an even better one of their mother,” said Fife. “I know that Herr Lenz was a nuisance but he’s produced a remarkable result. It was worth all that delay.”

  “For us, maybe, Alex.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t think that Mr. and Mrs. Wilmshurst will want a copy of this.”

  “Why not?” Peering more closely at the photograph, he clicked his tongue. “Dear me! I see what you mean, Louise.”

  “Mr. Wilmshurst looks so strained.”

  “What about his wife? She could be facing a firing squad, not a camera.”

  “It was their idea to invite Herr Lenz in the first place.”

  “Yes,” said Fife. “Wilmshurst will regret it when he sees this photograph. They’re on their honeymoon,” he reminded her, “yet the curious thing is that they don’t look as if they’re together. Why is that?” He stroked his mustache. “I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall in their cabin just now.”

  Nigel Wilmshurst was in a sorry state. Even though he had washed and shaved, his face still bore the marks from the fight with Dillman. His pride was even more wounded. It was afternoon yet he was still in his dressing gown. Neither he nor his wife had ventured outside their cabin all day, having had their meals served in private. Given his battered appearance, Wilmshurst was not willing to be photographed by anybody, and Lenz was dispatched for the second time when he called again. All Wilmshurst wanted to do was to lie low and avoid all company.

  Araminta was more bewildered than ever. Prompted by feelings of guilt, shame, anger, relief, and betrayal, she was not sure how she ought to react. What she also felt was an overwhelming sympathy for her husband. In the past, his confidence had always been unassailable, yet now he seemed wary and hesitant. She decided that the kindest thing she could do was to wait until he was ready to tell her the full story of what had occurred. If she pressed him for details, it would only add to his discomfort. Most of the time was therefore spent in a hurt silence. It was eventually broken by Wilmshurst. Slumped in a chair, he glanced across at his wife.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so dreadfully sorry, Araminta.”

  “It was partly my fault.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I brought this on myself. If I’d told you the truth at the start, none of this would have happened. We’d have been able to enjoy our honeymoon.”

  “We did enjoy it, Nigel,” she said. “For a time, anyway.”

  “I lost control,” he confessed. “When you locked me out of the bedroom last night, I was seized with a desire for revenge. She was responsible for it. She was the person who’d come between us. I had to confront her.”

  Araminta was aghast. “You went to Miss Masefield’s cabin?”

  “Only to warn her to stop spreading lies about me.”

  “Did she let you in?”

  “I made her,” said Wilmshurst, adjusting the facts to present himself in a more favorable light. “I told her how unhappy she’d made you and demanded an apology.”

  “And did you get one?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone to see Miss Masefield like that,” she said, “especially when you’d lost your temper. Anything could have happened. And why tell her that we were having difficulties? That was entirely our affair. Nobody else need have known.”

  “They already did, Araminta. Have you forgotten how you brought the dinner party to a sudden end?” he asked. “When you charged out like that, the Duke and Duchess must have thought you’d gone mad. They certainly won’t have any illusions about us.”

  “It was the last straw, Nigel,” she said, shaking her head in dismay. “When you raised your glass to toast me, I felt something snap inside me. I simply had to get out of there. But I did as you said,” she continued. “I sent them a note of apology.”

  “It will take rather more than that to clear the air, I’m afraid.”

  “Go on telling me about Miss Masefield.”

  “There’s not much more to tell.”

  “You still haven’t explained how you got those injuries to your face. In that note from Mr. Grandage, it said that you’d been involved in drunken behavior. Did you fall and hurt yourself?”

  “Not quite,” he replied. “Jenny—Miss Masefield—took exception to my demand and sent for the ship’s detective. He tried to hustle me out. I’m not used to that kind of treatment so I resisted strongly. That’s when I got these bruises.”

  “You should complain to the purser.”

  “I’ve already done so, Araminta.”

  She became thoughtful. “You say that Miss Masefield sent for this man. Why was that, Nigel? Why didn’t she just ask you to leave?”

  “I told you. I was in a state. I was determined to get what I wanted.”

  “So you refused to go from her cabin?”

  “In effect.”

  “That was a terrible thing to do, Nigel. Wasn’t she frightened?”

  “Of course,” he said, “and rightly so. I let her see just how angry I was.”

  “You must have upset her a great deal if she had to call in a detective to have you removed. It was wrong of you to stay,” she said. “I know how I’d feel if someone forced his way in here when I was on my own. It would be terrifying.”

  “I only went to reason with her, Araminta.”

  “Refusing to leave is not very reasonable behavior.”

  “I hoped that you’d be on my side!” he cried in exasperation.

  There was a long pause. She looked at his battered face again and felt a surge of sympathy. Remorse displaced all other feelings. She could not blame him for rushing off to confront Genevieve Masefield when she had done exactly the same herself. Araminta was not deceived. She knew that he was not giving a full account of what had happened, but that did not matter. Nigel Wilmshurst was still her husband. The vows she had made at the altar bonded them indissolubly together. What he needed most at that particular moment was love and support. Crouching beside him, she put an arm around his shoulders. He responded with a weak smile.

  “Araminta,” he said tentatively, “I need to ask a very big favor of you.”

  ______

  Claude Vivet was in an irrepressible mood. He was still basking in the praise from the royal party. After giving himself the pleasure of criticizing the luncheon fare, he spent half an hour
at the piano in the music room. Genevieve Masefield met him as he was leaving. She had to submit to the inevitable kiss on the hand.

  “I have lost my friend with her flute,” he complained. “Miss Goss, she had the sore throat and it hurts her to play.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Monsieur Vivet.”

  “So am I, Miss Masefield, but I am not surprised. The food on this ship is getting worse. That is what gave her the pain in the throat. Those Italian chefs, ha!”

  “Everyone else seems to enjoy the meals,” said Genevieve.

  “Only because they have not tasted one prepared by me.” He gave a bow. “Last night, I cook for the Duke and Duchess. They tell me they have never eaten so well. I show them how a dinner should be prepared.”

  “I’m glad that they were duly appreciative.”

  “If I was English,” he boasted, “I would be knighted for my services in the kitchen. But then,” he added with a grin, “if I was English, I would be a very poor chef.”

  “That’s unkind, Monsieur Vivet.”

  “Honesty often is unkind.”

  “There’s a difference between honesty and opinion,” she argued.

  “But my opinions are always honest.”

  “That doesn’t mean that you’re right.”

  He gave a teasing laugh then put his head to one side as he appraised her. “Ah!” he sighed, “it is such a pity that you will not be staying in Egypt. I would love to show you all of the sights, Miss Masefield.”

  “But you’ll be working at a restaurant, Monsieur Vivet.”

  “I would find time for you,” he said. “Have no fear.”

  “I’ll have to explore Egypt another time,” she said. “My ticket is taking me all the way to Australia. What sort of cuisine shall I expect there?”

  “Nothing but the kangaroos, cooked over an open fire.”

  Genevieve laughed. “I don’t think it’s quite that primitive.”

  “Beside France,” he declared, “everywhere in the world is primitive.”

  “Then why did you agree to leave Paris?” The question seemed to catch him off-guard and he was lost for an answer. “Why go to Egypt when you have such a following in France?”

  “Because I need the new challenge. I will not stay there long.”

  “Are you going back to Paris afterward?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I have to see.” He grinned broadly. “The one place I will not go is Australia. When they want the meal there, they have to go out and shoot it. You would be better off in Cairo with me.”

  “Thank you for the offer.”

  He kissed her hand, clicked his heels, and departed. Genevieve reminded herself of the fierce row the little Frenchman had had with Walter Dugdale. What rankled with Vivet was that the American had vilified both his country and his culinary skills. The chef was deeply patriotic. Such insults would have cut deep. Genevieve considered the possibility that it was Vivet who had cornered the murder victim in his cabin but she soon dismissed the notion. Dugdale never would have let him in, much less turned his back on the angry Frenchman. They had to look elsewhere for their killer.

  She returned to her cabin with some trepidation. To get to her door, she had to go past the cabin occupied by the Wilmshursts and she feared that one or both of them would emerge in time to see her. Her fears were groundless. She reached her cabin without incident and, since the lock had now been repaired, used her key to let herself in. A sealed envelope lay on the floor. Pushed under her door, it bore her name in a neat hand. Genevieve picked it up and tore open the envelope. When she took it out, she was astonished to see who had written the letter. It was from Araminta Wilmshurst.

  Polly Goss grew tired of promenading around the deck with her mother. Vexed by the loss of her flute, she was also fascinated to see what Dillman was doing to recover it. The revelation that he was a detective had made him even more appealing to her. Now that she had a legitimate excuse to go in search of him, she decided to do so.

  “I’m going in, Mother,” she said.

  “Then I’ll come with you,” offered Rebecca.

  “No, no. You stay out here. You’re enjoying the fresh air. I want to read.”

  “As long as you don’t disturb your father.”

  “He won’t even know I’m there.”

  “He’s still working on those lectures of his,” said Rebecca, “and wondering what on earth he’s going to say to the museum about those stolen artifacts.”

  “But he’ll have them back by then,” insisted Polly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Mr. Dillman will find them—and my flute. I’m certain of it.”

  Her mother wagged a finger. “Now, I don’t want you bothering Mr. Dillman.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mother.”

  “He has enough on his plate without you getting under his feet.”

  “I won’t go anywhere near him,” said Polly, moving away. “Good-bye.”

  But she did not go in the direction of her cabin at all. In spite of her denial, she wanted to find Dillman, to see if he had made any progress. A search of the public rooms would come first, then she would scour the other decks. If necessary, she told herself, she might even have to go to his cabin. The prospect was exhilarating.

  ______

  They met in the passageway not far from the first-class smoking room. Since there was nobody else about, it seemed safe to have a private conversation. Brian Kilhendry gave a grudging smile.

  “I believe that congratulations are in order, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “Because of you, a pair of dangerous confidence tricksters are behind bars.”

  “Until you release them, that is,” Dillman said wryly.

  “They’ll only be released into police custody.”

  “Then Nigel Wilmshurst should be with them.”

  “That matter’s been resolved,” explained the purser. “Miss Masefield came to see me a short while ago and said that she’d decided not to press any charges against him.” He saw Dillman’s surprise. “She didn’t discuss it with you, I see. Perhaps she doesn’t value your opinion as much as I thought. The main thing is that we can close the file on the whole business.”

  “If you say so, Mr. Kilhendry.”

  “You don’t agree, obviously.”

  “Let’s just say that I’m preoccupied with other things at the moment.”

  “Arresting those two men was an excellent start,” said Kilhendry. “Now we have to find the thief and the killer. I’m certain that they’re different people.”

  “And I’m equally certain that the crimes are linked.”

  “Are you any closer to catching this mystery man, Mr. Dillman?”

  “A lot closer,” said the detective. “I’m slowly eliminating suspects until only one is left. Roland Pountney was on my list at one time but he wouldn’t stoop to something as obvious as stealing from other people’s cabins. To him and his father, crime was a form of art. They reveled in their work.”

  “They’re reveling in separate cells at the moment.”

  “I’ll have another prisoner for the master-at-arms soon.”

  “As long as it isn’t Mr. Wilmshurst.”

  “No,” said Dillman, “it will be one of three men.”

  “Who is the prime suspect?”

  “Someone I think you know, Mr. Kilhendry.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “Karl-Jurgen Lenz.” Dillman saw his eyes flicker with embarrassment. “Yes,” Dillman said. “I didn’t realize that you were on such familiar terms with him.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why did I see you sneaking out of his cabin?”

  Kilhendry gulped.

  “Maybe you were right. Maybe I am looking for two people, after all. One to steal and one to provide the master key to a cabin.”

  The purser was defiant. “Are you accusing me?”

  “When you stepped out of Herr Lenz’s cabin, you more or less accused yourself.”

  �
��I didn’t go there to see him,” said Kilhendry.

  “Then why did you go?”

  “To show you up, Mr. Dillman. A murder had been committed. Day after day went by with no sign of progress, so I thought I’d take a hand in the investigation. You’d told me that Herr Lenz was a possible suspect,” he said, “so I used a master key to get in, and searched his cabin. I was hoping to find enough evidence to have him arrested. Then, I must admit, I was going to crow over you.”

  “But you didn’t find any evidence?”

  “None at all. His cabin is full of photographic equipment. There’s nowhere he could have hidden the stolen items.” He shrugged. “The cupboard was bare.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this?” asked Dillman.

  “Frankly, I was too embarrassed. How would you have felt if you knew I was trying to beat you at your own game?”

  “I think I’d have been rather amused. You pitted your nose against my brain. It could be a close contest, Mr. Kilhendry. But, seriously,” Dillman went on, “you could have saved me the trouble of keeping Herr Lenz under scrutiny. He could have been crossed off the list much sooner.”

  “I know,” conceded the purser. “I should have owned up.”

  “I’m glad that you’ve now done so. I can cross you off the list as well.”

  Kilhendry was hurt. “Did you really think me capable of theft and murder?”

  “For a time,” said Dillman. “Then I remembered how wedded you are to your job. You wouldn’t risk losing it by robbing your passengers. You’re too professional. And don’t ask me who else is under suspicion,” he added as the purser was about to speak, “because I’m not saying. You’d only try to get to him first.”

  “Oh, no. I learned my lesson. I won’t try to compete with you again.”

  “Does that mean you’ll support me for a change?”

  “I’ll do more than that,” said Kilhendry. “If you find out who’s behind all these crimes, I won’t simply be the first to pat you on the back—I may even be forced to look at Americans in a more friendly light.”

  He flashed a grin and walked off, leaving Dillman to wonder if he was indeed finally starting to win the purser’s respect. Without it, the rest of the voyage would continue to be punctuated by arguments between the two men.