Murder on the Salsette

by Conrad Allen

  “Good morning,” said Genevieve. “How are you this morning?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Your mother is having breakfast in her cabin, I assume.”

  “Yes, Genevieve. Mother is not at her best first thing.”

  “Which of us is? But I’m glad that I’ve caught you alone at last, Tabby. I wanted to apologize properly.”

  “There’s no need,” Tabitha said petulantly.

  “I think that there is. I gave you completely the wrong impression.”

  “Yes, you led me to believe that we were friends.”

  “We are,” insisted Genevieve, “I promise you.”

  “Then what was all that about not getting in my way?”

  “I was only trying to help, Tabby. I know that looking after your mother takes priority, but you are entitled to some time on your own. You’ve got Paulo to help now,” she pointed out. “He can’t do enough for Mrs. Simcoe. Ever since he found her collapsed on the floor, he somehow feels responsible for her.”

  “Paulo does take the load off me,” admitted Tabitha.

  “Then make use of your free time. Spread your wings.”

  “It’s easy for you to say that, Genevieve.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re so beautiful and sophisticated. Wherever you go, you win compliments. I don’t have your confidence. When people look at me, all they see is this pathetic creature who pushes a Bath chair around.”

  “No, they don’t,” said Genevieve, touching her arm. “They see an intelligent and attractive young woman.”

  “They might—if they had the chance.”

  “The chance?”

  “Yes,” said Tabitha seriously. “I don’t believe that most people give me a second look. Not when I’m alone, that is. But when I’m with you, it’s very different.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, to start with, I feel different. I know that I can never compete with you but that doesn’t matter. In your company, I have more self-assurance. That means I start to get some attention.”

  “It’s no more than you deserve, Tabby.”

  “But it doesn’t happen when you’re not around.”

  “I’m sure that it does.”

  “No, Genevieve. I know my limitations. It’s all very well for you to tell me to spread my wings. Don’t you understand?” said Tabitha, taking her by both hands. “I can only do that when I’m with you. I enjoy a sort of reflected glory, if you like, and it gives me such pleasure.”

  Genevieve was puzzled. The other woman seemed to be in a strange mood. When she had been free from her mother before, Tabitha had been spirited and almost gleeful, like a child being let out on school holidays. There was no sign of that animation now. She seemed to be at the mercy of conflicting emotions and was, by turns, anxious, hostile, affectionate, embittered, and envious. There was also more than a hint of desperation in her manner. When Genevieve saw the confusion in her eyes, she felt sorry for her.

  “It gave me pleasure as well, Tabby,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “There’s no reason why we shouldn’t spend time together.”

  “Yes, there is,” Tabitha said gloomily.

  “Oh?”

  “We’re playing bridge with the Ackroyds again this morning. Mother is talking about a game this afternoon with some people we met at dinner last night.” Tabitha shrugged hopelessly. “When will I see you?”

  “We can at least have breakfast together.”

  “I hoped for so much more than that.”

  The transfer of the body went off without incident. As they carried the stretcher along the corridors, Dillman and Dr. McNeil had met only two passengers, and neither had been overly inquisitive. The body of Dudley Nevin was now lying in a storeroom on a bed of ice. Dillman was able to return to the man’s cabin to search it for clues. The scene of the crime was still and empty now, but its atmosphere was charged. The detective could almost feel that a violent death had occurred there.

  Dillman was systematic. Beginning with the wardrobe, he went carefully through everything that he found to see what information it might yield about the murder victim. There was nothing unusual. Dudley Nevin was traveling with exactly the clothing that might be expected. He had also brought a small case containing some paperwork that related to his job, writing materials, a couple of novels—The Man of Property by Galsworthy and The Secret Agent by Conrad—a pack of playing cards, a passport, and a map of the Aden Protectorate.

  The most interesting find in the case was a letter from Michael Carew, the cousin whom Nevin had intended to visit in Aden. Couched in rather formal language, the missive was short but it did contain one sentence that leapt up at Dillman: “If things in Delhi really are getting on top of you in the way that you describe, then, by all means, visit me here in Aden.” Was Nevin under some pressure at work or were there personal reasons why he wanted to get away from Delhi? Dillman sifted through his memories of the man. Nevin had been keen to escape India. Was he running away from something more than the boredom of his job?

  The letter was a useful starting point. It gave Dillman the name and address of a family member who could arrange the transport of the body back to England, and who might be able to shed some light on the problems that Nevin was battling against in Delhi. By the time they met, the detective hoped, the crime would be solved. The one fact on which he could rely was that the killer was still aboard the ship. Once the Salsette docked in Aden and the passengers disembarked, the chances of finding the culprit would become extremely slim.

  The dead man’s billfold provided Dillman with a possible motive for the murder. Lying open on the cabinet, it had clearly been searched and any cash had been taken. Nevin certainly carried money with him. On the first evening at sea, when he had shared a brandy with Dillman and Major Kinnersley, the civil servant had given the waiter a generous tip from a wad of notes in his billfold. That money had now gone and so had his pocket watch. In their place, all that had been left was the kukri, the vicious-looking knife that Dillman cleaned off under the faucet. The other items in the billfold—two photographs, a ticket stub from a piano recital, and a membership card for a club in Delhi—had been of no value to the killer.

  Each photograph showed a young woman, smiling at the camera. One of them wore a ball gown and was pictured in the doorway of a Regency house, the other, more attractive female, dressed for an outing, was in the passenger seat of an automobile, one hand on her hat to stop it from being blown off in the wind. If Nevin had treasured the photographs enough to carry them all the way to India, the young women must have been important in his life and, reasoned Dillman, they would be equally fond of him. The two of them would be deeply saddened when news of his brutal murder eventually reached them.

  Dillman remembered what Nevin had told him about leaving England under a cloud, and he wondered if either of the young women had anything to do with his departure. Had they been rivals for his affection? Did they, in fact, know of each other’s existence? Were the sepia photographs being kept as trophies, marks of conquest to flatter his vanity? Nevin certainly had a keen interest in the opposite sex, as his comments about Madame Roussel had shown. Dillman suspected that the murder investigation would produce a few surprises about the private life of Dudley Nevin.

  At least he knew where to begin. Agitated when they had first met, the civil servant had started to relax and enjoy himself once the ship was under way. He had been in good humor until that moment in the second-class lounge when he recognized someone in the doorway. Dillman’s first task was to track down the bearded individual who had scowled at Nevin. The enmity between the two men had been palpable. It was the detective’s job to find if it had been strong enough to make one of them stab the other to death.

  Hurrying along to the purser’s office in response to his note, Genevieve Masefield had assumed that another theft has occurred. She soon learned the hideous truth.

  “A murd
er!” she exclaimed.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “When? Where? Who was the victim?”

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you,” said Max Cannadine.

  Genevieve took a seat. “Have you told George yet?”

  “He’s been working on the case for the past hour or so.”

  The purser gave her a concise but accurate account of what had happened, and what early deductions had been made about the crime. Listening intently throughout, Genevieve weighed each new detail in her mind, seizing on Dr. McNeil’s judgment that the murder must have been committed at some time in the early evening of the previous day.

  “That explains why we didn’t see Mr. Nevin at dinner,” she said.

  “You met the gentleman?”

  “No, Mr. Cannadine, but the lady with whom I dined knew him. Mrs. Ackroyd had partnered him in a game of bridge, apparently, and had felt terribly let down by him.”

  “Let down?”

  “She said that Mr. Nevin was hopelessly distracted. He simply couldn’t concentrate on the game,” explained Genevieve, “and since they were playing for money, that really rankled.”

  “Did this Mrs. Ackroyd say why Nevin was distracted?”

  “No—just that his mind was obviously elsewhere.”

  “Perhaps he felt in danger.”

  “At the end of the last game, he simply rushed off.”

  “Who else was involved?”

  “Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter, Tabitha,” she explained. “It was Tabby who recruited Nevin in the first place.”

  “I wonder what sort of state he was in when she did that.”

  “Why don’t I find out?”

  “Yes, of course,” he recalled. “You know these ladies, don’t you? It might be helpful if you made discreet inquiries, Miss Masefield. They mustn’t be told what happened to Mr. Nevin, obviously. Neither must anyone else. The captain agrees—we must keep this from the passengers at all costs, or they’ll start looking over their shoulders in fear.” He shook his head in dismay. “This kind of thing has never happened on the Salsette before. I feel that she’s been tainted.”

  “We can remove any stigma by solving the murder.”

  “I’m relying on you and Mr. Dillman to do that.”

  “There are still the other crimes to consider, as well.”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I haven’t forgotten the lady whose purse went astray on deck. And I certainly haven’t forgotten the French lady.”

  “No,” said Genevieve with a rueful grin. “Madame Roussel would never allow us to do that.”

  Madame Berthe Roussel arrived precisely on time. She looked up and down the corridor to ensure that she was not seen, then she tapped on the door of a cabin. It opened almost immediately. Smiling happily, the Frenchwoman stepped quickly into the cabin.

  Dillman began his search in the public rooms in second class. Unable to find the bearded man there, he went out onto the main deck and strolled along the starboard side. Two figures were walking towards him. Dillman was surprised to see that one of them was Major Kinnersley. By his side, timid and ill at ease, was Sukinder.

  “Good morning, Major Kinnersley,” said Dillman.

  “Good morning,” replied the other without enthusiasm.

  “Hello, Suki.”

  “Her name is Sukinder, Mr. Dillman.”

  “I beg her pardon.” He smiled at the girl. “How are you today?”

  She was about to reply but Kinnersley jumped in too quickly.

  “She’s rather shy,” he said, “and her English is not what it should be. That’s one of the things we’re working on, isn’t it, Sukinder?” The girl nodded. “She’s getting better slowly.”

  Dillman was struck by the difference in tone between Kinnersley and his wife. While she had treated the child harshly, the major was a little more tolerant. His lofty disdain for his servant was tempered with a distant kindness. It was almost as if he were taking his dog for a walk.

  “England will be rather overwhelming for her,” said Dillman.

  “We’re aware of that, sir.”

  “How will she get on with your other domestics?”

  “Sukinder will do what she’s told.”

  “I think that she’ll be very homesick.”

  “What business is it of yours, Mr. Dillman?” said the major.

  “I feel sorry for Sukinder, that’s all.”

  “Only because you know nothing of India. How can you feel sorry for someone who’s rescued from poverty, and taken to a more civilized country where she’ll be free from want? In time,” he went on, “Sukinder will be very grateful to us. We’re giving her a decent life.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Be honest, Major. Domestic service is nothing short of drudgery.”

  Kinnersley frowned. “Good-bye, Mr. Dillman.”

  “And she’ll be cut off from her family and friends.”

  “You’ll have to excuse us, sir.”

  Putting a hand on Sukinder’s shoulder, he eased her past Dillman. The detective watched them go, thinking how incongruous they looked together. He then became aware that someone was standing beside him. It was Guljar Singh, his broad grin exposing a few missing teeth and his white beard dancing in the stiff breeze.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dillman,” he said. “Suki is not happy, is she?”

  “No, Mr. Singh. I’m afraid not.”

  “You know the gentleman with her?”

  “Yes,” said Dillman. “Major Kinnersley. Retired from the army after a long spell in Simla. He and I are not what you might call close friends.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “The major seems to think that Americans are a lower form of life.”

  “Then what must he think of Sikhs?” asked the old man with a self-deprecating chuckle. “We must be subterranean.”

  “Not in my eyes, Mr. Singh.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dillman. And you may like to know,” he added, beaming at him, “that I do not look down on Americans.”

  “Then I think we have the basis for an entente cordiale.”

  “What is that?”

  “A friendship between two nations. Or, in this case, two people.”

  Dillman realized that the old man might be able to help him. Guljar Singh was not only held in high esteem for his great age, but for his wisdom and mystical powers. The knife that had killed Dudley Nevin was now in the detective’s cabin. He wondered if Singh could give him some idea who might have brought it on board.

  “What can you tell me about Gurkhas?” he asked.

  “You should have put that question to the major.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they will have served beside him in the British army,” said Singh. “Gurkhas originally came from the Gurung, Limbu, Magar, Raj, and Tamang tribes of the Himalayas. They are hardy mountain warriors.”

  “I thought they came from Nepal.”

  “They conquered that country a long, long time ago. In the army, they are given rifles to shoot but they have their own weapon as well—the kukri. It is a very sharp knife and they can do terrible things with it.”

  “I’m sure,” said Dillman, thinking of the wound in Nevin’s chest.

  “Why are you interested in Gurkhas?”

  “No particular reason.”

  “That is a pity, my friend.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” said Guljar Singh. “The people who can tell you most about Gurkhas are the Gurkhas themselves. We have three or four of them sailing on this ship.”

  ______

  Paulo Morelli enjoyed being in charge of the Bath chair. It was a novelty for him. Constance Simcoe made the most of his services, relishing the idea of being pushed along by the handsome little Italian. They were on their way to the promenade deck when they encountered Genevieve Masefield. The steward flashed a smile at her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Simcoe,” said Genevieve. “I thought that yo
u were playing bridge this morning.”

  “Not until ten-thirty,” replied the other. “I need my constitutional before then. Paulo is going to take me around the deck.”

  “Is my favorite duty,” said Morelli.

  “I think that he says that to all the ladies.”

  “No, no, Mrs. Simcoe. This chair on wheels, I like.”

  “I can’t say that I do,” complained Constance. “I’d much prefer to get around on my own two feet.”

  Genevieve was pleased that her manner was so friendly now, and she guessed that Tabitha must have told her mother about their reconciliation over breakfast. It made conversation with the older woman much easier. Genevieve probed for information.

  “I gather that you played cards with Mr. Nevin yesterday,” she said.

  “We tried, Miss Masefield. The rest of us played bridge, but he was in a world of his own. Do you know the man?”

  “No, but I had dinner with the Ackroyds last night.”

  “Ah, yes. Poor Mrs. Ackroyd!”

  “She felt horribly let down by her partner.”

  “She was,” agreed Constance. “Mr. Nevin was appalling. I began to wonder if he’d ever played the game before.”

  “It was your daughter who invited him to play, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was so peculiar. Over breakfast, apparently, he boasted about how he played bridge regularly in Delhi. According to Tabby, he couldn’t wait to join us.”

  “So he was obviously in a happy mood over breakfast.”

  “There was no sign of it when he came into our cabin,” said the other. “Mr. Nevin was nervous and preoccupied. He kept asking for tea.”

  “I bring it,” said Morelli, proudly. “Mr. Nevin, a silly man.”

  “Why?” asked Genevieve.

  “Is in a room with three beautiful women, and he pay no attention to them. Any other man would love to be where he is.”

  “Listen to him,” Constance said indulgently. “Three beautiful women, indeed. Tabby might qualify, but I certainly don’t at my age. And you’ve seen Phoebe Ackroyd.”

  Morelli grinned. “To me, all women is beautiful.”

  “He’ll start to serenade us with a mandolin next!”

  “Have you any idea why Mr. Nevin was distracted?” said Genevieve. “I mean, did he offer any explanation?”