by Conrad Allen
Max Cannadine was a portly Englishman in his early forties with a pleasant face and short dark hair that was bisected by a center parting. As purser on the Salsette, he had a wide range of responsibilities. One of them was to welcome Dillman aboard and he did so with alacrity, pumping the American’s arm and beaming at him.
“Delighted to have you with us, Mr. Dillman,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Cannadine.”
“Your reputation goes before you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Excellent. You’re a credit to P and O. And from what I hear, you had a wonderful record of success when you worked for Cunard, as well. I can sleep easily in my bunk, knowing that we have such a brilliant detective onboard.”
“There are two of us,” Dillman said modestly. “Genevieve Masefield deserves just as much praise as I do. We work as a team. Without her, I’d not be nearly so effective.”
“I’m anxious to meet the lady.”
“Genevieve will be along in due course.”
They were in the purser’s office, a small but impeccably tidy room with a desk, a few upright chairs, a couple of filing cabinets, and prints of other P and O vessels on the walls. As soon as he had unpacked in his cabin, Dillman had sought out the purser. His first impression was that Cannadine would be friendly and cooperative.
“I’m only sorry that we can’t offer you something to test your mettle,” said the purser, waving his visitor to a chair. “Very little happens on the Salsette, I’m afraid.”
“You must have some petty crime.”
“An occasional pickpocket, maybe. Yes, and the odd cardsharp. Nothing to offer you and your partner a challenge worthy of you. There isn’t really the time for anyone to do any dastardly deeds. On average, it takes us only four days to reach Aden.”
“Murder can take less than four seconds, Mr. Cannadine.”
“Nothing like that ever occurs on the Salsette.”
“I hope that it never does.”
“It’s always been such a lucky ship. At least, I’ve always found it so. The passengers provide the interest, of course, but we’re also a mail shuttle, connecting with the Australian steamers that dock at Aden every other week.” The purser grinned. “You might call us a nautical version of the Pony Express.”
“A sort of Sea Horse, you mean?”
Cannadine laughed. “Fair comment!”
“Don’t worry about us,” said Dillman. “Genevieve and I will just fade into the background. Having so few passengers will make our job considerably easier. We had well over two thousand on the Lusitania.”
“How on earth did you keep an eye on that lot?”
“Nervously.”
The purser laughed again, then he picked up some papers from his desk and handed them to Dillman. “Passenger lists,” he explained. “Just to let you know who everyone is and where their cabins are. Nobody famous onboard this time. We’ve carried royalty in the past.”
“What about drugs?”
“What about them?”
“Well, even during my short visit to Bombay, I saw how much opium and bhang were being smoked. Has anyone ever tried to smuggle it out in appreciable quantities?”
“Not that I know of, Mr. Dillman.”
“It must be a temptation. It would be a lucrative trade.”
“Lucrative but despicable,” said Cannadine, seriously, “I’d hate to think that the Salsette is helping to line the pockets of any drug smugglers. But then,” he went on, relaxing, “there’s no danger of that on this trip. We have you and Miss Masefield as our guard dogs.”
“We’ll keep a close eye on everyone, Mr. Cannadine.”
“Good.” The purser rubbed his hands together. “I’m sure that it’s going to be a trouble-free voyage from start to finish. Aren’t you?”
Before Dillman could reply, an answer came from above. After a loud rumble of thunder, there was a sudden flash of lightning that illumined the office for a split second. An electric storm was at hand.
“Oh dear!” said Cannadine. “I think I spoke too soon.”
TWO
Genevieve Masefield had never seen anything like it. The storm came so quickly and unexpectedly that it took her completely unawares. She was unpacking her trunk when she heard the boom of thunder and saw the flash of lightning at the porthole of her cabin. Within seconds, the heavens opened and rain fell with a speed and violence that shocked her. Scouring the ship, it sent everyone running for cover. It drummed on the hull, pounded on the deck, danced on the lifeboats, and made a series of rapid pinging sounds on the funnels, turning the Salsette into a gigantic musical instrument. Genevieve thought that a hose had been turned on the glass in her porthole. Thunder rolled again and there was another flash of lightning, even more vivid than the first, before the rain seemed to increase its velocity.
She was grateful that she was already aboard. Several passengers were still making their way along the pier, caught in the downpour and soaked to the skin, their summer-wear no protection against the ferocity of the storm. Hunched up, and protesting noisily, they scampered toward the gangway through the impromptu pools of water that had already formed on the ground. Heavy rain might bring relief from the oppressive heat but it also spread confusion and drenched its victims. Genevieve tried in vain to carry on hanging up her dresses in the wardrobe. The fury of the storm kept distracting her.
Though it lasted a mere ten minutes, it seemed like an age to Genevieve before the deluge slowly began to ease off. The noise softened, the sky brightened, and her porthole was no longer under attack by gushing water. She began to relax, consoling herself with the thought that at least the torrent had hit them while they were still in Bombay harbor. Had they been caught in open sea, the effect would have been even more dramatic. In the course of her travels, Genevieve had endured many squalls in midocean but she had always been forewarned about those. None had unsettled her as much as this stormy farewell to India.
When the rain finally stopped, she was able to unpack the last few items. The cabin was small but well-appointed and it would offer her both comfort and privacy on the short voyage to Aden. The only problem was that she would be sleeping in it alone. There was a tapping on the door that Genevieve recognized as the signal from her partner. She opened the door to admit George Dillman. Embracing her warmly, he kissed her on the lips.
“Settling in?” he asked.
“I was until that thunderstorm broke out.”
“Yes, it was rather spectacular, wasn’t it?”
“I was quite scared, George.”
“Of a little drop of rain? No need to be.”
“It’s easy to say that,” she said, “but it took me by surprise.”
“We’ve been building up to it for days, Genevieve. If we stayed on for the monsoon season, you’d see much more rain than that.”
“Then I’m glad we’re leaving.”
“Are you?” he said with mock disappointment. “I hoped that you’d have fond memories of Bombay. I certainly do.”
“And so do I,” she promised, slipping her arms around his neck to kiss him. “It was blissful, George. You know that.”
“Unforgettable.”
The visit to Bombay had been a rare break in their duties. They had seized on the opportunity of a week there in order to sample some of the delights of India and to enjoy a delayed honeymoon. Having worked together closely for some time, they had been married by the captain aboard the Marmora on a trip to Australia. Assignments on other P & O vessels had forced them to postpone the celebrations until now, but the long wait had been very worthwhile.
“I do wish we could share a cabin,” she said.
“It’s too dangerous.”
“But we’re husband and wife now.”
“We know that, darling,” he told her, “but it’s important that nobody else does. It would limit us a great deal. There are places we can go as individuals that we’d never reach as a couple.”
“It seems
so strange—pretending to be single again.”
“Strange but necessary. Besides, you won’t have to keep up the pretense indefinitely. Who knows? You may hear a familiar knock on your door one of these nights.”
“It will probably be the steward, bringing me a cup of cocoa.”
“A steward who answers to the name of George Porter Dillman.”
She laughed. “Does that mean I have to tip you?”
“We’ll see.” He glanced around her cabin and gave a nod of approval. “Almost identical to mine,” he said. “I’m at the far end of the corridor, by the way. Number forty-two.”
“I prefer you in here.”
“I prefer it, as well, but we’ll have to ration ourselves. To all intents and purposes, we’re traveling independently. Even the purser doesn’t realize that we’re married.”
“Have you met him yet?”
“Yes,” replied Dillman. “His name is Max Cannadine. I took to him at once. He’s one of those nice, helpful, efficient characters that P and O always manages to find. Make yourself known to him when you have a moment.”
“I will, George. Did you meet anyone else?”
“Only a fellow called Dudley Nevin. He’s a disgruntled civil servant who wishes he’d never come anywhere near India. He’s sneaking off to Aden to visit a cousin.”
“How can anyone be disgruntled with India?” she asked with a shrug. “It’s such a beautiful country.”
“Not if you’re sitting behind a desk all day long.”
“But it has a sense of mystery. You can almost feel it.”
“I fancy that Mr. Nevin has an air of mystery about him, as well,” he decided. “A man with hidden depths. I intend to plumb some of them. We’ve arranged to have dinner together.”
“I’ve agreed to dine with the Simcoes.”
“Who are they?”
“Constance and Tabitha Simcoe,” she said. “They’re a mother and daughter who’ve been touring northern India. I take my hat off to them.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. Simcoe is disabled. She has to go everywhere in a Bath chair. Think of the sorts of problems that that must create. Yet they didn’t let it deter them at all.”
“What are they like?”
“Very pleasant and very English. They come from Cheltenham.”
“I daresay I’ll bump into them in due course.”
“You’ll have no difficulty picking them out, George.”
“Not if one of them is in a Bath chair. Besides,” he went on, taking something from his inside pocket, “they’ll be part of a small but solid English contingent we have aboard.” He handed her some papers. “This is the passenger list that the purser gave me. We have almost every nation under the sun on the Salsette.”
“Even some Americans?” she teased.
“Yes, there’s enough of us to make our presence felt. But we also have French, Italians, Dutch, Germans, Chinese, a lone Irishman, Scandinavians, and Portuguese—in addition to a fair number of Indians and Arabs, that is.”
“You’ve obviously done your homework.”
“I like to know who my fellow passengers are, Genevieve.”
“Anyone who needs careful watching?”
“The lady in cabin number eleven.”
“But that’s my cabin,” she said.
He grinned. “Then I’ll have to watch you very carefully, won’t I?”
Dillman enfolded her lovingly in his arms once again.
Paulo Morelli made sure that nobody was looking before he took a comb from his pocket. Standing in front of the gilt-framed mirror, he slicked his hair back neatly then showed his teeth in a dazzling smile. A steward in first class, Morelli was a slim, swarthy, handsome young man of middle height who took immense pride in his appearance. He was using the comb on his mustache when the purser came down the corridor. Max Cannadine smiled tolerantly.
“Preening yourself yet again, Paulo?” he taunted.
“I like to look nice for my passengers,” said the other, putting the comb away. “It is—how you say it—an article of faith with me.”
“The only thing you’re interested in is impressing the ladies.”
“Why not, Mr. Cannadine? Every man needs a hobby.”
“You’re not paid to enjoy your hobby.”
“All that I do is to look at them.”
“Keep yourself pure in thought, word, and deed.”
Morelli flashed a grin. “I’m an Italian—not a monk.”
“You’re a steward aboard the Salsette,” warned the purser, “and that’s all that matters. We want no more hanky-panky, Paulo.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know very well what I mean, so don’t look so innocent. More than one female passenger has had cause to complain about you in the past. The kindest thing said was that you were over-attentive.”
“I try to be friendly, that is all.”
“There are barriers,” stressed Cannadine. “Strict barriers between passengers and crew members. Overstep those barriers and you’ll be in hot water. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Remember your wife back in Genoa.”
“I do, sir. All the time.”
“Then don’t be tempted again.”
“It was not my fault on the voyage from Aden,” protested the steward. “That Spanish lady—it was she who chased me. She only complain because I turn her down. I have to, Mr. Cannadine. I’m a married man.” He put a hand to his heart. “And I know my duty.”
“See that you do it.”
The purser was very fond of Paulo Morelli. With all his faults, the Italian was a conscientious steward who worked hard and sent most of his wages dutifully home to his wife. What Cannadine liked about him was his resolute cheerfulness. Morelli skipped happily through life. No matter how bad a situation, or how onerous his tasks, he always managed to retain his sense of fun. It was a tonic to have him aboard.
“Where were you when the storm broke out?” asked Cannadine.
Morelli gave an impish grin. “Hiding under my bunk.”
“You should be used to that kind of thing by now.”
“The others, they say it is a bad omen.”
“That’s just foolish superstition.”
“We do not want bad weather on the voyage.”
“We’ll take what we can get, Paulo. When we set sail from Bombay, we’re in God’s hands. All things considered, He looks after us pretty well.”
“That’s why I pray before we set sail.”
“And what do you pray for?”
“Lots of pretty ladies to look after.”
The purser smiled. “Control yourself, man.”
“I’m only human, sir.”
“Far too human. However,” said Cannadine, “talking of looking after someone, did the chief steward have a word with you?”
“What about?”
“A passenger called Mrs. Simcoe.”
“Ah, yes. The lady in the chair with wheels.”
“She may need help from time to time, especially when she wants to go out on deck. I suggested that you’d be the ideal person to keep an eye on her. Don’t let me down, Paulo.”
“I’d never do that, Mr. Cannadine.”
“Introduce yourself to Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter.”
“Oh, I will,” said Morelli, “and to the lady in number eleven.”
“Number eleven?”
“I saw her come aboard. She is the most beautiful signorina on the whole ship even though she is English. It is a pity that she does not have a chair with wheels—or I would push her around the deck all day long.”
“Who on earth are you talking about, man?”
“Miss Masefield,” said the other. “Miss Genevieve Masefield.”
______
By the time that the Salsette was ready to set sail, the burning sun had obliterated most of the vestiges of the storm. The deck was bone-dry, the funnels no longer dribbled with moisture and the
puddles that had formed in the tarpaulins covering the lifeboats were quickly evaporating. It was almost as if the downpour had never happened. Reassured by the clear sky, most passengers ventured out to take a last look at Bombay as they departed. Genevieve Masefield was among them. No sooner did she appear on the main deck than she saw Tabitha Simcoe beckoning her across to the rail.
“I was hoping to see you here, Miss Masefield,” said Tabitha.
“I wouldn’t have missed it. I always enjoy this moment.”
“So do I. It’s such an emotional experience. There’s the nostalgia of leaving somewhere you’ve loved and the excitement of sailing across an ocean in a foreign clime.”
“Did your mother not wish to join you?”
“Oh, she did, but she felt too weary. I left her in the cabin to have a nap. Mother tires easily,” she confided. “In public, of course, she always manages to keep up appearances but she’s not a strong woman.”
“All the more reason to admire her for undertaking such a trip. Yes,” added Genevieve, “and all the more reason to praise you as well.”
“Me?”
“You’re the one who shoulders the responsibility, Miss Simcoe. It must be very hard on you at times.”
“Not at all,” said Tabitha, nobly. “She’s my mother.”
Genevieve was pleased to meet her alone. Without Mrs. Simcoe, her daughter was a different woman. Tabitha was more animated, more confident, more curious about what was going on around her. In the most ladylike way, she was even taking note of some of the young men on deck. The person who interested her most, however, was Genevieve.
“I’m so glad that we met you, Miss Masefield,” she said, squeezing Genevieve’s hand. “I just know that we’re going to be friends.”
“In that case, you can stop being so formal with me. Foreign travel ought to release us from social conventions. Please call me Genevieve.”
“Thank you. I will. Oh, and you must call me Tabby.”
“Not Tabitha?”
“I’m Tabby to people who are close to me. But you’re wrong about social conventions disappearing when we’re abroad,” she went on. “Wait until you meet Major and Mrs. Kinnersley They’re sticklers for decorum. To be honest, they’re the only people we’ve encountered that we found it impossible to like.”